





THE 



/ WORKS OF LORD BYRON, 



IN VERSE AND PROSE. 



THE 



WORKS OF LORD BYRON; 



IN VERSE AND PROSE, 



HIS LETTERS, JOURNALS, ETC. 



7 



A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 









NEW-YORK : 

ALEXANDER V. BLAKE, PUBLISHER. 

SOLD BY COLLINS, KEEBE, Jt CO. NEW-YORK : OTIS, BROADEES, * CO. BOSTON; 
THOMAS, COWPERTHWArr, & CO., PHILADELPHIA. 



1839. 



.fa 



350 
'A 



Gift 

Mrs. Ada Splnks 
Aug. 16 1934 







PUBLISHER'S ADVERTISEMENT. 






The Works of Lord Byron to be found in this edition, comprising the 
whole of his Poems, Letters, Journals, Etc. have been collected and 
arranged, and a Memoir added, by 

FITZ GREEN HALLECK, ESQ.. 

The Poetical Works of Lord Byron have been published in a variety 
of forms — but at no time, or in any country, has a uniform edition of his 
Prose and Poetical Works been attempted before the present. The 
edition now publishing in London, by Murray, contains so much of 
Byron's Prose writing as is included in the Life by Moore. — In the 
American edition there is a great number of the Letters of Byron not in 
the English copy, including Letters to his mother. There is also in this 
edition a large collection of Poems not in any previons American one ; 
many blanks are filled up, and explanatory notes added, which will be 
found of essential service to the reader. The present, therefore, is em- 
phatically the first complete edition of the Poetical and Prose Works of 
Lord Byron. 

The Head of Byron, engraved for this edition, is from a painting by an 
American artist, and was considered by Byron and his friends as the 
best ever taken. 

New-York, Jan. 1834. 






, 



CONTENTS. 



LETTERS, ETC. 



LIFE 






LETTERS. 

I. to Miss Pigot . , 
II. to Mr. Pigot . 
Til. to Miss Pigot . 
IV. to Mr. Pigot . 
V. to Mr. Pigot 
VI. to Mr. Pigot . 
VII. to Mr. Pigot 
VIII. to Miss Pigot 
IX. to Ihe Earl of Clare . 
X. to Mr. Pigot . 
XI. to Mr. William Bankes 
XII. to Mr. William Bankes 

XIII. to Mr. Falkner . 

XIV. to Mr. Pigot . 
XV. to Miss Pigot 

XVI. to Miss Pigot 

XVII. to Miss Pigot . 
XVIII. to Miss Pigot 

XIX. to Miss Pigot . 
XX. to Miss Pigot 

XXI. to Miss Pigot . 
XXII. to Mr. Dallas 

XXIII. to Mr. Dallas . 

XXIV. to Mr. Henry Drury 
XXV. to Mr. Harness . 

XXVI. to Mr. Harness 
XXVII. to Mr Becher . 
XXVIII. to Mr. Becher 
XXIX. to Mr. Jackson . 
XXX to Mr. Jackson 
XXXI. to Mr. Jackson . 
XXXII. to Mr. Becher 

XXXIII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 

XXXIV. to Mrs. Byron 
XXXV. to Mr. Hodgson 

XXXVI. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
XXXVII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
XXXVIII. to Mrs. Byron 
XXXIX. to Mr. Harness 

XL. to R. C. Dallas. Esq. 
XLI. to Mr. William Bankes 
XLII. to Mrs. Byron 
XUII. to Mr. Henry Drury 
XLIV. to Mr. Hodgson 
XI. V. to Mr. Hodgson 
XLVI. to Mr. Hodgson 
XI. VII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
XLVIII. to Mr. Rushton 
XLIX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
L. to Mrs. Byron . 
LI. to Mrs. Byron 
LII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
LIII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
LIV Ic the Hon. Mn. Byron 



1 
1 
1 
2 
2 
2 
2 
3 
8 
3 
3 
4 
4 
4 
" 4 
6 
5 
6 
6 
7 
7 
8 
8 
8 
9 
9 
9 

10 
10 
10 
10 
10 

II 
11 

11 
11 
II 

1.' 
u 

13 

13 

13 
1! 
1.1 
14 
II 
II 
16 
16 
10 
1« 
18 
18 
19 



LETTERS. 




LV. to Mr. Henry Drury . 


. 19 


LVI. to Mr. Hodgson 


20 


LVII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 


. 20 


LVIII. to Mr. Henry Drury 


21 


LIX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 


. 21 


LX. to Mrs. Byron 


22 


LXI. to Mrs. Byron 


. 23 


LXII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron . 


23 


LXIII. to Mr. Hodgson 


. 23 


LXIV. to Mrs. Byron 


24 


LXV. to Mrs. Byron . 


. 25 


LXVI. to Mrs. Byron 


25 


LXVII. to Mr. Hodgson . 


. 25 


LXVIII. to Mr. Dallas 


26 


LXIX. to Mr. Henry Drury . 


. 26 


LXX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron . 


26 


LXXI. to Dr. Pigot 


. 27 


LXXII. to Mr. Scrope Davies 


27 


LXX1II. to Bolton, Esq. . 


. 27 


LXXIV. to Mr. Bolton 


28 


LXXV. to Mr. Bolton . 


. 28 


LXXVI. to Mr. Dallas 


28 


LXXVII. to Mr. Hodgson 


. 28 


LXXVIII. to Mr. Dallas 


29 


LXXIX. to Mr. Murray . 


. 29 


LXXX. to Mr. Dallas 


29 


LXXXI. to Mr. Dallas. . 


. SO 


LXXXII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


30 


LXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 30 


LXXXIV. to Mr. Dallas 


31 


LXXXV. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. 31 


LXXXVI. to Mr. Murray 


31 


LXXXVII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. . 32 


LXXXVIII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


32 


LXXXIX. to Mr. Murray . 


. 32 


XC. to Mr. Dallas 


32 


XCI. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. 32 


XCII. to Mr. Dallas 


32 


XCIII. to Mr. Dallas 


. S3 


XCIV. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


S3 


XCV. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. 33 


XCVI. to Mr. Dallas 


34 


XCVII. to Mr. Hodgson 


. So 


XCVIII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


35 


XCIX. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. S6 


C. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


36 


CI. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


36 


CII. to Miss Pigot 


36 


CIII. Mr. Moore to Lord Byron 


. S6 


CIV. to Mr. Moore 


36 


CV. to Mr. Moore 


. 37 


CVI. to Mr. Moore . 


37 


CVII. to Mr. Moore 


. 37 


CVI1I. to Mr. Harness 


37 


CIX. to Mr. Harness 


38 


CX. to Mr. Hodgson 


38 



mi 



CONTENTS. 



LETTERS 

CXI. io Mr. Hodgson . 
CXII. to Mr. Harness 
CXIII. to Mr. Moore 
CXIV. to Mr. Moore 
CXV. to Robert Rushton 
CXVI. to Robert Rusllton . 
CXV'II. to Mr. Hodgson . 
CXVIII. to Master John Cowell 
CXIX. to Mr. Rogers. . 
CXX. to Lord Holland 
CXXI. to Mr. Hodgson . 
CXX1I. to Lord Holland 
• CXXIH. to Mr, William Bankes 
CXX1V. to Mr. William Bankes 
CXXV. to Lord Holland . 
CXXVI. to Sir Walter Scott, Bart. 
CXXVII. to Lord Holland . 
CXXVIII. to Lord Holland 
CXXIX. to Lord Holland . 
CXXX. to Lord Holland 
CXXXI. to Lord Holland . 
CXXXII. to Lord Holland 
CXXXIII. to Lord Holland . 
CXXXI V. to Lord Holland 
CXXXV. to Lord Holland . 
CXXXVI. to Lord Holland 
CXXXVII. to Lord Holland . 
CXXXVIII. to Lord Holland 
CXXXIX. to Lord Holland .. 
CXL. to Lord Holland , 
CXLI. to Mr. Murray . 
CXLII. to Mr. Murray 
CXLIII. to Mr. William Bankes 
CXLIV. to Mr. Murray 
CXLV. to Mr. Murray . 
CXLVI. to Lord Holland 
CXLV1I. to Mr. Murray . 
CXLVIII. to Mr. Murray 
CXLIX. to Mr. Murray . 
CL. to Mr. Murray 
CLI. to Mr. William Bankes 
CLII. to Mr. Murray 
CLIH. to Mr. Rogers 
CLIV. to Mr. Murray 
CLV. to Mr. Murray . 
CLVI. to Mr. Murray 
CLVII. to Mr. Murray . 
CLVIII. to W. Gifford, Esq. 
CLIX. to Mr. Moore . . 
CLX. to Mr. Moore 
CLXI. to Mr. Moore 
CLXII. to"Mr. Moore 
CLXIII. to Mr. Moore 
CI. XIV. to Mr. Moore . 
CLXV. to Mr. Crokor 
CLXVI. to Mr. Murray 
CLXVII. to Mr. Murray . 
CLXVIII. to Mr. Murray 
CLXIX. to Mr. Moore 
CLXX to Mr. Moore 
CLX XI. to Mr. Moore 
CLXXU. to Mr. Moore . 
CLXX1II. to Mr. Moore 
CLXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 
CLXXV. to Mr. Moore 
CLXX VI. to Mr. Moore . 
CLXXVII. to Mr. Moore 
CLXXV1I1. to Leigh Hunt 
CLXXIX. to Mr. Moore 
CLXXX. to Mr. Murray 
CLXXXI. to Mr. Giftord 
CLXXXII. to Mr. Murray 
CLXXXIII. to Mr Murray . 





LETTERS 


n 


CLXXX1V. to Mr. Murray 


39 


CLXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


S9 


CLXXXVI. to Mr. Murray 


40 


CLXXXVII. to Mr. Murray . 


4(1 


CLXXX VIII. to Mr. Murray 


■111 


CLXXXIX. to Mr. Ashe 


40 


CXC. to Mr. Ashe . 


■in 


CXCI. to Mr. Gall 


41 


CXCII. to Mr. Leigh Hunt . 


•n 


CXCIN. to Mr. Merivale 


ii 


CXC IV. to Mr. Murrav 


42 


CXCV. to Mr. Moore 


42 


CXCVI. to Mr. Moore . 


41 


CXCVIL to Mr. Murrav . 


.1.1 


CXCVIU. to Mr. Murray 


43 


CXCIX. to Mr. Murray . 


•II 


CC. to Mr. Murray 


•11 


CCI. to Mr. Hodgson . 


4-1 


CCII. to Mr. Moore 


11 


CCIII. to Mr. Hunt 


11 


CCIV. to Mr. Murrav 


r, 


CCV. to Mr. Rogers . ' . 


IS 


CCVI. to Mr. Rogers 


45 


CCVH. to Mr. Moore 


45 


CCVIIL to Mr. Dallas 


46 


CCIX. to * * * * . 


46 


CCX. to Mr. Moore . 


46 


CCXL to W * * W * * Esq. 


•17 


CCXII. to M. Moore . 


-17 


CCXIII. to Mr. Moore 


•17 


CCX1V. to Mr. Murray 


47 


CC XV. to Mr. Murray . 


•is 


CCXVI. to Mr. Moore . 


48 


CCXVII. to Mr. Moore 


48 


CCXVIII. to Mr. Murray 


48 


CCXIX. to Mr. Murray . 


49 


CCXX. to Mr. Murray 


•1!' 


CCXXI. to Mr. Murray . 


49 


CI 'XXII. to Mr. Murray 


49 


CCXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


SO 


CCXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 


50 


CCXXV. to Mr. Moore 


50 


CCXXVI. to Mr. Moore . 


SO 


CCXXVII. to Mr. Rogers . 


51 


CCXXVIII. to Mr. Rogers 


51 


CCXXIX. to Mr. Moore 


51 


CCXXX. lo Mr. Moore . 


51 


CCXXXI. to Mr. Murray . 


51 


CCXXXIl. to Mr. Murray 


52 


CCXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


5-2 


CCXXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 


52 


CCXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


53 


CCXXXVI. to Mr. Murray 


;-,:'. 


CCXXXVII. to Mr. Moore 


.'.'•1 


CCXX XV111. to Mr. Moore . 


5-1 


CCXXXIX. to Mr. Murrav . 


51 


CCXL. to Mr. Murray 


54 


CCXI.I. to Mr. Moore 


54 


CCXLI1. to Mr. Moots . 


55 


CCX1.111. to Mr. Moore . . i 


56 


('< X1.1V. to the countess of • * * . ', 


56 


CCXLV. to Mr. Moore . . ; 


66 


CCXLVI. to Mr. Hunt . 


57 


CCXLVII. to Mr. Moore 


57 


CCXLVIII. to Mr. Hcnrv Drury 


57 


CCXLIX. to Mr. Cowell 


67 


CCL. to Mr. Moore 


58 


CCLI. to Mr. Murray . 


58 


CCLIl. to Mr. Murray 


59 


CCLIII. to Mr. Nathan . 


59 


( 'CI. IV. to Mr. Moore . 


59 


CCLV. to Mr. Moore 


60 


CCLV1. to Mr. Moore . . . 





CONTENTS. 




IX 




PACB 






P*GB, 


LETTERS 




LETTERS 






CCLVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 82 


CCCXXX. 


to Mr. Mooro . . 


. Ill 


CCLVII1. to Mr. Moore 


82 


CCCXXXI. 


to Mr. Murray 


112 


CCL1X. to Mr. Moore . 


. 82 


CCCXXXII. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 11? 


CCLX. to Mr. Moore 


83 


CCCXXXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . . 


113 


CCLXI. to Mr. Moore . 


. 83 


CCCXXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 113 


CCLXII. to Mr. Moore 


83 


CCCXXXV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 114 


CCLXI II. to Mr. Moore . 


. 84 


CCCXXXVI. 


to Mr. Moore . . . 


114 


CCLX1V. to Mr. Coleridge . 


84 


CCCXXXVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


114 


CCLXV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 84 


CCCXXXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


115 


CCLXVI. to Mr. Moore 


85 


CCCXXXIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


116 


CCLXVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 85 


CCCXL. 


to Mr. Murray . . 


116 


CCLXVIII. to Mr. Hunt '. 


85 


CCCXLI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


116 


CCLXIX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 85 


CCCXLII. 


to Mr. Murray 


116 


CCLXX. to !NIr. Moore 


86 


CCCXLIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


117 


CCLXX1. to Mr. Sotheby . 


. 87 


CCCXLIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


117 


CCLXXII. to Mr. Sotheby 


87 


CCCXLV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


117 


CCLXXIII. to Mr. Taylor . 


. 87 


CCCXLVI. 


to Mr. Moore 


118 


CCLXX1V. to Mr. Murray 


87 


CCCXL VII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


118 


CCLXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 87 


CCCXL VIII. 


to Mr. Murray . . 


118 


CCLXXVI. to Mr. Hunt . 


87 


CCCXLIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


119 


CCLXXVtI. to Mr. Hunt 


. 88 


CCCL. 


to Mr. Murray 


119 


CCLXXVIII. to Mr. Hunt . 


8S 


CCCLI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


119 


CCLXXIX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 88 


CCCLII. 


to Mr. Murray 


120 


CCLXXX. to Mr. Hunt . 


89 


CCCLIII. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


121 


CCLXXXI. to Mr. Moore . 


. 89 


CCCLIV. 


to Mr. Murray 


121 


CCLXXXII. to Mr. Moore 


90 


CCCLV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


121 


CCLXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 90 


CCCLVI. 


to Mr. Murray 


121 


CCLXXXIV. to Mr. Murray 


90 


CCCLVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


122 


CCLXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 90 


CCCLVIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


123 


CCLXXXVI. to Mr. Moore 


91 


CCCLIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


123 


OCLXXXVII. to Mr. Hunt . 


. 91 


CCCLX. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


123 


CCLXXXVIII. to Mr. Rogers 


91 


CCCLXI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


124 


CCLXXXIX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 91 


CCCXLII. 


to Mr. Murray 


124 


CCXC. to Mr. Hunt . 


92 


CCCLXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


124 


CCXC1. to Mr. Moore . 


. 92 


CCCLXIV. 


to Mr. Moore 


124 


CCXCH. to Mr. Murray 


93 


CCCLXV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


125 


CCXCIII. to Mr. Rogers . 


. 93 


CCCLXVI. 


to Mr. Hoppner . • 


125 


CCXCIV. to Mr. Murray 


93 


CCCLXVII. 


to Mr. Rogers. 


126 


CCXCV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 93 


CCCLXVIII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


. 126 


CCXCVl. to Mr. Murray 


94 


CCCLXIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


127 


CCXCVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 94 


CCCLXX. 


to Mr. Murray . . 


. 127 


CCXCVIII. to Mr. Rogers 


94 


CCCLX XI 


to Mr. Murray 


127 


CCXC1X. to Mr. Murray . 


. 94 


CCCLXXI1. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 128 


CCC. to Mr. Murray 


94 


CCCLXXIII 


to Mr. Murray 


123 


CCCI. to Mr. Rogers . 


. 95 


CCCLXXIV 


to Mr. Moore . 


. 128 


CCCI1. to Mr. Murray 


95 


CCCLXXV 


to * * * * . 


129 


CCC I II. to Mr. Murray . 


. 96 


CCCLXXVI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 131 


CCCIV. to Mr. Murray 


96 


cccLxxvn. 


to Mr. Murray 


131 


CCCV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 96 


cccLxxvm. 


to Mr. Murray . 


131 


CCCVI. to Mr. Murray 


96 


CCOI.XXIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


132 


CCCVI1. to Mr. Murray 


97 


CCCI.XXX. 


to Capt. Basil Hall . 


1J2 


CCCVIII. to Mr. Moore . 


. 97 


CCCLXXXI 


in Mr. Moore 


132 


CCCIX. to Mr. Moore 


98 


CCCLXXXII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


. 133 


CCCX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 99 


CCCLXXXIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


133 


CCCXI. to Mr. Murray 


101 


CCCLXXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


133 


CCCXII. to Mr. Murray . 


. . 101 


CCCLXXXV. 


to Mr. Murray 


134 


CCCXIII. to Mr. Murray 


. 102 


CCCLXX XV I. 


to Mr. Murray . 


IS4 


. CCCXIV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 102 


CCCLXXXVII. 


to the Editor of Galignani 


s 


CCCXV. to Mr. Murray . 


102 




Messenger 


134 


1 ' ''XVI. to Mr. Moore 


. 103 


cccLxxxvm. 


to Mr. Murray 


. 135 


( i'CXVII. to Mr. Murray 


. 104 


CCCLXXXIX. 


to Mr. Murray 


135 


C<'( 'XVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 105 


CCCXC. 


to Mr. Murray . 


136 


CCCXIX. to Mr. Murray 


. 105 


CCCXCI. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


136 


CCCXX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 106 


CCCXC1I. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


136 


CCCXXl. to Mr. Murray 


. 106 


CCCXCIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


137 


CCCXXII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 107 


CCCXCIV. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


137 


CCCXXIII. to Mr. Moore 


. 107 


CCCXC V. 


to Mr. Murray 


138 


CCCXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 108 


CCCXC VI. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


138 


CCCXXV. to Mr. Murray 


108 


CCCXCVII. 


to Mr. Murray . . 


139 


CCC XXVI. to Mr. Moore 


. . 109 


CCCXCVIH. 


to Mr. Murray . 


139 


CCCXXVII. to Mr. Murray 


. 110 


CCCXCIX. 


to Mr. Murray . . 


139 


CCCXXVIII. to Mr. Rogers . 


. . 110 


CCCC. 


to Mr. Murray . 


140 


C0CXX1X. to Mr. Murray 


. Ill 


CCCCI. 


to the Countess Guicciold 


140 



CONTENTS. 



LETTERS 

CCCCU. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCIU. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCIV. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCGV. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCVI. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCVII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCVIII. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCC IX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCX. to Mr. Bankes 
CCCC XL to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXH. to the Countess Guiccio! 
CCCCXIII. to the Countess Guicciol 
CCCCXIV. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCXV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXVI. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCC XVir. to Mr. Moore . 
CCCCXVIII. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCXIX. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCC XX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXI. to Mr. Bankes 
CCCCXXH. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXIII. to Mr. Bankes 
CCCC XXIV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXVI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXVIt. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXVIH. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXX1X. to Mr. Munav 
CCCCXXX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXXI. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCXXX1I. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXXIH. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCX XXIV. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCXXXV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXXVI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXXVII. to Mr. Murray 
i;CCCXXXVni. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCXXXIX. to Mr. Moore 
CCCC XL. to Mr. Hoppner 
CCCCXLI. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCXLII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXL1II. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCXLIV. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCXLV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXI.VI. 10 Mr. Murray 
CCCCXLVII. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCXI.VIII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXLIX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCL. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLH. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLIII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLIV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLVl. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLVII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLV1II. t... Mr. Murray 
CCCCHX. to Mr. Moore 

CCCCLX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLXI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLXII. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCLXI1I. to Mr. Murray 
CCCC!. XIV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCI.XV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLXVI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCLXVII. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCLXVHI. to Mr. Moore 
CCCCLXIX. to Mr. Moore 
Address to the Neapolitan government 
CCCCLXX to Mr. Moore 
CCCCLXXI. to Mr. Murrav 
CCCCI.XXII. to Mr. .Murrav . 
CCCCLXX11I. lo Mr Murray 



PAOE 

140 
141 
141 
142 
142 
143 
143 
143 
144 
144 
145 
145 
145 
145 
146 
146 
147 
147 
147 
148 
148 
149 
149 
150 
150 
150 
150 
150 
151 
151 
151 
152 
152 
152 
153 
154 
154 
154 
155 
155 
155 
156 
156 
157 
157 
158 
158 
158 
158 
158 
159 
159 
160 
160 
161 
161 
162 
162 
163 
163 
163 
164 
161 
hi., 
166 
167 
167 
167 
168 
168 
169 
169 
170 



LETTERS 

CCCCLXXIV. 

CCCCLXXV. 

CCCCLXXVI. 

CCCCLXXVII. 

CCCCLXXVIU. 

CCIVI.XXIX. 

CCCCLXXX. 

CCCCLXXXL 

CCCCLXXXII. 

CCCCLXXXIII. 

CCCCLXXXIV. 

CCCCLXXXV. 

CCCCLXXXVL 

CCCCLXXXVH. 

CCCCLXXXVIII. 

CCCCLXX XIX. 

CCCCXC. 

CCCCXCI. 

CCCCXCIL 

CCCCXCIH. 

CCCCXCIV. 

CCCCXCV. 

CCCCXCVt. 

CCCCXCVII. 

CCCCXC VII I. 

CCCCXC1X. 

D. 

DL 

1)11. 

Dili. 

DIV. 

DV. 

DVI. 

DVH. 

DVI 1 1. 

DIX 

DX. 

DXI. 

DXII. 

DX1II. 

DXIV. 

DXV. 

DXVI. 

DXVII. 

DXVIII. 

DXIX. 

nxx. 

DXXI. 

DXX1L 

DXXIH. 

DXX1V. 

DXXV. 

DXXVI. 

DXXVII. 

DXXVIII. 

DXXIX. 

DXXX. 

DXXXI. 

DXXXII. 

DXXXIII. 

DXXXIV. 

DXXXV. 

DXXXVI. 

DXXXV1I. 

DXXXVIII. 

DXXXI X. 

DXI.. 

nxi.i. 

DXLH. 

DXI. III. 

nxi.iv. 

DXLV. 
DXLV1 



to Mr. Murray . 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Murray . 

lo Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Alurray . 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Moore . 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Perry . 

U Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Hoppner 

lo Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Shelley . 

lo Mr. Murray 

to Mr. Moore . 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Murray . 

to Mr. Hoppner 

|., Mr. Murray . 

to Mr. Moore 

to Mr. Murray . 

to the Countess Guiccioli 

to Mr. Moore . . 

to Mr. Hoppner 

lo Mr. Murray 
to Mr. Murray . 
lo Mr. Murray 
to Mr. Hoppner 
to Mr. Moore 
to Mr. Moore . 
lo Mr. Moore 
to Mr. Mum) 
to Mr. Murra) 
tr Mr. Murrav 
to Mr. Hoppner 
to Mr. Murray 
to Mr. Moore 
to Mr. Murray 
to Mr. Murray 
to Mr. Murray . 
lo Mr. Moore 
lo Mr. Murray 
lo Mr. Murray 
to Mr. Moore 
to Mr. Murray 
to Mr. Murray 
lo Mr. M.iorc; 
to Mr. Moore . 
to Mr. Moore 
to Mr. Murray 
lo Mr. Murray 
to Mr. Moore . 
to Mr. Murray 
lo Mr. Moon- . 
to Mr. Moore 
to Mr. Moore 
to Mr. Murray 
lo .Mr. Murray 
to Mr. Rogers 
to Mr. Moore . 
to Mr. M.o, .iv 
lo Mr. Murray 
to Mr. Mo >r,' 

to All . Sheppard 
to Mr. Murray 

lo Mr. Murray 

lo Mr. M 

to Mr. Sh.ll.y . 

to Mr. Moore 

to Sir Waller Scott. Hart. 

in Douglaa Kumairil 

to Mr. Murray 

to Mr Mooro 






CONTENTS. 



LETTERS 

DXLVII. 

DXLVIII. 

DXLIX. 

DL. 

DLL 

DLII. 

DLIII. 

DLIV. 

DLV. 

DLV1. 

DLTII. 

DLVIII. 

DLIX. 

DLX. 

DLXL 

DLXIL 

DLXIII. 

DLXIV. 

DLXV. 

DLXV1. 

DLXVII. 

DLXVHL 

DLXIX. 

DLXX. 

DLXXI. 

DLXXII. 

DLXXIH. 

DLXXIV. 

DLXXV. 

DLXXVI. 

DLXXVTL 

DLXXVIII. 

DLXXIX. 

DLXXX. 

DLXXXI. 

DLXXXH. 

DLXXXIII. 

DLXXXIV. 

DLXXXV. 

DLXXXVI. 

DLXXXVII. 

DLXXXVIII. 

DLXXXIX. 

DXG. 

DXCI. 

DXCII. 

DXCIU. 

Dxcrv. 

DXCV. 
DXCTI. 

Dxcvn. 
Dxcvm. 

DXCIX. 

DC. 

DCI. 

dch. 
DCin. 

DCP7. 



PAGB 

to Mr. Moore . . . .197 

to Mr. Moore . . . 198 

to Mr. Moore . . . .198 

to Mr. Mooro ... 198 

to Mr. Moore . . . .199 

to Mr. Murray ... 199 

to Mr. Moore . . . .199 

to Mr. Murray ... 200 

to Mr. Murray . . .200 

to Mr. Murray . . . 200 

to Mr. Murray . . .200 

to Mr. Shelley ... 200 

to Sir Walter Scott . . 201 

to Mr. Murray ... 201 

to Mr. Moore . . . .201 

to Mr. Murray ... 201 

to Mr. Murray . . .202 

to Mr. Murray ... 202 

to Mr. Moore . . . 203 

to Mr. Ellice ... 203 

to Mr. Murray .. . .203 

to Mr. Murray . . . 204 
to Mr. Moore .... 204 

to Mr. Moore . . . 204 
to Mr. Moore .... 205 

to Mr. Murray . . . 205 

to Mr. Murray . . . 206 

to Mr. Murray ... 206 

to Lady . . . .207 

to Mr. Proctor ... 207 

to Mr. Moore . . . .207 

to Mrs. , . . 208 

to Lady * * * , . . 208 

to Mr. Moore ... 208 

to the Earl of Blessington . 209 

to the Earl of Blessington . 210 

to the Earl of Blessington . 210 

to the Count * * . . 210 

to the Countess Blessington . 211 

to the Countess of * * * . 211 

to Lady Byron . . .211 

to Mr. Blaquiere . . 212 

to Mr. Bowring . . . 212 

to Mr. Bowring . . . 213 

to Mr. Church . . .213 

to M. H. Beyle ... 214 

toLady**** . . .214 
to the Countess of Blessington 214 

to Mr. Bowring . . . 214 

to Goethe . . . . 215 

to Mr. Bowring . . . 215 

to the General Government of 

Greece .... 216 

to Prince Mavrocordato . 216 

to Mr. Bowring . . . 216 

to Mr. Bowring . . . 217 

to Mr. Bowring . . . 217 
to the Honourable Mr. Douglas 

Kinnaird . , , . 818 

to Mr. Bowring , . . 218 



LETTERS 

DCV. 
DCVI. 
DCVII. 

dcvui. 

DCIX. 

DCX. 

DC XI. 

DCXII. 

Dcxur. 
Dcxrv. 

DCXV. 

DCXVI. 

DCXVII. 

DCXVIII. 

DCXIX. 

DCXX. 

DCXXI. 

DCXXII. 

DCXXIII. 

DCXXtV. 

DCXXV. 

DCXXVI. 

DCXXV1I. 

DCXXVIII. 

DCXXIX. 

DCXXX. 

DCXXXI. 

DCXXXII. 

DCXXXIII. 

DC XXXIV. 

DCXXXV. 



to Mr. Moore . 

to the Hon. Col. Stanhope 

to Mr. Muir . 

to Mr. C. Hancock 

to Mr. Charles Hancock , 

to Mr. Charles Hancock 

to Mr. Charles Hancock . 



t0 * * * * . 

to Mr. Charles Hancock . 

to Andrew Londo 

to His Highness Yussuff Pacha 

to Mr. Barff 

to Mr. Mayer . . . 

to Hon. Douglas Kinnaird . 

to Mr. Barff .... 

to Mr. Murray . 

to Mr. Moore .... 

to Dr. Kennedy ... 

to Mr. Barff .... 

to Mr. Barff 

to Sr. Parruca . . . 

to Mr. Charles Hancock 

to Dr. Kennedy . . • 

to Colonel Stanhope . • 

to Mr. Barff .... 

to Mr. Barff 

to Mr. Barff .... 

to *****, a Prussian officer 

to Mr. Barff .... 

to Mr. Barff 

to Mr. Barff .... 



PA OB 

218 
219 
219 
220 
220 
221 
221 
221 
222 
223 
223 
223 
223 
224 
224 
224 
225 
225 
225 
226 
226 
228 
226 
227 
227 
227 
227 
228 
228 
228 
22S 



Extracts from a Journal begun Not. 14, 1813, . 229 
Extracts from a Journal in Switzerland . • 244 
Extracts from a Journal in Italy . . . 247 
Detached Thoughts, extracted from various jour- 
nals, memorandums, &c. &c 259 

Review of Wordsworth's Poems . . . 271 

" Gell's Geography of Ithaca, and Itinerary 

ofGreece 271 

The first chapter of a Novel, contemplated by Lord 
Byron in the spring of 1 812 ; (afterwards published 
in one of Mr. Dallas' novels) . . . 277 

Parliamentary Speeches 278 

A Fragment 284 

Letter to John Murray on the Rev. W. L. Bowles's 

strictures on the Life and writings of Pope . 28S 
Notes ........ 294 

Observations upon (( Observations :" A second 
Letter to John Murray Esq. on the Rev. W. L. 
Bowles's strictures on the Life and writings of 

Pope 295 

Note 303 

Some Observations upon an article in Blackwood's 

Magazine 303 

Letter to the Editor of My Grandmother's Review 312 
Lord Bacon's Apophthegms .... S14 
Translation of two Epistles from the Armenian 

version Sli 

The will of Lord Byron S18 



CONTENTS. 



POEMS, ETC. 



PA08 
CHILDE HAROLd's FILQRIMAOE. 

Preface .... 

Tolanihe 

Canto I. .... 

Canto II. . ... 

Canto III. 

Canto IV. ... 

Notes to Canto I. . • • 

Notes to Canto II. 

Appendix .... 

Notes to Canto III. 

Notes to Canto IV i9 

THE GIAOUR ... ... 

Notes 

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS 

Canto I 



The wild gazelle .... 
Oh ! weep for those • • • 
On Jordan's banks ..." 
Jephtha's daughter • • • * 

Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom 

My soul is dark 

I saw thee weep .... 
Thy days are done • 

Song of Saul before his last battlo . 

Saul ; 

" All is vanity, saith Uio preacher 
When coldness wraps this suffering clay 
Vision of Belshauv ... 



ui 



!W 



Canto II .?! 



102 



FACB 
177 



Sun of the sleepless 

Were my bosom as false as thou doem'sl it to bo 177 

Herod's lament for Mariamne 

On the day of the destruction of Jorusalem by 



Titus 



177 



Notes 

THE CORSAIR. 

Canto I. ... 

Canto II. 
Canto III. 

Notes 
LARA. 

Canto I. ... 

Canto II. . 

Note .... 

SIEGE OF CORINTH 

Notes ... 

FARISINA . > * 

Notes 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

Sonnet on Chillon 

Notes 

BEPFO ..... 

Notes 

MAZEPPA 

MANFRED 

Notes . • • 

HEBREW MELODIES. 

She walks in beauty . • • 
The harp the monarch minstrel swept 
If that high world 



105 
110 
114 
119 

121 
126 
130 
131 
139 
140 
144 



171 
17! 
174 
175 
175 
175 
175 
175 
175 
175 
17B 
I7« 
nt; 
176 
176 
177 



By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept 178 

The destruction of Sennacherib . 

From Job 

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE 

Notes .... • ' 

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN 

LAMENT OF TASSO 

POEMS. 

Written in an album 

To * * * ■ 

Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian gull 

Stanzas 

Written at Athens •••'■, 
Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos 

Song 

Translalion of a famous Greek war song 

Translation of a Romaic song 

Written beneath a picture 

On parting .... ... 

ToThyrza 

Slanzas .... • 

To Thyrza 

Euthanasia 

Stanzas ...«••• 

Stanzas . • _ - • • • 

On a cornelian heart which was broken • 

To a youthful friend .... 

To ****** 

From the Portuguese 

Impromptu, fa) reply to a friend 

Address spoken at the opening of Drury-Lano 
Thoatre 

To Time 

Translation of a Romaic love-song 

A song . • • "..*,',„' 

On being asked what was the " origin of love 

Remember him . . . • •[_, • };|' 

Lines inscribed upon a cup formed from a skull 

On the death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart. 

To a lady weeping 

From the Turkish . 

Sonnet • 

the monument of a Newfoundland 



178 
178 
180 
180 
181 

183 

183 
183 
184 
181 
184 
185 
185 
185 
1S6 
186 
186 
186 
187 
187 
187 
188 
188 
188 
189 
189 
189 

190 
190 
190 
191 
191 



193 
192 
192 
193 
196 



Inscription on the monument ot a r< emounuianu 

dog 

Farewell • 

Bright be the place of thy soul . 
When we two parted • • • 

Stanzas for music .... 
Stanzas for music ...» 

Fare thee well . • • • • 



193 
193 
193 
194 
194 
194 



CONTENTS 



XIII 






P \ r. k 
195 
195 
196 
197 
197 
197 



A sketch 

To 

Ode from (he French 

From the French 

On (he star of the legion of honour , 

Napoleon's farewell ..... 
Written on a blank leaf of " The Pleasures of 

Memory" 198 

Sonnet 198 

Stanzas to 198 

Darkness 198 

Churchill's grave. A fact literally rendered . 199 

The dream 199 

Prometheus 201 

Romance niuy doloroso de! sitio ytoma de AHiama 201 
A very mournful ballad on the siege aid conquest 



of Alhama 
Sonette di Vittorelli 
Translation from Vittorelli 
Ode .... 

Notes to Poems 

fKOPHECY OF DANTE. 

Canto I. ..... . . 

Canto II. 

Canto UI, 

Canto IV 

Notes 

(AI.V 

MARINO FALIERO 

Notes 

Appendix 

SARDANAPALUS 

Notes ...... . 

THE TWO FOSCARI ..... 

Appendix 

WERNER . 

THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 

HEAVEN AND EARTH .... 

THE ISLAND. 

Canto I 

Canto II. ....... 

Canto III 

Canto. IV. 

Appendix ...... 

HOURS OF IDLENESS. 

Preface 

On leaving Newstead Abbey 

On a distant view of the village and school of 

Harrow on the Hill .... 

To D 

Epitaph on a friend 

A fragment 

To Eddleston ... ... 

Reply to some verses of J. M. Pigot, Esq. on 

the cruelty of his mistress . . 

To the sighing Strephon .... 
The tear ........ 

To Miss Pigot 

Lines written in " Letters of an Italian Nun and 

an English Gentleman, by J. J. Rousseau, 

founded on Facts" . 

Answer to the foregoing, addressed to Miss 

The fornelian ...... 

On the death of a young lady, cousin to the author, 

and very dear to him .... 

To Emma .... ... 

An occasional prologue, delivered previous to the 

performance of " The Wheel of Fortune" at a 

private theatre 

On the death of Mr. Fox .... 

ToM. S G. . ■ 

To Caroline . • • . • • 

To Caroline 

*T** Caroline ...... 



201 
203 
203 
204 
205 

206 
207 
208 
210 
211 
212 
228 
257 
258 
265 
291 
291 
310 
315 
345 
358 

368 
369 
374 
375 
378 

382 
383 

S83 
384 
384 
384 
884 

385 
S85 

385 
386 



3-7 



Stan/as to a lady 

The first kiss of love 

To Mary 

To woman 

To M. S. G. 

To a beautiful quaker 

Song . 

To 



PAOI 

389 
389 
390 
390 
390 
390 
391 
391 



To Mary 392 

To Lesbia 392 

Lines addressed to a young lady . . 392 

Love's last adieu 393 

Damstas 393 

To Marion 393 

Oscar of Alva .... 394 

To the Duke of Dorset .... 397 

TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 

Adrian's adJress to his soul when dying, with 

Translation 398 

Translation from Catullus . . . 393 
Translation of the epitaph on Virgil and Ti- 

bullus 398 

Imitation of Tibultus .... 398 

Translation from Catullus . . . 398 

Imitated from Catullus .... 398 

Translation from Horace .... 398 

Translation from Anacreon . . . 399 

Ode III 399 

Fragments of school exercises . . . 399 

The episode of Nisus and Eurialus . . 399 

Translation from the Medea of Euripides . 402 

FUGITIVE PIECES. 

Thoughts suggested by a college examination 403 

To the Earl of 404 

Answer to some elegant verses sent by a friend 
to the author, complaining that one of his de- 
scriptions was rather too warmly drawn 405 

Granta 405 

Lachin y. Gair 406 

To Romance ...... 407 

Elegy on Newstead Abbey . . . 407 

On a change of masters at a great public school 409 

Childish recollections ... . 409 

Answer to a beaut. ful poem, written by Montgo- 
mery, author of " The Wanderer in Switzer- 
land," &c. &c. entitled "The Common Lot" 413 
To the Rev. J. T. Becher ... 413 
The death of Calmar and Orla . . . 414 

To E. N. L., Esq 415 

To 416 

Stanzas 416 

Lines written beneath an elm in the churchyard 

of Harrow on the Hill .... 417 

Critique, extracted from the Edinburgh Review 417 

ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 

Preface 419 

Postscript 430 

HINTS FROM HORACE 431 

THE CURSE OF MINERVA . . . 441 
THE WALTZ. 

To the publisher . . . 444 

AGE OF BRONZE ... . 447 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 

Preface 453 

MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 

Advertisement ...... 461 

POEMS. 

The Blues 467 

Third Act of Manfred, in its original shape, as 

first sent to the publisher . . . 470 

To my dear Mary Anne . . . 472 

To MissChaworth 472 

Fragment 473 

The prayer of nature . 473 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 






PAOE 

Fragment 473 

On revisiting Harrow . ... 473 

L'amitie' est l'amour sans ailes • . . 473 

To my son . . . • . 474 

Epitaph on John Adams, of Southwell . 476 

Fragment . • • ■ • . 475 

To Mrs. * * * ... . 475 

A love-song 475 

Stanzas to * * + * * * * . . . . 475 

To the samo . . . . . 476 

Song 476 

Stanzas to ***, on leaving England . 476 

Lines to Mr. Hodgson . ... 477 

Linns in the travellers' book at Orchomenus • 477 

Epistle to Mr. Hodgson .... 478 

On Moore's last operatic farce • . • 478 

On Lord Thurlow's poems . . . 478 

To Lord Thurlmv 478 

To Thomas Moore . . . 478 

Fragment of an epistle to Thomas Moore . 479 

The Devil's drivo 479 

Windsor poetics .... • 480 

Additional stanzas to the ode to Napoleon . 480 

To Lady Caroline Lamb . . . 480 

Stanzas for music . .... 480 

Address intended to be recited at the Caledonian 

meeting ...'... 481 

ToBelshazzar . 481 

On the Prince Regent's returning the picture of 

Sarah Countess of Jersey to Mrs. Mee . 481 

Hebrew Melodies 482 

Lines intended for the opening of " The Siege of 

Cormth" 482 

Extract from an unpublished poem . . 432 

ToAu^tista 482 

Fragment of a poem on hearing that Lady Byron 

was ill.— 1816 . 484 

On tlie bust of Helen by Canova . . 484 

To Thomas Moore . . ... 484 

Stanzas to the river Po .... 484 

Sonnet to George the Fourth . . . 484 

The Irish Avatar 485 

Francesca of Rimini . .... 485 

Stanzas 486 

Stanzas 487 

Impromptu 487 

To the Countess of Blessington . . . 487 

On this day I complete my thirty-sixth vear . 487 

POEMS tROM MANtTSCIUPTa COLLECTED IN 1833. 

To a Lady who presented the Auihor with a vel- 
vet band which bound her tresses . . 488 



paos 

Remembrance . 488 

The Adieu 488 

To a vain Lady 489 

To Anne 490 

To the same 490 

To the Author of a Sonnet beginning " ' Sad is 
my vrrsc,' you say, ' And yet no tear.' " . 490 

On finding a Fan ' 490 

Farewell to the Muse . . ' . . . 490 

To an Oak at Newstcad . . . . 491 
Lines on hearing that Lady Byron was ill . 491 

Stanzas " Gould love for ever" . . . 492 
Stanzas to a Hindoo Air .... 492 

Lines intended for the First Canto of Childe Ha- 
rold's Pilgrimage .... 493 

Don Jpaw 

Canto I. . . . .495 

Canto II. ... 509 

Canto III 522 

Canto IV. . . 530 

Canto V. . . ... .537 

Preface to Cantos VI. VII. VIII. . . 517 

Canto VI. ..... 518 

Canto VII. . ... 556 

Canto VIII. . . . . .561 

Canto IX. . ... 570 

Canto X. .... 575 

Canto XI. . ... 581 

Canto XII. . ... 587 

Canto XIII. . . .592 

Canto XIV. . .... 599 

Canto XV. . . . . . 606 

Canto XVI. . . . .612 

Notes to Canto I. . ... 620 

Notes to Canto III. . 62C 

Notes to Canto IV. .... 621 

Notes to Canto V. . . . 621 

Notes to Canto VI. .... 622 

Notes to Canto VII. . . . 622 

Notes to Canto VIII. . . . 622 

Notes to Canto IX. . . . 622 

Notes to Canto X. . . . 623 

Notes to Canto XL . . . . 623 

Notes to Canto XII. . . .623 

Notes to Canto XIII. . . . o24 

Notes to Canto XIV. . . . .624 

Notes to Canto XV. . . . 624 

Notes to Canto XVI. . . . .625 

Dedication . ... 626 






) 



THE 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



George Gordon Byro.v, Lord Byron, 
was born in Holles-slreet, London, on the 
22.1 of January, 17S3. His name was of 
Norman origin, and still exists, among the 
noblest in France, in the family of the Duke 
de Biron. His direct ancestor, Ralph de 
Biron, accompanied William the Conqueror 
to England, and he and bis descendants for 
several succeeding reigns, held large posses- 
sions in Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, and 
Lancashire. James Byron, of Horestan 
Castle, Derbyshire, appears on the "Oxford 
List," as one of the English Knights who 
followed the banner of Richard Cteur de 
Lion to Palestine, and lie or his brother 
became a hostage for the payment of the 
ransom of that monarch after his captivity. 
In the wars of the three Edwards, and of 
the White and Red Roses, the family were 
highly distinguished, and were engaged in 
almost every battle, from Cressy to Bos- 
worth Field. Newstead Abbey, near Not- 
tingham, with the lands adjoining it, was 
presented by Henry VIII. on the dissolution 
of the monasteries to Sir John Byron, and 
in 1643, his great grandson was created a 
peer by Charles I. with the title of Baron 
Byron, of Rochdale, in the county of Lan- 
caster. During the political struggles of 
that period, the Byrons adhered faithfully to 
me Crown, and suffered greatly by confis- 
cation and otherwise. At the battle of 
Edfeehill seven brothers of the name were 
nt, four of whom fell at Marston 
Moon William, the fifth Lord, succeeded 
to the title in 1736, and, in 1765, was tried 
before the House of Peers for killing his 
relation Mr. Chaworth, in a desperate scuffle 
or duel in London, and found guilty of man- 
slaughter, but pleaded the privilege of the 
peerage, and was discharged. He retired 
to Newstead Abbey, and resided there, 
living in a very unsocial, savage, and eccen- 
tric manner, till bis deafh in 1798. 

John, the father of the poet, was the son 
of Lord William's eldest brother, Admiral 



Byron, the celebrated voyager. He was a 
captain in the guards, and notorious, alike 
for his personal beauty, and the profligacy 
of his conduct. In his twenty-seventh year, 
he won the affections of Lady Caermarthen, 
the wife of the Marquis of Caermarthen ; 
tied with her to the Continent, and, on her 
husband's obtaining a divorce, married her. 
She died in 1784, leaving one daughter, 
Augusta Byron, afterwards Mrs. Leigh. In 
the following year, be married Catherine 
Gordon, the only child of George Gordon 
Esq. of Gight, in Scotland. She was of 
noble, and indeed, of princely ancestry, being 
a lineal descendant of Sir William Gordon, 
son of the Earl of Huntly by a daughter 
of James I. She was possessed of pro 
perty to the amount of more than £-20,000 
sterling, which was very soon nearly ex- 
pended in paying her husband's debts, and 
contributing to his extravagancies. In the 
summer of 1786, they left Scotland, and 
resided in France, until the close of tin: 
year 1787, when Mrs. Byron returned to 
London, and continued there until the birth 
of the poet in January 1788. At this time 
all her estate had been sacrificed, with the 
exception of about £150 sterling per an- 
num, vested in trustees for her use. From 
London she proceeded with her infant to 
Aberdeen, where she was soon after joined 
by Captain Byron, who, after passing at 
intervals two or three months with her, 
during which they lived very unhappily 
together, departed again for France, and 
died at Valenciennes in 1791. 

At five years old, young Byron was sent 
to a day school kept by a Mr. Bowers, where 
he remained a year. He was then placed 
for a time under the care of two other in 
structers, and at seven entered the Gram- 
mar School at Aberdeen. In the summer 
of 1796, after an attack of scarlet fever, he 
was removed for change of air, to the High- 
lands, and resided, with his mother, for some 
time, at Ballater, on the Dee, about forty 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 






miles from Aberdeen. To his pleasant re- 
collections of this period, and its scenes and 
associations, lie often recurs in his writings. 

By the death without issue, of William, 
the fifth Lord, in May, 1798, he succeeded 
to his estates and titles, and his cousin the 
Earl of Carlisle, the son of the late Lord's 
sister, was appointed his guardian. In the 
autumn of that year, he accompanied his 
mother to Newslead Abbey, which had 
been the principal seat of the family since 
its presentation, and continued to be so 
until it was purchased by Colonel Wildman 
in 1814. On their arrival there, he was, in 
consequence of a lameness in one of his 
lict, occasioned, it is said, by an accident 
which occurred at his birth, and afterwards 
increased by improper treatment, placed at 
Nottingham under the care of a person 
who professed the cure of such cases, and 
he received at the same time lessons in 
Latin, from Mr. Rogers, a schoolmaster of 
that town. He was removed, in a short 
time, to London, to the charge of the emi- 
nent physician, Doctor Baillie, and studied 
for two years at the school of Doctor Glen- 
nie at Dulwich. But neither the Notting- 
ham practitioner, nor the skill of Doctor 
Baillie, succeeded in relieving the infirmity 
in his foot, which continued to be a source 
of extreme annoyance and mortification to 
him during life. 

In one of his vacations at this time, 
(1800,) he visited his cousin, Miss Parker, 
and " his first dash into poetry," he says in 
one of his memorandums, " was the ebulli- 
tion of a passion for her." The verses lie 
alludes to are published in this volume, 
page 387. She was the daughter of Ad- 
miral Sir Peter Parker, on whose deal 
in 1814, he wrote the lines beginning, 
" There is a tear for all who die " In the 
summer of 1801, he visited Cheltenham 
and immediately on his return was placet 
at Harrow, under the tuition of Doctoi 
Drury, for whom he appears to have uni- 
formly entertained the utmost respect and 
affection. In the autumn of 1802, he passed 
some time with his mother at Bath, and 
proceeded with her to Nottingham, where 
she took lodgings, Newstead being ftir that 
season let to Lord Grey de Ruthven. line 
he cultivated an intimacy with Miss Mary 
Anne Chaworth; to whom he had been 
previously introduced in London. She re- 
sided at Annesley, in the neighbourhood "I 
Nottingham. They were distantly related, 
the third Lord Bvion. who succeeded to the 



title in 1679, having married a daughter of 
Viscount Chaworth of Ireland. Mr. Cha 
worth, who fell in the dispute with the Lord 
Byron of 1765, was of the same family. 
He visited Annesley daily for nearly six 
weeks, passing most of the time with his 
cousin, and became deeply and devotedly 
attached to her. He was then hut fifteen. 
She was two or three years older, very 
beautiful, and an heiress with large expec- 
laiions. and seems to have looked upon him, 
at the moment, as a mere schoolboy, and 
laughed at his passion and himself accord- 
ingly. He has pictured in " The Dream," 
page 199, the story of his love for her, and 
its fate and consequences. It appears, 
young as he then was, to have made an in- 
delible impression upon him, and to have 
given, at least in his own opinion, a colour- 
inir of the deepest and darkest importance 
to the events and feelings of his after life. 
Allusions to the subject as one of painful 
and of powerful interest, are to be lound in 
almost every page of his works. Many of 
his smaller poems, particularly the lines 
" Well, thou art happy, &x." page 189, 
were addressed to her. In the following 
year, 1805, she was married to Mr. Mus- 
ters, a gentleman of the neighbourhood, 
and it is said, that the marriage proved un 
happy. She died in 1831. During one 
of his vacations at this period, he studied 
French with the Abbe de Rouffigny in 
London, but made little progress. He 
afterwards read that language with ease, 
but never attempted to speak it. Hcpassed 
the vacation of IS04 with his mother at 
Southwell, in Nottinghamshire, and in Oc- 
tober 1805, left Harrow for Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge. 

On a visit to Southwell in the following 
Bummer, (1806,) he became intimate with 
the family of the Pigots, and to a lady of 
that family the earliest of his letters which 
have been preserved was addressed. In 
August, a dispute with his mother, whose 
violence of temper, at times, exceeded all 
bounds, compelled him to fly to London. 
She however pursued him, and they were 
soon reconciled. About the first of Novem- 
ber his first collection of poems was put in 
press at Newark by Mr. Ridge, a bookseller 
of that place, and about a hundred copies 
circulated among his friends. All these, 
however, he immediately recalled, and in 
the January following printed for private 
distribution a second collection, omitting 
many pieces which had appeared in the first 






LIFE OF LOKD BYRON. 



XVII 



It was entitled " Poems on various Occa- 
sions," and the author's name was not given. 
In May, or June, after numerous alterations 
and additions, the work appeared in its pub- 
lished shape, with the title of " Hours of 
Idleness, &c." and its second edition was 
dedicated to his guardian, Lord Carlisle. 
In the present collection, see this volume, 
page 3S2, the reader will find all the poems 
which were originally suppressed, and no- 
tices of the variations of the different edi- 
tions. He also wrote previous to, and about 
this time, several occasional verses, not in- 
cluded in any of his publications, which 
have been collected since his death, and are 
now published, from page 467 to page 489. 
The minor Reviews, such as the Critical, 
Monthly, Antijacobin, &c. gave the " Hours 
of Idleness" a very favourable reception, 
but the appearance, in the spring of 1808, 
of the article in the Edinburgh Review, 
(see this volume, page 417,) satirically and 
severely criticizing it, destroyed for the 
moment all his hopes of fame, humbled his 
ambition, and wounded his pride to the 
quick. Yet to this article may be traced 
nil his future literary eminence. The very 
reaction of his spirit against what he deem 
ed oppression, roused him to a full con- 
sciousness of bis own powers, and to a 
concentration of them all upon one object. 
The criticism has been generally attributed 
to Mr. Jeffrey, the ostensible editor of the 
Review, although there is no positive cer- 
tainty from whose pen it emanated. He, 
however, in his character of editor, neces- 
sarily sanctioned it, and upon him, in par- 
ticular, Lord Byron for a long time poured 
the vials of his wrath. 

Previous to this, and since his depar- 
ture from Harrow, Lord Byron had passed 
his life between the dissipations of Cam- 
bridge and London, and had obtained no 
other distinction than the college reputation 
among his fellows of being a clever, but a 
cari'less and dissipated student. His most 
intimate associates were Mr. Matthews, Mr. 
Hohhonse, Mr. Seroope Davies, and a few 
other young men of his own age and habits, 
whom he occasionally invited to Newstead, 
which he hail slightly repaired and fitted 
up as a temporary residence. The follow- 
ing extract of a letter from Mr. Matthews to 
a lady of his acquaintance, written from 
London soon after this period, contains an 
interesting and amusing description of the 
Abbey and its inmates. 

" Newstead Abbey is situate one hun- 



dred and thirty-six miles from London ; 
four on this side Mansfield. Though sadly 
fallen to decay, it is still completely an Abbey, 
and most part of it is standing in the same 
state as when it was first built. There are 
two tiers of cloisters, with a variety of cells 
and rooms about them, which, though not 
inhabited, nor in an inhabitable slate, might 
easily be made so; and many of the origi- 
nal rooms, among which is a fine stone hall, 
are still in use. Of the Abbey Church only 
one end remains; and the old kitchen, with 
a long range of apartments, is reduced to a 
heap of rubbish. Leading from the Abbey 
to the modern part of the habitation is a 
noble room, seventy feet in length and twen- 
ty-three in breadth : but every part of the 
house displays neglect and decay, save those 
which the present Lord has lately fitted up. 

" The house and gardens are entirely 
surrounded by a wall with battlements. In 
front is a large lake, bordered here and there 
with castellated buildings, the chief of which 
stands on an eminence at the farther extre- 
mity of it. Fancy all this surrounded with 
hleak and barren hills, with scarce a tree to 
be seen for miles, except a solitary clump or 
two, and you will have some idea of New 
stead. 

"Ascend, then, with me the hall steps, that 
I may introduce you to my Lord and his 
visitants. But have a care bow you pro- 
ceed ; be mindful to go there in broad day- 
light, and with your eyes about you. For, 
should you make any blunder, — should you 
go to the right of the hall steps, you are laid 
Mold of by a bear ; and, should you go to 
the left, your case is still worse, for you run 
(\ill against a wolf! — Nor, when you have 
attained the door, is your danger over ; for 
the hall being decayed, and therefore stand- 
ing in need o*" repair, a bevy of inmates are 
very probably oanging at one end of it with 
their pistols ; so that if you enter without 
giving loud notice of your approach, you 
have only escaped the wolf and the bear to 
expire by the pistol-shots of the merry 
monks of Newstead. 

" Our party consisted of Lord Byron 
and four others ; and was, now and then, 
increased by the presence of a neighbouring 
parson. As for our way of living, the order 
of the day was generally this : — For break 
fast we had no set hour, but each suited his 
own convenience, — every thing remaining 
on the table till the whole party had done ; 
though had one wished to breakfast at the 
early hour of ten, one would have been 



xviii 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



rather lucky to find any of the servants up 
Our average hour of rising was one. I, 
who generally got up between eleven and 
twelve, was always, — even when an invalid, 
— the first of the party, and was esteemed 
n prodigy (if early rising. It was frequently 
past two before the breakfast party broke 
up. Then, for the amusements of the 
morning, there was reading, fencing, single- 
slick, or shuttlecock, in the great room ; 
practising with pistols in the hall ; walking 
— riding — cricket — sailing on the lake, play- 
ing with the be-ar, or teazing the wolf. -Be- 
tween seven and eight we dined, and our 
evening lasted from that time till one, two, 
or three in the morning. The evening di- 
versions may be easily conceived. 

" I must not omit the custom of handing 
round, after dinner, on the removal of the 
cloth, a human skull filled with Burgundy. 
After revelling on choice viands, and the 
finest wines of France, we adjourned to tea, 
where we amused ourselves with reading or 
improving conversation, — each according 
to his fancy, — and, after sandwiches, &.C. 
retired to rest. A set of monkish dresses 
which had been provided, with all the pro- 
per apparatus of crosses, beads, tonsures 
&c. often gave a variety to our appearance, 
and to our pursuits." 

It was at Newstead Abbey, in the early 
part of September, that he began to prepare 
his Satire, the " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers," for the press. Although its 
immediate preparation was evidently has- 
tened by the critique in the Edinburgh 
Re\iew, yet, as appears from his letters, it 
had been projected a long time previous, 
and three or four hundred lines ot it written. 
He had the proof sheets printed from the 
manuscript by Ridge at Newark, and in the 
beginning of the next year took them up to 
London for publication. He had then (Ja- 
nuary, 1S09) become of age, and found his 
estates greatly embarrassed, as well by the 
improvidence of his immediate ancestors as 
by his own pecuniary supplies during his 
minority, which he had been compelled to 
borrow at. an exorbitant interest. Heavy 
incumbrances remained for many years after 
upon his property, and distressed him ex- 
ceedingly. His Satire was put in press by 
Cawthorne, the London publisher of the 
" Hours of Idleness," and its publication was 
superintended bv Mr. Dallas, to whom he 
had made a present of the copy-right. Mr. 
Dallas was professionally a man of letters, 
and the author of several novel* of limited 



popularity, and rather indifferent merit ; to 
one of which Lord Byron contributed the 

chapter included in this collection, page 
271. He was related by marriage to 
George Byron, then an otticcr in the Bri- 
tish navy, the cousin of the poet, and his 
successor in the title. One of the objects 
of Lord Byron in visiting London at this 
period was to take his seat in the House of 
Peers, previous to going abroad. He had for 
several months made arrangements for a 
voyage to India, and had applied tor infor 
mation relative to his route, &.c. to the 
Arabic professor at Cambridge, and taken 
other steps with a similar intention ; hut lie 
finally abandoned this project, and resolved 
on visiting Greece. Before the meeting of 
Parliament, he wrote to his guardian, Lord 
Carlisle, and reminded him that lie should 
become of age at the commencement of the 
session, in the hope of being introduced by 
him personally into the House. He re- 
ceived, to his great disappointment, a cold 
and formal reply, merely pointing out the 
technical mode of proceeding in such cases. 
This so excited his indignation that he in- 
stantly erased from the Satire several cou- 
plets complimentary to Lord Carlisle, and 
inserted the bitter lines, and still more bitter 
note, which now stand in it. On the 13th 
of March he took his seat in the House of 
Lords, placing himself on one of the oppo- 
sition benches, and continued a steady ad- 
herent of the Whig party till his death. 
His Satire appeared on the ISth or 20th of 
March, and met a ready and rapid sale. He 
then returned to Newstead, where he spent 
between two and three months in preparing 
a second edition for the puss ; and about 
the 11th of June, left London tor Falmouth, 
with his friend Mr. Hobhouse, on their way 

to the East. 

They embarked at Falmouth, in the 
Lisbon packet, on the 2d of July, ami ar- 
rived in four days at Lisbon, from whence 
they journeyed on horseback to Seville and 
Cadiz, and sailed from the latter place liir 
Gibraltar, in the Hyperion frigate. On the 
19th of August, they left Gibraltar for 
Malta, having first sent home two ol'I.ord 
Byron's servants, Murray and young Rush- 
ton, the " Yeoman" and " Page" of the 
"Good Night" in Childe Harold, the lat- 
ter being unable, from ill health, to 20 on. 
His valet, Fletcher, remained with them. 
Vt Malta he formed an acquaintance with 
Mrs. Spencer Smith, the " Florence" of hi* 
poetry, and was on the point of fighting a 



duel with an officer of the garrison, but 
v satisfactory explanations having been made 
on the ground by the friend of his anta- 
gonist, the affair was amicably adjusted. 
They sailed in the brig Spider on the 
19th for Prevesa, which they reached on 
the 29th, having touched at Patras on their 
way. From Prevesa they journeyed to 
Joannina, the capital of Albania, the an- 
cient Epirus, and from thence to Tepelene, 
at nine days distance, for the purpose of 
visiting Ali Pacha, the then chief of a great 
portion of Greece, and one of the most 
celebrated Viziers of the Ottoman empire, 
by whom they were received with marked 
civility and attention. They were among 
the earliest English travellers through Al- 
bania, a country at that time hardly known 
to the rest of Europe. The letters of Lord 
Byron at this period, published in this col- 
lection of his works, together with the text 
and notes of the first and second Cantos 
of Childe Harold, and many of his other 
poems, notes, &c. contain such numerous 
details of their various adventures during 
this and their subsequent journeys and 
voyages in the Levant, as render a par- 
ticular description in this sketch unneces- 
sary. 

On the 3d of November they returned 
flora Tepelene through Joannina to Pre- 
vesa, and on the 15th, attended by a. guard 
of forty or fifty Albanians, they traversed 
Acarnania and Etolia to Missolonglii, 
crossed the gulf of Corinth to Patras, and 
proceeded from thence by land to Vostizza, 
where they obtained a first view of Mount 
Parnassus. They sailed to the opposite 
shore of the gulf in a small boat ; rode on 
horseback from Salona to Delphi, and after 
travelling through Livadia, and visiting 
Thebes, &.c. arrived at Athens on the 25th 
of December. 

At Athens, they resided for two or three 
months, making occasional excursions in its 
neighbourhood. They lodged in the house 
of Theodora Macri, a Greek lady, to whose 
eldest daughter, the lines on page 184, 
" Maid of Athens ere we part, &c." were 
addressed. On the 5th of March, 1810, 
they embarked in an English sloop of war 
for Smyrna, where they remained, with the 
exception of a few days employed in a visit 
to the ruins of Ephesus, until the 1 1 th of 
April. The first two Cantos of Childe 
Harold were completed at Smyrna, as ap- 
pears from the following memorandum pre- 
fixed to the original manuscript. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XIX 



" Byron. Joannina in Albania, 
Begun October 31st, 1309 : 
Concluded Canto 2d, Smyrna, 
March 28th, 1810. 

" Byron." 

The Salsette frigate then lying at Smyr- 
na,-had been ordered to Constantinople for 
the purpose ,of conveying to England Mr. 
Adair, the English ambassador at the Porte, 
and Lord Byron and Mr. Hohhouse took 
passage in her on the 11th April. The 
next morning they landed at Tenedos, and 
the day after left the ship, with a party of 
officers to visit the ruins of Troas. On the 
14th, they anchored in the Dardanelles, 
where they lay for nearly three weeks. 
While at anchor there, Lord Byron with 
Mr. Ekenhead, a lieutenant of the frigate, 
accomplished the achievement of which he 
wasthnugh life particularly proud, that of 
swimmi.ig from Sestos to Abydos. Their 
first attempt was made on a day in the latter 
part of April, and failed, owing to the cold- 
ness of thewater, and their ignorance of the 
nature of the current. On the 3d May, they 
made a second attempt, and the weather 
being warmer, succeeded. The Salsette 
arrived at Constantinople on the 13th May, 
and remained there about three months, 
during which time Lord Byron was pre- 
sented to the Sultan, and made an expedi- 
tion to the Black Sea and the Cyanean 
Symplegades. On the 14th of July, he 
left Constantinople in the same frigate, in 
company with Mr. Adair and Mr. Hob- 
house. The two latter gentlemen pro- 
ceeded in her to England, but Lord Byron 
was on the 15th, at his own request, landed 
at the island of Zea, with two Albanians, 
a, Tartar, and his English servant, Fletcher, 
from whence he sailed to Athens, and 
reached there on the 18th. 

At Athens he met an old acquaintance 
and fellow collegian, the Marquis of Sligo, 
and in a day or two left there in company 
with him for the Morea. They parted at 
Corinth, the Marquis going from thence to 
Tripolitza, and Lord Byron to Patras. 
During the two following months he made 
the tour of the Morea, &c. and, after a long 
"and dangerous illness at Patras, returned to 
Athens in December, and there fixed his 
head quarters during the remainder of his 
stay in Greece. His principal companiou a 
this time was Lord Sligo, and he was also in- 
timate with Mr. Bruce, afterwards celebrated 
lbr the part he took in the romantic escape o( 



XX 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



the French General Lavaletle from prison, 
and with Lady Hester Stanhope, the eccen- 
tric chicftainessof the Bedouin Arabs. He 
was employed in collecting the materials 
which form the notes to the 2d Canto of 
Childe Harold, and in the words of Mr. 
Moore, " as if in utter defiance of the ' ge- 
nius loci,' " he there wrote his " Hints from 
Horace," a satire which, impregnated as it 
is with London life from beginning to end, 
bears the date, " Athens, Capuchin convent, 
March 12, 1811." 

His pecuniary affairs while abroad were 
greatly embarrassed,, and the want of re- 
mittances probably prevented him from 
undertaking a' voyage to Egypt, which in 
the month of March he had contemplated, 
and no doubt hastened his return home. He 
went to the island of Malta in May, where 
he suffered severely from an attack of fever. 
lo which he seems to have been constitu- 
tionally subject, being three or four times 
while in the Levant, reduced by similar at- 
tacks lo almost [he last extremity. On the 
3d of June, as soon as his health permitted, 
he set sail from Malta in the Volage frigate 
for England, and reached London on the 
1 4th of July, having been absent a little 
more than two years. 

The day after his arrival in London, Mr. 
Dallas called upon him, and in the course 
of a brief conversation, Lord Byron men- 
tioned having written the " Hints from Ho- 
race," which he said he considered a good 
finish to the " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers," adding that he intended to put 
it in press immediately, and requesting Mr. 
Dallas to superintend its publication. Mr. 
Dallas took the manuscript home with him, 
and on perusing it, was, to use his own 
words, " grievously disappointed." He re- 
turned it the next morning, and though 
unwilling to speak of it as he really thought, 
could not refrain from expressing some sur- 
prise that its author should have produced 
nothing else during his two years' absence. 
Lord Byron told him that he had occasion 
ally written short poems, besides a great 
many stanzas in the measure of Spenser, 
and added, " they are not worth troubling 
you with, but you may have them all if you 
like." He then took the manuscripts of 
Childe Harold from a small trunk, and 
said they had been read but by one person, 
(probably Mr. Hobhouse,) who had found 
v :ry little to commend and much to con- 
demn, and that he himself was of the same 
opinion. Mr. Dallas on the contrary, on 



perusing the poem, ai once appreciated l' 
merit and anticipated its success, but it was 
some time before he could overcome Lord 
Byron's real or assumed repugnance to its 
publication. The " Hints from Horace" 
was bis especial favourite. He was very 
hsiroiis of having it printed without delay ; 
and it was accordingly handed to Caw 
thorne, the publisher of the " English Bar&a 
and Scotch Reviewers," for that purpose. 
Mr. Dallas, however, finally prevailed upon 
him to suppress it at the moment, and 
although Lord Byron always dwelt upon it 
with pleasure, and subsequently took pains 
at various times to prepare it for the press, 
it never met the approbation of his book- 
sellers or their literary censors, and did not 
appear until after his death. 

The publication of Childe Harold being 
determined upon, the manuscript was placed 
by Mr. Dallas, to whom the copy-right had 
been presented, in the hands of Mr. Mur- 
ray the bookseller, and was immediately 
put in press. The " English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers" had previous to this 
time passed to a fourth edition ; a fifth was 
now issued with various additions, after 
which that work was suppressed, and every 
copy so far as was practicable called in and 
destroyed. In America, however, and on 
the Continent, where the English law of 
copy-right could not be enforced, it conti- 
nued to be published with the other works 
of its author. 

On the 23d of July, Lord Byron wrote 
to his mother, who was then at Newstcad, 
stating that he was detained in town by 
some law affairs for a day or two, but should 
visit her as soon as possible. The next 
morning he received intelligence that she 
was dangerously ill, and instantly started 
for Newstead, but did not reach there until 
after her death. Her last illness is said to 
have been rendered fatal by a fit of rage 
brought on by reading her upholsterer's 
bill. She is described as a short, corpiden 
person, exceedingly fretful and impatient in 
her disposition ; and her conduct towards 
her son from 'hisVhildhood appears to have 
been alternately indulgent and abusive, and 
without the least judgment or self-command. 
She undoubtedly loved him to the extreme 
of fondness, and was ambitiously proud of 
him, yet so ungovernable were her passions, 
that she, at times, treated him with a cruelty, 
and even brutality almost beyond belief. 
He said to Lord Sligo, in reference to her 
while in Greece, " Look there," pointing to 



. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XXI 



nis foot, " it is to her false delicacy at my 
, birth I owe that deformity, and yet as long- 
as I can remember, she has never ceased to 
launt and reproach me with it." In a pas- 
sage in his suppressed Memoirs relating to 
/his early days, lie is said to have described 
the horror and humiliation which came over 
him when in one of her fits of passion she 
called him a " lame brat," and the opening 



to be matched among contemporaries in 
any age or country." 

Mr. Moore, in alluding to this meeting, 
thus describes the impressions left upon 
him, by this his first interview with Lord 
Byron. " What I chiefly remember to have 
remarked was the nobleness of his air, his 
beauty, and the gentleness of his voice and 
manners. Being in mourning for his mo- 



of •' The Deformed Transformed," indeed ther, the colour, as well of his dress, as of 



the whole drama itself, was too evidently 
occasioned by that painful recollection. Yet 
notwithstanding the sufferings her unhappy 
temperament had caused him, he uniformly 
paid her the greatest courtesy and personal 
respect ; and the manner in which he la- 
mented her loss proved tiie unimpaired in- 
tegrity of his affection. 

Besides that of his mother, he was com- 
pelled to mourn at this period the death of 
no less than six of his relations and inti- 
mate friends. Among the number were 
Wingfield, one of his Harrow favourites, 
Eggleston, his protoge at Cambridge, of 
whom he was romantically fond, and Mat- 
thews, a young man of extraordinary pro- 
mise. iC In the short space of one month," 
he says, in a note to Childe Harold, " I 
have lost her who gave me being, and most 
of those who made that being tolerable ;" 
and his letters, for a long time after, are 
written in a style of melancholy reckless- 
ness, indicative of habitual gloom and de- 
spondency. 

He remained at Newstea 1 until late in 
the autumn ; ami, after a visit to Rochdale, 
in Lancashire, on business connected with 
his estates in that quarter, returned through 
Cambridge to London the latter part of 
October. About this time he became inti- 
mate with Mr. Moore, the poet, afterwards 
his biographer, and one of his lew firm and 
faithful friends, and with Lord Holland, both 
of whom he had violently attacked in the 
" English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." 
The origin of his acquaintance with Mr. 
Moore was a note appended to that satire, 
and the singularly curious and characteristic 
correspondence which followed it is contain- 
ed in this volume, page 36, &c. That 
correspondence led to an introduction at the 
house of Mr. Rogers, the author of " Hu- 
man Life," &c. and on the day it took place, 
Mr. Campbell, the author of the " Plea- 
sures of Hope," Lord Byron, and Mr. 
Moore, dined with that gentleman, forming, 
as one of Lord Byron's biographers very 
justly observes, " a poetical group not easily 



his glossy curling and picturesque hair, gave 
more effect to the pure, spiritual paleness 
of his features, in the expression of which, 
when he spoke, there was a perpetual 
play of lively thought, though melancholy 
was their habitual character when in rp 
pose." 

The following further extracts from Mr. 
Moore's Notices, will give the reader an ac- 
curate general idea of Lord Byron's personal 
appearance. 

"Of his face, the beauty may be pro- 
nounced to have been of the highest order, 
as combining at once regularity of features 
with the most varied and interesting expres 
sion. His eyes, though of a light gray, 
were capable of all extremes of meaning, 
hut it was in the mouth and chin that the 
great beauty as well as expression of his 
countenance lay. 

" His head was remarkably small, — so 
much so as 1-9 be rather out of proportion 
with his face. The forehead, though a lit- 
tle too narrow, was high, and appeared more 
so from his having his hair (to preserve it, 
as he said) shaved over the temples ; while 
the glossy, dark-brown curls, clustering over 
his head, gave the finish to its beauty. When 
to this is added, that his nose, though hand- 
somely, was rather thickly shaped, that his 
teeth were white and regular, and his com 
plexion colourless, as good an idea perhaps 
as it is in the power of mere words to con- 
vey may be conceived of his features. 

" In height he was, as he himself has in 
formed us, five feet eight inches and a half, 
anil to the length of his limbs he attributed 
his being such a good swimmer. His hands 
were very white, and — according to his own 
notion of the size of hands as indicating 
birth — aristocratically small. The lame- 
ness of his right foot, though an obstacle to 
grace, hut little impeded the activity of his 
movements ; and from this circumstance, 
as well as from the skill with which the foo 
was disguised by means of long trowsers, 
it would be difficult to conceive a defect of 
this kind less obtruding itself as a deformity 



SXI1 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 






while the diffidence which a constant con- 
sciousness of the infirmity gave to his first 
approach and address, made, in him, even 
lameness a source of interest." 

On the 27th of February, 1812, in a de- 
hate on the subject of the Nottingham 
Frame-breakers', lie made his first speech in 
the House of Lords. He had previously 
prepared himself, not only by composing, 
but wriling it beforehand. It was flatter- 
ingly received, but obtained no permanent 
popularity, and bis after efforts as an orator 
Were generally considered failures. In 
April following, be spoke a second time, in 
favour of the claims of the Irish Catholics, 
and, in June, accompanied the presentation 
of a petition in behalf of Major Cartwright, 
with some introductory remarks, which 
closed his parliamentary career as a speak- 
er. His display, on the second and third 
occasions, was less promising than at first. 
His delivery was mouthing and theatrical, 
and in a kind of chanting tone, which is said 
to have also disfigured his recitation of 
poetry. 

On the first of March, Cbilde Harold ap- 
peared, and " the impression" says Mr. 
Moore, " which it produced on the public, 
was as instantaneous as it has proved deep 
and lasting. The fame of its author bad 
not to wait for any of the ordinary grada- 
tions, but seemed to spring up like the pa- 
lace of a fairy tale, in a night." The re- 
ception of the poem, indeed, was such, that 
there was no undue extravagance in the 
memorandum made by Lord Byron himself 
in his suppressed Memoirs, " I awoke one 
morning and found myself famous." The 
first edition was immediately disposed of, 
and numerous editions followed in quick 
succession. 

Previous to this period, notwithstanding 
the advantages of bis birth and title, Lord 
Byron had not mingled, to any great extent, 
in the gay world of London, his companion- 
ship having been mostly confined to bis col- 
lege and travelling acquaintances, and to a 
lew intimate friends; but the universal ac- 
clamation with which his poem was now 
hailed, and tlie mysterious interest it at- 
tached to his personal character, together 
with his youth, his beauty, his rank, and 
his more than promise of extraordinary in- 
tellectual power, forced him instantly into 
the highest fashionable circles, among whose 
most illustrious ;rowds he became the dis- 
tinguished objec* . and with whom he con- 
tmued to move, i -h decisional voluntary 



intervals of retirement, until his separation 
from Lady Byron. 

In August he went to Cheltenham, where, 
at the request of the Managers, through 
Lord Holland, he wrote the Address spoken 
at the opening of the new theatre, Drury 
Lane. He also there wrote the poem on 
•' Waltzing." It was published anony- 
mously; but as it created no sensati at 

least in comparison with Childe Harold, be 
thought proper to suppress it, and even to 
contradict, through Mr. Murray, its pub 
lisher, the rumour of its being his. " The 
Curse of Minerva" bad been printed also 
anonymously, and for private circulation 
only, soon after his return from the East. 
Its immediate object, an attack on Lord 
Elgin, relative to the statues, &.c. sent by 
him from Greece, was more fully accom- 
plished in the notes to Childe Harold, which 
contained the substance of the poem. The 
opening lines were afterwards made to form 
the commencement of the Corsair. Neither 
the " Waltz," nor the " Curse of Minerva," 
was included in any English collection of 
his works during his lifetime. 

The first edition of the Giaour was pub- 
lished in May, 181S. It was materially 
improved, and gradually enlarged through 
various subsequent editions, the fifth being 
announced in September. In the beginning 
of December, it was followed by the Bride 
of Abydos, and in January, 1814, by the 
Corsair. The latter poem created for the 
moment a greater excitement with the pub- 
lic than even Childe Harold, and met with 
an unexampled sale, fourteen thousand 
copies being disposed of in less than a week. 
The Ode to Napoleon was written in April, 
and the Hebrew Melodies about the same 
time. The lines " To a Lady weeping," 
alluding to George the Fourth, then Prince 
Iieg< nt, and his daughter, the Princess 
Charlotte, were originally printed in a news- 
paper, and attributed to Mr. Moore; but 
their appeaiance among other small poems 
in the same volume with the Corsair, fixed 
their authorship upon Lord Byron, and in 
connexion with the " Windsor Poetics," 
then for the first time reported to be his, 
brought down \tpon his head a violent storm 
of invective and abuse, from the ministerial 
partisans, which uniting with other causes 
of disquietude and apprehension relating 
to his political career, induced him about 
the first of May, not only again to repeat 
his determination expressed in the preface 
to the Corsair, of writing no more for 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



xxif] 



( 



years ; but to attempt purchasing back the 
copy-rights of all his works, so far as they 
) had been disposed of, and suppressing every 
line he had written. In pursuance of this 
resolution, he wrote to Mr. Murray, en- 
closing the amount paid for Childe Harold, 
the Corsair, &.e. and ordering the unsold 
copies destroyed ; but, on being answered 
that such a proceeding would be deeply in- 
jurious to Mr. Murray, he abandoned his 
project, and allowed the publication to pro- 
ceed. 

Lara appeared in August. It was at 
first published in the same volume with 
Jacqueline, a poem by Mr. Rogers ; the 
names of both authors being omitted. 
With the exception of the Ode to Water- 
loo, Napoleon's Farewell, and other occa- 
sional poems, he did not come before the 
public as an author between this period and 
the publication of the Siege of Corinth 
and Parisina, in the spring of 1816. 

On the 2d of January, 1815, Lord Byron 
was married to Anne Arabella Milbanke, 
daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, afterwards 
Noel, of Seaham, in the county of Durham. 
She was nearly connected by blood with the 
families of Lord Wentworth, Lord Mel- 
bourne, and others of the English nobility. 
Her immediate fortune was about ten thou- 
sand pounds sterling, but on the death of 
her father and mother, which took place a 
few years after her marriage, she became 
possessed of estates to a very large amount. 
Lord Byron had addressed berabouta year 
previous, and although his suit was at that 
time rejected, yet her refusal was accom- 
panied with every assurance of esteem and 
r j ird, and a friendly correspondence was 
kept up between them. A second applica- 
tion in September proved successful. 

The disastrous result of the marriage 
appears to have been anticipated by her 
i-is], ml even at the bridal altar. The 
'• coining events cast their shadows before." 
His prose account of the wedding, in his 
suppressed Memoirs, is said by Mr. Moore 
to have agreed closely in all its circum- 
stances with his poetical description of it in 
" The Dream." 

Towards the^lose of the month of March 
he took up his residence in London, where 
he lived, during the succeeding year in a 
style of great splendour and expense, far 
beyond his income or his expectations; 
and soon became deeply involved in the 
most distressing pecuniary embarrassments. 
His time was passed in the whirlwind of 



fashionable dissipation, and behind the 
scenes of Drury Lane Theatre, of which he 
had in June been chosen one of the Ma- 
naging Committee, in company with Lord 
Essex, Douglas Kinnaird, Mr. Whitbread, 
and others. By the month of November, 
his pecuniary difficulties had increased to 
such an alarming degree that he was not 
only under the necessity of selling his libra- 
ry, but an execution was levied on his fur- 
niture, and his very beds were seized by 
bailiffs. His privilege as a member of the 
Upper House of Parliament exempted his 
person from arrest. 

On the tenth of December his daughter, 
Ada Augusta Byron, was born ; and, about 
the first of February following, a separation 
between Lady Byron and himself took place. 
She had left London a few days before on 
a visit to her father in Leicestershire, and 
Lord Byron was to follow her as soon as he 
could make some arrangements of his mo- 
ney affairs. They had parted in kindness. 
She wrote him on the road a letter in a 
style of the most playful fondness imagina- 
ble, but immediately on her arrival at Kirkby 
Mallory, the seat of her family, her father 
wrote, informing him that she would not 
again return. They never afterwards met. 

The particular causes of this event still 
remain in obscurity. The reader will find 
Lord Byron's views of the subject detailed 
in many of his letters, and elsewhere 
throughout his writings. His La<iy, on 
the appearance of Mr. Moore's Biography, 
in 1830, caused a letter to be published, 
exonerating her father and mother from 
charges connected with it, of which they 
had been accused, but throwing no farther 
light upon it. 

The current of popular opinion was, at 
the moment, fearfully strong against Lord 
Byron. He was immediately shunned, if 
not still more harshly treated, by almost all 
classes, especially by those who had pre- 
viously courted his intimacy. Lady Jer- 
sey, and two or three -others, were the 
only ladies of distinction in London who 
adhered to his fallen fame, and dared to at- 
tempt his defence. Except in their circles, 
he was virtually banished from society. 
Every species of reproach and obloquy was 
heaped upon his head. Exaggerated state- 
ments of his private conduct, and dark hints 
and vague insinuations of the most criminal 
profligacy, were circulated and believed. 
" In every form of paragraph pamphlet, 
and caricature," says Mr. Moore, " both 






ixiv 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



his person and character were held up to 
odium ; hardly ;i voice was raised, oral least, 
listened to, in his behalf; and though a few 
faithful friends remained unshaken by his 
side, the utter hopelessness of stemming the 
torrent was felt as well by them as by him- 
self, and alter an effort or two to gain a fair 
hearing, they submitted in silence." This 
could not In- long endured. On the 25th of 
April, 1816, he left England for Ostend. 

Immediately previous to his departure, 
the lines to his sister, Mrs. Leigh, h< ginning 
"Though the day of my destiny's over,'' 
and the first stanza to Mr. Moore, " My 
boal is on the shore," were written. The 
" Fare thee well," intended for Lady Byron, 
and the "Sketch from private life," alluding 
to a Mrs. Charlton, her governess, had ap 
peared about the first of April. 

From Ostend, he journeyed to the Rhine, 
visiting Brussels and Waterloo, entered 
Switzerland at Basle, and proceeded bj 
the route of Berne and Lausanne to Ge- 
neva. He removed in a few weeks to Dio- 
data, a villa about three miles from Geneva 
where with occasional voyages on the Lake 
and excursions to Coppet, Chainoinii, the 
Bernese Alps, &c. in company with Mr. 
Hobhouse, Mr. Shelley, and one or two other 
intimate acquaintances, he passed the 
summer. He there wrote the third Canto 
of Childe Harold, the Monody on the Deal 
of Sheridan, the stanzas "To Augusta, 
" Th? Fragment," " The Prisoner of Chil- 
ton," &c. 

In October, he crossed (he Simplon to 
Milan, and on the 10th of November took 
up bis residence at Venice. He soon after 
commenced the study of the Armenian 
.anguage with the brothers of a monastery 
near that city, and in March following 
(1817,) translated the Two Epistles, page 
299. " Manfred" was finished at this time, 
and sent to London. The Third Act, as 
nruriiially written, is included in this col- 
lection of bis Poems, page 470. It was 
altered to its present state in June, and tin- 
drama was published in July. In April 
fir left Venice for Rome, visiting Feriara. 
where he wrote the " Lament of TaSSO," 
and passing a day or two at Florence on his 
way. Jle returned from Rome to Venice 
early in June, and in July began the 4th 
Canto of Childe Harold, which was gra- 
dually enlarged until its publication in 
March 1818. Beppo, Mazeppa, and the 
Oiie to Venice, were written in the course 
if the spring and summer of that year, and 




on Mr. Murray's refusal tc publish the ' 

poem except anonymously, Lord Byron 

suppressed the dedication, alleging as a 

reason his unwillingness to attack Southey 

" under cloud of night." 

About this period be became acquainted 
with the Countess Guiccioli, to whom, in 
the Italian character of "cavalier servente," 
he devoted himself for several succeeding 
years, and by whose future 1 movements his 
own were almost exclusively governed du- 
ring the remainder of bis residence in Italy. 
They appear to have been mutually and 
passionately attached to each other, and 
the liaison, however reprehensible, bad the 
good effect of weaning him from still more 
disreputable attachments. She was a Ro- 
magnese lady, the daughter of Count 
Gamba, a nobleman of high rank and an- 
cient name at Ravenna, and had been 
married at sixteen or seventeen, without 
reference to her choice or affection, to the 
Count Guiccioli, an old and wealthy wi- 
dower of that country ; whose great opu- 
lence had rendered his otherwise worse 
than indifferent reputation respectable. She 
was on a visit at Venice with her husband, 
when Lord Byron was introduced to her. 
She was then abovit twenty, but appeared 
much younger, with a singularly fair and 
delicate complexion, large, dark, and lan- 
guishing eyes, and a profusion of light au- 
burn hair. She proceeded with her hus- 
band to Ravenna about the middle of April, 
1819, and in June, Lord Byron visited her 
there. The Lines to the Po, alluding to 
her, were written on his journey. They 
returned through Bologna to Venice, in 
October. At Bologna he wrote the letter 
to Roberts, the Editor of the British [',,. 
view, and the Sonnet relating to the heir of 
Lord Edward Fitzgerald. 

He received about this time, at Venice, 
a visit from Mr. Moon-, in the course of 
which he presented to that gentleman a 
large manuscript volume, which he called 
his "Life and Adventures." It BUM 
not to have been a detail of the events of 
his life in a regular series, but a collection 
of various journals, memoranda, &.c. At 
Lord Byron's request, the copy-right was 
immediately disposed of for Mr. Moore's 
benefit, to Mr. Murray, for two thousand 
guineas, with the understanding, that the 



LIFE OF I.OKU hVRON. 



x.xv 



work was not to be published until after the 
author's death. When that event took 
place, Mr. Moore repaid to Mr. Murray 
the money advanced, and placed the manu- 
script at the disposal of Lord Byron's sis- 
ter, Mrs. Leigh ; at whose request, and in 
accordance with the opinion of many of the 
friends of her brother, and of other parties 
interested, it was destroyed. An unwilling- 
ness to wound the feelings of many of tlie 
persons mentioned in it, is said to have 
been the only motive for its destruction. 

In December, Lord Byron again left 
Venice for Ravenna, where he continued to 



In consequence of the death of Lady 
Noel, the mother of Lady Byron, which 
took place in the early part of the year 1 82-2, 
he assumed the title of Noel Byron, and to 
most of his letters, (x.c. written after this pe- 
riod, that signature is affixed. 

At Pisa he remained until the middle of 
May. He then passed a few weeks at 
Montenerrt, a villa near Leghorn, returned 
to Pisa in July, and in September removed 
to Genoa, where' lie remained till his linal 
departure for Greece, in July 1823. During 
this period were written Werner, The De- 
formed Transformed, The Island, The Age 



reside during most of the two succeeding of Bronze, and the Inst Cantos of Don Juan, 
years. He there wrote the 3d, 4th, and | The Lord Chancellor had, in a case brought 
5th Cantos of Don Juan, the Prophecy of before him in the year 1821, refused to pro- 
Dante, the translations from Pulci and tect the copy-right of Cain, on the ground 



Dante ; the Letters relating to the Contro 
versy with Mr. Bowles ; the Letter to the 
Editor of Blackwood's Magazine ; Ma- 
rino Faliero ; Sardanapalus ; The Two 
Foscari; Cain; Heaven and Earth ; The 
V r ision of Judgment, and other smaller 
poems. Having disposed of Newstead 
Abbey, and secured, after a long Chancery 
suit, the possession of his Lancashire es- 
tates, his pecuniary affairs had now be 



of its supposed irreligious tendency. For 
this, and other unexplained reasons, Mr. 
Murray had long declined or delayed the 
publication of several works forwarded to 
him by Lord Byron, which appears tp have oc- 
casioned for a short time a personal estrange- 
ment between them. The works in ques- 
tion, together with those above named, were 
accordingly handed, at Lord By on's request, 
to another bookseller, Mr. John Hunt, by 



was much beloved and respected in Ra- 
venna, particularly by the poorer classes, 
by whom his residence there was deemed a 
public blessing. He himself was strongly 



come in good order, and he was enabled to I whom they were soon afterwards published, 
live in comparative splendour. Of hisyearly| The Vision of Judgment, the Translation 
income, (nearly £4,000 sterling,) he devoted from Pulci, the Blues, Heaven and Earth, 
B great portion to charitable purposes, and and the Letter to Roberts, appeared in the 

"Liberal," a periodical work printed in 
London by Mr. John Hunt, but conducted 
principally by his brother Mr. Leigh Hunt, 
then in Italy. With the exception of Lord 
attached to Ravenna. He preferred it to ' Byron's contributions, and one or two from 
every other part of Italy, and intended to! Mr. Shelley, it contained little or no merit, 
have made it his permanent place of abode, and was abandoned after the fourth number. 
But the liomagnese authorities, suspecting Lord Byron's motive in connecting himself 
him, and certainly not without reason, of a ! with it, as well in a literary as in a pecuniary 
political connexion with the enemies of the .point of view, was solely to aid Mr. Leigh 
existing government, took measures which Hunt, who was at the time suffering in ill— 
indirectly compelled him to hasten his de- ] health and poverty. His only reward seems 
p irture. Count Gamha, and his son, Count to have been a querulous murmuring on the 
PieAo Gamba, the father and brother of the part of that person during the life of his be- 
Countess Guiccioli, were, in July 1821, ba- [ nefactor. and an ungrateful volume of the 
nished from the Roman States. They were most pitiful and perfidious calumnies after 
accused of a participation in the revolution- his death. 

aiy projects of the secret societies which, I It appears from a statement published by 
under the name of the Carbonari, had long Mr. Murray, thatduring the life-time of Lord 
been organized throughout Italy. The Byron, he paid for the copy-right of his 
Countess, who bad the preceding year ob- poems, &c. as follows :— 
tained from the Pope a decree of separation ' childe Harold, Cantos 1st and 2d £600 

from her husband, on condition that she I „ „ „ 3d . . . . 1575 
should in future reside with her father, ac- " » ■ 4lh 2lao 

. . ,, tv . .. XT Graour 525 

compamed them to Pisa, where, in the No- Brl(l „ , )t - Abydo , s25 

vember following, Lord Byron joined them. Corsair 525 



xxvi 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 






I.ara 100 

Siuge of Corinth fiSS 

Parisma . . 525 



Lament of Tasso 
Manfred ..... 
Beppo . . . . v* ■ 

Don Juan, Cantos 1st and 2d . 

„ „ 3d, 4th, at i. 5t!i . 

1 j.,m,. of Venice 
Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari . 

Mazeppa 

Prisoner of Ciiillon 

Sundries 



. 315 

315 

. 525 

1525 

. 1525 

1050 

. 1100 

525 

. 52. 

450 



£15,455 

He afterwards purchased the copy-rights 
of all the other works, including those pub- 
lished by Cawthorne, the Hunts, &.c. at an 
expense of nearly JEl0,000 more. Several 
of the above were presented by Lord 
Byron to Mr. Dallas, and the later Cantos 
of Don Juan to Hunt. 

While at Pisa, Lord Byron received 
intelligence of the death of his natural 
daughter, Allegra, a loss which distressed 
" i i m at the moment, almost to madness. She 
had been scut to him from Switzerland to 
Venice in September 1813, then neatly two 
years old, by her mother, an Englishwoman, 
and had continued with him until a short 
lime previous to his leaving Ravenna, 
when he placed her in a convent not far 
from that city, to commence her education. 
She died of a fever in April 1822. His 
friend, Mr. Shelley, who had been for some 
time residing at Pisa, and with whom he 
hiid renewed the social and literary inter- 
course previously formed in Switzerland, 
was a few months after drowned in a vio- 
lent storm in the Bay ol'Spezea, near Leg- 
horn. 

On the 13th of July 1S23, Lord Byron 
left Genoa for Greece. His preparations 
for a visit to that country for the purpose 
of offering his personal means and services 
to assist the Greeks in their struggle for 
freedom, had been for some time going on. 

a correspondence with several of their 
chiefs, and with the Greek Committee in 
London, having been commenced the pre- 
ceding April. He had obtained, througl 
the aid of his bankers in Genoa, partly by 
anticipating his income, and partly fron 
other resources, an advance of a large 

Slim, and had chartered an English brill. 

the Hercules, for the voyage, and loadec 

her with arms, ammunition, and hospita 
stores. His suite consisted of Count Pie- 
Iro Gatnba, (the brother of the Counless 
lluiccioli,) Mr. Trclawny, (an English gen 



lleman,) Doctor Bruno, (an Italian surgeon,) 
and eighl servants. Alter touching fol 

supplies at Leghorn, where they remained 

a few days, they sailed for ( 'ephalonia, and 
reached Argolosti, the chief port in that 
island, on the 21st of July. 

He there determined to wait for such in- 
formation from the Creek governments as 

should enable him lo decide as to his future 

proceedings, and despatched messengers to 
Corfu and Missolonghi, the latter the then 
seat of government of Western Greece, in 
the hope of obtaining it. During their ab- 
sence he visited Ithaca, where be enntri 
buted largely to the relief of a great num- 
ber of distressed families who had (led thi 
ther from Scio. He continued on board 
the Hercules in the harbour of Argolosti for 
more than six weeks, but the adverse in- 
terests and contradictory statements and 
requests of the various rival factions, still 
rendering uncertain the best method of 
benefiting Greece, he finally took up his 
abode on shore in a small village called 
Metaxata, about seven miles from Argo- 
losti. 

At length, the arrival at Missolonghi of 
a Greek licet which had been long expected, 
induced him to believe that the time had 
arrived when his presence there could be 
useful. He accordingly on the 29th of 
December embarked in a small Greek ves- 
sel, called a Mistico, Count Gamba, with 
the horses and heavy baggage following in 
a larger ship. The latter was, the next 
day, brought to by a Turkish frigate, and 
carried into Patras, hut in an interview with 
the Pacha of that place, Count Gamba 
succeeded in procuring her release, ami 
reached M issolotitjhi on the 4lh of January. 

The Mistico, with Lord Byron and bis 
suite on board, touched at Zantc, where 
they received a quantity oT specie, and pro- 
eeeded for Missolonghi. On their way they 
narrowly escaped capture from the frigate 
above mentioned. Fortunately the Turks 
mistook the vessel for a Greek hrulot or 
fireship, and were in consequence afraid to 
fire. • With difficulty they eluded her, and 
reached Dragomestri, a small seaport on 
the coast of Acartiania in safety; where 
they were detained for some time liy a vio- 
lent gale, and did notarrive at Missolonghi 
until the 5th of January. 

Lord Byron was received by Prince 
Mavrocordato, at the head of the magistracy 
and the whole population civil and mili- 
tary, with distinguished honours, and everv 






LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XWll 



token of gratitude and delight. But the 
pleasure derived from such a welcome was 
too soon embittered. He found all things 
in a wretched state of disorganization, the 
chiefs divided into numerous and conflicting 
parties, each desirous of enlisting him in its 
separate views, and the soldiers and inhabi- 
tants imagining that he and he only could 
:|uiet their unhappy dissensions, and unite 
the efforts of all against the common enemy. 
He immediately employed himself day and 
night in effecting this object, and partially 
succeeded. He formed ami equipped at his 
own expense a corps of Suliotes, a part of 
whom he had previously collected and armed 
at Cephalonia. Their number was now 
augmented to between five and six hundred, 
of whom, on the first of February having 
previously received a regular commission as 
an officer in the Greek service, he assumed 
the command. They were brave and hardy 
mountaineers, but undisciplined and unma- 
nageable ; and by their riotous conduct and 
savage deportment, as well towards theother 
military bodies as the inhabitants, kept the 
garrison in a continual state of alarm, and 
their leader in a fever of annoyance and mor- 
tification. To his command was also at- 
tached a corps of artillery, the necessary 
supplies for which arrived in the early part 
of February, under the care of Captain 
Parry, an English officer of engineers sent 
by the Greek Committee from London. An 
attack on Lepanto, then in the hands of the 
Turks, had been for some time contemplated 
by Lord Byron, and on the 14th of Febru- 
ary the artillery corps was perfected, and all 
things in readiness tostart the following day, 
when a sudden and fatal dispute with the 
Suliotes took place. They broke out into 
open mutiny, demanding increase of pay and 
emoluments, peculiar privileges of military 
rank, and various other exactions. Satisfied 
that no reliance could in peril be placed 
upon them, and at the same time that with- 
out their aid the Greek force was in- 
sufficient for the attempt on Lepanto, he 
very reluctantly abandoned the expedition. 
His health had for a long time previous 
to this period been greatly impaired. While 
at Dragomestri he had imprudently bathed 
after a day of violent exertion. A severe 
cold was the consequence, and the inces- 
sant labour of mind and body to which he 
devoted himselfatMissolonghi, rendered him 
from day to day more feeble and feverish. 
The climate of that place is extremely un- 



healthy, and the military quarters where he 
resided were comfortless anil exposed. On 
the evening of the 15th of February, the 
day after the abandonment of the expedition 
to Lepanto, he was suddenly seized with a 
convulsive fit. which deprived him for se- 
veral minutes of his senses, distorting for the 
moment his features in a most fearful man- 
ner, and leaving him exhausted and unable 
to move for many days. 

He was, however, gradually recovering 
until the 9th of April. In the interim he 
had occupied himself in repairing the for- 
tifications at Missolonghi, and in the forma- 
tion of a brigade with a view to offensive or 
defensive measures, as events might require. 
He had also made arrangements for visiting 
Salon, there to meet a congress of the 
Greek chiefs, in the hope that his presence 
might aid in putting an end to their con- 
tinual and fatal dissensions. But on the 
morning of the 9th of April, immediately 
after his return home from a long ride with 
Count Gamba, during which they had been 
overtaken by a heavy shower, he was again 
seized with a convulsive shuddering, fol- 
lowed by fever and violent pain. The next 
day he was better and rode out as usual, 
but on the 12th he was confined to his 
chamber, and his disorder continued to in 
crease in strength and danger hourly till the 
17th, when he was prevailed upon to con- 
sent to be bled, to which he had at all times 
before decidedly objected. A consultation 
of his physicians was held in the afternoon 
of the 18th, and it was then evident alike to 
them and to Lord Byron that his end was 
fast approaching^ He endeavoured in a con- 
versation with Fletcher his English sen ant 
to express to him his last wishes, but his 
voice was so faint and low, and his language 
so incoherent, that but little he said could be 
understood. The names of Lady Byron, of 
bis daughter, of his sister Augusta, and a 
k\v others, were alone distinguishable. 
Early in the evening of that day, he sunk 
into a slumber, in which he lay with oc- 
casional struggles from suffocation during 
the next twenty-four hours. At a few 
minutes past six o'clock in the evening of 
the 19th he was observed to open his eyes 
and instantly close them. The physicians 
felt his pulse. He had expired. 

Immediately after his death, the following 
proclamation was issued by Prince Mavro- 
cordato, and similar honours were paid to 
his memory throughout Greece. 



XXVUI 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



•' PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT OF 
WESTERN GREECE. 

" The present day of festivity and re 
joieing has become one of sorrow and of 
mourning. The Lord Noel Byron departed 
this life at six o'clock in the afternoon, after 
an illness often days; his death being 
ciiusrd by an inflammatory lever. Such 
was the effect of his Lordship's illness on 
the public mind, that all classes had for 
gotten their usual recreations of Easter, 
even before the afflicting event was appre- 
hended. 

" The loss of this illustrious individual is 
undoubtedly to be deplored by all Greece ; 
but it must be more especially a subject of 
lamentation at Miseolonghi, where his ge- 
nerosity has been so conspicuously dis- 
played^ and of which he had even become 
;i citizen, with the further determination of 
participating in all the dangers of the war. 
" Every body is acquainted with the 
beneficent acts of his Lordship, and none 
can cease to hail his name as that of a real 
benefactor. 

" Until, therefore, the final determination 
of the National Government be known, and 
by virtue of the powirf with which it has 
been pleased to invest me, I hereby decree, 
" 1st. To-morrow morning, at day light, 
thirty-seven minute guns will be fired from 
the Grand Battery, being the number which 
corresponds with the age of the illustrious 
deceased. 

" 2d. All the public offi-.es, even the tri- 
bunals, are to remain closed for three suc- 
cessive days. 

" 3d. All the shops, except those in which 
provisions or medicines are sold, will also 
he shut ; and, it is strictly enjoined, that 
every snecies of public amusement, and 
other demonstrations of festivity at Easter, 
(dial 1 \e suspended. 

'" ith. A general mourning will be ob- 
et ied for twenty-one days. 

" 5th. Prayers and a funeral service are 
i < he offered up in all the churches. 
(Signed) 

" A. Mavrocordato, 
" George Praidis Secretary. 
" Given at Missolonghi, 
ims 19th day of April, 1824." 



The funerai ceremony took place in the 
church of Saint Nicolas, at Missoionghi, 
on the 22d. The coffin was a rude chest 
of wood, covered with a black mantle. It 
was carried on the shoulders of the officers 
of his brigade, relieved from time to time 
by others ; and followed by all the troops of 
the garrison, and the whole population. In 
the church a helmet, a sword, and a crown 
of laurel were placed upon the bier. After 
the Greek service for the dead was over, it 
remained guarded by a detachment of sol- 
diers, and surrounded by crowds, who 
thronged from all quarters, to pay their last 
look of tribute, until the night of the 23d, 
when it was privately carried back to his 
house by his own officers. On the 2d of 
May it was embarked under a morning sa- 
lute' from the guns of the lbrtress, on board 
a transport sent by the public authorities 
from the island of Zante, anil on the 25th 
of May the Florida, an English armed ship, 
received it, under the charge of Colone, 
Stanhope, one of his coadjutors in the 
Greek cause, and sailed from Zante to 
England. Two days, the 9th and 10th of 
July, the body lay in state in London, and 
on Friday the 16th of July, was placed in 
the vault of his family, and next to the 
coffin of his mother, in the parish church 
of Hucknell, a small village near Newstead 
Abbey. Over the chancel of the church 
is a tablet of white marble, bearing the fol- 
lowing inscription : 



IN THE VAULT BENEATH, 

WHERE MANT OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHER 

ARE BURIED, 

LIE THE REMAINS Or 

GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, 

LOHD BYRON, OF ROCHDALE, 

IN THE CCWmTV OF LANCASTER, 

THE AUTHOR OF " CHILDE HAROI r's PILGRIMAGE. 

HE WAS BORN IN LONDON ON THE 22d OF 

JANUARV, 1788. 

HE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, 

ON THE 19TH OF APRIL, 1824, 

ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO 

RESTORE THAT 

COUNTRY TO HER ANCIENT FREEDOM AKD 

RENOWW. 






LETTERS. 



I.F.TTER I. 

TO MtSS PIGOT OF SOUTHWELL. 

"Burgage Manor, August 29th, 1S04. 
■ I received the firms, my dear Miss PigOt, and am very 
much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken. It 
is impossible I should have any fault to find with them. 
The sight of the drawings gives me great pleasure for a 
double reason, — in the first place, they will ornament my 
bonks, in the next, ihcy convince me that you have not 
mtirtly forgotten me. I am, however, sorry you do no! 
return sooner, you have already been gone an age. I per- 
haps may have taken my departure for Loudon before you 
come back; but, however, I will hope not. Do not 
overlook mv watcli-ribbon and puree, as I wish to carry 
ihem with me. Your note was given me by Harry, at 
the play, whither I attended Miss Lyon and Doctor 

S ; and now I have set down to answer it before 

I go to bed. If I am at Southwell when you return, — 
and I sincerely hope you will soon, for I very much 
regret your absence, — I shall be happy to hear you sing 
my favourite, 'The Maid of Lodi.' My mother, to- 
gether with myself, desires to be affectionately remem- 
bered to Mrs. Pigot, and believe me, my dear Miss 
Pi^ot, I remain your affectionate friend, 

« Byron. 

"P. S. If you think proper to send me any answer to 
this, I shall be extremely happy to receive it. Adieu. 

tt P. S. 2d. As you sav you are a novice in the art of 
knitting, I hope it don't give you too much trouble. G 
;>n slowly but surely. Once more, adieu. 1 ' 






LETTER II. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



u 16 Piccadilly, August 9th, 1806. 

K MY DEAR PIGOT, 

"Many thanks for your amusing narrative of the last 
proceedings of mv amiable Alcrto* who now begins to 
feel the effects of her folly. I have just received a pe- 
nitential epistle, to which, apprehensive of pursuit, 1 
have despatched a moderate answer, with a kmd of pro- 
mise to return in a fortnight ; — this, however, (entre runt*,) 
I never mean to fulfil. Her soft warbtings must have 
delighted her auditors, her higher notes being particularly 
musical, and on a calm moonlight evening would be heard 
to great advantage. Had I been present as a specta- 
tor, nothing would have pleased me more ; but to have 
come forward as one of the ' dramatis persona*-,' — St. 
Dominic defend me from such a scene! Seriously, your 



mother has laid mc under great obligations "Rd* you, 
with the rest of vour faintly, merit my warmest thanks for 
your kind connivance at my escape from 'Airs. Byron 
f annua. 1 

"Oh! for the pen of Ariosto to rehearse, in epir, the 
scolding of that momentous ece, — or rather, let me invoke 
the shade of Dante to inspire me, for none but the au- 
thor of the * Inferno could properly preside over such an 
attempt. But, perhaps, where the pen might fail, the 
pencil would succeed. What a group!— Mrs. B. the 
principal figure ; you cramming your ears with cotton, as 

the only antidote to total deafness ; Mrs. m vain 

endeavouring to mitigate the wrath of the lioness robbed 
of her whelp; and last, though not least, Elizabeth and 
IVousky, — wonderful to relate ! — both deprived of their 
parts of speech, and bringing up the rear in vtute asto- 
nishment. How did S. B. receive the intelligence? 
How manvputu did he utter on so facetious an event? 
In vour next inform me on this point, and what excuse 
vou made to A. You are probably by this time tired of 
deciphering this hieroglyphical letter ; — like Tony Lump- 
kin, vou will pronounce mine to be a d d up and 

down hand. All Southwell, without doubt, is involved in 
amazement. Apropos, how does my blue-eyed nun, the 
fair * * ? is she * robed in suhle garb of von V 

" Here I remain at least a week or ten days ; previous 
to my departure you shall receive my address, but what 
it will be I have not determined. My lodgings must be 
kept secret from Mrs. B.; you may present my compli- 
ments to her, and sav anv attempt to pursue mc will (kiL 
as I have taken measures to retreat immediately to 
Portsmouth, on The first intimation of her removal from 
Southwell. Vou may add, I have now proceeded to a 
friend's house in the country, there to remain a fortnight. 

" I have now blotted (I must not say written) a com- 
plete double letter, and in return shaH expect a monstrous 
budget. Without doubt, the dames of Southwell repro- 
bate the pernicious example I have shown, and tremb'e 
lest their babes should disobey their mandates, and quit 
in dudgeon their mammas on any grievance. Adieu. 
When you begin your next, drop the 'lordship,' and put 
' Byron' iu its place. Believe me yours, &c. 

'Braov. 



* Hia Mother. Her recent -rislenee of temper bed compelled him to 
fly to London. 



LETTER IIL 

TO MISS PIGOT, 

" London, August 10th, 180(5 

H MY DEAR BRIDGET, 

■ As I have already troubled your brother with moe e 
than he will find pleasure in deciphering, you are the 
next to whom I shall assign the difficult employment of 
perusing this 2d epistle. You will perceive from my 1st, 
u\ai no idea of Mrs. B.'s arrival had disturbed me at tha 



LEI fERS, 1800. 



♦'.mo ii was written; not so the present, since the ap- 

■-■ of a n >te from the iSusti i as caust of i 
Kcampmcnt has driven the 'natural ruby from my 
and completely blanched my wo-begone counte- 
nance. This gunpowder intimation of her arrii 
found her activity!) breathes less of terror and 
than you will probably imagine from the 
perame*' of her ladyaMpi and concludes with the com- 
fortable assurance of all present motion being prevented 
k. the fatigue of her journey, lor which my Wea 
due to the rough roads and restive quadrupeds ofliis ma- 
jesty's highways. As I have not the smallest in< 
to be chased round the country, I shall *.-*<- r j make a met ii 
<»f necessity} and since, like Macbeth, 'TheyVe tied me 
to the stake, I cannot By, 1 1 shall imitate that tralorous 
tyrant, and ! bear-tike fight the coui ■ ■.' all escape being 
precluded. I can now engage with less disadvantage, 
having drawn the enemy from her inti enchments, though, 
iike the prototype to whom I have compared myself] with 
an excellent chance of hem,' knocked on the head. 

However, 'lay on, Macduff] and d d be he who first 

cries, hold, enough. 1 

"I shall remain in town for, at least, a week, and ex- 
pect to hear from you before its expiration. I presume 
the printer has brought you the offspring of m) poetic 
mania. Remember, in the first hue, to read l Ioud the 
winds whistle, 14 instead of 'round,' which that 1>! 
Ridge has inserted by mistake, and makes nonsense of 
the whole stanza. Addio !— Now to encounter my 
Hydra. Yours ever. 1 ' 



LETTER IV, 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



"London, Sunday, midnight, August 10th, 1806. 

B DEAR PIGOT, 

"This astonishing packet will, doubtless, amaze you, 
but having an idle hour this evening, T wrote the enclosed 
stanzas, which I request vou to deliver to Ridge, to be 
printed separate from my other compositions, as you will 
perceive them to be improper fur the perusal of ladies; 
of course, none of the females of your family must see 
them. I offer a thousand apologies tor tin- trouble I have 
given you in this and other instances. Yours truly." 



LETTER V. 



TO MR. MGOT. 



"Piccadilly, August 16th, 1806. 
"I cannot exactly say with Caesar, ' Vein, vidi, vici:' 
however, the most important part of his laconic account 
of success applies to my present situation; for, though 
Mrs. Byron took the trouble of l coming? and l seeing) vet 
your humble servant proved the victor. After an obsti- 
nate engagement of some hours, in which we suffered 
considerable damage, from the quickness of the enemy'f 
tire, they at length reined in confusion, leaving behind the 
artillery, field equipage, and some prisoners; their <\< feat 
is decisive of the present campaign. To speak mure in- 
telligibly, Mrs. B. returns immediately, but I proceed, 
with all my laurels, to Worthing on the Sussex coast ; 
to which place you will address (to I e left at the post- 
office) your next epistle. By the enclosure of a 2d 
jingle of rhymes you will probably cone.-i\ <• niv muse to 
be vastly prolific ; her inserted production Was broughl 
forth a few years ago, and found by accident on Thurs- 
day among some old papers. I have recopied it, and, 
adding the proper date, request it maybe printed with 
the rest of the family. I thought your sentiments on the 



' Ses Hoiift vi kllencn, [>«g<s 36S. 



last bantling would coincide with mine, but it was nn> 
possible to give il an} ■ i< ing founded on fodU 

tfystaj at Worthing will not exceed three weeks, and 
vou may possibly behold me again al Southwell the tnioV 
die of September. 

******** 

" Will you desire B idge to suspend the priming of my 
poems till he hears further from me, as I have deter- 
mined to give thorn a bow form entirely. This prohibi- 
tion does not extend to the last two pieces 1 have sent 
with my letters* to you. You will excuse the '/" /; 
of this epistl^ as ni\ brain is a chuos of absurd images, 
and full of business, pr and projects. 

'1 shall expect an answer with impatience; — believs 
me, there is nothing at tins moment could give me gTcaiei 
delight than your letter." 






LETTER VI. 

TO MR. PIGOT. 

• "London, A *t, 18th, 1806. 

"I am just on the point of setting off foi Worthin I 

writ merely to request you will send that idle *coundre. 
Charles, [his groom,] withm) horses immediately; tell him 
1 am excessively provoked he has not made his appear- 
ance before, or written to inform me of the cause of his 
delay, particularly as I supplied him with money for hU 
journey. On no pretext is he t ■ ■ postpone his march one 

day longer, and ifj in obed > to the I Mrs. 13. 

(who, I presume, is again preading desolation through 
her little monarchy,) he thinks proper to disregard my 
positive orders, T shall not, in future, consider him as my 
servant He must bring the surgeon's bill with him, 
which I will discharge immedi i ivingit Nor 

can 1 conceive the reason of his not acquainting Frank, 
[his valet,] with the state of my unfortunate quadrupeds. 
Dear Pigot, forgive this petulant effusion, and attribute it 
to the idle conduct of that precious rosco^ who, instead of 
obeying im injunctions, id sauntering through the streets 
uf that political PantL " ottingham. Present 

my remembrances to your family and the Leacrafts, and 
believe me, &c. 

" P. S. I delegate to yon the unpleasant task of de- 
spatching him on his journey — Mrs. B.'s orders to tlm 
contrary are not to be attended to ; he is to proceed first 
to London, and then to Worthing, « ithoul delay. Even 
thing I have left must be sent to London. ]\K Pot \ 
will pack ttj> for the same place, and not even rvsewe a 

copy for yourself and sister, as I am al 

an entire new form: when they are complete, you shall 
have the first fruits. Mrs. B. on no account is to see or 
touch them. Adieu." 



LETTER VII. 



TO MR. PIOOT. 



"Little Hampton, August 26th, 1S06. 
"I this morning received your epistle, which I was 
obliged to Bondforto Worthing, whence 1 hare removed 

to this plaee, on the same coast, about ei-hl miles distant 
from the former. You wil! probably not be Bsp 
with this letter, when it informs you that I am 30,000/. 
ruber than I was at our parting', having just received in- 
i e from my lawyer thai a cause lias been gained 
at Lancaster assizes,* which will be worth that sum by 
the tune I come of age. Mrs. B. is doubtless acquainted 
of this acquisition, though not apprized of its exact value, 
of which she had bettor be ignorant, for her behaviour 



i foi llw morel y i ' ■'jtrtj. 



LETTERS, IS07. 



on anv sudden piece of favourable intelligence is, if possi- 
ble, more ridiculous than her detestable conduct on the 
DBOSl trifling circumstance of an unpleasant nature. 
You may give my compliments to her, and say that her 
ing my servant's things shall only lengthen my ab- 
sence ; for unless they are immediately despatched to 
[6 Piccadilly) together with those which have been so 
Ions delayed belonging to myself she shall never again 
benold my radiant countenance illuminating her gloomy 
mansion. If they are sent, I may probably appear in 
lan two years from the date of my present epistle. 
"Metrical compliment is an ample reward for my 
strains; you are one of the few votaries of Apollo who 
unite the sciences over which that deity presides. I 
■'ii to send my poems to my lodgings m London 
immediately, as I have several alterations and some ad- 
ditions to make ; every copy must be sent, as I am about 
to amend them, and you sha! 1 soon behold them in ;ill 
their glory. I hope you have kept them from that Upon 
tree y that antidote to the arts, Mrs. B. Entre nou-% — you 
may expect to see me soon. Adieu. Yours ever." 



LETTER VIII. 



K MY DEAR BRIDGET, 

a I have oidv just dismounted from my Pegmutj whicl 
has prevented me from descending to plain prose in an 
epistle of greater length to yourjair self. You regretted 
hi a former letter, that my poems were not more exten- 
sive : I now for your satisfaction announce that I have 
nearly doubled them, partly by the discovery of some I 
conceived to be lost, and partly by some new productions. 
"We shall meet on Wednesday next; till then, believe 
me yours affectionately, " Bvron. 

K P. S. Your brother John is seized with a poetic 
mania, and is now rhyming away at the rate of three lines 
per hour — so much for inspiration I Adieu !'* 



LETTER IX. 

TO THE EARL OF CLARE. 

"Southwell, Notts, February fath, 1807. 

■lfY DEAREST CLAREj 

* Were I to make all the apologies necessary to atone 
fonmy late neglig mce, you would justly say yon had re- 
ceived a petition instead of a letter, as it would be filled 
witmprayers for forgiveness; but instead of this, I will 
acknowledge my sins at once, and I trust to your friend- 
ship and generosity rather than to my own ■ 
Though mv health is not perfectly re-established, I am 
all danger, and have recovered every thing bu1 my 
Impression. You will be as- 
1 to hear I have lately written to Delawarre, for 
the puroose of explaining (as far a.s possible, without in- 
■ s"ine "/-/ Jrirnds of mine in the business) the 
■ (rnviour to him during my last resi I 
Harrow, (nearly two years ago,) which you will recollect 
was rather l cn cmu/ier.' Since that period I have dis- 
I he was treated with injustice, both by those who 
misrepresented his con luct, and by me in consequence of 
their suggestions. I have therefore mad*; all the repara- 
tion in my power, by apologizing for my mistake, 
with very faint hopes of success ; indeed I never c 
anv answer, but desired one for form's sake; (W has 
arrived, and most probably never wUL However, 
I have taxed my own conscience by the atonement, which 
is humiliating enough to one of my disposition , vet I 
could not have slept satisfied with the reflection of bavin jr, 
intentionally, injured any individual. I have done 
all that could be done to repair the injury, and there the 



affair must end. Whether we renew our intimacy or 
not is of very trivial consequence. 

K My time has lately been much occupied with very 
different pursuits. I have been transporting a servant,* 
who cheated me, — rather a disagreeable event: per- 
forming in private thea'ricals; publishing a volume ol 
at the request of my friends, for their perusal ;) 
m ikin love, and taking physic. The last two amuse- 
ments have not had the best effect in the world; for my 
attentions have been divided among so many fair damsels, 
and the drugs I swallow are of such variety in their com- 
en Venus and iEscuIapius I am 
harassed to death. However, I have still leisure to de- 
vote some hours to the recollections of past, regretted 

lips, and in the interval to take the advai 
the moment, to assure you how much I am, and eVer will 
be, my dearest Clare, 

* Your truly attached and sincere 
"Byrow" 



LETTER X. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



« Southwell, Jan. 13,1807. 
" I ought to begin with sundry apologies, for my own 
rice, but the variety of mv avocations in prose and 
as! plead my excuse. With this epistle you will 
receive a volume of all my Juvenilia published since your 
departure : it is of considerably greater size than the copy 
in your possession, which I beg you will destroy, as the 
pres Hi is much nine complete. That unlucky poem to 
my poor IVIaryf has been the cause of some animadver- 
sion from ladies in years. I have not printed it in this 
collection, in consequence of my being pronounced a 
mosl y ■■ ■ '', in short, a f young Jtfnoref by 



, your 



* friend. I believe in general 



they have hecn favourably received, and surely the age 
of their author will preclude severe criticism. The ad- 
lifc from sixteen to nineteen, and the dis- 
sipa'ion into which I have been thrown in London, have 
given a voluptuous tint to my ideas; but the occasions 
which called forth my muse could hardly admit any other 
colouring. This volume is vastly correct and miracu- 
lously - haste. Apropos, talking of love, * * * * 
" If you ran find leisure to ansuer this farrago of un- 
conno '■ 1 n insense, you need not doubt what gratifies.'* 
LU accrue from your reply to yours ever, &c" 



LETTER XL 

TO MR. WILLIAM BAXKES. 

"Southwell, March C.1S07. 

" DEAB P WKES, 

"Your criiiqui valuable for many reasons: in the 
first pla ■ | il i- Lhe only one in which flattery has borne 
I a part ; in the next, I am cun/ed with insipid 
compliments. I have a better opinion of your judgment 
and ability than vourj Accept my most sincere 

; ■<■ your kin ! dei ision,nol less welcome, because 
totally un to a more exact esu- 

rei ow few of the best poems, 

m our language, will stand the test of minute or i 
criticism: it can therefore hardly be expected the effu- 
sions of a boy, (and most of these pi< en pro- 

duccd al an early period,) can derive much merit either 
from the subject or composition. Many of them wero 
written under great depression of spirits, and during Be- 



• I1i< »*tel F'niiilr. 

i i \>iry" liere mentioned wm not Hie heiress of Ann«f?y, nor 

■' ' ui" Abenleeu. Tin rertea lii the Hours of Ldlenui, en. 
;.iciurc," were acklre,» id lo tier. 
, I -.. be '■ Rwuii gfldJeuaM." 




LETTERS, 1807. 



vere indisposition ; hence the gloomy turn of the ideas. 
A\ <■ coincide in opinion that the t poeae» erotfyuef 1 are the 
most exceptionable; they were, however, grateful to the 
deities, on whose altars they were* offered — more I seek 
not. 

"The portrait of Pornpowis* was drawn at Harrow, 
after a long sitting; this accounts for the resemblance, or 
rather the carieatura. He is your friend, he never was 
mine — for hoth our takes I shall be silent on this head. 
The collegiate rhymes art- not personal; one of the notes 
may appear so, but could not !><■ omitted. 1 have little 
doubt they will be deservedy abuse 1 ; a just punishment 
for my until ial treatment of so excellent an Alma Mater. 
I si -in von n< i eopv, lest (if should he placed in the Situa- 
tion of #tf Bias and 'he Arckbishop of Grenada: though 
running some hazard from the experiment, I wished your 
v&dicl to be unbiassed. Had my ( Xi6eJiWbaen pre- 
sented previous to your letter, it would have appeared a 
ppecieB of bribe to purchase compliment 1 feel no hesi- 
tation hi saying, I was more an moms to hear your critique, 
however severe, titan the praises of the million. On the 
same day l was honoured with the .encomiums of JMoo 
kensfe, the celebrated author of the 'Man of Peeling.' 
Whether Jus approbation or yours elated me most, I can- 
i ol decide. 

u You will receive my Juvenilia, at least all yet pub- 
hslird. I have a larire volume in manuscript, which 
may in pari appear hereafter: at present I have neither 
lime nor inclination to prepare it for the press. In the 
sprinj; | shall return to Trinity, to dismantle my rooms, 
and hid you a final adieu. The Cam will not be much 
increased by mv tears on the occasion. Your farther re- 
marks, however causticoi hitter to a palate vitiated with 
the sweets of adulation, will be of service. Johnson has 
shown us that no poetry is perfect; but to correct mine 
would be an Herculean labour. In fact I never looked 
beyond the moment of composition, and published merely 
at the request of my friends. Notwithstanding so much 
has been said concerning the 'Genus irritabile vatum,' 
we shall never quarrel on the subject Poetic fame is 
bv no means die 'acme 1 of my wishes. Adieu. 

"Yours ever, 
"Bvhon." 



be exchanged, and others substituted in their place, 
The whole will be considerably enlarged, and appeal the 
latter end of May. This is a hazardous experiment; but 
want of better employment, the encouragement I have 
met With, and my own vanity, iirdure me to stand the toot, 
though not without sundry palpitations. The book will 
circulate fast enough in this country, tram mere curiosity, 
what I prill " 



LETTER XIT. 

TO MR. WILLIAM BAKXE8. — [FRAGMENT.] 

° For my own part, T have suffered severely in the de- 
cease of my two greatest friends, the only beings 1 ever 
loved, (fniahs excepted:) I am therefore a solitary 
animal, miserable enough, and so perfectly a citizen of the 
world, thaVwhether 1 pass my days in Great Britain or 
Kamschatka is to me a matter of perfect indifference. 
I cannot evince greater respect for your alteration than 
by immediately adopting it — this shall be done in the 
next edition, 1 am Borry your remarks are not more 
frequent, as! am certain they would be equally benefi- 
cial. Since my last, 1 have received two critical opi- 
nions from Edinburgh, both too flattering for me to de- 
tail. (>ne is from Lord Woodhouslee, ai the head of the 

Scotch literati, and a most voluminous writer, (his last 

work is a life of Lord Kaunas;) the other from Mao 

keusie, who sent his decision a second time, more at 

length. I am not personally acquainted with either of 

"rut!- nk'm, nor ever requested their sentiments on 

the subject: their praise is voluntary, ami transmitted 
through the medium of a friend, at whoso house they 
re id the productions. 

•m 'ontrary.to my former intention, I am now preparing 
a volume for the public at large : my amatory pieces will 






LETTER XIIL 



TO MR. FALKNF.R. 



"The volume* of little pieces which accompanies 
this, would have been presented befoie, had I not been 
apprehensive that Miss FalkneVs indisposition might 
render such trifles unwelcome. There are some errors 
of the printer which I have not had time to correct in the 
collection: yon have it thus, with 'all its imperfections 
on its head,' a heavy weight, when joined with the faults 
of its author. Such 'Juvenilia,' as they can claim no 
great degree of approbation, I may venture to hope, will 
also escape the severity of uncalled for, though perhaps 
not undeserved, criticism. 

"They were written on many and various occasions, 
and are now published merely for the perusal of a 
friendly circle. Believe me, sir, if they afford the 
slightest amusement to yourself and the rest of my social 
readers, 1 shall have gathered all the bays 1 ever wish to 
adorn the head of 

" Yours, very truly, 
"Bvaow. 

"P.S. I hope Miss F. is in a state of recovery." 



LETTER XIV. 

TO MR. PIGOT. 

"Southwell, April, 1807. 

a MV DEAR PlflOT, 

"Allow me to congratulate you on the success of y Mir 
first examination — ' Courage, mon ami.' The tide of Dr. 
will do wonders with the damsels. I shall most probcu 
bly be in Essex or London when you arrive at this d — d 
place, where I am detained by the publication of r,»y 
rliynus. 

"Allien. — Believe mo yours very truly, 

" BVRQ*. 

" P. S. Since we met, I have reduced myself by 
violent exercise, much physic, and hot bathing, from 14 
stone 6 lb. to \2 stone 7 lb. In ail I have losi 27 poinds. 
Bravo! — what say you?" 



LETTER XV. 



TO BUSS PIGOT. 



* Doctor Bitttar, Head Muter id Harrow ScluxJ. Set *' Houn of 
Mlvuet*," yixyt 109, &*. 



' June II th, 1807. 

"pFAR qiTFN nF.SS, 

" S,n ,. t """^lit l" be immortal: — though not Klhormieh- 
hrtd butt-dog, he i< the finest puppy I ever m», and will 
answer much better; in his great and manifold kindi.i-ss 
he has already bitten my fingers, and disturbed the 
gravity of old Boatswain, who is grinou.ilu duqJhpOMd. 
I wish to be informed what he cust«, his rrpentrs, &c. &C, 

i hai 1 may indemnify Mr. G . My thanks are alt 

I can give for the trouble he has taken, make a long 



' The Hour, of IdUum. 



LETTERS, 1807. 



speech, and conclude it with 12 3 4 5 6 7.* I am out of 
practice, 'So deputize you as Leslie, — ambassador wouli 
not do in a matter concerning the Pope, which I presum 
this must, as the whole turns upon a Bull. Yours, 

"Byron. 
■ P. S. I write in bed." 



LETTER XVI. 

TO MISS PIGOT. 

"Cambridge, June 30th, IS07. 

" ' Better late than never, Pal,' is a saying of which you 
biovv the origin, and as it is applicable on the present oc- 
casion, you will excuse its conspicuous place in the front 
of my epistle. I am almost superannuated here. My 
old friends, (with the exception of a very Tew,) all de- 
parted, and I am preparing to follow them, but remain till 
Monday to be present at three Oratorios, two Concerts, a 
Fair^ and a Ball. I tind I am not oi\\y thinner but taller 
by an inch since my last visit. 1 was obliged to tell every 
body my name, nobody having the least recollection of 
my v'tsage or person. Even the hero of my Cornelian,] 
(who is now sitting vis-i}-vis y reading a volume of my 
Poetics,) passed me in Trinity walks without recognising 
me in the least, and was thunderstruck at the alteration 
which had taken place in my countenance, &c. &c. 
Some say I look better, others worse, but all agree I am 
thinner — more I do not require. I have lost 2 lb. in mv 
weight since I left our cursed, detestable, and abhorred 
abode of scandal, where, excepting yourself and John 
Bucher, I care not if the whole race were consigned to 
the Pit of Acheron, which I would visit in person rather 
than contaminate my somdaU with the polluted dust of 
Southwell. Seriously, unless obliged by the emptiness of 
my purse to revisit Mrs. B., you will see me no more. 

" On Monday I depart for London. I quit Cambridge 
with little regret, because our set are vanished, and my 
musical protege 1 before mentioned has left the choir, and is 
stationed in a mercantile house of considerable eminence 
in the metropolis. You may have heard me observe he 
is exactly, to an hour, two years younger than myself. I 
found him grown considerably, and, as you will suppose, 
very glad to see his former Patron. He is nearly my 
height, very thin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and 
light locks. My opinion of his mind you already know ; 
—1 hope I shall never have occasion to change it. Every 
body here conceives me io be an invalid. The university 
at present is very gay, from the fetes of divers kinds. I 
supped out last night, but eat (or ate) nothing, sipped a 
bottle of claret, went to bed at 2 and rose at S. I have 
commenced early rising, and find it agrees with me. 
The Masters and the Fellows all very polite, but look a 
little askance — don't much admire lampoons — truth al- 
ways disagreeable. 

** Write, and tell me how the inhabitants of vour mena- 
gerie go on, and if my publication goes <#?"well: do the 
quadrupeds growl/ Apropos, my bull-dog is deceased — 
' Flesh both of cur and man is grass.' Address your an- 
swer to Cambridge. If I am gone, it will be forwarded. 
Sad news just arrived — Russians beat — a had set, eal 
nothing but oily consequently must melt before a hardjire. 
I get awkward in my academic habiliments for want of 
practice. Got up in a window to hear the oratorio at St. 
Mary's, popped down in the middle of the JMtssiah, tore 
a woful rent in the back of my best black silk gown, and 
damaged an egregious pair of breeches. Mem. — never 
tumble from a church window during service. Adieu, 
dear * * * * ! do not remember me to any body: — to 



forget and be forgotten by the people of Southwell is all I 
aspire to." 



• He here allurles to an o<1<1 fancy or trick ofhis own ; whenever he wn 
at a lots for tamethiog to ray, he used la Enbble over " I 234 56 7." 

f Mr. Edlutoa. See Iheliliei " to F.." Hours of Idhjiwes, pa-e39I; 
•fid "The Cornelian," Hours of IdUne»*, jmy, 386. 



LETTER XVII. 

TO MISS PIOOT. 

"Trin. Coll.Camb. July 5th, 1S07. 

"Since my last letter I have determined to reside 
another year at Grant a, as my rooms, &c. &c. are finished 
in great style, several old friends come up again, and 
many new acquaintances made; consequently, my incli- 
nation leads me forward, and I shall return to college in 
October, if still alive. My life here has been one con- 
tinued routine of dissipation — out at different places every 
day, engaged to more dinners, Sac. Sac. than my stay 
would permit me to fulfil. At this moment I write with a 
bottle of claret in my head, and tears in my eyes ; for I have 
just parted with my l Cornelian? who spent the evening 
with me. As it was our last interview, I postponed my 
engagement to devote the hours of the Sabbath to friend- 
ship : — Edleston and I have separated for the present, 
and my mind is a chaos of hope and sorrow. To-mor- 
row I set out for London : you will address your answer 
to 'Gordon's Hotel, Albemarle-street,' where 1 sojourn 
during my visit to the metropolis. 

" I rejoice to hear you are interested in my protest'-: he 
has been my almost' constant associate since October, 
1805, when I entered Trinity College. His voice first at- 
tracted nry attention, his countenance fixed it, and his 
maimers attached nie to him for ever. He departs fhr 
a mercantile house in town in October, and we shall pro- 
bably not meet till the expiration of my minority, when I 
shall leave to his decision either entering as a partner 
through my interest, or residing with me altogether. Of 
course he would in his present frame of mind prefer the 
latter, but lie mav alter his opinion previous to that period; 
— however, he shall have his choice. I certainly love 
him more than any human being, and neither time nor 
distance have had the least effect on my (in general) 
changeable disposition. In short, we shall put I sidy E. 
Butler and ]\Iiss Ponsojiby to the blush, Pylades and 
Orestes out of countenance, and want nothing but a ca- 
tastrophe like JVi^is and Euryalua, to give Jonathan and 
David the *go by.' He certainly is perhaps more at- 
tached to me than even I am in return. During the 
whole of my residence at Cambridge we met every day, 
summer and winter, without passing one tiresome mo- 
ment, and separated each time with increasing reluc- 
tance. I hope you will one Jay see us together, he is 
the only being I esteem, though 1 like many.* 

" The Marquis of T:i\ istocl; was down the other day ; 
I supped with him at his tutor's — entirely a whig party. 
The opposition muster strong here now, and Lord 
Huntingdon, the Duke of Leinster,&c. &c, are to join us 
in * October, so every thing will be splendid. Tin- musu 
is all over at present. Met with another l acddeney 3 — 
upset a butter-boat in the lap of a lady — look'd very blue 
— spectators grinned — 'curse Vui!' Apropos, sorry to 
say, been drunk every day, and not quite softer yet — how- 
ever, touch no meat, nothing but fish, soup, and vegeta- 
bles, consequently it does me no harm — sad dogs all the 
Cantabs. Mem. — u>< mean torefbmi next January. This 
place is a monotony of endless variety — like it — ha!e 
Southwell. Has Ridge sold well' or do the ancients 
demur? What lathes have bought? * * * * 

"Saw a girl at St. Mary's the image of Anne * * *, 
thought it was her — all in the wrong — the lady stared, so 
did I — I blushed, so did not the lady — sad thing — wish 
women had more modesty. Talking of women, puts me 
in mind of my terrier Fanny — how is she ? Got a head- 
ache, must go to bed, up early in the morning to travel 



Edleiton. Sue Letter 101, 



LETTERS, 1807. 



My protej;^ hreakfa-sts with me ; parting spoils mv appe- 
tite— excepting from Southwell. Mem. — I halt 
well. Yours, &c." 



LETTER XVIII. 

TO MISS riGOT. 

"Gordon's Hotel, July 13th, 1807. 
"You write most excellent epistles — :i fig for other 
correspondents with their nonsensical apologies for 

[ jbl0inng nought tihmit it? — you smd m<; a ,j, h liifnl 

budget. I am here in a perpetual vortex <>f dl 
(very pleasant for all that,) and, strange to tell, I get 
tliiiiin-r, being now below eleven Stone considerably. 
Stay in town a month, perhaps six weeks, trip into Essex, 
and then, as a favour, irradiate Southwell for three days 

with the light of my counten r. bul nothing shall 

[ positivi return to 
Cambridge in October; we are to be uncommonly gay, 
or in truth I should cut [he I 'niversity. An extraordinary 
circumstance occurred to me a( Cambridge, a :'irl so 
very like ** * made her appearance, thai nothing but 
the most minute inspection could have undeceived me. 
1 wish I had asked \fsht had ever been atH * * *. 

8 vYhai the devil would Ridg. i ! is not fifty in a 
fortnight, before the advertisements] o sufficient sal-' ? I 
near many of the London booksellers have them, and 
Crosby lias sent copies to the principal watering-places. 
Are they liked or not in Southwell ?***** 
I wish I'uatswuin had sinUluwcd Damon! How is 
Bran? by the immortal [ods, Bran ought to be a Count 

of the H»hi Rinnan Km fire. * * * 

"The intelligence of London cannot be interesting to 

you, who have rusticated all your life — the annals of 
routs, riots, balls, and boxlng-matchesj cards and crim. 
cons., parliamentary discussion, political details, mas* 
quera les, mechanics, Argyle-street Institution and 
aquatic races, love and lotteries, Brooke's and Buona- 
parte, opera-singers and oratorios, wine, women, wax- 
works, and weathercocks, can't accord with vour msur 
Id"! id' as "i decoi am and other silly expressions not in- 
serted in our vocabulary. 

"Oh! Southwell, Southwell, how I rejoice to have left 
thee, and how 1 curse tho heavy hours I dr. i "-,.,( alontj, 
for so many months, among the Mohawks who inhabit 
your kraals! — However, one thing I donol regret, which 
is having par^d qffz. sufficient quantity of flesh t.. enabl ■ 
me to slip into 'an eel skin, 1 an ( vie with the ttim beaux 
ol no Ii rn times ; thoag! , I am.sorry to sd , it seems to 
be the mode among ■■■ row/a*, and I am told 

! am al hast 141b. below the fashion. However, I de- 
crease instead of enlarging, which is extraordinary, as 
violent exercise in London is impracticable ; b*ul 1 attri- 
bute thep/u nojnenon too irewi rung vptet sea at public and 
private parties. I \<r.i\A from Ridge this morning, (the 
14ili, my letter was begun yesterday:) he says the 
Poems go on aewell as can be wished, the seventy-five 
Bcnl to town are circulated, and a dt man I foi fifti more 
complied with, the da} he U in .1 bis epistli , th 
advertisements are not yet half published. Adieu. 

"P.Sfc Lord Carlisle, on receiving my Poem 
before he opened the book, i tolerabl) han Isome letter: 
—I have not heard from him since. Hi opinions 1 

neither know nor care al j ifhe is the lea I in ob at, I 

shall enroll him with Butler* and the other worthies. 
lie is in Yorkshire, poor man ! and very ill ! He said he 
had not time to read the contents, bul though! it neces- 
sary to acl nowledge the receipt of the volume' immedi- 
ately. Perhaps the earl l bears no brother rv 
Vu-une? —if sn t I will make his sceptre totter in his hands. 
—Adieu!" 



LETTER XIX. 

TO MISS PIOOT. 



' Dr. Butler. See LeUer XI. 



"August 2.1. 1807. 
•London begins to contents — town is 

empty — consequently 1 can scribble at leisure, as ocru* 
pa b are less numerous. In a 1 I ball de- 

part to fulfil a country engagement ; but expect two 

from you previous to that period. 1C i 
not proce< t rapidlj in Notts— very possible. In town 
things wear a more promising aspect, and a man 
admired by dui 
and sold by every bookseller of the metropolis, docs not 
dedicate much consideration to rustic readers. I have 
riewbefon me, entitled ' Literary Recrea ion .' 
where m] is applauded far beyond ovj 

! know nothing of the critic, hut think /■■ ■ 
corning gentlei i 

His critique pl< at s me particul u becausi 
great len jth, and a proper quantum of censure is admi- 
nistered 

You know I hate insipid, unqualified, commoi 
compliment [f you would wish to see it, order th 

number of 'Litemrv !■ t ; i. i : ■ ■ 1 1 ■' I'm M 

1 assure you I have not the most distant idea of the 
writer of tin- article — ; t is printed in a periodical publi- 
cation — and though I lave written a paper, (a re i 
Wordsworth,*) which appears in the same work, I am 

ignorant ol <-v ncerned in il - 

the editor, whose name I have not heard. M\ 
Lor I Al< tender < rordon, who resided in the ame hot I, 
told me liis mother, her Grace of Gordon, requested he 
would introduce my poetical Lordship to her Highness. 
as Bhe had bought my volume, admir 
common with the rest ^f the fashionable worl 
wished to claim her relationship with the author. I 
was unluckily engaged on an excursion (bt da - 

flei ■i'. an I as the dutch -■ was on the eve of d<: 
parting for Scotland, 1 have postpon I my introduction 
till the winter, when I shall favour the lady, u ht n I u£ / 

shall not dispute t with my st sublime and edifying 

versat ion. She is now in the Highlands, and Ai. 

took his departure a few days agi , f! blessed 

seal of ■ i ' 

"Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of his 
second in. for a third — 

;aya. In every bookseller's window I see 
nothing, bul enjoy im fame in se- 
cret. My list reviewer kmdlv requests me to alter mv 
h termination ofwritin and * a Friend to tlJ 

Cause of Literature 1 be; i I will gratify the public with 
some new work 'at no very distant period.' 'Who 
i be s bard ! — that is to say, if all critics would 
be so polite. Howi ver, the others will pav me -A'. I doubt 
not, for this gentle encouragement. If so, have at 
By-the-by, I have written at my intervals of I. 
ai i i two ni the morning, three hundred and eighty hues 
in blank verse, ol Bosworth lucid. I have lueki 
Hutton's account. I shall extend the Poem (o ■ \ 

Len 1 ks, and shall hai i 

it will be published or not n i id on circwndBncee. 

s.i mill ii lor i fotism ! have turned mv brain, 

' isms wMl pro- 
bably restore me to mad* tty, 

hwell isa damned place — I have d<mr with it — 



;illrm|il 



* Thla Am 

twk« Bl: . 

u rcnmrfnl .. 

blltbtd i"ii' 

di e :— " 'I he 



>f I.onl Byron m I 

■ lllg Ii IW |'l:"l ■ I 
I < Iir.- U 



(for lir\ dBM nr 

intau,) 

1 1 1 t"iu 

■ i 

BntUfts, n i ii ■.-. ! ■ i, i. . 

nLIc ilmre ol i I 

mine art simple nncl flowing, though occasion! 'I) ii.h ■■ 

—strong iiml * times liTc»i»lible uppeals 10 lie ft 

Th I' Ihc pM -o.i wni k ma) m i eqi si : . 

u .jituaniiyTCtlLjauct," *c.&c- 
Aloort . 



LETTERS, [807. 



J 



at least in all probability: excepting yourself; T esteem 
no one within its precincts. You were my only to 
tional companion ; and in plain truth, I had more respecl 
for you than the whole Aevy, with whose foibles I amused 
mj ■ If in compliance with their prevailing propensities. 
You gave yourself more trouble with me and my manu- 
scripts than a thousand dolls would have done. Be- 
lieve me, I have not forgotten your good-nature in this 
nrcle of sin, and one day [ trust I shall he able to evince 
fliy gratitude. Adieu, yours, ice. 

u P. S. Remember me to Dr. P. B 



LETTER XX. 



TO MISS PIGOT. 



'•London, August 11th, 1307. 

"On Sunday next I set off for the Highlands.* A 
friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage to Edin- 
burgh. There we shall leave it, and proceed in a tnu- 
d'em, (a speries of open carriage,) through the western 
passes to Inverary, where we shall purchase shdties, to 
enable us to view places inaccessible to vehicular con- 
.. On the coast we shall hire a vessel and visit 
the most remarkable of the Hebrides, and, if we have 
time and favourable weather, mean to sail as far a-- Ice- 
land, only three hundred miles from the northern ex- 
tremity of Caledonia, to peep al Htxta. Tins last inten- 
tion you will keep a secret, as mv nice mamma would 
imagine I was on a Voyage of Discovery, and raise the 
accustomed maternal war-whoop. 

"Last week T swam in the Thames from Lambeth 
through the two bridges, Westminster and Blac-kfriars, a 
distance, including the different turns ami tacks made 
on the way, of three miles! You see I am in exi ellent 
training in case of a squall at sea. I mean to collect all 
the Erse traditions, poems, &c. &c, and translate, or 
expand the subject to fill a volume, which may appear 
next spring under the denomination of i Tke Highland 
Harp* or some title equally picturesque. Of Bosworth 
Field, one book is finished, another just begun. It will 
be a work of three or four years, and most probably 
never conclude. What would you say to some stanzas 
on Mount Hecla? they would be written at least with 
fire. How is the immortal Bran? and the Phoenix of 
canine quadrupeds, Boatswain? I have lately pur- 
chased a thorough-bred bull-dog, worthy to be the CO- 
adjutor of the aforesaid celestials— his nante is Smut ! — 
' bear it, ye breezes, on your balmy w ings. ] 

" Write to me before I set off, I conjure von by tl e 
fifth nb of your grandfather. Ridge goes on well with 
(lie books — I thought that, worthy had not done much m 
the country. In town they have been very successful ; 
Carpenter (Moore's publisher) told me a few da; 
theysold all theirs immediately, and had several inquiries 
made since, which, from the books being gone, they 
could not supply. The Duke of York, the Marchioness 
of Headfort, the Dutchess of Gordon, &c. &c. were 
among Be pun hasers, and Crosby says the circulation 
will be still more extensive in the winter; the summer 
season being very bad for a sale, as most people are ab- 
sent from London. However, they have gone off ex- 
tremely well altogether. I shall pass very near you on 
my joumey through Newark, but cannot approach. 
Don't tell this to Mrs. B., who supposes I travel a dif- 
ferent road. If you have a letter, order it to be left at 
Ridge's skop, where I shall call, or the post-office, New- 
ark, about 6 or 8 in the evening. If your brother would 
ride over, I should be devilish glad to see him — he can 



him Ui'uitt t»e lelLtiuuibwell, 



ert'iit in pra 
—Al<j9n, 



Ulkrd of I>y 



return the same night, or sup with us and go home 
next morning — the Kingston Arms is my inn. 

"Adieu, yours ever, 

"Biron " 



1 - r . 



LETTER XXL 

TO MISS PIGOT. 

"Trinity College, Cambridge, Oct. 26th, 1807. 

K MY DEA.fi ****, 

"Fatigued with sitting up till four in the morning fo? 
the last two days at hazard, I take up my pen to inquire 
how your highness and the rest of my female acquaint- 
ance at the seat of archiepiscopal grandeur go on. I 
know I deserve a scolding for my negligence in not wri- 
ting more frequently; but racing up and down tho 
country for these last three months, how was it possible 
to fulfil the duties of a correspondent ? Fixed at last for 
six weeks, I write, as tfdn as ever, (not having gained an 
ounce since my reduction,) and rather in better humour ; 
— but, after all, Southwell was a detestable residence. 
Thank St. Dominica, I have done with it : I have been 
twice within eight miles of it, but could not prevail on 
myself to suffocaU in its heavy atmosphere. This place 
is wretched enough — a viilanous chaos of din and drunk- 
enness, nothing but hazard and Burgundy, hunting, 
mathematics and Newmarket, riot and racing. Yet it 
is a paradise compared with the eternal dulness of 
Southwell. Oh ! the misery of doing nothing but make 
love, enemies, and verses, 

"Next January (but this is entre nous only, and pray 
let it he so, or my maternal persecutor will be throwing 
her tomahawk at any of my curious projects) I am 
going to sea, for four or five months, with my cousin, 
Capt. Bettesworth, who commands the Tartar, the finest 
frigate in the navy. I have se#n most scenes, and wish 
to look at a naval life. We are. going probably to the 

Mediterranean, or to the West Indies, or — to the d [• 

and if there is a possibility of taking me to the latter 
Bettesworth will do it; for he has received four-and- 
twenty wounds in different places, and at this moment 
- a letter from the late Lord Nelson, stating 
Bettesworth as the only officer in the navy who had 
more wounds than himself.* 

" I have got a new friend, the finest in tho world, a 
tame bear. When I brought him here, they asked me 
vhat I meant to do with him, and my reply was, 'he 
ihould sit lor ii fellowship} Sherard will explain the 
meaning of the sentence, if it is ambiguous. This an- 
swer delighted them not. We have several parties 

I this evening a larje assortment of jockeys 
gamblers, boxers, authors, parsons, and poets, sup with 

, — a precious mixture, but they go on well together: 
and i" i me, I am a spice of ever} thing except a jockey; 

by-the-by, I was dismounted again il ther day. 

Thank your brother in mv name for his treatise. I 
have written £14 pages of a novel, — one poem of 380 
lines,'} to be published (without my pame) m a few 
w-L-eks, with notes, — oGO lines .if Bnsworth Kn-ld, and 2.00 

lines of i ther poem in rhyme, besides half a dozen 

i dler pie< i s. The poem to be published is a Satire 

, I have been praised to the slues in the Critical 

Review, and abused greatly in another publication, ^o 

ii i ue 1 1 I lie better, they i ell m.-, tor the sale of the book; it 

spa up controversy, and prevents it being forgotten. 
Besides, the first men of all ages have had their share, 
nor do the humblest escape ; — so I bear il like a philo- 
sopher. It is odd two opposite critiques came out on 
the same day, and out of five pages of abuse my censor 
only quotes two lines from ditferent poems, in support of 



■ Pw |ioit»cri{ji lo di" RiiglMi rtmK ,-unl Scotch Reviewer** 
( Kn^Nli BahIi ami Smith Review oil • 



e 



LETTERS, 1809 



his o, union. Now the proper way to ait up is to quote 
long passage*, and make them appear absurd, because 
simple allegation is no proof. On the other hand, there 
are seven pages of praise, and more than my modtsty 
will allow said on the subject. Adieu. 

■P. S. Write, write, write ! ! I" 



LETTER XXII. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



'Dorant's Hotel, Albemarle-street, Jan. 20th, 1808. 



8 Your letter was not received till this morning, I pre- 
sume from being addressed to me in Notts, where I have 
not resided since last June, and as the date is the 6th, 
you will excuse the delay of my answer. 

"If the little volume 1 * you mention has given pleasure 
to the author of Perav -J and Auhrcy, I am sufficiently 
repaid by Ins praise. Though our periodical censors 
have been uncommonly lenient, I confess a tribute from 
a man of acknowledged genius is still more Battering. 
But I am afraid 1 should forfeit all claim to candour, 
if I did not decline such praise as I do not deserve; 
and this is, I am sorry to Say, the case in the present in- 
stance. 

K My compositions speak for themselves, and must 
stand or fall by their own worth or demerit : thus f*ir I 
f) al highly gratified by your favourable opinion. Bui 
luv pretensions to virtue arc Unluckily so few, thai thou [h 

1 should be happy to merit, I cannot accept, your n\*- 
plausc in that respect. One passage in your letter 
struck me forcibly: you mention the two Lords Lyttle- 
ton in a manner they respective!) deserve, and will he 
surprised to hear the person who is now addressing you 

has been frequently compared tu the latter, I know 1 

am injuring myself in your esteem by tins avowal, hut 
die circumstance was so remarkable from your observa- 
tion, that I cannot help relating the fact. The events of 
my short life have been of so singular a nature, that, 
though the pride commonly called honour has, an- 1 1 trust 
ever will, prevent me from disgracing my name by a 
mean or cowardly action, I have been already held up as 
tin \L,t,-iry <>f licentiousness, and the disciple of infidelity. 
How far justice may have dictated tins accusation I 
cannot pretend to say, hut, like the gentleman to whom 
in v religious ti iends, in the warmth of their charity, have 

already devoted me, I am madr wins.- than I really am. 

However, to (put myself, (the worsl theme 1 could pitch 
upon,) and return to my Poems, I cannot sufficiently ex- 
press my thanks, and I hope I shall some day have an 
opportunity of rendering them in person. A second edi- 
tion is now in the press, v ith some additions and consi- 
derable omissions; you will allow me to present you 

with a copy. The (.'ill i. a I, Monthly, ami &nti-JaCObin 

Reviews have been very indulgent; but the Eclectic 
has pronounced a furious Philippic, not against the book 
but the author, where you will find all I have mentioned 
asserted by a reverend divine who wrote the critique. 

" Tour name and connexion with our family have been 
long known to me, and I hope your person will bo not 
less so ; you will find me an excellent compound of a 
'Brainless' and a ' Stanhope.'f 1 am afraid you will 
hardly be able to read this, for my hand is almost as had 
as my character, but you will find me, as legibly as 
possible, 

" Your obliged and obedient servant, 

"Byron." 



vliiM ncie* j in ilw novel called Ptrclrol, 



LETTER XXILL 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

"Dorant's, January 21st, 1806. 
"sir, 

"Whenever leisure and inclination permit mc the 
pleasure of a visit, I shall fed truly gratified in a per- 
sonal acquaintance with one whose mind has been long 
known to me in his writings. 

■ You are so far correct in your conjecture, that I am 
a member of the University of Cambridge, where I shall 
take my degree of A. M> tins term ; but were reasonmg, 
eloquence, or virtue the objecLs of my search, Granta is 
not their metropolis, nor is the place of her situation an 
' Kl Dorado, 1 far less a Utopia. The intellects of her 
children are as stagnant as her Cam,* and their pursuits 
limited to the church — not of Christ, but of the nearest 
benefice. 

"As to my reading, I believe I may aver, without hy- 
perbole, it has hern tolerably extensive in the historical ; 
so that few nations e\i-t. .>r have existed, with whoso 
records I am not in soim- degree acquainted, from He- 
rodotus down to Gibbon. Of the classics, 1 know about 
as much as most school Ik^vs after a discipline of thirteen 
years ; of the law of the land as much as enables me to 
keep 'within the statute 1 — 1<> use the poacher's vocabu- 
lary. I did study the 'Spirit of Laws' and the Law of 
Nations; hut when I saw the latter violated every 
month, I gave up my attempts at so useless an accom- 
plishment ; — of geography, I have seen more land on 
maps than J should wish to traverse on foot : — of mathe- 
matics, enough to give me the headache without clearing 
the part affected ; — of philosophy, astronomy, and meta- 
ph\ -i's, more than I can comprehend ; and of common 
sense so little, that I mean to leave a Byronian prize at 
each of our ' Alma- A Litres' for the first discovery,— 
though I ruther fear that of the Longitude will pre- 
i ede it 

"I once thought myself a philosopher, and talked non- 
sense with great decorum: I defied pain, and preached 
up equanimity. For some time this did very well, for 
no one was in pain for me but my friends, and none lost 
their patience but my hearers. At last, a fall from my 
horse convinced me bodily suffering was an evil; and 
the worst of an argument overset my maxims and my 
temper at the same moment, so I quitted Zeno for Aris- 
tippus, and conceive that pleasure constitutes the to ko.\ov. 
In morality, I prefer Confucius to the Ten Command- 
ments, and Socrates to St. Paul, though the latter two 
agree in their opinion of marriage. In religion^] favour 
the Catholic emancipation, but do not acknowledge the 
Pope; and I have refused to take the Sacrament, be- 
cause I do not think eating bread or drinking wine from 
the hand of an earthly vicar "ill make me an mhriiter 
of heaven. I hold virtue in general, or the virtues se- 
verally, to be only in the disposition, each a.fcelmg, not a 
principle. 1 believe truth the prime attribute of the 
Deity ; and death an eternal sleep, at least of the body. 
You have here a brief compendium of the sentiments of 
the un ked George Lord Byron; and, till I get a new 
suit, you \\ ill perceive I am badly clothed. I remain, 
" Yours very truly, 
"Bfeaoff." 



LETTER XXrV. 

TO MR. HENKV DRURV.f 

" Dorant's Hotel, Jan. 13th, 1808. 
"my dear sir, 
" Though the stupidity of my servants, or the porter c 
the house, in not showing you up stairs, (where 1 shouH 



• SeeE.B. ftndS. R. p. 429. 

t Soi u f Do*ior Drurjr, Lord BfrsiTe former Muter at 
School. 



LETTERS, 1809. 



have joined you directly,) prevented me the pleasure of 
seeing you vestcrdav, I hoped to meet you at some pub- 
lic place in the evening. However, my stars decreed 
otherwise, as they generally do, when I have any favoui 
to request of them. I think you would have been sur- 
prised at my -figure, fur, since our last meeting, 1 am re- 
duced four stone in weight. I then weighed fourteen 
Blond seven pound, and now only ten stone and a half. I 
have disposed of my superfluities by means ofhard exer- 
cise and abstinence. * * * 

"Should your Harrow engagements allow you to 
visit town between this and February, I shall be most 
happy to Bee you in Alhemarle-street. If I am not so 
fortunate, I shall endeavour to join vou for an afternoon 
at Harrow, though, I fear, your cellar will by no means 
contribute tn my cure. As for my worthy preceptor, 
Dr. B., our encounter would by no means prevent the 
mutual endearments he and I were wont to lavish on each 
other. We have only spoken onee since my departure 
from Harrow in 1S05, and then lie politely told Tatersall 
I was not a proper associate for his pupils. This was 
long before my strictures in verse : but, in plain prose, 
had I been some years older, T should have held my 
tonjrue on his perfections. Rut being laid on my back, 
when that schoolboy thing was written — or rather dic- 
tated — expecting to rise no more, my physician bavin; 
taken hi-; sixteenth fee, and I his prescriplio . 1 coul I 
not quit this earth without leaving a memento of my 
constant attachment to Butler in gratitude for his mani- 
fold good offices. 

" I meant to have heon down in Julv ; but thinking my 
appearance, immediately after the publication, would be 
construed into an insult, I directed my steps elsewhere. 
Besides, I heard that some of the boys had ?ot hold "f 
my Llbettus, contrary to my wishes certainly, for I never 
transmitted a single copy till October, when I gave one 
to a boy, since gone, after repeated importunities. You 
will, 1 trust, pardon this egotism. As you had touched 
on the subject, I thought some explanation neci 
I tcience I shall not attempt, 'Hie raurus aheneus esto, 
nil consctre sibi' — and 'so on' (as Lord Baltimore said, 
on his trial for a rape) — I have been so long at Trim:;, 
as to forget the conclusion of the line; but, «hoi"?h I can* 
no] finish my quotation, I will my letter, and entreat you 
to believe me, gratefully and affectionately, &c. 

"P. S. I will not lay a tax on your time by requiring 
an answer, lest you say, as Butler said to Tatersall, 
(when I had written his reverence an impudent epistle 
on the expression before men'ioned,) viz. ' thai I wanted 
cu draw him into a correspondence." 1 



the perusal of many of your compositions and several 
other circumsliUii es very pleasant in their day, which I 
will not force upon your memory, but entreat you to be- 
licve me, with nunh regret at their short continuance, 
and a hope they are not irrevocable, yours very sin- 
cerely, &c. " Byron." 



LETTER XXV. 



TO MR. HARNESS. 



■Dorant's Hotel, Albematle-street, Feb. 11, 1S08. 

*MV DEAR HARNESS, 

"As I had no opportunity of returning my verbal 

thank?, I trust you will accept my written acknowledg- 
rnentsforthe compliment you were pleased to pay som 
production of my unluekv muse last November — 1 am 
induced to do this not less from the plea- ore [ f el in the 
praise of an old schoolfellow, than from justice to you, 
for I had heard the story with some slight variations. 
Indeed, when we met this morning Winsfield had n>'i 
undece.ved me, but he will tell you that I displayed nn 

resentment in mentioning what I had beard, tl zl 1 

was not sorry to discover the truth. Perhaps you 
hardly recollect some years ago a short, though, for ihr 
time, a warm friendship between us? Why it was no 
of longer duration, I know not. 1 have still a gift of 
yours in ray possession, that must always prevent me 
from forgetting it, I also remember being favoured with 

2 



LETTER XXVI. 

TO MR. HARNESS. — [FRAGMENT.] 

"March 1 SOS. 
"We both seem perfectly to recollect, with a mixture 
of pleasure and regret, the hours we once passed to- 
gether, and I assure you most sincerely thev are num- 
bered among the happiest of my brief chronicle of enjoy- 
ment. I am now getting into l/ears^ that is to say, I was 
twenty a month ago, and another year will send me into 
the world to run my careei < I l >ilv with the rest. T was 

then just fourteen, — you were almost the first of my 
Harrow friends, certainly the first in my esteem, if not in 
date ; but an absence from I (arrow for some time, shortly 
after, and new connexions on your side, and the difference 
i induci (an advantage decidedly in your favour) 
from thai turbulent and riotous disposition of mine, which 
impelled me into every species of mischief, — all these 
tauces combined to di slroy an intimacy, which 

Vffi ( tion urged me to continue, and Memory compels 
me lo regret. But there is not a circumstance attending 
that period, hardly a sentence we exchanged, which is 
nol impressed on my mind at this moment. I need not 
say more, — this assurance alone must convince you, had 
I considered them as trivial, they would have been less 
indelible. How well I recollect the perusal of your 
1 first (lights 1' There is another circumstance you i\o 
not know : — the first lines I ever attempted at Harrow 
were addressed to you. You were to have seen them; 
but Sinclair had the copy in his possession when wo 
went home ; — and, on our return, we were strangers 

Thev were destroyed, and certainly no great loss; but 
you will perceive from this circumstance my opinions at 
an age when we cannot be hypocrites. 

" I have dwelt longer on tins theme than [ intended, 
and I shall now conclude with what I ought to have be- 
gun. We were once friends, — nay, we have always 
been so, for our separation was the effect of chance, no! 
of dissension. I do not know how far our destinations 
m life may throw us together, but if opportunity and in- 
clination allow you to waste a thought on such a hare- 
brained being as myself, you will find me at least sincere, 
and nut so bigoted to in) faults as to involve others in thu 
consequences. Will you sometimes write to me? 1 do 
not ask it often, and, if we meet, let us be what we should 
he and what we (cut." 



LETTER XXVir. 



TO MR. BECHER. 



"Dorantfs Hotel, Feb. 2)5,1806 

"my dear becber, 
« * * * * Now for Apollo. I am 

happy that vou slill retain your predilection, and that the 
public allow me some share of praise. I am of so much 
importance that a most violent attack is preparing for me 
m the next number of the Edinburgh Review. This I 
had from the authority of a friend who lias seen the proof 
and manuscript of the critique. You know the system 
of the Edinburgh gentlemen is universal attack. They 
praise none , and neither the public nor the author ex- 
pects praise from thein. It is, however, something to be 
noticed as 'hey profess to pass judgment only on worke 
requiring K Wt public attention. Vou will see tbis,wh«a 



10 



LETTERS, 1808. 






it comes out; — it i«, I understand, of the most unmerciful 
description ; but I am aware of it, and hope you will not 
be hurt by its severity. 

" Tell Mrs. Byron not to be out of humour with them, 
and to prepare her mind fur the greatest hostility on 
their part. It will do no injury whatever, and I trust her 
mind will not be ruffled. They defeat their object by 
mi ii i rirainate abuse, and (hey never praise) except the 
partisans of Lord Holland ami Co. It is nothing to be 
abused when Southey, Moore, Lauderdale, Strangfbrd, 
and Payne Knight share the same fate. 

"I am sorry — but 'Childish Ret must be 

suppressed during this edition. I have altered, at your 
ion, the obnoxious allusions in the sixth stanza of 
my last ode. 

"And now, my dear Bccher, I must return my best 
acknowledgments for the interest you have taken in me 
and my poetical bantlings, and I shall ever be proud to 
show how much I esteem the eulvice and the adviser. 
Believe me most truly, &c." 



LETTER XXVIII. 

TO MR. EECHER. 

"Dorant's, March 2 5, 1S08. 

■I have lately received a copy of the new edition 
from Ridge, audit is liiyh lime i;,r me to return my best 
thanks to you for the trouble you have taken in the su- 
pei into adence. This I do most sincerely, and only re- 
gret that Ridge has not seconded you as I could wish, — 
at least, in the bindings, papt r, &c. of the copy he sent 
to me. Perhaps those for the public may be more re- 
Bp< ctable m such articles. 

"You have seen the Edinburgh Review, of course. 
1 regret that Mrs. Byron is bo much annoyed. For my 

own [iart, these 'paper bullets of the brain' have only 

taught me to stand tire; and, as I have been lucky 
enough upon the whole, my repose and appetite are not 

discomposed. Pratt, the gleaner, author, poet, &c. &c, 
addressed a long rhyming epistle to me on the Buhject, 
by way of consolation ; but it was not well done, so I do 
not send it, though the name of the man might male il 
go down. The E. R\ have not performed their task 
well; — at least the literati tell me this, and I think/ 
could write a more sarcastic critique on myself than any 
yet published. For instance, instead of the remark, — 
ill-natured enough, but not keen, — about Mac Pherson, 
I (quoad reviewers) could have said, 'Alas, this imita- 
tion only proves the assertion of Doctor Johnson, thai 
many men, women, and children could write such poetry 
as Ossian's. 1 

u I am thin and in exercise. During the spring or 
summer I I rust we shall meet. I hear Lord Ruthyn 
leaves Newstead in April. * * * As soon as he 
quits il for ever, I wish much you would take a ride over, 
survey the mansion, and give me your candid Opinion On 
Jic tin'si au\isal>le mode of pm. ceding with regard hi 
die house. Entre nous, I am cursedly dipped; my 
debts, tvery thing inclusive, will be nine or ten thousand 
before I am twenty-one. But I have reason to think 
my property will turn oul better than genera] expecta- 
tion may conceive. Of Newstead I have little hope or 
caro; but Hanson, my agent, miimated my Lancashire 
property was worth three Newsteads. I believe we 
have it hollow; though the defend. mis are protracting 
die surrender, if possible, till after my majority, for the 
purpose of firming some arrangi ment with me, thinking 
1 shall probably prefer a sum in hand to a reversion. 
Newstead I luzyselt; — perhaps I will not, — taOOJjfa of 
that more anon. I will come down in Mayor June. 
• • • * "Yours most truly, &c." 



LETTER XXIX. 

TO IfB. JACKSON.* 

«N. A. Notts, Sept. 18, 1808. 
"dear jack, 
" I wish v-,u would inform me what has been done by 
JekyU, at No. 40, Sloan concerning the pony I 

returned as unsound. 

"I have also to request you will call on Louch at 

Brompton, and inquire what the devil he meant by 
sending su< h an insolent letter to me at Brighton ; and 
at the same tune tell him I by no means can 
with the charge he has made for things pretended to be 

daniaged. 

" Ambrose behaved most scandalously about the pony* 

You may tell Jekyll if lie does not refund the iimm \. i 
shall put the affair into my law nit's hands. Fiv< 
twenty guineas is a sound price lor a ponv, and bv ■■- i 
if it cost me five hundred pounds, I will make an exam- 
ple of Mr. Jekyll, and that immediately, un 
is returned. K Believe me, dear Jack, &c." 



LETTER XXX. 



TO MR. JACKSON. 



"N.A.Notts, Oct. 4, 1808 

"You will make as good a bargain as possible with Una 
Master Jekyll, if he is not a gentleman. If he is a 
gentlemaiif inform me, for 1 shall take very different 
steps. If he is not, you must get what you can of the 
money, fori have too much business on hand at present 
to commence an action. Besides, Ambrose is the man 
who ought to refund, — but I have done with him. You 
can settle with L. out of the balance, and dispose of the 
bidets, &e. as you best can. 

" 1 should be very glad to see you here ; but the house 
is filled with workmen and undergoing a thorough re- 
pair. I hope, however, to be more fortunate before 
many mouths have elap 

"If you Bee Bold Webster, remember me to him, and 
tell bun I have io regret Sydney, who has perished, I 
fear, in my rabbit warren, for we have seen nothing of 
him for the last fortnight. 

"Adieu. — Believe me, &c." 



LETTER XXXI. 

» TO MB. JACKSON. 

"N. A. Notts, Dec. 12,1808 

" MY PK \R TACK, 

" You w ill gel the greyhound from the ownor at any 

price, and as many more of i lie same breed (male or fe- 
male) as you can collect. 

"Tell D'Egville his dress shall be returned — I am 
obliged to him for the pattern. 1 am sorry you should 
have so much trouble, but I was not aware of the diffi- 
culty of procuring the animals in question. 1 shall have 
finished part of my mansion in a few weeks, and, if you 
can pay me a visit at Christinas, I shall be very glad to 
see you. " Believe me, &c. n 



LETTER XXXII. 

TO MR. BECHKH. 

"Newstead Abbey, Notts, Sept. Mth, 1808. 

MY DEAR BECHF.R, 

" I am much obliged to you for your inquiries, and .shall 
profit by them accordingly. 1 am going to get un a play 



'Hie PujiUal. See ooLc to Don hi&r., C»ulo XI. 



LETTERS, 1909. 



11 



here ; the hall will constitute a most admirable theatre. 
I have settled the dram. pers. and can do without ladies, 
as I have some voting friends who will make tolerable 
Substitutes for females, and we only want three male 
character-, beside Mr. Ilobhouse and myself for the 
play we have fixed on, which will be the Revenge. 
Prav direct Nicholson the carpenter to come over to me 
immediately, and inform me what day you will dine and 
Dass the night here. K Believe me, &.c." 



LETTER XXXIII. 

TO THE HONOURABLE* MRS. BYRON". 

"Newstead Abbey, Notts, Oct. 7th, 1803. 
"dear madam, 
"I have no beds for the H * * s, or any body else at 
present. The H * * s sleep at Mansfield. 1 do not 
know that I resemble Jean Jacques Rousseau. f I have 
no ambition to be like so illustrious a madman — but this 
I know, that I shall live in my own manner, and as much 
alone as possible. When my rooms are ready I shall 
Oe glad to see you ; at present it would be improper, and 
uncomfortable to both parties. You can hardly object 
to my rendering my mansion habitable, notwithstanding 
my departure for Persia in March, (or May at farthest,) 
you will be tenant till my return; and in cam- •<{ 
any accident, (for I have already arranged my will to be 
drawn up the moment I am twenty-one,) I have taken 
care yon shall have the house and manor for life, besides 
a sufficient income. So you see my improvements are 
not entirely selfish. As I have a friend here, we will go 
to the Infirmary Ball on the 12th ; we will drink tea with 
Mrs. Byron at eight o'clock, and expect to see you at 
the ball. If that lady will allow us a couple of rooms to 
dress in, we shall be highly obliged: — if we are at the 
ball by ten or eleven it will be time enough, and we shall 
return to Newstead about three or four." 

ft Adieu. Believe me, 

"Yours verv truly, 
"Byron." 



LETTER XXXIV. 



TO MRS. BYRON. 



a Newstead Abbey, Nov. 2d, 1808, 

* DEAR MOTHER, 

" If you please, we will forget the things you mention. 
I have no desire to remember them. When mv rooms 
are finished, I shall be happy to see you ; as I tell but 
the truth, you will not suspect me of evasion. I am fur- 
nishing the bouse more for you than myself, and I shall 
establish you in it before I sail for India, which I expect 
to do in March, if nothing particularly obstructive occurs. 
I am now fitting up the green drawing-room ; the red for 
;i beet-room, and the rooms over as sleeping-rooms. 
Thfy will be soon completed ; — at least, I hope so. 

u I wish you would inquire of Major "Watson (who is 
an old Indian) what things will be necessary to provide 
for my voyage. I have already procured a friend to 
write to the Arabic professor at Cambridge for some in- 
formation 1 am anxious to procure. I can easily get 
1, tters from government to the ambassadors, consuls, &c. 
and also to the governors at Calcutta and Madras. I 
shall place my property and my will in the hands of 
trusiees till my return, and I mean to appoint you om 
From Hansor. I have heard nothing — when I do, yc 
shall have the particulars. 



* Thill addressed always by I.crU Byron, but without any right to 
lv ,i n Igrtion. 
t Slc Mciiiorunduin, page 2£l. 



" After all, you must own my project is not a bad one. 
If I do not travel now, I never shall, and all men should 
one day or other. I have at present no connexions to 
keep me at home; no wife, or unprovided sisters, bro- 
thers, &c. I shall take care of you, and when I return I 
may possibly become a politician. A few years' know- 
ledge of other countries than our own will not incapaci- 
tate me for that pari. If we see no nation but our own 
we do not give mankind a fair chance — it is from expert- 
ence, not books, we ought to judge of them. There is 
nothing like inspection, and trusting to our own senses. 
* Yours very truly, 

" Byron." 



LETTER XXXV. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



"A few weeks ago I wrote to * * *, to request ho 
would receive the son of a citizen of London, well known 
to me, as a pupil ; the family having been particularly 
polite during the short time I was with them induced me 
to this application. Now, mark what follows, — as some- 
body sublimely saith. On this day arrives an epistle, 
signed * * *, containing not the smallest reference to 
tuition, or intuition, but. a .petition for Robert Gregson, of 
pugilistic notoriety, now in bondage for certain paltry 
pounds sterling, and liable to tak': up his everlasting 
abode in Banco Regis. Had the j«ater been from any 
of my lay acquaintance, or, in short, from any person but 
the gentleman whose signature it bears, I should have 
marvelled not. If* * * is serious, I congratulate pugi- 
lism on the acquisition of such a patron, and shall be 
most happy to advance any sum necessary for the libe- 
ration of the captive Gregson. But I certainly hope to 
be certified from you, or some respectable housekeeper, 
of the fact, before I write to * * * on the subject. 
When I say the fart, I mean of the letter being written 
by * * *, not having any doubt as to the authenticity of 
the statement. The letter is now before me, and I keep 
it for your perusal." 



LETTER XXXVI. 

TO R. C DALLAS, ESQ. 

"Reddish's Hotel, Jan. 25, 1809. 

" MV DEAR SIR, 

" My only reason for not adopting your lines* is be- 
cause they are your lines. You will recollect what 
Lady Wortley Montague said to Pope : 'No touching, 
for the good will be given to you, and the bad attributed 
to me.' I am determined it shall be all my own, except 
such alterations as maybe absolutely requisite; but I 
am much obliged by the trouble you have taken and 
your good opinion. 

" The couplet on Lord C. may be scratched out, and 
the following inserted : 

" Roscommon ! Sheffield I with your spirits fled, &c 

" This will answer the jmrpose of concealment. Now, 
For some couplets on Mr. Crabbe, which you may place 
after 'Gilford, Sotheby, M'Neil .•* 

" There be who say in these enlightened days, &c. 

"I am sorry to differ with you with regard to the title, 
but I mean to retain it with this addition : ' The English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers ;' and, if we call it a 
Satire, it will obviate the objection, as the bards alsf 
were Welsh. * * * * 

" Yours very sincerely, 

8 Byron." 



' Mr. Puling bad written some lines, ond requested Lord Byron to to 
sert them <n the Satire, the " English Burds mid Scotch Reviewers ' 
then In j. int.— Tint letter* ktUuwing to Air. Dalltu, rtiLale to that wurl 



12 



LETTERS, 1S09. 



LETTER XXXVII. 

TO R. C. PALLAS, ES<1. 

"Feb. 7 ih, 1809. 



■MV PF. U 5IR, 

"Suppose we have Litis couplet — * 



or, 



" Though sweet ilie sound dtwlahi a bnrrnwM tone, 
Kuii-i. Achilla*! lyre, oud nrlkc rour own ; 



1 loftthe echo KOtn * borrow'H totte, 
Ai i win's lyre, ami mike y^ur own. 



"So much for your ail mon it ion" ; but my note of notes,f 
my solitary pun must not be given up — no, rather 

" ' Let mightiest of oil the bensts of cli.ice, 
Thai roam in woody Calcdnn' 

come against me: my annotation must stand. 

"Wc shaU tn-n-r sell a thousand ; then why print so 
many? Did you receive my yesterday's nolo? lam 
troubling yon, but I am apprehensive some of the lines 
are omitted by your young amanuensis, to whoui, how- 
ever, I am infinitely obliged. 

■* Believe me, yours verv trulv, 

tt BVHO.N." 



NOTES TO MR. DALLAS. 

"Feb. 11,1809. 

•I wish you to call if possible, as I have some altera- 
tions to suggest as to the part about Brougham. " B." 

"Excuse the trouble, but I have added two lines which 

arc necessary to complete the poetical character of 
Lord Carlisle. 

" In his n^e 

Ilia scenes nlnne hnd dritiniM ttlir sinking fltnge ; 

But nwuagen forouu cried, ' hoW, enough!' 
Kor drugg'd Ihciraudicuce with the tragic stuff. 



"Feb. 12111,1609* 



" Yours, &c. 



"I wish you much to call on me, about one, not later, 
if convenient, as 1 have some thirty or forty lines for 
addition. 

■ Believe mc, &c. U B." 

■Feb. 15,1809." 

"Ecce iterum Crispinus! — I send you some lines to 
be placed after 'Gifford, Sotheby, M'-NeuV Praycail 

to-morrow any time before two, and believe me, &c. 

«B." 
■P. S. Print soon, or I shall overflow with more 

rhyme. 

■Feb. 16th, 1809." 

"I enclose some lines to be inserted, the six first after, 
'Lords too are bards, &c.' or rather immediately follow- 
ing the hue : 

" ' Oh t who would lake (heir titles with their rhyme* }' 

The four next will wind up the panegyric on Lord 
Carlisle, and conic after 'tragic stuff.' 

* Yours, truly, "B." 

■Feb. 19th, 1909." 

9 A cut at the opera — Ecce Blgnum ! from last night's 
observation, and inuendoes against the Society for the 



• Mr. Htiias objected to the Una «■ original!] 

" TranelaUou'i «*r»lie won m length disown, 
ai.i1 I)-. it Actinia's nitise to court your own." 

tOeeEn^h.li Utirds, tuid oott, p, i$5. 



suppression of Vice. The lines will cotne well in after 
the couplets conceniing Naldi and Catalani. 

" Yours trulv, 
»Bt»OB.* 
■ Feb. 22d, 1809." 



LETTER XXXVIII. 



TO MRS. BVROS. 



fc S. St. Jamee's-street, March 6th, 1809. 

"PIIR MOTHEH, 

"My last letter was written under great depres 
spirits from poor Falkland's death,* who has left witou! 
a shilling four children anil his wife. I have beeq en- 
deavouring to assist them, wlii :h, I Jod knows, 1 cann 4 
do as 1 could wish, from my own embarrassments, and 
the many claims upon me from other quarters. 

"What you saj is all very true: come what may, 

> -' and I Hand or rail together. I have now 

lived "ii the spot, I have fixed my heart upon i;, and no 

, present or future, shall in, Inc.- mc to barter the 

last vestige of our inheritance. I have thai pride within 

i ■ i ■ able me I o support difficulties. I can 

endure privations; but could [obtain in exchange for 
Newstead Abbey the first fortune in the country, 1 
would reject the proposition. Set your mind at bs 

that score; Mr. Hanson luilcs like a man ofhttsineSS 00 
the subject, I feel like a man i>{ honour, and I will not 
sell Nowstead. 

" I shall yet my scat on the return of the affidavits 
fromCarhais, in ' 'omwali, and will do something in the 
House soon: I must dash, or it »s all over. My Satire 
must be kept secret ior a month , after that you may say 
what you please on tin- subject. Lord Carlisle has used 
me infamously, and refused to state any particulars of 
my family to the Chancellor. I have lathed him in my 
rhymes, and perhaps bis Lordship may regret not being 
more conciliatory. They tell me it "ill have a sale ; I 
hope so, for the bookseller has behaved well, as far as 
publishing well goes. 

"Believe me, yours truly. 

c; P. S. You shall have a mortgage on one of the* 
farms." 



LETTER XXXIX. 

TO MR. HARNESS. 

"8, St. JamesVstreot, March IBth, 1809. 

■There was no necessity for your excuses : if you 
have tune ami inclination to write, 4 for what we re «iTo, 
the Lord niake us thankful.' — II I du not hear from von, 
I console myself with the idea thai you are much muM 
agreeablv employed, 

L ' 1 sen! down to you by this post a certain Satire 
lately published, and in return for the three and sixpence 
expenditure upon it, only beg that if you should guess 
the author, you will keep his name secret; at least, for 
the present. London is full of the Duke's business. 
The Commons have been at it these last three nights 

and are not yet tome to ;i decision. I do not know il 
the affair will be brought before our House^ unless in the 
shape of an impeai hment. If it makes its apnBarance 

in a debatable form, 1 believe I shall be tempted to sav 
something on the subject. — I am glad to hear you like 
i lambridge : firstly, because to know that you are happy 
is pleasant to one who wishes you all possible sublunary 
enjoyment ; and, secondly, 1 admire the morality of the 
sentiment. Alma Mater was to me tnjuMa noverca : and 
the old Beldam only gave me my M. A. degree because 



* S«» Luglistt Bards, aod note, p. 436. 



LETTERS, 1SMI 



13 



she could not av >id it. — You know what a farce a nobl 
Cantab, must perform. 

" I am going abroad, "if possible, in the spring, and 
before I depart I am collecting the pictures of my most 
intimate schoolfellows; I have already a few, and shall 
want yours, or my cabinet will be incomplete. I have 
employed one of the first miniature-painters of the day 
to take them, of course at my own expense, as I never 
allow my acquaintance to incur the least expenditure to 
gratify a whim of mine. To mention this may seem ind- 
icate; but when I tell you a friend of ours first re- 
fused to sit, under the idea that he was to disburse on 
the occasion, you will see that it is necessary to stale 
these preliminaries to prevent the recurrence of any 
siiAlar mistake. I shall see you m time, and will carry 
you to the limner. It will be a ta\ on your patience for 
a week, but pray excuse it, as it is possible the resem- 
blance may be the sole trace I shall be able to preserve 
of our past friendship and present acquaintance. J ust 
now it seems foolish enough, but in a few years, when 
some of us are dead, and others are separated by inevi- 
table circumstances, it will be a kind of satisfaction to 
retain in these images of the living the idea of our 
former selves, and to contemplate in the resemblance of 
the dead, all that remains of judgment, feeling, and a host 
of passions. Eut all this would be dull enough for you, 
and so good night, and to end my chapter, or rather my 
homily, believe me, dear H. yours most affectionately. 

"P. S. I do not know how you and Alma Mater 
agree. I was but an untoward child myself, and I be- 
lieve the good lady and her brat were equally rejoiced 
when I was weaned ; and, if I obtained her benediction 
at parting, it was. ai best, equivocal. 1 ' 



continned him in my service. If he does not l-chavo 
well abroad, I will send him back in a transport. I havn 
a German servant, (who has been with Z\ I r. Wilbraham 
in Persia before, and was strongly recommended to me 
by Dr. Butler of Harrow,*) Robert, and Wrlbatn ; they 
constitute my whole suite. I have letters in plenty— 
you shall hear from me at the different ports I toueh 
upon ; but you must not be alarmed if my letters mis- 
carry. The continent is in a fine state — an insurrec- 
tion has broken out at Paris, and the Austrians are 
bi ating Buonaparte — the Tyroles have risen. 

" There is a picture of me in oil, lo be sent down to 
Newslead soon. — 1 wish the Miss Pigots had some- 
thins better to do than carry my miniatures to Notting- 
ham to copy. Now they have done it, you may ask 
them to copy the others, which are greater favourites 
than my own. As to money matters, I am ruined — at 
least till Rochdale is sold ; and if that does not turn out 
well, I shall en:er into the Austrian or Russian service 
— perhaps the Turkish, if I like their manners. The 
world is all before me, and I leave England without re- 
gret, and without a wish to revisit any thing it contains, 
xcept yourself, and your present residence. 

H Believe me, yours ever sincerely. 

"P. S. Pray tell Mr. Rushton his son is well, and 
doing well : so is Murray, in leed better than I ever saw 
him ; he will be back in about a month. I ought to add 
the leaving Murray to my few regrets, as his age perhaps 
will prevent my seeing him again. Robert I take with 
me ; I like him, because, like myself he seems a friend- 
less animal. 11 



LETTER XL. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ.. 

"April 25th, 1809. 

DEAR SIR, 

e lam just arrived at Batt's Hotel. Jermyn-street, St. 
James's, from Newstead, and shall be very glad to see 
you when convenient or agreeable. Hobhouse is on his 
way up to town, full of printing resolution, and proof 
against criticism. 

B Believe me, with great sincerity, vours trulv, 

"Byron." 



LETTER XLL 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 

e Twelve o'clock, Friday night. 

- MY DEAR BANKES, 

"I have just received vour note: believe me, I regret 
. most sincerely that I was not fortunate enough to see it 
before, as I need not repeat to you, that your conversa- 
tion for hall' an hour would have been much more agree- 
able to me than gambling or drinking, or any other 
fashionable mode of passing an evening abroad or at 
home. I really am very sorry that I went out previous 
to the arrival of your despatch: in future, pray let me 
hear from you before six, and whatever mv engagements 
may be, i will always postpone them. Believe me, 
with that deference which I have always from my child- 
hood paid to your talents, and with somewhat a better 
opuiiou of your heart dian I have hitherto entertained, 
B Yours ever, Stc." 



LETTER XLEI. 

TO MRS. BYRON. 

"Falmouth, June 22d, 1809. 
'dear mother, 
u l am about to sail in a few days; probably before 
this leaches you. Fletcher begged so hard, that 1 have 



LETTER XLIII. 

TO MR. HENRY DRURV. 

"Falmouth, June 25th, 1809. 

" MY DEAR DKURY, 

""We sail to-morrow in the Lisbon packet, having 
been detained till now by the lack of wind, and other ne- 
cessaries. These being at last procured, by this time to- 
morrow evening we shall be embarked on the vide 
uorld of paters, cor all the eorld like Robinson Crusoe. 
The Malta vessel not sailing for some weeks, we have 
determined to go by way of Lisbon, and, as mv servants 
term it, to see ' that there Portingale ;' thence to Cadiz 
and Gibraltar, and so on our old route to Malta and 
Constantinople, if so be that Captaui Kidd, our gallant 
wmmander, understands plain sailing and Mercator, and 
takes us on our voyage all according to the chart. 

" WilLyou tell Dr. Butler that I have taken the trea- 
sure of a servant, Friese, the native of Prussia Proper, 
into my service from ins recommendation. He has 
been all among the Worshippers of Fire in Persia, and 
has seen Persepolis and all that. 

'Hobhouse has made woundy preparations for a book 
on his return ; — 100 pens, two gallons of japan ink, an 1 
several volumes of best blank, is no bad provision for a 
discerning public. I have laid down my pen, but have 
promised lo contribute a chapter on the state of morals, 
&c. &c. 

" ' The cock [■ crowing, 
I nrnsi bi 
And c^it aa ru^re.'—Ghott of Gaffer Thumb* 

K Adieu. Believe me, &c. &c." 



LETTER XLIV. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

■ Falmouth, June 25th, 1809. 

"my PEAR HODGSON, 

"Before this reaches you, Hobhouse, two officer* 
wives, three children, two waiting-maids, ditto subalterns 



The Pa^c wid Yioruin of Un " 9 6*1 Night," lo flat firtl Canto Ok 
Cbtt&HftruM, 



14 



LKTTERS, 1809. 



lor the troops, three Portuguese esquires and domestics, 
in all nineli en i will have sailed in the Lisbon 
packet, with the nol Kidd, .1 gallant com- 

mandcr as ei ol ighl Vint/. 

"We are going to I isbon first, because the .Malta 
paoki ' ha- sailed, ,1' y see .' — troni Lisbon to « Sibraltar, 
Malta, Constantinople, and 'all that, 1 as Orator Henley 
said, when he put the < 'hurch, and 'all that,' in 

"This town of Fa n ■ 1 will partly conjecture; 

i- no gri .it w ayslroiii thi sea. [t is defended on the sea- 

I '■ ,: 1 .' Ui vz and P. -nil'. 

tremi ly well calculated for annoying every body excepl 
an enemy. St, Mans is garrisoned by an able-bodied 

r fourscore, a widower. 1 te has the whol ■<- 

mand and sole management *»f six most unmanageable 
pie '- of ordnance, admirably adapted for the destruc- 
1 Pendennis, a like tow er of strength on the oppo- 

■ oi theChannbL W-c have seen St. Maws, but 
Pen lennis they will not let us behold, save al a d 
because Hlobhouse and f are uspected of having al- 
r> e tj taken St. Maws by a coup do* main. 

"The town contains many quakers and salt fish — the 
oysters have a taste of copper, owing to ilic soil of a 
mining country — ihe women (blessed be the Corpora- 
tion therefor !) are flogged at the cart's tail when they 
pick and steal, as happened to one of the fair sen tester- 
ion. She was pertinacious in her behaviour, and 
damned ihe mayor. * * 

"Hodgson! remember me to the Drury, and remem- 
ber me to — yourself when drunk: — 1 am not worth a 
sober thought. Look to my Satire at Cuwthorue's, 
ur-street. * * * 

11 1 don't know when I can write again, becausi 
pends on thai expei ienced navigator, Captain Kidd, and 
the 'stormy winds that (don't) blow, 1 al this season. I 
leave England without regret — 1 shall return to it 
without pleasure. I am like Adam, the first convict, 
sentenced to transportation, hut 1 have no Eve, and have 
ealen no apple but what was .sour as a crab ; — and thus 
ends my first chapter. Adieu. Yours, &.c." 



LETTER XLV. 



TO Mil. HOIMISO.V. 



"Lisbon, July 16th, 1809. 

* Tims far have we pursued our route, and seen all 
b irts of marvellous sights, palaces, convents, &c, — 
which, being to be heard in my friend Hobhouse'a forth- 
coming Book of Travels, I shall nol anticipate bj smug- 
,1 . ■, account whatsoever to you in a private and 

andi Lin manner [ must just observe that the village 
of Cintra* in Estremadura is the most beautiful, pi rhaps, 
in the world. * * * 

"I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, and 
talk bad Latin a, who understand it, as it is 

like their own, — and 1 goes into society, (with my pockel 
) and I swims in the Tagus all across at once, 
and I rides on an ass or a mule, and sweai t P01 tuguese, 
and have got a diarrhoea and bites from the musquitoes. 
But what of thai I Comfort must not be expected by 
folks thai go a pleasuring. * * * 

M When the Portugue •■ are pertinacious, I say, ( Car- 
rachoP — the great oath of the grandees, thai \' ry well 
supplies the place of 'Damme,' — and, when dissatisfied 
wnii my neighbour, I pronounce him ' Ainbra di merdo.' 
With these two phrases, and a third. c Avra Bouro, 1 
which Bignifieth 'Get an ass,' I am universally under- 
stood to he a person of degree and a master of Ian 
How merrily we lives that travellers be ! — if* we bad food 
and raiment. But, in sober sadness, any tiling is better 



• SoeCLiitU' lid >td, Canto I . ttanza 13tb,&c. 



than England, and I am infinitely amused with my pU 
b far aa it hs 

"To-morrow we start to ride post near 400 miles as 
far as Gibraltar, when for M< tita ai 

zanbum. A letter to Malta "-ill find me, or to be 1"t- 
warded, if I am absent. Pray embrace the Drury and 
Dwyer and all the Ephosians you encounter. I am 
writing with Butler's doi atii pen I, which makes roj 
bad hand worse. Excu e |1 ili ' v. + * * 

"Hodg on! ■ ; me the news, and the deaths, and 
defeats, and capital crimes, and the misfortunes of one's 
friends; and lei us hear of literary matters, and the con- 
troversies and the criticisms. All this will : 
'Suave mari magno, 1 ^i-. Talking of that, I have been 
seasick, and sick of the sea. Adieu. 

" Yours faithfully, &c." 



LETTER XL VI. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

"Gibraltar, August 6, 1809. 

" I have just arrived at this place after a j 
through Portugal, and a part of Spain, of nearly 500 
miles. We left Lisbon and travelled on horsebi 
Seville and Cadiz, and thence in the Hyperion fri 
Gibraltar. The horses are excellent — we rode 51 
miles a day. Eggs and wine and hard beds are all the 
accommodation we found, and, in such torrid weather, 
quite enough. My health is better than in England. 

* * * 

" Seville is a fine town, and the Sierra Morena, part 
of which we crossed, a very sufficient mountain, — but 
damn description, il is always disgusting. Cadiz, sweet 
Cadiz! — it is the Brsl spol in the creation. * * * 
The beamy of it-- streets and mansions is only excelled 
by the loveliness of its inhabitants. For, with all na- 
tional prejudice, I must confess the women of Cadi/ are 
as far superior to the English women in beauty as the 
Spaniards are inferior to the English in every quality 
that dignifies the name of man. * * * Just as I 
began to know the principal persons of the city, I was 
obliged to sad. 

" You will not expect a long letter after my ridi 
far 'on hollow pampered jades of Asia. 1 Tall i 
Asia puts me in mind of Africa, which is within five 
miles of m\ [nr rut n-idmre. 1 am yoing over before 

I go on to Constantinople. 
a* * * Cadiz is a complete Cythera. Many of 

the grandees who have Icfl Madrid during the n 
reside there, an 1 1 believe it is the prettiest and cleaneaf 
town m Europe. London is filthy in the comparison* 

* * * The Spanish w en an- all alike, their edu- 
cation the same. The wife of a duke is, in information^ 
as ihe wife of a peasant,— the wile of a peasant, in man- 
ner, equal to a dutchess. Certainly, they are fascinat- 
ing ; but their minds have only one idea, and the bu 

of their lives is intrigue. * * * 

"I have seen Sir John Carr at Seville and Cadiz, and 
like Swift's barber, have been down on my 1 nees to beg 
he would nol pul me into black and white. Praj re- 
member me to the Drurys and the Davies, and all ol 
that stamp who are yet extant. Si i I me b laser and 
news to Alalia. My next epistle shall he from Mount 
Caucasus or Mount Si <n. I shall return to Spain be- 
fore I see England, lor I am enamoured of the country 
Adieu, and believe me, &e." 



LETTER XLVII. 

TO THE HON. BIBS. BYROJT. 

"Gibraltar, Aug. 11th, 1809. 

tt DEAR MOTHER, 

'I have been so much occupied since ,nv departure 
from England, that till I could address you at length, I 



LETTERS, 1809. 



15 



have forborne writing altogether. As I have now- 
passed through Portugal, and a considerable part of 
Spain, an I have leisure al this place, I shall endeavour 
to give vou a short detail of mv movements. We 

from Falmouth on the 2d of July, readied Lisbon 
after a very favourable passage of four days and a halfj 
and look up our abode in that city. It has often been 
described without being worthy of description; f<r, ex- 
cept the view from the Tagus, which is beautiful, and 
some fine churches and convents, it contains little but 
filthy streets and more filthy inhabitants.* 

" To make amends for this, the village of Cintra, about 
fifteen miles from the capital, is, perhaps in every re- 
spect, the most delightful in Europe ; it contains beau- 
ties of every description, natural and artificial. Palaces 
and gardens rising in the midst of rocks, cataracts, and 
precipices ; convents on stupendous heights — a distant 

t the sea and the Tagus ; and, besides (though 
that is a secondary consideration) is remarkable as the 
scene of Sir H. D.'s Convention. f It unites in itself all 
the wildness of the western highlands, with the verdure 
of the South of France. Near this place, about ten 

to the right, is the palace of Mafra, the boast of 
it. as it niidit be of any country, in point of mag- 
nificence without elegance. There is a convent an- 
nexed ; the monks, who possess large revenues, are 
courteous enough, and understand Latin, so that we had 
a long conversation: they have a large library, and 

me if the Ertzlish had any hooks in their country. 
" I sent my baggage and part of the servants' by sea 
to Gibraltar, and travelled on horseback from Aldea 
Galheda, {the first sta^"' from Lisbon, which is only ac- 
cessible by water,) to Seville, (one of the most famous 
cities in Spain,) where the government called the Junta 
is ii' >w held. The distance to Seville is nearly four hun- 
dred miles, and to Cadiz almost ninety miles further to- 
wards the coast. I bad orders from the government, and 
everv possible accommodation on the road, as an Eng- 
lish nobleman, in an English uniform, is a very respecta- 
ble personage in Spain at present. The horses are re- 
markably good, and the roads (I assure you upon mv 
honour, for you will hardly believe it) very far su| erior 
to the best British roads, without the smallest toll or 
turnpike. You will suppose this when I rode post to 
Seville in four days, through this parching country, in 
the midst of summer, without fatigue or annoyance 
Seville is a beautiful town ; though the streets are nar- 
v are clean.J We lodged in the house of two 
i unmarried ladies, who possess six houses in 
Seville, and iiave me a curious specimen of Spanish 
ers.§ They are women of character, and the eldest 
a tine woman, the youngest pretty, but not so good a 

as L'ouna Josepha. The freedom of manner 
which is general here, astonished me not a little ; and in 
the course of further observation I find 'hat reserve is rj i 
the characteristic of the Spanish belles, who are, in ge- 
neral, very handsome, with large black eves, and very 
fine I mis. The eldest honoured your unworthy son 
with very paf icular attention, embracing him with greal 

■.less at parting, (1 was there but three days,) after 
i utting off a lock of his hair, and presenting him with 
om "t'her own, about three feel in length, which I send, 
and beg you will retain till my return. Her last words 
\di ■--, hi hermoso! me gusto mucho.' — 'Adieu, 
you pretty fellow, you please me much.' She oflfi red a 
share of her apartment, which my i iriue induced me to 
decline; she laughed, and said I had some English 
'amante,' (lover,) and added that she was going to be 
married to an officer in the Spanish army. 

U I left Seville, and rode on to Cadi/, through a beau- 
tiful country. At Xercs, where the sherry we drank is 



• S>e ChiM? TUroW,Cu>loI.9tanM 1*. f Ibid %{ 

J Ibid. 85, i.c. 5 DouJuiii, Cftuiol. iuum B. 



made, I niet a great merchant, a Mr. Gordon of Scot- 
land, who was extremely polite, and favoured me wi li the 
inspection of his vaults and cellars, — so that 1 quaffed at 
the fountain head. 

"Cadiz,* sweet Cadiz, is the most delightful town 1 
ever beheld, very different from our English cities \j\ 
every respect, except cleanliness, (and n is as clean as 
Lund. >n,) but still beautiful and full of the finest women 
in Spain, the Cadi/ belles being the Lancashire witches 
of their land. Jusl as I was introduced, and began to 
like the grandee', I was forced to leave it for this cursed 
place; but before I return u> England I will visit it 
again. The night before I left it, I sat in the box at tht 
opera with Admiral Coi lova's family; he is the com 
mander whom Lord St. Vincent defeated in 17!)7, ana 
has an aged wife and a fine daughter, Senorita < Jordova , 
the girl is very prettyin the Spanish style, in my opin m 
by no means inferior to the English in charms, and cev 
tainly superior in fascination. Long black hair, dark 
languishing eyes, clear olive complexions, and forms mi e 
graceful in motion than can he conceived by an En 
man used to the drowsy, listless air of his qountrywomt.fi, 
added to the most becoming dress, and, at the same time, 
the most decent in the world, render a Spanish beamy 
irresistible. I beg leave to observe that intrigue here is 
the business of life ; when a woman marries she throws 
off" all restraint, but I believe their conduct is chaste 
enough before. If you make a proposal, which in Eng- 
land would bring a box on the ear from the meekest of 
virgins, to a Spanish girl, she thanks you for the honour 
you intend her, and replies, ' Wait till I am married, and 
I shall be too happy.' This is literally and strictly true 
Miss C. and her little brother understood a little French, 
and, after regretting my ignorance of the Spanish, she 
proposed to become my preceptress in that language. 
I could only reply by a low bow, and express my rej n t 
that I quitted Cadiz too soon to permit me to make the 
progress which would doubtless attend my studies un ler 
so charming a directress. I was standing at the back 
of the box, which resembles our opera boxes, (the thi tre 
is large, and finely decorated, the music admirable,) in 
the manner in which Eng'ishmen generallyadi.pt, for 
fear of incommoding the ladies in Iront, when this fair 
Spaniard dispossessed an old woman (an aunt or a 
duenna) u\' her chair, and commanded me to be seated 
next herself) at a toicrable distance from her mamma. 
At the close of the performance I withdrew, and was 
lounging with a parly of men in the passagi , when, - n 
passant, the lady turned round and called me, an-: I had 
the honour of attending her to the admiral's mansion. I ' 
have an invitation on my return to Cadiz, which I shall 
accept, if I repass through the country on mv return 
from Asia. 

"I have met Sir John Carr, knh.'ht errant, at Seville 
and Cadiz, lie is a pleasant man. I like the Spaniards 
much. You have heard of the battle near Madrid, and 
in England they call it a victory — a pretty victor) ! 200 
officers, and 6C00 men killed, al! 1 i and (he 

French in as greal force as ever. I should have joined 
the army, but we have no time to lose before we get up 
the Mediterranean and Archipelago. I am u"iu_' over 
to Africa to-morrow; it is only -i\ miles fro 
tress. My next Btage is < lagliari in Sardinia, where I 
-hall he presented to hi i maji sty. I have ■' mo I bu- 
perb uniform as a court dress, indispensable in tra- 
velling. 

Aug~itst \3th. — I have not been to Africa ; the wind is 
contrary; but I dined y« Ugesiras, with Lady 

Westmoreland, where I met General Castanets, the ce- 
lebrated Spanish leader in the late and present war: to 
day I dine with Imu ; he has offered me letteis to Te- 
tuan in Barbary, for the principal Moors ; and I am to 



1 S«e Cliilde Harold, Cmito I. naiiza 65, ic 



16 



LETTERS, 1800. 



have the house for a few days of one of flu- great men, 
which was intended for Lady W. whose health will nol 
permit her to cross the Straits. 

Augtat ]5th. — I could not dine with Castanoa yester- 
day, bul this afternoon I had that honour; he is pleasant, 
and for aught I know to the contrary, clever. 1 cannot 
go to Baibary. The Malta packet sails to-morrow, and 
myself in it. Admiral Purvis, with whom I dined al 
Cadiz, gave me apa i inafiigate to Gibraltar, bul 
we have no ship of war destined for Malta at present. 
The packets sail fast, and have good accommodations. 
You shall hear from me on our route. Joe Murray de- 
livers this. I have sent him and the boy Back ; pray 
sho-.v the lad every kindness, as he is my great favourite. 
I hope this will find you well. 

" Believe me, ever yours sincerely, 
"Byron." 

a P. S. So Lord G. is married to a rustic ! well dour ' 
If I wed, I will brine you home a Sultana, with half a 
dozen cilies for a dowrv, and reconcile you to an Otto- 
man daughter-in-law with a bushel of pearls, not larger 
than ostrich eggs or smaller than walnuts." 



LETTER XLVIII. 



TO MR. RUSH TON. 



"Gibraltar, August 15th, 1809. 

" MR. RUSH TON, 

K I have sent Robert home with Mr. Murray, because 
the country which I am about to travel through is in a 
state which renders it unsafe, particularly fi>r one so 
young. I allow you to deduct live-nnd-twentv pounds a 
year for his education for three years, provided I do not 
return before that time, and I desire he may be con- 
sidered as in my serviee. I.»t every care be taken of 
him, and let him be sent to school. In case of my death 
1 have provided enough in my will to render him inde- 
pendent. He has behaved extremely well, and has tra- 
velled a great deal for the time of his absence. Deduct 
the expense of his education from your rent. 

"BvRON." 



LETTER XLIX. 

TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. BYRON. 

"Malta, Sept. 15th, 1809 

"PEAR MOTHER, 
"Though I have a very short time to spar* 1 , to 
sail immediately for Greece, I cannot avoid taking an 
opportunity of telling you that I am well. I have been 
in Malta a short time, and have found the inhabitants 
hospitable and pleasant This letter is committed to 
the charge of a very extraordinary woman, whom you 
have doubtless heard ofj Mrs. Spencer Smith,* of whose 
escape the Marquis de Salvo published e narrative n 
few years ago. She has since been shipwrecked, and 
her life has been from its commencement bo fertile in re- 
markable incidents, that in a romance they would appear 
improbable. She was born al Constantinople] where 
her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian ambassador; 
married unhappily] yet has never been impeached in 
point of character; excited the vengeance of Buonapai te 
by a part in some conspiracy ; several times risked her 
life; and is not vet twenty-five. Sin- is here in bei 

way 1 1 * England, to join her hu-diand, being obliged to 
have Trieste, where she was paying a visit to her 
mother, by the approach of the French, and embarks 
soon in a ship of war. Since my arrival here, I have 



• The '' Flnrrnw " of scvprnt of hie tmnlltr poems ; mid aJludtd Lo 
lit CbiJJl lUroM, Canto tl. tKnuM 30. 



had scarcely any other companion. I have found her 
very pretty, very ■ ed, an I sxln mely eccentric. 

Buonaparte .s even now so incensed against her, that her 

life would lie in some danger if she were taken prisoner 
a second time. 

You have seen Murray and Robert by this time, and 
received my letter — little has happened 'ince that dale. 
1 have touched al I Is liari, In Sardinia, and at tiirgenti, 
in Sicily, and embark to-morrow for Patra% from whence 
I proceed to Yanina, where Ah Pacha i olds Ins Court, 
so I shall soon be among the Mnsselmam. 

"Adieu. Believe me with sincerity, 

" Yours ever. 
"Byron" 

LETTER L. 

TO MRS. BYRON. 

u Prevesa, Nov. 12, 1609. 
■my dear MOTHER, 

"I have now been some time in Turkey: this place 
is on the coast, bul I have traversed the interior of iho 
province of Albania on a visit to the Pacha. I left 
Malta in the Spider, a brig "f war, on the 21st of Sep- 
tember, and arrived^ in eight days al Prevesa. I thence 
have been about 150 miles, as far as Tepalen, his high* 
ness's country palace, where I stayed three days.* The 
name of the Pacha is Ali^ and lie is considered a man of 
the first abilities : he governs the whole of Albania, (the 
ancient Ellyricum,) Epirue,and part of Macedonia. His 
son, Vely Pacha, to whom he has given me letters) 
governs the Morea, and has great influence in Egypt ; in 
short, he is one of the mo it powerful nun in the Otto- 
man empire. When I reached Yanina, the capital, 
after a journey of three days over the mountains, through 
a country of the most picturesque beauty, I found that 
Alt Pacha was with Ins army in Illyricura, besieging 
Ibrahim Paeha in the castle of Be rat. He had heard 
that an Englishman of rank was in his dominion 
had left orders in Yanina with the commandant to pro- 
vide a house, and supply me with every kind of neces- 
sary gratia ; and, though I have been allowed to make 
presents to the slaves, &c., I have not been permitted to 
pay for a single article of household consumption. 

"I rode out on the vizier's horses, and saw the palaces 
of himself and grandsons: they are splendid, hut too 
much ornamented with silk and gold. I then n 
the mountains through Zitza, a village with a Greek 
in . i v, (where I slept on my return,) in the most 
beautiful situation (always excepting ('intra, in Portugal) 
[ever beheld. In nine days I reached Tepalen. Our 

journey was much prolonged by the torrents that had 
fallen from the mountains, and intersected the roads. I 
shall never forget the singular scene on entering Tepa- 
len at five in tin afternoon, as the sun was going down. 
It brought lo rnv mind (with some change "f ./;>.«, how- 
ever) Scott's description of Brnnksome Castle in his 
Lay, and the feudal system. The Albanians, in their 
dresse ,(the most magnificent in the world, 'consisting of 
a long white hit, gold-worked cloak, crimson velvt I gold- 
lac, -d jacket and ^\ atsleoat, silver-mounted pistols and 

with their high caps, the Turks in 
their vast pelisses and turbans, the soldiers and black 
slaves with the horses, the former in groupes in an im- 
mense large open gallery in from" of the palace, the latter 
placed in a kind of cloister below it, two hundred steeds 
ready caparisoned to move in a moment, couriers en- 
tering or passing cut with despatches, the kettle-drums 
beating, boys calling the hour from the minaret of the 
mosque, altogether, with the singular appearance of the 
building itself; formed a new and delightful spectacle to a 

• Sec OilliU lUruU), Caolo II.»Uuu(m. 



LETTERS, 1809- 



17 



stranger. I was conducted to a very handsome- apart- 
ment, and my health inquired after by the vizier's secre- 
tary, ' a -la-mode Turque V 

"The next day I was introduced to Ali Pacha. I 
was dressed in a full suit of staff uniform, with a very 
magnificent sabre, &c. The vizier received me in a 
targe room paved with marble ; a fountain* was playing 
in the centre ; the apartment was surrounded by scarlet 
ottomans. He received me standing, a wonderful com- 
pliment from a Mussulman, and made me sit down on 
his right hand. I have a Greek interpreter for general 
use, but a physician of All's, named Femlario, who un- 
derstands Latin, acted for me on this occasion. His 
first question was, why; at so early an age, 1 left my 
country? — (the Turks have no idea of travelling for 
amusement.) He then said, the English minister, Cap- 
tain Leake, had told him I was of a great family, and 
desired his respects to my mother ; which I now, in the 
name of Ali Pacha, present to yon. He said he was 
certain I was a man of birth, because I had small ears, 
curling hair, and little white handi,f and expressed him- 
self pleased with my appearance and garb. He told me 
to consider him as a father while I was in Turkey, and 
said he looked on me as his son. Indeed, he treated me 
like a child, sending me almonds and sugared sherbet, 
fruit and sweetmeats, twenty times a day. He begged 
me to visit him often, and at night, when he was at lei- 
sure. I then, after coffee and pipes, retired for the first 
time. I saw him thrice afterward. It is singular that 
the Turks, who have no hereditary dignities, and few 
great families, except the Sultans, pay so much respect 
to birth ; for I found my pedigree more regarded than 
my title. 

"His highness is sixty years old, very fat, and not tall, 
but with a fine face, light blue eyes, and a white beard ; 
his manner is very kind, and at the same time he pos- 
sesses that dignity which I find universal among the 
Turks. — He has the appearance of any thing but his 
real character; for he is a remorseless tyrant, guilty of 
the most horrible cruelties, very brave, and so good a 
general that they call him the Mahometan Buonaparte. 
Napoleon has twice offered to make him king of Epirus, 
But he prefers the English interest, and abhors the 
French, as he himself told me. He is of so much con- 
sequence, that he is much courted by both ; the Alba- 
nians being the most warlike subjects of the Sultan, 
though Ah is only nominally dependent on the Porte. 
He has been a mighty warrior; but is as barbarous as 
*»c is successful, roasting rebels, &c. Sec. Buonaparte 
sent him a snuffbox, with his picture ; he said the snuff- 
»ox was very well but the picture he could excuse, as he 
neither liked it nor the original. His ideas of judging of 
a man's birth from cars, hands, &c. were curious enough. 
To me, he was, indeed, a father, giving me letters, 
guards, and every possible accommodation. Our next 
conversations were of war and travelling, politics and 
Em-land. He called my Albanian soldier, who attends 
me, and told him to protect me at all hazard. His 
name is Viscillie, and like all the Albanians, he is bravo, 
rigidly honest, and faithful; but they are cruel, though 
not treacherous; and have several' vices, but no mean- 
nesses. They are, perhaps, the most beautiful race, in 
point of countenance, in the world ; their women are 
sometimes handsome also, but they are treated like 
slaves, beaten, and, in short, complete beasts of burden ; 
they plough, dig, and sow. I found them carrying wood, 
and actually repairing the highways. The men are all 
soldiers, and war and the chace their sole occupation. 
The women are the labourers, which, after all, is no 
great hardship in so delightful a climate. Yesterday, 
the 11th of November, I bathed in the sea ; to-day it is 
so hot that I am writing in a shady room of the English 



• Ste Don Juan , Canlo V. ■laura S3, and aoU. 
t Ibid. Hiinw IDS uii'l noie. 



consul's, with three doors wide open, no fire, or even jSre- 
place in the house , except for culinary purposes. 

" To-day I saw die remains of the town of Actiimi,* 
near which Antony lost the world, in a small bay, where 
two frigates could hardly manoeuvre : a broken wall is 
the sole remnant. On another part of the gulf stands 
the ruins of Nicopo'is, built by Augustus in honour ol 
his victory. Last night I was at a Greek marriage : but 
this and a thousand things more I have neither Lime nor 
space to describe. 

1 1 am going to-morrow, with a guard of fifty men, to 
Pafras in the Morea, and thence to Athens, where I 
hall winter. Two days ago I was nearly lost in a 
Turkish ship of war, owing to the ignorance of the cap- 
tain and crew, though the storm was not violent. Fletcher 
yelled after his will-, the Greeks called on all the saints, 
the Mussulmans on Alia ; the captain burst into tears 
and ran below deck, telling us to call on God ; the sails 
were split, the mainyard shivered, the wind blowing 
fresh, die night setting in, and all our chance was to 
make Corfu, which is in possession of the French, or (as 
Fletcher pathetically termed it) ' a watery grave.' I did 
what I could to console Fletcher, but finding him incor- 
rigible, wrapped myself up in my Albanian capote, (an 
imnu ose cloak,) and lay down on deck to wait the worst. 
I have learned to philosophize in my travels, and if I had 
not, complaint was useless. Luckily the wind abated, 
and only drove us on the coast of Suli, on the main [and, 
where we landed, and proceeded, by the help of the na- 
tives, to Prevesa again ; but I shall not trust Turkish 
sailors in future, though the Pacha had ordered one of 
his own galliots to take me to Patras. I am therefore 
going as far as Missolonghi by land, and there have only 
to cross a small gulf to get to Patras. 

"Fletcher's next epistle will be full of marvels: we 
were one night lost fur nine hours in the mountains in a 
h under- storm, and since nearly wrecked. In both 
cases, Fletcher was sorely bewildered, from apprehen- 
sions of famine and banditti in the first, and drowning in 
the second instance. Kis eyes were a little hurt by the 

htning, or crying, (I don't know which,) but arc now 
recovered. When you write, address to me at Mr* 
Strane's, English consul, Patras, Morea. 

" I could tell you I know not how many incidents 
that I think would amuse you, but thev vowd on my 
nind as much as they would swell my pa, fr, and I can 
neither arrange them in the one, nor put (hem down on 
the other, except in the greatest confusion. I like thu 
Albanians much ; they are not all Turks; some tribes 
are Christians. But their religion mikes little dif- 
ference in their manner or conduct. They are esteemed 
the best troops in the Turkish service. I lived on my 
oute two days at once, and three days again, in a bar- 
rack at Salora, and never found soldier- so tolerable, 
though I have been in the garrisons of Gibraltar and 
Malta, and seen Spanish, French, Sicilian, and British 
troops in abundance. I have had nothing stolen, anil 
was always welcome to their provision and milk. Not 
a week ago an Albanian chief, (every village has its 
chief] h ho is called Primate,) after helping us out of the 
Turkish galley in her distress, feeding us, and lodging my 
suite, consisting of Fletcher, a Greek, two Athenians 
a Greek priest, and my companion, Mr.Hobhouse, re 
fused any compensation but a written paper stating that 
I was well received ; and when I pressed him to accept 
a few sequins, ' No,' he replied ; ' I wish you to love mo 
not to pay me.' These are his words. 

" It is astonishing how far money goes in this country 
While I was in the capital, 1 had nothing to pay, by tho 
vizier's order; but since, though I have generally ,>ad 
sixteen horses, and generally six or seven men, the ex- 
pense has not been half as much as staying only three 



* £e« CtulJu ilnrold, C&iKu 11. slatiia 15. 



18 



LETTERS, 1810. 



weeks in Malta, though Sir \ I : i governor, gave 

me a house for nothing, and I had onlj i •■< < <vant, By- 
the-by, 1 expect Hanson to remit regularly ; for I am not 
about to stay in this provun Let him write 

to mo at Mr. Strang's, English consul, Patras. The 
lad is, the fertility of the plains if won le'rful, and specie 
is scarce, which makes this remarkable cheapm I 

am going to Athens to study modern Greek, which 
differs much from the ancient, though radically 
[ have ii< i desire to return to England, nor shall I 
compelled by absolute want, and Hanson^ neglect ; but 
I shall not enter into Asia for a year or two, as I have 
much to see in Greece, and I may perhaps i 
Africa, at least the Egyptian part. Fletcher, like all 
Englishmen, is very much ftissaU Bed, though q Little re- 
conciled to the Turks by a presenl of - 
from the vizier, winch, if you consider everj thing, and 
the value of specie here, is nearly worth ten guineas 
English. He has suffered nothing but from cold, heat, 
and vermin, which those who lie in cottages and cross 
mountains m a cold country must undergo, and of which 
I have equally partaken with himself; but he is nol 
valiant, and is afraid of robbers and tempests. I have 
no ono to be remembered to in England, and wish to 
hear nothing from it, but thai you are well, and a letter 
or two on business from Hanson, whom you may tell to 
write. I will write when I can, and beg you to be- 
lieve me, 

"Your affectionate son, 
M Hvrok. 

*P. S. I have some very magnifique 1 Albanian 
dresses, the only expensive article in this country. 
They cost 50 guineas each, and have so much gold they 
would cost in England two hundred. I have been in- 
troduced to Hussim Hey and Mahmout Pacha, both 
little boys, grand-children of Ali, at Yanina. They are 
totally unlike our lads, have painted complexions Like 
rouged dowagers, large black eyes, and features perfectly 
regular. They are the prettiest little animals I ever 
saw, and are broken into the court ceremonies already 
The Turkish salute is a slight inclination of tin head, 
with the hand on the breast. Intimates always kiss, 
Mahmout is ten years old, and hopes to see me again, 
We are friends without understanding each other, hire 
many othet folks, though from a different cause. He 
has given me a letter to his father in the Morca, to whom 
I have also letters from Ali Pacha." 



LETTER LI. 



lO MHS. BVItON. 



the farther I go the more my laziness increases, and my 
:, in letter-v. 1 1 . mes mora confirmed, J 

have written to DO one but yourself and .Mr. H 
and the nic&tions of business and duty ra- 

ther than of inclination. 

I - her is very much disgusted with his & 
though he has underg me DO hing that I have not share. 1. 
ii- i ... poor crealun ; 

ers. 1 have, besides nun. two Albanian 
LndaGreefa interpreter; all excellent in their 
way. « Sreece 

delightful . ikies and lovel] But 

I must reserve all account of my adventures nil we 
meet. I keep ho journal, bul tnj friend Hobhousi 

tly. Pray tab cai Robert, 

and tell the boy it is the mosl fortunate thing for him 
that he did not accompany me to Turkey. I 
thij as merely a notice of my safety, and believe me, 
" Yours, &c. &c. 
"Byron." 






"Smyrna, March 10, 1810. 
"dear mother, 

u I cannot write you a long letter, but as I know you 
will not be sorry to receive any intelligence of mj 
ments, pray accepl what I call give. 1 have b 
the grcatosl part of Greece, besides Epirus, &c. &c. re- 
sided ten weeks at Ath< as, and am now on the A iati 
side on my way to Constant nmple. I have just returned 
from viewing the ruins of Kphesus, a day's journ Ei im 
Smyrna. I presume you have received a long letter I 
wrote from Albania, with an account of my reception by 
the Pacha of the province. 

'■When I arrive at Constantinople, I shall d< 
whether to proceed into Persia or return, which latter I 
do not wish, if I can avoid it. But I have no intefli [em 
from Mr. Hanson, and but one letter from yourself. I 
snail stand in need of" remittances whether I proceed or 
return. 1 have written to him repeatedly, that he may 
r.ot plead ignorance of my situation for neglect. I can 
give you no acconnt of any thing, for I have not time or 
opportunity, the frigate sailing iruniediately. Indeed, 



LETTER LII. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BVROX, 

"Smyrna, April 10th, 1810. 
"dear mother, 
a To-morrow, or this evening, I sail for Constantinople 
in the Salsette frigate, of thirty-sue guns. She returns 
to England with our amba- > > ;he is uning up 

on purpose to receive. I have written to you short 
Letters from Athens, Smyrna, and a long one from Al- 
bania. I have not yet mustered courage for a second 
large epistle, and you must not be angry, since I take all 
opportunities of apprizing you of my safely: but even 
that is an effort, writing is so irksome. I have been tra- 
versing Greece, and Epirus, lllyria, &c. &c. and you 
! . my date, have got into Asia. I have made bul 
one excursion lately, to the ruins ofEphesus. Malta is 
the rendezvous of my tetters, so address to thai 
Mr. Hanson has not written, though I wished to hear of 
the Norfolk sale, the Lancashire lawsuit, &c. &<•. I 
am anxiously expecting fresh remittances. I I 
you will like Nottinghamshire, at least, my share of it. 
Pray accept my good « ishes in Leu of a long letter, and 
believe me, 

"Yours sincerely and affectionately, 
"Byroh." 



LETTER L1II. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BVRO.T. 

"Salsette Frigate, offthe Dardanelles, April 17, 1810. 

"liKMl ,M.\I>AM, 

"I write at anchor, (in our way to Constantinople,) off 
the Troad, which 1 travi rsi d two days ago. All the re- 
mains of Troy an- the tombs of her destroyers, among 
which 1 see that of Anlilochus from my cabin window. 

ike the barrov 
Danes in your island. There are several monuments, 
about twelve miles di iant, of the Alexandrian Troas, 
which I also examined ; but by no means to be compared 
with the remnants of Athens and Ephesus. This will 
be sent in a slap of war bound with despatch* 
.Malta. In a few days we shall be at Constantinople, 
barring accidents. 1 have also written from Smyrna, 

and shall, from time to I \ b m mit short accounts of 

my movements, bul I feci totally unequal to long letters. 
" Believe me, 
* Yours very sincerely, 

u B\RO.f » 

" P. S. No accounts from Hanson ! Do not complain 
of short letters, 1 write to nobody but yourself and -Mr. 
Hanson. 



LETTERS, 1810. 



19 



LETTER LIV. 

TO THE HON. MHS. JIVKON. 

« Constantinople, May lSlh, 1810. 
■dear madam, 
* I arrived here in an English frigate from Smyrna, a 
few davs ago, without any events worth mentioning ex- 
cept landing to view the plains of Troy, and afterwards, 
when we were at anchor in the Dardanelles, swimming 
from Sestos to Abydos, in imitation of Monsieur Lean- 
der, whose story von no doubt know too well for me to 
add any thing on the subject, except that I crossed the 
i good a motive for the undertaking. 
As I am just going to visit the ( laptain Pacha, you will 
excuse the brevity of my letter. When Mr. Adair 
takes leave, 1 am to see the Sultan and the mosques, &c. 
" Eclieve me, yours ever, 
u Br ron." 



LETTER LV. 

TO MR. HENRY DRURY. 

«SalseUe Frigate, May 3d, 1810. 

"MV DEAR DRt'RV, 

"When I left England, nearly a year ago, you re- 
quested me to write to you — 1 will do so. I have 
crossed Portugal, traversed the south of Spain, visited 
Sardinia, Sicily, Malta, and thence passed into Turkey, 
where I am still wandering. I first landed in Albania, 
the ancient Epirus, where we penetrated as far as Mount 
Tomarit — excellently treated by the chief AH Pacha; 
and, after journeying through lllyria, Chaonia, &c. 
crossed the gulf of Actium, with a guard of fifty Albani- 
ans, and passed the Achelous in our route through Acar- 
nania and JEtolia. We stopped a short time in the 
Morea, crossed the gulf of Lepanlo, and landed at the 
foot of Parnassus ; saw all that Delphi retains, and so 
on to Thebes and Athens, at which last we remained 
ten weeks. 

"His majesty's ship Pvlades brought us to Smyrna ; 
but not befure we had topographized Attica, including, 
of course, Maratlmn and the Simian promontory. From 
Smvrna t<> the Troad (which we visited when at anchor, 
for a f irtnight, otf the tomb of Antilochus) was our next 
staL'e; and now we are in the Dardanelles, waiting for 
a wind to proceed to Constantinople. 

u Tins morning 1 swam from Sestos to Abydos.* The 
n i- ti..i above a mile, but the current 
it hazardous ; — so much so that I doubt whether 
Lcander's conjugal affection must not have been a little 
chilled in his passage to Paradise. 1 attempted it a 
week ago, and failed, — owing to the north wind, and the 
-wonderful rapidity of the tide, — though I have been 
from mv childhood a strong swimmer. But, this morn- 
big being calmer, I succeeded, an I crossed the 'broad 
pont' in an hour and ten minutes. 

" Well, my dear sir, I have left my home, and seen 
part of Africa and Asia, and a tolerable portion of Eu- 
rope. 1 have been with generals and admirals, princes 
and p;i' ..-rnablcs, — but I have 

not time or paper to expatiate. I \\i?h to let you know- 
that 1 live with a friendly remembrance of you, and a 
hope to meet you again : and, if I do this as shortly as 
possible, attribute it to any thing but forge tfulness. 

"Greece, ancient and modern, you know too well to 
require description. Albania, indeed, I have seen more 
of than any Englishman, (except a Mr. Leake,) for it is 
a country rarely \ isited, from the savage character of 
the natives, though abounding in more natural beauties 
than the classical regions of Greece, — which, however, 



1 See Letler 477, ie. 



are still eminently beautiful, particularly Delphi and 
Cape Colonna in Attica. Vet these are nothing to parts 
of lllyria and Epirus, where places without a name, and 
rivers not laid down in maps, may, one day, when more 
known, be justly esteemed superior subjects, for the 
pencil and the pen, to the dry ditch of the Ilissus and 
the bogs of Boeotia. 

'The Troad ts a fine field for conjecture and snipe- 
shooting, and a good sportsman and an ingenious scholar 
may exercise their feet and faculties to great advantage 
upon the spot; — or, if they prefer riding, lose their way 
(as I did) in a cursed quagmire of the Scamander, who 
wriggles about as if the Dardan virgins still offered their 
wonted tribute. The only vestige of Troy, or her de- 
stroyers, are the barrows supposed to contain the car- 
casses of Achilles, Antilochus, Ajax, &c. — but Mount 
[da is still in high feather, though the shepherds are 
uow-a-days not much like Ganymede. But why should 
I say more of these things? are they not written in the 
Boke oiGcll? and has not H. got a journal? I keep 
none, as I have renounced scribbling. 

" I see not much difference between ourselves and the 
Turks, save that we have * *, and they have none — 
that they have long dresses, and we short, and that we 
talk much, and they little. ***** They 
are sensible people. AH Pacha told me he was sure I 
was a man of ranlc, because I had small ears and hands 
and curling hair. By-the-by, I speak the Romaic, or 
modern Greek, tolerably. It does not differ from the 
ancient dialects so much as you would conceive ; but the 
pronunciation is diametrically opposite. Of verse, ex- 
cept in rhyme, they have no idea. 

" I like the Greeks, who are plausible rascals, — with 
all the Turkish vices, without their courage. However, 
some are brave, and all are beautiful, very much re- 
sembling the busts of Alcibiades: — the women not quite 
so handsome. I can swear in Turkish ; but, except one 
horrible oath, and 'pimp,' and 'bread,' and 'water,' 1 
have got no great vocabulary in that language. They 
are extremely polite to strangers of any rank, properly 
protected; and as 1 have two servants and two soldiers, 
we get on with great eclat. We have been occasionally 
in danger of thieves, and once of shipwreck, — but always 
escaped. 

"At Malta I fell in love with a married woman * and 
challenged an aid-de-camp of General * * (a rude 
fellow, who grinned at something, — I never rightly knew 
what) — but he explained and apologized, and the lady 
embarked for Cadiz, and so I escaped murder and crhn. 
con. Of Spain I sent some account to our Hodgson, 
but have subsequently written to no one, save notes to 
relations and lawyers, to keep them out of my premises. 
I mean to give up all connexion, on my return, with 
many of my best friends — as 1 supposed them — and to 
snarl all my life. But I hope to have one good-hu- 
moured laugh with you, and to embrace Dwyer, and 
pledge Hodgson, before 1 commence cynicism. 

B Tefl Doctor Butler I am now writing with the gold 
pen he gave me before I left England, which is the rea- 
son my scrawl is more unintelligible than usual. 1 have 
been at Athens and seen plenty of these reeds for scrib- 
bling, some of which he refused to bestow upon me, be- 
cause topographic Gell had brought them from Attica 
But I will not describe, — no — you most be satisfied with 
simple detail till my return ; and then we will unfold the 
floodgates of colloquy. I am in a 36 gun frigate, going 
up to fetch Bob Adair from Constantinople, who will 
have the honour to carry this letter. 

"And so H.'s boke is out,| with some sentimental 
sing-song of my own to fill up, — and how does it take, 
eh ? and where the devil is the second edition of my 



• See Letter 49. 

t Hothouse* Misc«Uanie«, in which l^crftl of Lwtl Bvrvn'l im«lJ« 
pieces were ungiiially published. 



20 



LETTERS, 1810. 



with additions? and my name on the title-page ? 
.'ml more lines Lagged to the end, with a new exordium 
and whai not, hoi ft-om my anvi] bi i : e I cleat? d (he 
Channel? The Mediterranean and the Atlantic roll 
between me d '■ '"■ of 1 ' |r J>y- 

perborea I by the roar of the 

Hellesp 
"Remember me to Claridge, if nol Iran lated to col- 
,i present toH< anci s of my high con- 

sideration, Now, you will ask, what shall I do next '. 
and I answer, I do not know. I may return in a few 
months, but I have interits and projects after visiting 
. — Hobhouse, however, will probably be 
ba ■'■ in September. 

"On the 3d of July wc have lefl Albion one year — 
'oblitus mcoruro oblivisccn I was sick of 

my own country, and not mu< h prepossessed in favour of 
any other; buUl r drag on 1 ' my chain 1 without ' 
eoing it at each remove. 1 I am like the .Tolly Miller, 
caring nd not cared for. AU countries are 

much the same in my eyes. I smoke, and stare ai 
mountains, and twirl my mustactrios vi ry indepen lently. 
., i the mosquitoes that wrack the 
morbid frame of H. have, luckily for me, little effect on 
mine, because I livem »re temperately. 

"I omitted Ephesus in my catalogue, which I visited 
during my sojourn at Smyrna; bul the Temple has al- 
most perished, and St. Paul need not trouble himself to 
■ .,-■■ the present brood of Ephesians, who have 
convi rted a large church built i ntirely of marble into a 
ie, and I don't Know tlrat the edifice looks the 
i >r tt. 
"Mypaper is full, and 
if you address to me at Malta, the letter will be for- 
ward* ! wherever I may be. Hobhouse greets you ; he 
I en- for his poi try, — ai lea it, some tidings of it. I al 
to tell you that 1 am dying for love of three 
Greek girls at Athens, slers. I lived in the same 
1 are the names 

of these divinities, — all of them und i 15. 

" Sfour rarctvOTnros dtfXof, 

' liVRON." 



LETTER LVI. 



to mr. noncsort. 



■ ! ■ in the Dardani lies, ofl 

. IslO. 
M ,™ on my way to Con tantinople, after n tour 
through Greece, Epiras,&c. and pari ol Asia Minor, 
some particulars of which I have just communicated to 
our friend an I bo tH.l >rury. With these, then, I shall 
not trouble you; but, as you will perhaps be pleasi ! to 
tat 1 am well, &c, I take the opportunity of our 
idor's return to forward the few lines 1 have time 
itch. We hai e un '■■■ [conveniences, 

. . urred partial p no ev< nts h i itthy i f com- 

munication, unit ■ ) '"i w ill di i m it one that two days 
ago] ■■■■'■" from A - ; . This, — with o Tew 

alarms from rol inger ofshipwn ck in a 

Turkish galliot But montlis ago, s visil to a Pacha, a pa - 
moji for a married woman ai M ilta, a challenge to an 
i ficor, an attai hment to £lii ee < Ireek girls at Athens, 
with a groat deal of buffoonery and fine prospects,— 
form all that bas distinguished raj progr a since my 
di parture from Spain. 

K Hobhou erhymi i and journalizes; I stare and do no- 
thing — unless smoking can I 

m< at. The Turks take too much care of their women 
mil them to be scrutinized; but I have lived a good 
deal with the Greeks, whose modern dialect I can con- 
verse in enough tor my purposes. With the Turks I 
laintanees— female society is 



out of the question. I have been very well treated by 
'■.■as and Governors, and have no complaint to 
mal o i ! any kind. HoUiou.m* will one day inform yon 
of all our adventures, — were I to attempt the recital, 
neither my paper nor your patience would hold out 
lie operation. 

" Nobody, save yourself, has written to mc since I left 
England ; but indeed I did not request it. I except my 
relations, who write quite as often as I wish. Of Hob- 
house's volume I know nothing, except that it is out ; 
and of my second edition I do not even know that, and 
certainly do not, at this distance, interest myself in the 
matter. * * * * I hope you and Bland roll down 
the Stream of sale with rapidity. 

' 'i my return I cannot positively speak, hut think it 
Hobhouse will precede me in that respect. 
Wc have been very nearly one year abroad. I should 
wish to gaze away another, at least, in these ever-green 
; but I fear business., law business, the worst of 
employments, will recall me previous to that period, if 
n< i ( ery quickly. If so, you shall have due notice. 

K I hope you wi.l lind me an altered personage, — I do 
not mean in body, but in manner, for I begin to find out 
that nothing but virtue will do in this d — d world, I am 
tolerably skit of vice, which 1 have tried in its agreeable 
varieties, and mean, on my return, to cut all tny dissolute 
acquaintance, leave off wine and carnal companv, and 
betake myself to politics and decorum. I am very 
serious and cynical, and a good deal disposed to moralize; 
but, I'n innately for you, the coming homily is cut off by 
default of pen and defection of paper. 

"Good morrow! If you write, address to mc at 
Malta, whence your letters will be forwarded. You 
need not remember me to any body, but believe me, 
u Yours with all faith, 

"Byhoj*." 



LETTER LVII. 

TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. BYRON. 

"Constantinople, May 24th, 1810. 

" DEAR MOTHER, 

H 1 wrote to you very shortly the other day on my ar- 
rival here, and as another opportunity avails, take up my 
pen again, that the frequency of my letters may atone 
for their brevity. Pray did you ever receive a picture of 
me in oil by Sanders, in Vigo-lane, London? (a noted 
limner;) if not, write for it immediately; it was paid fort 
exccpl the frame, (if frame there be,) before] left Eng- 
land. 1 believe I mentioned to you in my last, that my 
only notable exploit, lately, has been swimming from 
Abydos on the third of this month, in humble 
imitation of fjatukr^vC amorous memory, though I had 
no Hero to receive me on the other shore of the Helles- 
pont. Of Constantinople you have, of course, read fifty 
descriptions by sundry travellers, which are in gi 
so correct, that I have nothing to add on the subject. 

" When our ambassador takes his leave, I shall ac» 
c mpany him to see the sultan, and afterward probably 
return to Greece. I have heard nothing of Mr. Hanson, 
hut one remittance, without any letter from that gentle- 
man. If you have occasion for any pecuniary supply, 
[mi use my funds as far as they go without reserve; 
and, lest this should not be enough, in my next to Mr. 
Hanson I will direct him to advance any sum you may 
want, leaving it to your discretion how much, in the pre- 
senl ctate of my affairs, you may think proper to require. 
I have already seen the most interesting parts of Turkey 
in Europe and Asia Minor, but shall not proceed farther 
till 1 hear from England: in the mean time I shall ex- 
pect occasional supplies, according to circumstances , 
and shall pass my summer among my friends, ths 
Greeks of the More*. 



LETTERS, 1810. 



21 



'"You will direct to Malia, where my letters are for- 
warded, and believe me to be, 

'• With great sincerity, 

11 \ ours ever. 
a P. S. Fletcher is well ; pray take care of my boy 
Robert, and die old man Murray. It is fortunate they 
returned; neither the youth of the one, nor the age of the 
Other, would have suited the changes of climate and fa- 
tigue of travelling." 



LETTER LVIII. 



TO MR. HESRT DRURY. 



"Constantinople, June 1 7th, 1SI0. 

* Though I wrote to you so recently, I break in upon 
you again to congratulate you on a child being born, as a 
letter from Hodgson apprizes me of that event, in which 
I rejoice. 

a I am just come from an expedition through the Bos- 
phorus to the Biack Sea and the Cyanean Symplegades, 
up which last I scrambled at as great a risk as ever the 
Argonauts escaped in their hoy. You remember the 
beginning of the nurses dole in the Medea, of which I beg 
you to take the following translation, done on the summit. 

** Oh how I wish [hat au embargo 
Had kept in port the good ship Argo ' 
Who, still uolauoch'd from Grecian docks, 

Had nerer piv-s'd (he Azure rocks ; 

But now 1 feu her trip will be a 

Damo'd business for my Miss Medea, &e. ic. 

as it very nearly was to me ; — for, had not this sublime 
ge been in my head, I should never have dreamed 
of ascending the said rocks,* and bruising my carcass in 
honour of the ancients. 

" I have now sat on the Cyaneans, swam from Sestos 
to Abydos, (as I trumpeted in my last,) and, aftej passing 
through the Morea again, shall set sail for Santa Maura, 
and toss myself from the Leucadian promontory; — sur- 
viving which operation, I shall probably rejoin you in 
England. H. who will deliver this, is bound straight for 
these parts; and as he is bursting with his travels, I shall 
not anticipate his narratives, but merely beg you not to 
believe one word he savs, but reserve your ear for me, if 
you have anv desire to be acquainted with the truth. 

8 1 am bound for Athens once more, and thence to thi 
Morea ; but my stay depends so much on my caprice, 
that I can say nothing of its probable duration. I have 
been out a year already, and may stay another ; but I am 
quicksilver, and say nothing positively. We are all very 
much occupied doing nothing, at present. We have seen 
evrv thing but the in tsques,~which we are to view with a 
firman on Tuesday next. But of these and other sun- 
dries let H. relate, with this proviso, that /am to he re- 
ferred to for authenticity ; and I beg leave to contradict 
all those things whereon he lays particular stress. But, 
if he soars, at anytime, into wit, I give you leave to ap- 
plaud, because that is necessarily stolen from his fellow- 
pUgrim. Tell Danes that H. has made excellent use of 
Jokes in many of his majesty's ships of war ; but 
add, also, that I always took care to restore them to the 
right owner ; in consequence of which he. (Davies,) is no 
less famous by water than by land, and reigns unrivalled 
in the cabin, as in the 'Cocoa Tree, 1 

• And Hodgson has been publishing more poesy — I 
wish he would send me his 'Sir Edgar,' and 'Bland's 
Anthology' to Malta, where they will be forwarded. In 
my last, which I hope you received, I gave an outline of 
the ground we have covered. If you have not been over- 
taken by this despatch, H.'s tongue is at your service. 
Remember me to Dwycr, who owes rac eleven guineas. 
Tell him to put them in my banker's hands at Gibraltar 



or Constantinople. I believe he paid them once, but 
that goes for nothing, as it was an annuity. 

" I wish you would write. I have heard from Hodgson 
frequently. Malta is my post-office. I mean to be 
with you by next Montem. You remember the last, — I 
hope for such another ; but, afier having swam across the 
' broad Hellespont,' I disdain Datchett. Good afternoon ! 
"I am yours, very sincerely, 
■Byron." 



' See Cbilde Harold, Cauto IV. elatua 179 i &I*J answer to Bowles. 



LETTER LIX. 

TO THE HOS. UBS. BYROX. 

"Constantinople, June 28th, 1SI0. 

°MV DEAR MOTHER, 

"I regret to perceive by your last letter, that several of 
mine have not arrived, particularly a very long one, 
written in November last, from Albania, when I was on a 
visit to the Pacha of that province. Fletcher has a-'so 
written to his spouse perpetually. Mr. Hobhouse, who 
will forward or deliver this, and is on his return to Eng- 
land, can inform you of our different movements, but I am 
very uncertain as to my own return. He will probably 
be down to Nol time or other; but Fletcher, 

whom I send back as an incumbrance, (English sen-ants 
are sad travellers,) will supply his place in the interim, 
and describe our travels, which have been tolerably ex- 
tensive. I have written twice briefly from this capital, 
from Smyrna, from Athens, and other parts of Greece ; 
from Albania, the Pacha of which province desired his 
respects to my mother, and said he was sure I was a 
man of higli birth, because I had small ears, curling hair 
and white hands ! ! He was very kind to me, begged me 
to consider him as a father, and gave me a guard of forty 
soldiers through the forests of Acarnania. But of this and 
other circumstances I have written to you at large, and 
yet hope you will receive my letters. 

"I remember Mahmout Pacha, the grandson of Ali 
Pacha, at Yanina, (a Iktle fellow often years of age, with 
large black eyes, which our ladies would purchase at any 
price, and those regular features which distinguish the 
Turks,) asked ra h i i ame to travel so young, without 
any body to take care of me. This question was nut by 
the little man with all the gravity cf threescore. I cannot 
now write copiously ; I have only time to tell you that I 
have passed many afati never a tedious mo- 

ment ; and that all I am afraid of is, that I shall contract 
Li n, whi ii will make home 
tiresome to me : this, 1 am told, is very common with men 
in the habit of peregrination, and, indeed, I feci it so. On 
the third of May, I swam from Sestos to Abydos. You 
know the story of Leander, but I had no Hero to receive 
me at landing. 

"I also passed a fortnight in the Troad : the tombs of 
Achilles and Esyetes still exist in large barrows, similar 
to those you have, doubtless, seen in the North. The 
other day I was at Belgrade, (a village in these envn o ) 
to see the house built on the same site as Lady Mary 
Wortley's; by-thc-by, her Ladyship, as far as I can 
judge, has lied, but not half so'much as any other woman 
would have done in the same situation. I have been in 
all the principal mosques by the virtue of a firman ; tins 
is a favour rarely permitted to infidels, but the ambassa- 
dor's departure obtained it for us. I have been up the 
Bosphorus into the Black Sea, round the walls of the 
city, and indeed I know more of it by sight, than 1 do o> 
London. 

I hope to amuse you some winter's evening with the 
details, but at present you must excuse me ; I am not 
able to write long letters in June. I return to spend my 
summer in Greece. I shall not proceed further into 
Asia, as I have visited Smyrna, Ephesus, and the Troad. 
I write often, but you must not be alarmed when you do 
not receive my letters ; consider we have no regular post 



22 



LETTER?, 1810. 



further than Malta, where I beg yen will in future send 
your letters, and not to this city. Fletcher is a poor 
creature, and requires comforts thai I can dispense with. 
IK- a very sick of his travels, but you must not believe his 
account of the country; he sighs for ale, an! idleness, and 
a wife, and the devil' knows what besides. 1 have not 
been Disappointed or disgusted. I have liyed with the 
highest and the lowest. I have been fir days in a 
Pacha's palace, and have passed many a night in a cow- 
and I find the people inoffensive and kind. 1 have 
also passed some time with the principal Greeks in the 
Morea and Livadia, and, though inferior- to the Turks, 
they are better than the Spaniards, who, in their turn, 
excel the Portuguese. Of Constantinople you will find 
many descriptions in different travels ; bul Lady Wortley 
errs strangely when she says, 'St. Paul's would cut a 
strange figure by St. Sophia's.' I have been in both, 
surveyed them inside and out attentively. St. Sophia's 
is undoubtedly the most interesting from its immense an- 
tiquity, and tire circumstance of ail the Greek emperors, 
from Justinian, having been crowned there, and several 
murdered at the altar, besides the Turkish sultans who 
attend it regularly. But it is inferior in beauty and size 
to sonv of the mosques, particularly 'Soleyman,' &c. 
and not to be mentioned in the same page with St. Paul's, 
(I speak like a Cockney.) However, I prefer the Gothic 
cathedral of Seville to St. Paul's, St. Sophia's, and any- 
religious building I have ever seen. 

"The walls of the Seraglio are like the walls ofNew- 
stead gardens, only higher, and much in the same order ; 
bul the ride by the walls of the city, on the land side, is 
beautiful. Imagine four miles of immense triple battle- 
ments, covered with ivy, surmounted with 218 towers, and, 
on the other side of the road, Turkish burying-grounds, 
(the loveliest spots on earth,) full of enormous cy- 
presses. I have seen the ruins of Athens, of Ephesus, 
and Delphi. I have traversed great part of Turkey, and 
many other parts of Europe, and some of Asia ; but I 
never beheld a work of nature or art which yielded an 
impression like the prospect on each side from the 
Seven Towers to the end of the Golden Horn. 

'■Now for England. I am gl td to hear of the pro- 
tress of 'English Bards,' &c. — of course, you observed 
[have made great additions to the new edition. Have 
you received my picture from Sanders, Vigo-lane, Lon- 
don? It was finished and paid for long before I left 
England : pray, send for it. You seem to be a mighty 
reader of magazines : where do you pick up all this in- 
telligence, quotations, &c. &c. ? Though I was happy 
to obtain my seat without the assistance of Lord I Carlisle, 
I had no measures to keep with a man who declined in- 
terfering as my relation on that occasion, and I have 
done with him, though I regret distressing Mrs. Leigh, 
poor thing ! — I hope she i- happy. 

"his my opinion that Mr. 13 * * ought to marry Miss 
R * *. Our first duly is nol i" d" evil ; but, alasl that 
is impossible*: our next is to repair it, if in our power. 
The girl is his equal: if she were his inferior, a sum of 
in on and provision for the child would be some, though 
a poor compensation : as it is, he should marry her. 1 
will have no gay deceivers on my estate, and I shall not 
allow my tenants a privilege I do not permit myself 
thai of debauching each other's daughters. Cod knows, 
I have been guilty of many excesses ; but, as I have laid 
down a resolution to reform, and Lately kept it, I expect 
tliis Lothario to follow the example, and begin by re- 
storing this girl to society, or, by the beard of my father ! 
In shall hear of it. Pray take some notice of Robert, 
who will miss Ins master: poor boy, he was very un- 
willing to return. I trust you are well and happy. It 
will be a pleasure to hear from you. 

"Behove me, yours very sincerely, 

«BVRO!». 

• T. S. How is Joe Murray ? 



"P. S. I opened my letter again to tell you that 

Fletcher having petitioned to accompany me into th* 

i : ., I have taken him with me, contrary to the mien. 

tion expressed i y letter.'' 



LETTER I.X. 



TO MRS. EYRON. 



"Athens, July 25, 1810. 
"dear mother, 

li I have arrived here in four days from Constantinople, 
which is considered as singularly quick, particularly for 
the season of the year. You northern gentry can have 
no conception of a Greek summer ; which, however, is a 
perfect frost compared with Malta and Gibraltar, where 
I reposed myself in the shade last year, after a gentle 
gallop of four hundred miles, without intermission, 
through Portugal and Spain. You see, by my date, 
that I am at Athens again, a place winch I think I 
prefer, upon the whole, to any I have seen. * * * 

"My next movement is to-morrow into the Morea, 
where I shall probably remain a month or two, and then 
return to winter here, if I do not change my plans, 
v. Inch, however, are very variable, as you may suppose ; 
but none of them verge to England. 

'•The Marquis of Sligo, my old fellow-collegian, is 
here, and wislies to accompany me into the Morea. 
We shall go together for that purpose. Lord S. will 
afterward pursue his way to the capital; and Lord B. 
!.. .in Men all the wonders in that quarter, will let you 
know what he does next, of which at present he is nol 
certain. Malta is my perpetual post-office, from 
which my letters are forwarded to all parts of the habita- 
ble globe : — by-the-by, 1 have now been in Asia, Africa, 
and the east'of Europe, and, indeed, made the most of 
my time, without hurrying over the most interesting 
scenes of the ancient world. Fletcher, after having 
b i n lusted, and roasted, and baked, and grilled, and 
eaten by all sons of creeping things, begins to philoso- 
phize, is grown a refined as welt as resigned character, 
and promises at his return to become an ornament to 
Ins own parish, and a very prominent person in the 
future family pedigree of the Fletcher's, whom I take to 
be Goths by their accomplishments, Greeks by their 
acuteness, and ancient Saxons by their appetite. He 
(Fletcher) begs leave to send half a dozen sighs to 
Sally his spouse, and wonders (though I do not) that his 
ill-written and worse spilled letters have never come to 
hand ; as for that matter, there is no ureat loss in cither 
of our letters, saving and except that I wish you to 
know we are will, and warm enough at this present 
writing, God knows. You must not expect long letters 
at present, tor they are written with the sweat of my 
brow, I assure vou! It is rather singular that Mr. Han- 
son has not written a syllable since my departure. 
Your letters I have most!) received, as well as o 
from which I conjecture that the man of law is either 
angry or busy. 

•■1 trust you like Newstcad, and agree with your 
neh'hbours; but you know you are a lixen — is not that 
a dutiful appellation? Pray, take care of my 
and several boxes of papers in the hands of Joseph ; and 
pray have lie' a lew hollies of champagne to drlld.. for 

I .in very thirsty;— but I do not insist on the last article, 
will, out vou like it. Isuppose you have yout lions- lull 
women, prating scandalous things. Have you 
ever received my picture in oil from Sanders, London ? 
It has been paid for these sixteen months : why do you 
not get it? My suite, consisting of two Turks, two 
Greeks, a Lutheran, and the nondescript Fletcher, are 
making so much noise that I am glad to sign myself 
"Yours, &c. &c. 

"BVBON* 



LETTERS, 1810. 



23 



LETTER LXI. 



TO MRS. BVttO.V. 



"Patras, July 30, 1SI0. 
"dear madam, 
"In four days from Constantinople, with a favourable 
mod, I arrived in the frigate, at the island of Ceos, from 
whence I took a boat to Athens, where I met my friend 
the Marquis of Sligo, who expressed a wish to proceed 
with me as far as Corinth. At Corinth we separated. 
he for Tripolitza, I fur Patras, where [ had some business 
with the consul, Mr. Strand, in whose house I now 
write. He has rendered me every service in his power 
since I quitted Malta on my way to Constantinople, 
whence I have written to you twice or thrice. In a few 
days I visit the Pacha at Tripolitza, make the tour of 
the Morea, and return a?ain to Athens, which at present 
is my headquarters. The heat is at present intense. 
In England, if it reaches 98°, you are all on fire: the 
other day, in travelling between Athens and Megara, 
the thermometer was at 125° ! ! Yet I feel no incon- 
venience ; of course I am much bronzed, but 1 live tem- 
perately, and never enjoyed better health. 

a Before I left Constantinople, I saw the Sultan, (with 
Mr. Adair,) and the interior of the mosques, things 
which rarely happen to travellers. Mr. Hobhouse is 
gone to England : I am in no hurry to return, but have 
no particular communications for your country, except 
mv surprise at Mr. Hanson's silence, and my desire 
that he will remit regularly. I suppose some arrange- 
ment has been made with regard to Wymondham and 
Rochdale. Malta is my post-office, or to Mr. Strane 
consul-general, Patras, Morea. You complain of my 
silence — I have written twenty or thirty times within the 
last year: never less than twice a month, and often 
more. If my letters do not arrive, you must not con- 
clude that we are eaten, or that there is a war, or a pesti- 
lence, or famine : neither must you credit sillv reports, 
which I dare say you have in Notts, as usual. I am 
very well, and neither more nor less happv than I usually 
am ; except that I am very glad to be once more alone, 
for I was sick of my companion, — not that he was a bad 
one, but because my nature leads me to solitude, and 
that every day adds to this disposition. If I chose, 
here are many men who would wish to join me — one 
wants rne to go to Egypt, another to Asia, of which I 
have seen enough. The greater part of Greece is al- 
i< ;:n!y my own, so that I shall only go over my old 
ground, and look upon my old seas and mountains, the 
only acquaintances I ever found improve upon me. 

41 1 have a tolerable suite, a Tartar, two Albanians, an 
interpreter, besides Fletcher; but in this country these 
arc easily maintained. Adair received me wonderfully 
well, and indeed I have no complaints against any one. 
Hospitality here is necessary, for inns are not. I have 
lived in the houses of Greeks, Turks,- Italians, and 
English — to-day in a palace, to-morrow in a cowhouse ; 
this day with the Pacha, the next with a shepherd. I 
shall continue to write briefly, but frequently, and am 
glad to hear from you ; but you fill your letters with 
things from the papers, as if English papers were not 
found all over the world. I have at this moment a dozen 
before me. Pray take care of my books, and believe me, 
"My dear Mother, yours very faithfully, 

"Byron." 



prised, nor indeed have I any complaint to make, since 
you have written frequently, for which I thank you ; but 
I very much condemn Mr. Hanson, who has not taken 
the smallest notice of my many letters, nor of mv re~ 
quest before I left England,' which I sailed from on this 
very day fifteen months ago. Thus one year and a 
quarter have passed away, without my receiving the 
least intelligence on the state of my affairs, and they 
were not in a posture to admit of neglect, and I do con- 
ceive and declare that Mr. Hanson has acted negli- 
gently and culpably in not apprizing me of his proceed- 
ings ; I will alrfo add uncivilly. His letters, were there 
any, could not easily miscarry: the communications 
with the Levant arc slow, but tolerably secure, at leasl 
as far as Malta, and there I left directions which I know 
would he observed. I have written to you several 
times from Constantinople and Smyrna. You will per- 
ceive by my date I am returned into the Morea, of 
which I have been making the tour, and visiting the 
Pacha, who gave me a fine horse, and paid me all possi- 
ble honours and atlemion. I have now seen a good 
portion of Turkey in Europe and Asia Minor, and shall 
remain at Athens, and in the vicinity, till I hear from 
England. I have punctually obeyed your injunctions of 
writing frequently, but 1 shall not pretend to describe 
countries which have been already amply treated of. I 
believe before this time Mr. Hobhouse will have arrived 
in England, and he brings letters from me, written al 
Constantinople. In these I mention having seen the 
Sultan and the mosques, and that I swam from Sestos 
to Abydos, an exploit of which I take care to boast. 

"I am here on business at present, but Athens is my 
headquarters, where I am very pleasantly situated in a 
Franciscan convent. 

" Believe me to be, with great sincerity, 

K Yours, very affectionately, 
" Byrox. 

"P. S. Fletcher is well, and discontented as usual; 
his wife don't write, at least her scrawls have not ar 
rived. You will address to Malta. Pray have you 
never received my picture m oil from Sanders, Vigo 
lane, London 7" 



LETTER LXII. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

"Patras, Oct. 2d, 1S10. 
"tear madam, 
"It is now several months since I have received any 
communication from you ; but at this I am not sur- 



LETTER LXIII. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



"Patras, Morea, October 3d, 1610 
"As I have just escaped from a physician and a fever, 
which confined me five days to bed, you won't expect 
much 'allegrezza' in the ensuing letter. In this place 
there is an indigenous distemper, which, when the wind 
blows from the gulf of Corinth, (as it does live months 
out of six,) attacks great and small, and makes woful 
work with visiters. Here be also two physicians, one ot 
whom trusts to his genius (never having studied) — the 
other to a campaign of eighteen manths against the sick 
of Otranto, which he made in his youth with great 
effect. 

"When I was seized with my disorder, I protested 
against both these asi a ssins j — but what can a helpless, 
feverish, toasted-and-watered poor wretch do ? In spite 
of my teeth and tongue, the English consul, my Tartar, 
Albanians, dragoman, forced a physician upon me, and 
in three days vomited and glystered me to the last gasp. 
In this state I made my epitaph — lake it. 

"Youth, Nature, nri'I relenting Jove 
To keejj my lamp in strongly sirore. ; 
Bui Romnuelli wuao - 
He l>cat all lliree — ami 6/eir it out. 

But Nature and Jove, being piqued at my doubts, did, in 
fact, at last, beat Romanelli, and here I am, well but 
weakly, at your service. 



LETTERS, ISM. 



24 



"Since I left Constantinople, I have made a tour of 
the Morea, and raited Vely Pach >. who paid me greal 
honours and gave me et prettj stallion. I ! i i 
in Eng] ,. late of thisletter— 

a despatch from me to yonr hardship. He writes to me 
from Maltaj and requests my journal, if I keep one. I 
have none, or he should have it ; bul ! have n plied, in a 
consolatory and exh him to 

abate thn e and s«| ice of his n< ■ "■ ■ ■ 

seeing that half a guinea is a price not to he given for 
anything save an opera-ticket. 

"As for England, it is long Reard from it. 

Eyery one at all connected with my cow cms is a sleep, 

and you are my only corn odent. agents excepted. 

I have really m t. ii n in the world ; tliough all my old 
school-companions are gone forth into that world) and 
walfi about there in monstrous disguises, in thi 
guardsmen, lawyers, parsons, fine gentlemen, and such 
other masquei ade dress es. So, ] here shake hands and 
cul with all these busy people, none of whom write to 
me. Indeed, I asked it not; — and here I am, a poor 
traveller and heathenish phi! th peram- 

bulated the greatest part of the Levant, and 
pn-al quantity of very improvable land and sea, and, 
after all, am no better than when I set out — Lord help 
me ! 

"I have been out fifteen months this very day, and I 
lu'lirv*- mv cnti'-rvn > \m!1 draw me to K upland soon ; but 
of this I will apprize you regularly from Malta. On all 
points, Hobhouse will inform you, if you are curious as 
to our adventures. 1 have seen some old English pa- 
pers up to the 15th of May. I see the 'Lady of the 
Lake' advertised. Of course it is in his old 
style, and pretty. After all, Scott is the best ol 
The end of all scribblemcnt is to amuse, and he certainly 
succeeds there. I long to read his new romance, 

"And how does 'Sir Edgar V and your friend, Bland - ? 
I suppose you aro involved in some literary squabble. 
The only way is to despise all brothers of the quill. I 
suppose you won't allow me to be an author, but 1 con- 
temn you all, you dogs! — I do. 

"You don't know D s, do you? He had a force 

ready for the stage before 1 left i '.njaud, and a- Led m. 
for a prologue, which I promised, but sailed in such a 
hurry, I never penned a couplet. 1 am afraid to ask 
after his drama, for fear it. should he damned — Lord for- 
give me for using such a word! — but the pit, sir, pou 
know, the pit — they will do those things, in 
merit. I remember this force from a curious circum- 
stance. "When Drury-lane was burnt to thi ground, by 
which accident Sheridan and hi te few re- 

maining shillings they were worth, what doth my friend 

D do? Why, before the fire was out, he writes a 

note to Tom Sheridan, the manager ofthis comb 
concern, to inquire whether thi force wa act converted 
into fuel, with about two thousand other unactable 
manuscripts, which >; ■ in great peril, if no! 

actually consumed. Now, was not this charac ■ 
— the ruling passions of Pope are nothing to it. W bile 
the poor distracted m in lj i i was b) wailin • 'ii-' loss of a 
building only worth 300,000?. together with some twenty 
thousand pounds of rags and tinsol in the tiring rooms, 
Bluebeard's elephants, and all that — in comes a note 
from a scorching author, requiring at his hands two acts 
and odd scenes of b farce ! ! 

"Dear H. remind 1 >rury that I am his well 
and let Scrope Davics be well affected towards me. I 
look forward to meeting you at Newstead, and renewing 
our old Champagne evenings with all the glee oi antii i 
pation. I have written by every opportunity, and ex- 
pect responses as regular as those of the lit 1 1 r 
somewhat longer. As it is impossible for a man in his 
senses to hope for happy days, let us at least look 
forward to merry ones, which come nearest to the other 



in appearance, if not in reality ; and in such expectations 
1 remain, &c. 



LETTER LXIV. 



TO MRS. BVnON. 



"Athens, January 14, 1811. 
"mv dear madam, 

'• I si i ! i - i «l i" write as usual, shortly, but 
frequently, as the arrival o! l-inr-, where there exists no 
regular communica ion, is, of c airs ■, very precarious. I 
have lately mad< ill tours of some hundred or 

two mil* • a1 ml Attica, Stc. as I have 

finished my grand gil Constantinople, 

&c. and am returned down again to Athens. I believe 
I have mentioned to you more than once, that I swain 
(m imitation of Leander, though without his lady) across 
the I u Uospont, from Seslos to Abydos. Of this, and 
all ntlnr particulars, P. whom I have sent home with 
papers, &c. will apprize you. I cannot find that he is 
. being toler iblj master "I the Italian and 
I lre< k languages, which last I am also studying 
with a master, I can order and discourse more than 
foi i reasonable man. Besides the perpetual 
lamentations after bei fand beer, the stupid, bigoted con- 
tempt for every thin ] foreign, and insurmountable inca- 
pacity of acquiring even a few words of any language, 
rendered him, like all ol i servants, an incum- 

brance. I do assuro you, the plague of speaking for 
him, thocomfoii i be required, (more than myselfby for,) 
(he pilaws, (a Turkish dish of rice and meat,) which he 
couldnot .. at,thewini a whit h he could not drink, the beds 
where he could not sleep, and the long list of calamities, 
such as stumbling horses, want of tea ! ! ! &c. which as- 
sailed him, would have made a lasting source of laughter 
to a spectator, and inconvenience to a master. After all, 
the man is honest enough, and, in Christendom, capable 
enough; bul in Turkey, Lord forgive mo! my Albanian 
soldiers, my Tartars and Janizary, worked for him and 
us i"". as my friend \ [obhouse can testify. 

"It is probable! may steer homewards in spring ; hut, 
to enable me to do that, I must, have remittances. My 
own funds would have lasted me very well; but I was 
obliged to assist a friend, who, ( know, will pay me ; i.ur, 
in the mean time, I am out of pocket. At present, I do 
not care to venture a winter's voyage, even if I 
otherwise tired of travelling; hut I am so convm 

. mankind instead of reading 
about them, and the bitter effects ol staying at home 
with all the narrow pri judices of an islander, thai I 
think there should be a law among us, to set our young 
men abroad, for a term, among the few allies our wars 
have left US. 

"Here I see and have conversed with French, Italians, 
Germans, Danes, Greeks, Turks, Americans, & 
! I of my own, I can ju 
the countries and maim of otfo r . Where I sec the 

: Ingland, (which, by-thc-by, v\ e are a 
deal mistaken about in many (lungs,) I am plea - 
ivhere I I ind : - inferior, I am at least enlightened. 
Now, I might ' in your towns, or 

fog ;ed in your i ry, a i cntury, withoul b 

■ ! without acquiring any tiling more useful or 
■ at home. I keep no journal, nor have I any 
intention of scribbling my travels. 1 have done with 
authorship; and if, in my last production, I have B D- 
rinced the critics of the world I was something more 
than they took me for, I am satisfied; nor will I hazard 
that reputation by a future effort. It is true I have some 
others in manuscript, but I leave them for the* 
come after me; and, if deemed wortii publishing, they 
may serve to prolong my memory when I myself shall 
cease to remember. I havo a famous Bavarian artist 









LETTERS, 1811. 



25 



diet, which it is very necessary for me to ob- 



ttzfzfJSz ££ t^ Si ^ m r ... 



cured of. I hope, on my relurn, to lead a quiet, recluse 
life, but God knows and does best for us all ; at least, so 
they say, and I have nothing to object, as, on the whole, I 
have no reason to complain of my lot. I am convinced, 
however, lhat men do more harm to themselves than 
ever the devil could do to them. I trust this will find 
vou well, and as happy as we can be ; you will, at least, 
be pleased to hear I am so, and yours ever." 



LETTER LXV. 

TO MRS. EYRON. 

•Athena, Feb. 28,1811. 

"dear madam, 
"As I have received a firman fir Egypt, &c. I shall 
proceed to that quarter in the spring, and I beg you will 
state to Mr. Hanson that it is necessary to further re- 
mittances. On the subject of Newstead I answer, as 
before, no. If « is necessary to sell, sell Rochdale. 
Fletcher will have arrived by this time with my letters to 
that purport. I will tell you fairly, I have, in the first 
place, no opinion of funded properly ; if, by any particu- 
lar circumstances, I shall be led to adopt such a deter- 
mination, 1 will, at all events, pass my life abroad, as my 
only tie to England is Newstead, and, that once gone, 
neither interest nor inclination lead me northward. 
Competence in your country is ample wealth in the east, 
such is the diFerence in the value of money and the 
ebundance of the necessaries of life ; and 1 feel myself 
so much a citiren of the world, that the spot wncre 1 can 
enjoy a delicious climate, and every luxury, at a less ex- 
pense than a common college life in England, will al- 
ways be a country to me ; and such are in fact the 
shores of the Archipelago. This then is the alternative 
—if I preserve Newstead, 1 return ; if I sell it, 1 slay 
away. I have had no letters since yours of June, but 1 
have written several times, and shall continue, as usual, 

on the same plan. 

" Believe me, yours ever, 

" Byron. 

« P. S. I shall most likely see you in the course of the 
•ummer, but, of course, at such a distance, I cannot spe- 
cify any particular month." 



with the exception of two agues, both of which 1 quickly 
got over. 

"My plans will so much depend on circumstances, 
that I shall not venture lo lay down an opinion on the 
subject. Mv prospects are not very promising, but I 
suppose we shall wrestle through life like our neighbours; 
deed, by H.'s last advices, 1 have some apprehensions 
of finding Newstead dismantled by Messrs. Brothers, 
&c. anil he seems determined lo force me into selling it, 
but he will be baffled. 1 don't suppose I shall he much 
pestered with visiters; but if I am, you must receive 
them, for I am determined to have nobody breaking in 

U| nv retirement: you know that I never was fond of 

society, and I am less so than before. I have brought 
vou a shawl, and a cuanhty of attar of roses, but these t 
must snuigL'le, if possible. 1 trust to find my library in 
tolerable order. 

'• Fletcher is no doubl arrived. I shall separate the 
mill from Mr. B * *.'s farm, fir his son is too gay a de- 
ceiver to inherit both, and place Fletcher in it, who has 
served ine failhfully, and whose w ife is a good woman ; 
besides, it is necessary to sober young Mr. B * *, or ha 
will people the parish with baslards. In a word, ifhe had 
seduced a dairymaid, he might have found something 
like an apology"; but the girl is his equal, and in high life 
or low life reparation is made in such circumstances. 
But I shall not interfere further than (like Buonaparte) 
by dismembering Mr. B.'s kingdom, and erecting part of 
it' into a principality for field-marshal Fletcher ! I hope 
vou oovern my little empire and its sad load of national 
iiebt with a wary hand. To drop my metaphor, I beg 
leave to subscribe myself, yours, &c. 

"P. S. This letter was written to be sent from Ports- 
mouth, but, on arriving there, the squadron was ordered 
to the Nore, from whence I shall forward it. This I 
have not done before, supposing you might be alarmed 
bv the uiterval mentioned in the letter being longer than 
expected between our arrival m port and my appearance 
at New6tead." 



LETTER LXVI. 



TO MRS. BVRON. 



"Volage frigate, at sea, Juno 25th, 1811. 

"DEAR mother, 

" This letter, which will he forwarded on our arrival at 

Portsmouth, probably about the fourth of July, is begun 

about twenty-three days afier our departure from Malta. 

I have just been two years (to a day, on the second of 

July) absent from England, and I return to it with much 

the same feelings which prevailed on my departure, viz. 

indifference ; but within that apathy 1 certainly do not 

comprise yourself, as I will prove by every mean? in my 

power. You will be good enough to get my apartment i 

ready at Newstead, but don't disturb yourself on any 

account, particularly mine, nor consider me in any other 

light than as a visiter. I must only inform you that for 

a longtime I have been restricted to an entire vegetable 

diet, neither Ssh nor flesh coming within my regimen ; so 

I expect a powerful stock of potatoes, greens, an;l biscuit 

I drink no wme. I have two servants, middle-aged men, 

and bothGreeks. It is my intention to proceed hr-i lo 

town, to see Mr. Hanson, and thence u> Newstead, u 

my wa> to Rochdale. I have only to beg yuu wUl not 

4 



LETTER LXVH. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

" Volage frigate, at sea, June 29lh, 1811. 
In a week, with a fair wind, we shall be at Ports- 
mouth, and on the 2d of July, 1 shall have completed (to 
dav) two years of peregrination, from which I am re- 
turning with as little emotion as I set out. I think, upon 
the whole, I was more grieved at leaving Greece than 
England, which I am impatient to see, simply because I 
am tired of a long voyage. 

"Indeed, my prospects are not very pleasant. Em- 
barrassed in my private affairs, indifferent to public, 
solitary without the wish to be social, wiih a body a little 
enfeebled by a succession of fevers, but a spoil, I trust, 
vet unbroken, I am returning home without a hope, and 
almost without a desire. The first thing I shall have to 
encounter will be a lawyer, the next a creditor, then 
colliers, farmers, surveyors, and all the agreeable attach- 
ments to estates out of repair and contested coal-pils. 
In short, I am sick and sorry, and when I have a little re- 
paired my irreparable affairs, away I shall march, either 
to campaign in Spain, or back anain to the East, where I 
can at least have cloudless skies and a cessation from 
impertinence. 

» 1 trust to meet, or see you, in town or at Newstead, 
whenever you can make it convenient.— I suppose you 
are in love and in poetry, as usual. That husband, H. 
Drury,*has never written to me, albeit I have sent him 
more than one letter;— but I dare say the poor man has 
a family, and of course all lus car«s aro conlmod lo hts 
circle. 



26 



LETTERS, 1811. 



" ' Furcliililirr. f.Mh e*i>en»es f-el, 

*nd Dicky now for school i» fit." — Wurton. 

If yoti see him, tell him I have a letter for him from 
Tucker, a regimental chuwgeon and friend of his, who 
prescribed for me, * * * and is a very worthy 
man, hut too fond of hard words. I should be too late 
for a speech-day, or I should probably go down to Har- 
row. 

******** 

I regretted very much in Grcnr h;i\ \n\i omitted to carry 

the Anthology with me — I mean Bland and Merivale's. 

**** * * * + * 

What has Sir Ed^ar done ? And the Imitations and 
Translations — where arc they ? 1 suppose you don't 
mean to let the public off so easilv, but charge then) 
home with a quarto. For me, I arn ' sick of fops and 
poesy and prate,' and shall leave the 'whole Castalian 
state' to Bufo, or any body else. But you are a senti- 
mental and Sensibiiilous person, and will rhyme to the 
end of the chapter. Howbeit, I have written some 4000 
lines, of one kind or another, on my travels. 

"I need not repeat that 1 shall be happy to see you. 
I shall be in town about the 8th, at Dorant's Hotel, in 
Albemarle-street, and proeecd in a few days to Notts, 
and thence to Rochdale on business. 

u I am, here and there, yours, &c." 



LETTER LXVIII. 



TO SIR. DALLAS. 



* Volage frigate, at sea, June 2Sth, 1811. 

"After two years' absence, (to a day, on the 2d of 
July, before which we shall not arrive at Portsmouth,) I 
am retracing my way to England. 1 have, as you know, 
spent the greater part of that period in Turkey, except 
two months in Spain and Portugal, which were then ac- 
cessible. I have seen every thing most remarkable in 
Turkey, particularly the Troad, Greece, Constantinople, 
and Albania, into which last region very few have pene- 
trated so high as Hobhouse and myself. I don't know 
that I have done any thing to distinguish me from other 
voyagers, unless you will reel, on my swimming from 
Sestos to Abydos, on May 3d, 1810, a tolerable feat for a 
modern. 

H I am coming back with little prospect of pleasure at 
home, and with a body a little shaken by one or two 
smart fevers, but a spirit I hope yet unbroken. My 
affairs, it seems, are considerably involved, ami much 
business must be done with lawyers, colliers, farmers, 
and creditors. Now this, to a man who hates bustle as 
he hates a bishop, is a serious concern. But enough of 
my home department. 

"I find I have been scolding Cawthorn without a 
cause, as I found two parcels with two letters from you 
on my return to Malta. By these it appears you have 
not received a letter from Constantinople, addressed to 
Longman's, but it was of no consequence. 
"My Satire, it seem?, is in a fourth edition, a success rather 
above the middling run, hut not much for a production 
which, from its topics, must be temporary, and of course 
be successful at first, or not at all. At this period, 
when I can think and aet more coolly, I regret that I 
have written it, though I shall probably find it forgotten 
by all except those whom it has offended. 

"Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany has not succeeded, but 
tie himself writes so good humouredly on the subject, I 
don't know whether to laugh or cry with him. He met 
with your son at Cadiz, of whom he speaks highly. 

" Yours and Pratt's protege, Blackett the cobbler,* is 
dead, in spite of his rhymes, and is probably one of the in- 

• Hwnrte to Hinli frura Horace, page 390. 



stances where death has saved a man from damnation. 
You were the ruin of that poor fellow among you: had i* 
not been for I us patrons, he might now have been in very 
good plight, shoe (not verse) making; but you have 
made him immortal with a vengeance. I write this, sup- 
posing poetry, patronage, and strong waters to have been 
the death of him. If you are in town in or about the be- 
ginning of July, you will find me at Dorant's in Albe- 
marle-street, glad to see you. I have an Imitation oj 
Horace's Art of Poetry ready for Cawthorn, but don't let 
that deter you, (or I shan't inflict it upon you. You 
know I never read my rhymes to visiters. I shall quit 
4«*vn in a few days for Notts, and thence to Rochdale. 
I shall send this the moment we arrive in harbour, that 
is a week hence. • 

" Yours ever sincerely, 
■ByRQw" 



< 



LETTER LXIX. 

TO MR. HENRY DRURr. 



"Volage frigate, ofTUshant, July 17th, 1811. 
"my dear drury, 

" After two years' absence (on the second) and some 
odd days, I am approaching your country. The day of 
our arrival you will see by the outside date of my letter. 
At present, we are becalmed comfortably, close to Brest 
Harbour ; I have never been so near it since I left Duck 
Puddle. ******** 
We left Malta thirty-four days ago, and have had a te- 
dious passage of it. You will either see or hear from or 
>f me, soon after the receipt of this, as I pass through 
town to repair my irreparable affairs ; and thence 1 want 
to go to Notts, and raise rents, and to Lanes, and sell 
collieries, and back to London and pay debts ; (or it 
seems I shall neither have coals or comfort till I go down 
to Rochdale in person. 

" I have brought home some marbles (or Hobhouse ; 
for myself, four ancient Athenian skulls,* dug out of 
Sarcophagi ; a phial of attic hemlock \\ four live tortoises ; 
a greyhound, (died on the passage ;) two live Greek ser- 
vants, one an Athenian, t' other a Yaniote, who can 
speak nothing but Romaic and Italian; and inyst//", as 
Moses in the Vicar of Wakefield says, slity, and I may 
say it too, for I have as little cause to boast of my expedi- 
tion as lie had of his to the fair. 

" I wrote to you from the Cyanean Rocks, to tell you I 
had swum from Sestos to Abydos ; have you received my 
letter? * * * Hodgson, I suppose, is four 

deep by this time. What would he have given to have 
seen, hke me, the real Parnassus^ where 1 robbed the 
Bishop ofCrissffi of a book of geography; but this I only 
iall plagiarism, as it was done within an hour's ride of 
Delphi." 

LETTER LXX. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

• Reddish's Hotel, July 23d, 1811, 

" St. James's-street, London. 
■my dear madam, 
B I am only detained by Mr. Hanson, to sign some 
copyhold papers, and will give you timely notice of my 
approach. It is with great reluctance I remain in town. 
I shall pay a short visit as we go on to Lancashire on 
Rochdale business. I shall attend to your directions, of 
course, and am, 

* With great respect, yours ever, 
* Byron. 
P. S. You will consider Newstead as your house, 
not mine ; and me only as a visiter." 



• r,ir« n iftemard fo Sir Walter Seolt. 
t lu iht poueuiou of Mr. Muiraj. 



LETTERS, 1811. 



27 



LETTER LXXI. 



TO DR. PIGOT. 



8 Newport Pagnell, August 2, 1811. 
■my dear doctor, 

tt IVly poor mother died yesterday ! arid I am on my 
way -from town to attend her to the family vault. I 
heard one day of her illness, the next of her death. — 
Thank God her last moments were most tranquil. I am 
told she was in little pain, and not aware of her situation. 
— I now feel the truth of Mr. Grav's observation, 'That 
we can only have one mother.' — Peace be with her ! I 
have to thank vou for your expressions of regard, and as 
in six weeks I shall be in Lancashire on business, I may 
extend to Liverpool and Chester, — at least I shall en- 
deavour. 

"If it will be any satisfaction, I have to inform you 
that in November next the editor of the Scourge will be 
tried f >r two different libels on the late Mrs. B. and 
myself) (the decease of Mrs. B. makes no difference in 
the proceedings,) and as he is guilty, by his very foolish 
and unfounded assertion, of a breach of privilege, he will 
be prosecuted with the utmost rigour. 

" I inform you of this, as you seem interested in the 
affair, which is now in the bands of the attorney-ge- 
neral. 

u 1 shall remain at Newstead the greater part of this 
month, where I shall be happy to hear from you, after 
my two years' absence in the East. 

"I am, dear Pigot, 
" Yours very truly, 

" Byron." 



LETTER LXXn. 



TO MR. SCROPE DAVIES. 



"Newstead Abbey, August 7th, 1811. 

• ATT DEAREST DAVIES, 

" Some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother 
lies a corpse in this house : one of my best friends is 
drowned in a ditch. "What can I say. or think, or do? 
I received a letter from him the day before yesterday. 
My dear Scrope, if you can spare a moment, do come 
down to me, I want a friend. Matthews's last letter 
was written on Friday,— on Saturday he was not. In 
ability, who was like Matthews?* How did we all 
shrink before him? You do me but justice in saying, I 
would have risked my paltry existence to have preserved 
his. This very evening did I mean to write, inviting 
him, as I invite you, my very dear friend, to visit me. 
God forgive * * * for his apathy ! "What will our poor 
Hobhousc feel! His letters breathe but of Matthews. 
Come to me, Scrope, I am almost desolate — left almost 
alone in the world — 1 had but you, and H. and M. and 
let me enjov the survivors while I can. Poor M. in his 
letter of Friday, speaks of his intended contest for Cam- 
bridge, and a speedy jouniev to London. Write or 
cumc, but come if you can, or one or both. 

" Yours ever." 



LETTER LXXIII. 

TO EOLTON, ESQ. 

B Newstead Abbey, August 12th, 1811. 
■sir, 

1 enclose a rough draft of my intended will, which I 
ocg to have drawn up as soon as possible in the firmest 
manner. The alterations are principally made in con- 
sequence of the death of Mrs. Byron. 1 have only to 

* See I-cUei 463. 



request that it may be got ready in a short time, and hava 
the honour to be, 

" Your most obedient humble servant, 
"Byron." 

" Newstead Abbey, August 12th, 1811. 

"DIRECTIONS FOR THE CONTENTS OF A WILL TO 
EE DRAWN UP IMMEDIATELY. 

"The estate of Newstead to be entailed (suhject 1f> 
certain deductions) on George Anson Byron, heir at law, 
or whoever may be the heir at law on the death of Lord 
B. The Rochdale property to be sold in part or the 
whole, according to the debts and legacies of the present 
Lord B. 

" To Nicolo Giraud of Athens, subject of France, but 
born in Greece, the sum of seven thousand pounds ster 
linsj to be paid from the sale of such parts of Rochdale. 
Newstead, or elsewhere, as mav enable the said Nicole 
Giraud, (resident at Athens and Malta in the year 1810,) 
to receive the above sum on his attaining the age ol 
twenty-one years. 

"To William Fletcher, Joseph Murray, and Demetrius 
ZograrTo,* (native of Greece,) servants, the sum of fifty 
pounds per ann. each, for their natural lives. To W" 1 
Fletcher the mill at Newstead, on condition that he 
payeth the rent, but not subject to the caprice of the 
landlord. To R 1 Rushton the sum of fifty pounds per 
ann. for life, and a further sum of one thousand pounds 
on attaining the age of twenty-five years. 

; To J u Hanson, Esq. the sum of two thousand pounds 
sterling. 

" The claims of S. B. Davies, Esq. to be satisfied on 
proving the amount of the same. 

The body of Lord B. to be buried in the vault of the 
garden of Newstead, without any ceremony or burial- 
service whatever, or any inscription, save his name and 
age. His dog not to be removed from the said vault. 

My library and furniture of every description to mj 
friends J D Cam Hohhouse, Esq. and S. B. Davies, Esq 

y executors. In case of their decease, the Rev. J 
Becher of Southwell, Notts, and R. C. Dallas, Esq. oi 
Mortlake, Surrey, to be executors. 

"The produce of the sale ofWvmondham in Norfolk, 
and the late Mrs. B.'s Scotch property, to be appropri- 
ated in aid of the payment of debts and legacies." 



"This is the last will and testament of me the Rt. 
Hon ble George Gordon Lord Byron, Baron Byron of 
Rochdale in the county of Lancaster. — I desire that my 
body mav be buried in the vault of the garden of New- 
stead, without any ceremony or burial-service whatever 
and that no inscription, save my name and age, be written 
on the tomb or tablet ; and it is my will that my faithful 
dog may not be removed from the said vault. To the 
performance of this my particular desire, I rely on the 
attention of my executors hereinafter named." 

" It is submitted to Ijord Byron whither this clause re- 
lative to the funeral had not better be omitted. The suf>- 
staxice of it can be given i?i a letter from Jus lordship to the 
executors, and accompany the will ; and the will may 
state that the funeral shall be performed in such manner as 
his lordship may by letter direct, mid 1 in default of any 
ftuch tettt r, then at the discretion of his executors." 

"It must stand. *B." 

"I do hereby specifically order and direct that all 
the claims of the said S. B. Davies upon me shall l>e 
fullv paid and satisfied as soon as conveniently may be 
after my decease, on his proving [by vouchers, or other- 



1 If the papers lie not, (which the? generally do.) Demetrius Zo- 
h ol Athens is at Uw head uf [tie Athenian pirt of the Greek insur- 
.„Joo. He was my servant i» 1809. 1810. Ml, 1812, M different 
inurrsla in thorn years, (for 1 left him in Greece when 1 went lo Coo. 
■Untinople,) and accompanied me lo England in 1811 ; he returned to 
Greece, spring, 1812. lie was a clever, but nol apparently an enter, 
ing m.w ; but cirenmsmiices make men. His two sons (then infants) 
c mimed Miliiades aud Alcibiades : may the omeu U happy!'— 
A/.V. Journal. 



LETTERS, 1811. 



28 

wise, to the satisfaction of my executors herpinaflor 
named*] Ibe amount thereof and tlie correctness of the 

panic." 

"■If Mr. Darin has any unnttlUd rlmmt upon I/rrd 

Byron, thai arnaiuHma in a reatm .!'■•' la* not liring ap- 

| executor; enrh rxcnti <r having Ml opportunity of 

hi,,*, If to own debt without (moulting hit eo- 

rnrtitors." 

*So much the better— if possible, let him be an execu- 
tor. "B." 






LETTER LXXV1. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



In sending a copy of the will, framed on these in- 
structions, to Lord Byron, the solicitor accompanied 
some of the clauses with marginal queries, calling the at- 
tcntion of his client to points which lie considered inex- 
pedient or questionable: one or two ol the clauses are 
here inserted in full, with tin- respective queries and an- 
swers annexed. 



The two following letters contain further iastruction* 
on the same subject ! 

LETTER I. XXIV. 

TO MR. BOLTUN. 

"Newstead Abbey, August 16th, 1811. 
"sin, 

■ I have answered the queries on the margin. t I 
wish Mr. Davies's claims to be most fully allowed, and, 
further, that he be one of my executors. I wish the will 
to be made in a manner to prevent all discussion, if possi- 
ble, after my -decease ; and this 1 leave to yon, as a pro- 
fcssietial gentleman. 

u Wiih regard. to the few and simple directions for the 
disposal of my carcase, I must have them implicitly ful- 
filled, as they will, at least, prevent trouble and expensn : 

— and (what would he of little consequence to me, hut 

mayqutel the conscience of the survivors) the garden is 

cnmtcrratfd ground. These directions are copied verha- 
tnn from my farmer will ; the alterations in Other parts 
have arisen from the death of Mrs. B. 

"I have the honour to be, 
* Your most obedient, humble servant, 

"By Kos. n 



« Newstead Abbey, Notts, August 12, 181 1. 
"Peace be with the dead! Regret cannot wake 
them. "Willi a sigh to the departed, let us resume the 
dull business of life, in the certainty that we shall also 
have our repose. Besides her who gave me being 1 
have lost more than one who made that being tolerable. 
— The best friend of my friend llobhotise, Matthews, a 
man of the firsl talents, and also not the wore] of my 
narrow circle, has perished miserubly in the muddy 
waves of the Cain, always fatal to genius: — my pool 
schoolfellow Wingfield, al Coimbra— -within a month,* 
and while 1 had heard from nil thne, but not seen one. 
Matthews wrote to me the very day before his death; 
and though 1 feel for his late, I am still more anxioua for 
rlobhouse, who, I very much fear, will hardly retain his 
senses; Ins letters to me since the event have been most 
.coherent But let this pass— we shall all one day 
ass along with the rest — the world is too full ol 

things, and (Mir very sorrow is selfish. 

[ received a letter from you which my late ocrupa* 

dons prevented me from duly noticing — I hope you* 

friends and family will Ions hold together. I shall be 

lad to hear from von, on business, on commonplace, i i 

any thing, or nothing — but death — 1 am already too fa- 

iliar with the dead. It is strange that I look on the 

skulls winch stand beside me (1 have always had /our 
in my study) without emotion, but I cannot strip th*> 
features of 'those 1 have known of their fleshy covering; 
even in idea, without a hideous sensation; but the 
onus are less ceremonious. — Surely, the Romans did 
ell when they burned the dead.— 1 shall be happy to 
hear from you, and am " ^ ours, &c." 



LETTER LXXV. 

TO MR. BOLTON. 

•Newstead Abbey, AugUSl -0, 1811. 
"sir, 
■The witnesses shall he provided from anion" my 
tenants, and 1 shall be happy to a*e yon on any day most 
convenient to yourself. I forgot to mention that h nmsl 
he specified by codicil, or otherwise, that ray bod) is on 
no account, to be removed from the vault where I have di- 
rected it to he placed ; anil, in case any of mv successors 

within the entail, (from bigotry, or otherwise.) might 
thmk proper to remove the carcass, such proceeding shall 
be attended by forfeiture of the estate, which, m such 
case, shall go to mv swot, the lion' 1 '" Augusta Leigh 

and her heirs on similar conditions. I have the honour 
to be, sir, " Your very obedient, humble servant, 

"Byron." 

* Over the wordi hero placed heiwccn bruckel». Lord Rjrou drew 
Mi pen. 

t hi the elun»e utainiernUnB ihe namee nml place* of abode of ihe exeeti- 
i ., i, th« • illrllfflr had left I ■ ' i ' ■ 

I.. i Lord Byron, having filled upalttmi thai ofDallne, wi 

" l forge i ili- hriettaii w "I Dnlli cm him out." He 

altociec 1 imlheWthol thii month a codicil, by which he revoked 

Ihfl bequeat of bit ' houaalielil e-"><l* I furniture, III y, picture*, *->- 

bree, wetchea, plate, ! n,( la, an i oil ei pvraonal ratal ■ 

,:, i) i i ! .,■,..'■ i .'i.' wriililn itir walla niihr m 

premlaeaat hla dciccnae— and r>eq«i Iiheaame [except hli wine and 

apirituom Itaaore) to hts fi If nit* UieaaldJ I HobhouM. 3. U.Davlee, 
end Prancii tkxlgaon, tln-ir executora, Ac. to •-■ eqtiallv divided i" tween 
itu'in rorthelr own use; — un-l lie bequeathed hla wine lad iplrkaooe 
Hqiiora, which ahould be In the reUare and pr*mi«e»ai Newetead , onto 

hla I I tin laid J. RVchi-r for In* uwn use. and reoueeud the moid J. t_'. 

Bnbhouae, S. B. laviea, F\ Hodgeon, and J. Becher, reepeetivaly, n 
k b i ihe i limit ihei em contained, to ilicm rc^t-cuvolj, aaa \okca of 
Ml irknriahfti 



LETTER LXXVII. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

"Newstead Abbey, August 22d, 1811. 

"You may have heard of the sudden death of my mo- 
ther, and poor Matthews, which, with that of Wiugfit '<!, 
(of which 1 was not fully aware till just before I left 
lown, and indeed hardly believed it,) has made a sad 
chasm in my connexions. Indeed the blows Co 
each other so rapidly that J am yet stupid from the 
shock, and though 1 do eat, and drink, and talk, and 
even laugli, at times, yet I can hardly persuade myaatt 
that 1 am awake, did not every morning convince me 

mmtullv to the contrarj . — I shall now waive the sub- 

., f — ih e dead are at rest, and none but the dead can 
be so. 

"Yon will feel fi>r poor Hobhouse, — Matthews was 
the 'god of his idolatry;' and if intellect could exalt a 
man above hi* fellows, no o N c could refuse him pre-emi- 
nence. I knew him mosl intimately, and valued nun 

tporuonably, bul I am recurring — so let us talk of life 
and the living. 

"If you should feel a disposition to come here, yon 
will find 'beef and a sea-coal fire,' and not ungenerous 
wine. Whether Otway's two other requisites for an 
Englishman or not, 1 cannot tell, but probably one ol 
them.— Let me know when I may expect you, that 1 
may tell you when I go and when return. — I have not 

Vet been to LBJIOS. * * * * * * 

I hwies has been here, and has invited me to Cambridge 
for a week in October, so that, peradventure, we may 
encounter glass to glass. It is gayety (death cannot 
mar it) has done me service ; but, after all, ours was a 
hollow laughter. 



* S-j.' Uiddo HwoJJ, DOU linij, to< aioo J. 



LETTERS, 1811. 



29 



■ You will write to me ? I am solitary, and \ never 
felt solitude irksome before. Your anxiety about tbe 
Critique Oil* *'s book is amu<"mg; as it was anonymous, 
cerres, it was of little consequence: I wish it had pro- 
duced a little more confusion, being a lover of literary 
Are vou doing nothing.' writing nothing.' 
printing nothing .' whv not your Satire on Methodism .' 
the subject (supposing the public to be blind to merit) 
would do wonders. Besides, it would be as well for a 
destined deacon to. prove his orthodoxy. — It really would 
give me pleasure to see you properly appreciated. 1 
sav really, as, being an author, my humanity might be 
suspected. 

" Believe me, dear H. yours always." 



LETTER LXXVIII. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



u Newstead, August 21, 1811. 

* Your letter gives me credit for more acute feelings 
than I possess ; for though 1 feel tolerably miserable, yet 
1 am at the same time subject to a kind of hysterical 
merriment, or rather laughter without merriment, which 
1 can neither account for nor conquer, and yet I do not 
feel relieved bv it ; but an indifferent person would think 
me in excellent spirits. 'We must forget these things, 
and have recourse to our old selfish comforts, or rather 
I able selfishness. I do not think 1 shall return to 
London immediately, and shall therefore accept freely 
what is offered courteously — your mediation between 
me and Murray. I don't think my name will answer 
tbe purpose, and vou must be aware that my plaguy 
Satire will bring the north and south Grub-streets down 
upon the ' Pilgrimage j 3 — but, nevertheless, if Murray 
makes a point of it, and you coincide with him, I will do 
it daringly; so let it be entitled, 'By the Author of 
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 1 My remarks 
on the Romaic, &c. once intended to accompany the 
'Hints from Horace,' shall go along with the other, as 
being in leed more appropriate ; also the smaller poems 
DOW in my possession, with a few selected from those 
published in Hobho:ise r s Miscellany. I have found 
among my poor mother's papers all my letters from the 
Bast, and one in particular of some length from Albania. 
fr'rom this, if necessarv, 1 can work up a noie or two on 
that subject. As I kept no journal, the letters written 
on the spot are the best. But of this anon, when we 
have definitively arranged. 

■ Has Murray shown the work to any one ? He may 
— but I will have no traps for applause. Of course there 
are little things I would wish to alter, and perhaps the 
two stanzas of a buffooning cast on London's Sunday are 
as well left out. I much wish to avoid identifying 
i ,il le Harold's character with mine, and that, in sooth, 
t*- my second objection to my name appearing in the 
ge. When you have made arrangements as to 
bine, si?.-, type, &c. favour me with a reply. I am 
giving you a universe of trouble, which thanks cannot 
a>one for. I made a kind of prose apology for my skep- 
ii is. ii at the head of the MS. which, on recollection, is 
so much more like an attack than a defence, that, haply, 
it might better be omitted : — perpend, pronounce. After 
all, I (car Murray will be in a scrape with the orthodox ; 
but I cannot help it, though I wish him well through it 
As for me, ' I have supped fidl of criticism.' and I don't 
think that the 'most dismal treatise 5 will stir and rouse 
my 'fell of hair 5 till * Bir nam- wood do come to Dunai- 
nane.' 

"I shall continue to write at intervals, and hope you 
will pav me in kind. How does Pratt get on, or rather 
get off Joe Blackett's posthumous stock? You killed 
that poor man among you, in spite of your Ionian friend 
tud myself, who would have saved hun from Pratt, 



poctrv, pnsrnt poivrtv ar.d y.osthtimous oblivion. Cruel 
patronage! to nun a man at lus calling; but then he is a 
divine subject for subscription a r .d biography ; and Pratt, 
who makes the most of his dedications, has inscribed the 
volume to no less than five families of distinction. 

I am sorry vou don't like Harry White ; with a great 
deal of cant, which in him was sincere, (indeed, it killed 
him as vou killed Joe BlackeU,) cerles, there is poesy 
and genius. I don't sav this on account o{ my simile 
and rhymes ;* but surely he was beyond all the Bloom- 
fields and Blacketts, and* the ir*eo I lateral cobblers, whom 
LolR and Pratt have or may kidnap from their calling 
into the service of the trade. You must excuse my flip- 
pancy, for I am writing I know not what, to escape from 
myself Hobhouse is gone to Ireland. Mr. Davies has 
been here on his way to Harrow-gate. 

" You did not know Mr. Matthews ; he was a man of 
the most astonishing powers, as he sufficiently proved at 
Cambridge, bv carrying off more prizes and fellowships, 
against the ablest candidates, than any other graduate on 
"ecord ; but a most decided atheist, indeed, noxiously so, 
for he proclaimed his principles in all societies. I knew 
him well, and feel a loss not easily to be supplied to my- 
self—to Hobhouse never. Let me hear from you, and 
** Believe me, &r " 



LETTER LXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Newstead Abbey, Notts, August 23, 1811. 
"sir, 

a A domestic calamity in the death of a near relation 
has hitherto prevented my addressing you on the subject 
of this letter. — My friend Mr. Dallas "has placed in your 
hands a manuscript poem written by me in Greece, 
which he tells me you do not object to publishing. But 
he also informed me in London that you wished to send 
the MS. to Mr. Gifford. Now, though no one would 
feel more gratified by the chance of obtaining his obser- 
vations on a work than myself there is in such a proceed- 
ing a kind of petition for praise, that neither my pride — 
or whatever you please to call it — will admit. Mr. G. 
is not onlv the first satirist of the day, but editor of one of 
the principal Reviews. As such, lie is the last man 
whose censure (however eager to avoid it) I would de- 
precate by clandestine means. You will therefore re- 
tain the MS. in your own care, or, if it must needs be 
shown, send it to another. Though not very patient of 
censure, I would fain obtain fairly any little praise my 
rhvmes might deserve, at all events not by extortion and 
the humble solicitations of a bandied-about MS. 1 am 
sure a little consideration will convince you it would bo 
wrong. 

" If you determine on publication, I have some smaller 
poems, (never published,) a few notes, and a short disser- 
tation on the literature of the modern Greeks, (written at 
Athens,) which will come in at the end of the volume. — 
And if the present poem should succeed, it is my inten- 
tion, at some subsequent period, to publish some selec- 
tions from my first work, — my Satire, — another nearly 
the same length, and a few other things, with the MS. 
now in your hands, in two volumes. — But of these here- 
after. You will apprize me of your determination. I 
am, sir, " Your very obedient, &C." 



LETTER LXXX. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 



"Newstead Abbey, August 25, 1811. 
" Being fortunately enabled to frank, I do not spare 
scribbling, having sent you packets within the last ten 



1 See " £itf Lis!) BjiUi.' 



30 



LETTERS, 1811. 



days. I am parsing solitary, and do not expect my 
agent to accompanv me to Rochdale before the second 
week in September, a delay which perplexes me, as I 
wish the business over, and should at present welcome 
employment. I sent you exordiums, annotations, &c. for 
the forthcoming quarto, if quarto it is. to be; and I also 
have written to Mr. Murray my objection to sending 
the MS. to Juvenal, but allowing him to sho*v it to any 
others of the calling. Hobhouse is anion'.' iIm* types al- 
ready ; so, between his prose and my verse, the world 
will be decentlv drawn upon for its paper money and pa- 
tience. Besides all this, my ( Imitation of Horace' is 
gasping for the press at Cawthorn's, but I am hesitating 
as to the how and the when^ the single or the double, the 
present or the future. You must excuse all this, for I 
have nothing to say in tliis lone mansion but of myself, 
and vet I would willingly talk or think of aught else. 

" What are you about to do? Do you think of perch- 
ing ID Cumberland, as you opined when I was in the me- 
tropolis? If you mean to retire, why not occupy Miss 
* * *'s 'Cottage of Friendship, 1 late the seat of Cob- 
bler Joe, for whose death you and others are answer- 
able? His ' Orphan Daughter' (pathetic Pratt!) will, 
certes, turn out a shoemaking Sappho. Have you no 
remorse? I think that elegant address to Miss Dallas 
should be inscribed on the cenotaph which Miss * * * 
means to stitch to his memory. 

" The newspapers seein much disappointed at his 
majesty's not dying, or doing something better. I pre- 
sume it is almost over. If parliament meets in October, 
I shall be in town to attend. I am also invited to Cam- 
bridge for the beginning of that month, but am first to 
jaunt to Rochdale. Now Matthews is gone, and Hob- 
house in Ireland, I have hardly one left there to bid me 
welcome, except my inviter. At thrce-and-twenty I 
am left alone, and what more can we be at seventy ? It 
is true, I am young enough to begin again, but with 
whom can I retrace the laughing part of life? It is odd 
how few of my friends have died a quiet death, — I mean, 
in their beds. But a quiet life is of more consequence. 
Yet one loves squabbling and jostling better than vawn- 
ing. This last word admonishes me to relieve you from 
" Yours very truly, &c." 



LETTER LXXXI. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

"Newstead Abbey, August 27, 1811. 

"I was so sincere in my note on the late Charles 
Matthews, and do feel mvself so totally unable to do 
justice to his talents, that the passage must stand for the 
very reason you bring against it. To him all the men I 
ever knew were pigmies. He was an intellectual giant 
It is true I loved YV. better ; he was the earliest and the 
dearest, and one of the few one could never repent of 
having loved: but in ability — ah! you did not know 
Matthews ! 

"'Childe Harold' may wait and welcome — books are 
never the worse for delay in the publication. So you 
have got our heir, George Anson Byron, and his sister, 
with you. 



K You may say what you please, but you are one of 
the murderers of Blackett, and yet you won't allow 
Harry White's genius. Setting aside his bigotry, he 
surely ranks next to Chatterton. It is astonishing how 
Ultle he was known ; and at Cambridge no one thoughl 
or heard of such a man, till his death rendered all notice 
useless. For my own part, I should have been most 
proud of such an acquaintance: his very prejudices 
were respectable. There is a sucking epic poet at 
Granta, a Mr. Townsend, proUgi of the lato Cumber- 



land. Did you ever hear of him and his ' Armageddon V 
1 think his plan (the man 1 don't know) borders on the 
sublime ; though, perhaps, the anticipation of the ' Last 
Day,' (according to you Nazareno,) is a lit Ue too daring: 
at least, it looks like telling the Lord what he is to do, 
and might remind an ill-natured person of the line— 

" ' And foob ru»U in where iMiRtl* fear lo trad.' 

a But I don't mean to cavil, only other folks will, and he 
may bring all the lambs of Jacob Behmen about his ears. 
However, I hope he will bring it to a conclusion, though 
Milton is in his way. 

" Write to me — I dote on gossip — and make a bow to 
Ju— ,* and shake George by the hand for me ; but, take 
care, for he has a sad sea-paw. 

"P. S. I would ask George here, but I don't know how 
to amuse him — all my horses were sold when I left F.ng- 
land, and I have not had time to replace them. .Never- 
theless, if he will come down and shoot in September, be 
will be very welcome ; but he must bring a gun, for 1 
gave away all mine to Ali Pacha, and other Turks. 
Dogs, a keeper, and plenty of game, with a very large 
manor, I have — a lal;e, a boat, house-room, and neat 
wi?us. n 



\ 



LETTER LXXXII. 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ.. 



°Newstead Abbey, Sept. 4, 1811. 
"my dear sir, 
" I am at present anxious, as Cawthorn seems to wish 
it, to have a small edition of the "Hints from Horace" 
published immediately ; but the Latin (the most difficult 
poem in fhe language) renders it necessary fo be very 
particular not only in correcting the proofs with Horace 
open, but in adapting the parallel passages of the imita- 
tion in such places to the original as may enable the rea- 
der not to lose sight of the allusion. I don't know whe- 
ther I ought to ask you to do this, but I am too far off* to 
do it for myself; and if you can condescend to my school- 
boy erudition, you will oblige mc by setting this thing 
going, though you will smile at the importance I attach 
to it. " Believe me, ever yours, 

a Bvro.i ." 



LETTER LXXXIIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Newstcad Abbey, Notts, Sept. 5, 1811. 
"sir, 
"The time seems to be past when (as Dr. Johnson 
said) a man was certain to 'hear the truth from his 
bookseller, 1 for you have paid me so many compliments, 
that, if I was not the veriest scribbler on earth, I should 
feel affronted. As I accept your compliments, it is but 
fair I should give equal or greater credit to your objec- 
tions, the more so, as I believe them to be well founded. 
With regard to the political and metaphysical parts, I am 
afraid I can alter nothing; but I have high authority for 
my errors in that point, for even the jfcneid was a politi- 
co! poem, and written for a political purpose ; and as to 
my unlucky opinions on subjects of more importance, I 
am too sincere in them for recantation. On Spanish 
affairs I have said what 1 saw, and every day confirms 
me in that notion of the result formed on the spot; and 
I rather think bonest John Bull is beginning to come 
round again to that sobriety which MasBena'fe retreat 
had begun to reel from its centre — the usual consequence 
of unusual success. So you perceive I cannot alter the 
sentiments ; but if there are any alterations in the struc- 
ture of the versification you would wish to be made, I 



' Julia Heftlb, George Byron'i lUur. 



LETTERS, ISM. 



81 



will tag rhymes and turn stanzas as much as yon please. 
As for the '■orthodox] let us hope they will buy, on pur- 
pose to abuse — you will forgive the one, if they will do 
the other. You are aware that any thing from my pen 
must expect no quarter, on many accounts; and as the 
present publication is of a nature very different from the 
former, we must not be sanguine. 

" You have given me no answer to my question — tell 
me fairly, did you show the MS. to some of your corps 
— I sent an introductory stanza to Mr. Dallas, to be for- 
warded to you ; the poem else will open too abruptly.* 
The stanzas bad better be numbered in Roman charac- 
ters. There is a disquisition on the literature of the 
modern Greeks, and some smaller poems, to come in at 
the close. These are now at Newstead, but will be sent 
in time. If Mr. D. has lost the stanza and note annexed 
to it, write, and I will send it myself. — You tell me to add 
two Cantos, but I am about to visit my collieries in Lan- 
cashire on the 15th inst. which is so unpoetical an em- 
ployment that I need say no more. I am, sir, 

" Your most obedient, &c." 



LETTER LXXXIV. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



"Newstead Abbey,Sept. 7, 1811. 

° As Giffbrd has been ever my ' Magnus Apollo,' any 
approbation, such as you mention, would, of course, be 
more welcome than 'all Bokara's vaunted gold, than alt 
the gems of Samarkand.' But I am sorry the MS. was 
shown to him in such a manner, and I had written to 
Murray to say as much, before I was aware that it was 
too late. 

" Your objection to the expression ' central line,' I can 
only meet by saying that, before Childe Harold left Eng- 
land, it was his full intention to traverse Persia, and re- 
turn by India, which he could not have done without 
passing the equinoctial. 

" The other errors you mention, I must correct in the 
progress through the press. I feel honoured by the wish 
of such men that the poem should be continued, but to do 
that, I must return to Greece and Asia ; I must have a 
warm sun and a blue sky ; I cannot describe scenes so 
dear to me by a sea-coal fire. I had projected an addi- 
tional Canto when I was in the Troad and Constantino- 
ple, and if I saw them again, it would go on ; but under 
existing circumstances and sensations, I have neither 
harp, ' heart, nor voice' to proceed. I feel that you are 
all right as to the metaphysical part ; but I also feel that 
I am sincere, and that if I am only to write, ' ad axptan- 
dum Luiew-*)' I nii^ht as well edit a magazine at once, or 
spin canzonettas for Vau.xhail. 

**** * * * * 

1 My work must make its way as well as it can ; I 
know I have every thing against me, angry poets and 
prejudices ; but if the poem is a/>oem, it will surmount 
these obstacles, and if no(, it deserves its fate. Your 
friend's Ode I have read — it is no great compliment to 
pronounce it far superior to S * *'s on the same sub- 
ject, or to the merits of the new chancellor. It is evi- 
dently the production of a man of taste, and a poet, 
though I should not be willing to say it was fully equal to 
what might be expected from the author of ' Horce Ionica? 
I thank you fur it, and that is more than I would do for 
any other Ode of the present day. 

"I am very sensible of your good wishes, and, indeed, 
I have need of them. My whole life has been at vari- 
ance with propriety, not to say decency ; my circum- 
stances are become involved ; my friends are dead or 
estranged, and my existence a dreary void. In Mat- 
thews I have lost my ( guide, philosopher, and friend ;' 



1 Tbe prewut icccud iuaa originally Uuod (ail. 



in Wingfield a friend only, but one whom I could have 
wished to have preceded in his long journey. 

u Matthews was indeed an extraordinary man ; it has 
not entered into the heart of a stranger to conceive such 
a man ; there was the stamp of immortalitv in all he said 
or did ; and now what is he? When we see such men 
pass away and be no more — men, who seem created to 
display what the Creator could make his creatures, ga- 
thered into corruption, before tbe maturity of minds that 
might have been the pride of posterity, what are we to 
conclude 1 For my own part I am bewildered. To me 
he was much, toHobhouse everv thing. — My poor Hob- 
house doted on Matthews. For me, I did not love qui! e 
so much as I honoured him ; I was indeed so sensible of 
his infinite superiority, that though I did not envy, I stood 
in awe of it. He, Hobhouse, Davics, and myself, formed 
a coterie of our own at Cambridge and elsewhere. Da- 
vies is a wit and man of the world, and feels as much as 
such a character can do ; but not as Hobhouse has been 
affected. Davies, who is not a scribbler, has always 
beaten us all in the war of words, and by his colloquial 
[towers at once delighted and kept us in order. H. and 
myself always had the worst of it with the other two ; and 
even M. yielded to the dashing vivacity of S. D. But I 
am talking to you of men, or boys, as if you cared about 
such beings. 

" I expect mine agent down on the I4lh to proceed to 
Lancashire, where, I hear from all quarters, that I have 
a very valuable property in coals, &c. I then intend to 
accept an invitation to Cambridge in October, and shall, 
perhaps, run up to town. I have four invitations — to 
Wales, Dorset, Cambridge, and Chester ; but I must bo 
a man of business. I am quite alone, as these long 
letters sadly testify. I perceive, by referring to your 
letter, that the Ode is from the author ; make my thanks 
acceptable to him. His muse is worthy a nobler theme. 
You will write, as usual, I hope. I wish you a good 
evening, a And am, &c.' 



LETTER LXXXV. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 10, 1811 

" DEAR SIR, 

"I rather think in one of the opening stanzas of Childe 
Harold there is this line — 

" ' 'Tis said at limes the sullen (ear would start.' 

Now, a line or two after, I have a repetition of the 
epithet ' sullen reverie;' so (if it be so) let us have, 
1 speechless reverie,' or l silent reverie ;' but, at all events, 
do away the recurrence. 

"Yours ever, ° B . 

"P. S. Perhaps, as 'reverie 1 implies silence of itselC 
wayward, downcast, gloomy, wrinkling, joyless, may be 
better epithets." 



LETTER LXXXVI. 



TO MR. MURRAV. 



"Newstead Abbey, Notts, Sept. 14, 1811 
"sir, 
'Since your former letter, Mr. Dallas informs me that 
the MS. has been submitted to ihe perusal of Mr. Gifford, 
most contrary to my wishes, as Mr. D. could have ex- 
plained, and as my own letter to you did, in fact, explain, 
wit.i my motives for objecting to such a proceeding. 
Some late domestic events, of which you are probably 
aware, prevented my letter from being sent before ; in- 
deed, I hardly conceived you would so hastily thrust my 
productions into the hands of a stranger, who could be an 
little pleased by receiving them, as their author is at 
their being olfered in such a manner, and to such a man. 



32 



LETTERS, 1611. 



"My address, when I leave Newstead, will he to 
Rochdale, Lancashire ;' but I have not yet Bind tin- 
day of departure, and I will apprize you when readv to 
set off. 

" You have placed me in a very ridiculous situation, 
but it is past, and nothing more is to be said on the subject. 

You hinted to me thai you wished s e alterations to be 

made ; if they have nothing to do with politics or religion, 
f will make them with great readiness. 

"1 am, sir, &c. &c." 



LETTER LXXXVII. 

TO R. C DALLAS, Esq. 

"Newstead Abbey.Sept. 15, 1811. 

" MV DEAR SIR, 

"Mv agent will not be here for at least a week, anil 
even afterwards my letters will be forwarded i" Roch- 
dale. I am sorry that Murray should yruan on my ac- 
count, though that is better than the anticipation of ap- 
plause, of which men and books are generally disap- 
pointed. 

"The notes I sent are merely matter to be divided, ar- 
ranged, and published for miles hereafter, in proper 
places; at present I am too much occupied v, ith earthly 
cares, to waste time or trouble upon rhyme, or its modern 
indispensables, annotations. 

" Pray let me hear from you, when at leisure. I have 
mitten to abuse Murray for showing the MS. to Mr. 
Gilford ; who must certainly think it was done by my 
wish, though you know the contrary. 

" Believe me, vours ever, 
«B ." 



LETTER LXXXVIII. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ.. 

"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 16, 1811. 

" DEAR SIR, 

a I send you a motto — * 

" ' L'univere eel uneee|*tce de lirre, tic.' 

If not too long, I think it will suit the book. The pas- 
sage is from a French volume, a great favourite with me, 
which I picked up in the Archipelago. I don't think it 
is well known in England. Moubron is the author, but 
it is a work sixty years old. Good morning. I won't 
Lake up your time. " Yours ever, 

"Uvkom." 



LETTER LXXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 16, 1811. 

* I return the proof, which I should wish to be shown 
to Mr. Dallas, who understands typographical arrange- 
ments much better than 1 can pretend to do. The 
printer may place the notes in his own way, or any way, 
so that they are out of my way ; I care nothing about 
types or margins. 

"If you have any communication to make, I shall be 
hero at least a week or ten days longer. 

" I am, sir, &c. &c." 



LETTER XC. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

■ Newstead Abbey, Sept. 17, 1811. 
■ I can easily excuse your not writing, as you have, I 
hope, something better to do, and you must pardon my 



frequent invasions on your attention, because I have at 
this moment nothing to interpose betwe n you and my 
epistles. 

" I cannot settle to any thing, and my days pass, with 
the exception of bodily exercise tosome extent, with uni- 
form indolence, and idle insipidity. I have been ex- 
pecting, and still expect, mv agent, when I shall have 

enough to occupy my reflections in business of no very 
pleasant aspert. Before my journey to Rochdale, you 
shall have due notice where to address me — I believe at 

the postolnce of that township. From Murray 1 re- 
ceived a second proof of the same p.igcs, which I re- 
quested him to show you, thai any thing which may have 
escape,! my observation may !»■ deteeled helbre the prin- 
ter lavs the corner-stone of an errata column. 

" I rou now not quite alone, having an old acquaintance 
and schoolfellow with me, so oid, indeed, ih.it we have 
nothing nero to say on any subject, and yawn at each 
other in a sort of quiet inquietude. I bear nothing from 
Cawthorn, or Captain llohhouse, and their quarto — Lord 
have mercy on mankind! We come on like Cerberus 
with our triple publications. As f,r myself, by myself, I 

must be satisfied with a comparison to Janus. 

" I am not at all pleased with Murray for showing tho 
MS. ; and 1 am certain Gilford must see it in the am I 
light that I do. His praise is nothing to the purpose: 
what could he say? He could not spit in the face of one 
who had praised bun in every possible way. I must 
own that I wish to have the impression removed from bis 
mind, that I had any concern in such a paltry transac- 
tion. The more I think, the more it disquiets me; so t 
will say no more about it. It is bad enough to be a 
scribbler, without having recourse to such shifts to extort 
praise, or deprecate censure. It is anticipating it is 
begging, kneeling, adulating — the devil! the devil! the 
devil ! and all without my wish, and contrary to my ex- 
press desire. 1 wish Murray had been tied to Payne's 
neck when he jumped into the Paddington Canal, and so 
tell him, — that is tho proper receptacle for publishers. 
You have thoughts of settling in the country, why not 
try N»tts ? I think there are places which would suit 
vou in all points, and then you are nearer the metropolis. 
But of this anon. 

" I am yours, &c." 



1 r'wr " L'lnldc H.uvkl." 



LETTER XCL 

TO R. c. DALLAS, ESQ.. 

" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 17, 1811. 
" DEAR SIR, 

6 I have just discovered some pages of observations on 
the modern Greeks, written at Athens, by me, under the 
title of ' Noctes Attics. 1 They witf do to cut up into 
notes, and to be cut up afterwards, which is all that notes 
are generally good for. They were written at Athens, 
as you w ill see by the date. 

" Y'ours ever. " B * 



LETTER XC1I. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

« Newstead Abbey, Sept. 21, 1811. 
« I have shown my respect for your suggestions by 
adopting them; but I have made many alterations in the 
first proof, over and above ; as, for example : 

<"0h ThOU, in IltUa* dcemM of heavenly birth, 

&C.&C.' 

" • Since, ttamtdfiM o/l by later lyra on earta, 

Mine, &C.' 
" ' Ycl there / 'ee wnncter'rf by the vaunted rifl ;» 

and so on. So I have got rid of Dr. Lowth, and ' drunk 



LETTERS, 1611 



33 



to boot, and very glad I am to say so. I have also sul- 
icniznj the line as heretofore, and in short have bo it 
quite conformable. 

*' Prav, wriie ; you sliall hear when I remove to Lanes. 
I have hrought you and mv friend Jtiveual Hodgson Upon 
tn y bark, on the score of revelation. You oo-e fi r\r.m 
be is quite slfit-i/i-g ; and if he takes half (he pains to 
save his own soul, which he volunteers to redeem mine, 
greal will be his reward hereafter. I honour and tliajak 
you both, but am convinced by neither. Now for notes. 
Besides those I have sent, I shall send the observations 
on the Edinburgh Reviewer's remarks on the modern 
Greek, an Albanian song iu the Albanian (riot Greek) lan- 
guage, specimens of modern Greek from their New 
Testament, a comedy of Goidoni's translated, eme scan , 
•.prospectus of A friend's book, and perhaps a song or 
two, nit in Romaic, besides their Pa>er Noster ; so there 
will be enough, it" not too much, with what I have already 
■sent. Have you received ihe ' Nodes Attica? .'' I sent 
also an annotation on Portugal. Hobhouse is also foith- 



LETTER XCHf. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



I have altered it as follows :■ 



« Newstead Abbey, Sept. 23, 1811. , 
m IJsboa is the Portuguese word, consequently ihe 
eery best. Ulissipont is pedantic ; and, as I have Hello* 
and E ros not long before, there would be something like 
an affectation of Greek terms, which I wish to avoid, 
since I shall have a perilous quanlitv of modern Greek in 
my notes, as specimens of the tongue; therefore Lisboa 
may keep its place. You are right about the ' Hints f 
they must not precede the 'Romaunt;' but Cawthorn 
will be savage if they don't; however, keep them back, 
and him in good humuur y if we can, but do not let him 
publish. 

" I have adopted, I believe, most of your suggestions, 
out ' Lisboa' will be an exception, to prove the rule. I 
have sent a quantity of Roles, and shall continue ; but 
pray let them be copied ; no devil can read my hand. 
By-t lie-by, I do not mean to exchange the ninth verse of 
the 'Good Nighl.* I have no reason to suppose my 
dog better than his brother brutes, mankind ; and Argv* 
we know to be a fable.* The ' Cosmopolite* was an ac- 
quisition abroad. I do not believe it is to be found in 
tncland. H is an amusing little volume, and full of 
French flippancy. I read, though I do not speak, the 
language. 

I wiU be angry with Murray. It was a bookselling, 
backshop, Paternoster-row, paltry proceeding, and if the 
experiment had turned out as it deserved. I would have 
raised aH Fleet-street, and borrowed the giant's staff 
from St. Dimstan's church, to immolate the betrayer of 
trust. I have written to him as he never was written to 
before bv an author, I Ml be sworn, and I hope vou will 
amplify my wrath, till it has an effect upon him. You tell ' 
me always yon have much to write about. Write it, | 
but let us drop metaphysics; — on that point we shall 
never agree. I am dull and drowsy, as usual. I do no- 
thing, and even (fiat nothing fatigues me. Adieu." 



1 Full fvom iIm? tip nrt o'" joy's delicions apHnes 
Some titter o'er the fljwers its bubbfcng venom flings.* 

" If you will point out the stanzas on C intra which you 
wish recast, I will send you mine answer. Be good 
enough to address your letters here, and they will either 
be forwarded or saved till my return. My agent comes 
to-morrow, and we shall set out immediately. 

" The press must not proceed of course without my 
seeing the proofs, as I have much to do. Pray do you 
think any alterations should be made in the stanzas on 
Vaihis? I should be sorry to make any improper 
allusion, as I merely wish to adduce an example of 
wasted wealth, run! the reil^ninji which arose in survey- 
ing the most desolate mansion to the most beautiful spot 
I ever beheld. 

" Pray keep Cawthorn back; he was not to begin tiut 
Novemb'T, and even that will be two months too soon. 
I am so sorry my hand is unintelligible ; but I can neither 
deny J tur accusation, not remove the cause of it. — It is 
a sad scrawl, certes. — A perilous quantity of annotation 
hath been sent; I think almost enough, with the speci- 
men-; of Romaic 1 mean to annex. 

" I will have nothing to say to your metaphysics, and 
allegories of rocks and beaches; we shall all go to the 
bottom together, so ' let us eat and drink, for to-morrow, 
&.C* 1 am as comfortable in my creed as others, inas- 
much a^ it is better to sleep than to be awatoe. 

" I have heard nothing of Murray ; I hope he is 
ashamed of himself. He sent me a vastly complimentary 
epistle, with a request to alter the two, and finish another 
canto. I sent him as civil an answer as if I had been 
engaged lo translate by the sheet, declined altering any 
thing in sentiment, but offered to tag rhymes, and meni 
them as long as he liked. 

" I w ill write from Rochdale when I arrive, if my affairs 
allow me ; but I shall be so busy and savage all the time, 
with the whole set, that my letters will be as pettish as 
myself. If so, lay the blame on coal and coal-heavers. 
Very probably I may proceed to town by way of New- 
stead on my return from Lanes. I mean to be at Cam- 
bridge in November, so that at all events we shall be 
nearer. ( will not apologize for the trouble I have given, 
and do give you, though I ought to do so; but I have 
worn out my politest periods, and can only say that I am 
very much obliged to you. 

" Believe me, yours always, 
"Byron." 



LETTER XCIV. 

TO R. C DALLAS, ESq. 

" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 26, 181 1 . 
"my dear sir, 
** In a stanza towards the end of canto first there is, in 
the concluding line, 

'Some bitter bubWes up, and e'en oit roses 'ling- .' 



LETTER XCV. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESq. 

11 Newstead Abbey. Oct. 10. 1811. 

" DEA8 FTR % 

(i Stanzas 24. 26, 29, though crossed, must stand with 
their attcTatinii.s. The other three are cut out to your 
wishes. * We must, however, have a repetition of the 
proof, which is the first. I will write soon. 

" Yours ever, *' B. 

u P. S. Yesterday I returned from Lanes." 



* Sec f *o»t2S3. 

5 



* The following are Hip fix st.inwis as they originally it -rod. Those 
■ ■*, us >1, '2'\ i9, appeared in the poem, in nil filtered state. 
i im h . .| there at 21. -ii, 26, of ihe first canto. The stanzas marked 
l*low 2J, 27, and 2a, were tlmee omitted : 

XXIV. 

B>Wil ttir hull when ehiefi were Intc convened, 

i in, doom diapleutaj onto British eye! 
\\ til tp, lo I a fiend, 

A little (lend IM1 -■ Offl iiif:-- .inly, 

Tlirrr sit* n> j M i< In '•■ ftd, and by 

'i .-.i. ii hungaacal and mM« ■ 

\1 !.■ i. ' ... ..■ I ■ > inine ■|.ell Welles ley ; 

Ami sundry ■tVTis.turxtadoni itv ■ 
WhertSftt iu Uftiaia poinU and l.i ..-Ii. *ilh all LU wul. 



34 



I.KTTEUS, 1611. 



LETTER XCVI. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



"Ncwstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811. 
u l have returned from Lanes, ami ascertained that 
my properly there may bo made very valuable, but vari- 
ous circumstances very much circumscribe my exertions 
at present. I shall be in town on business in the begin- 
ning of November, and perhaps at Cambridge before the 
end of this mouth ; but of my movements you shall be 



xxv. 

In golden e haracters, right well designed, 

First on tbe lisi apneareUi one " Juuot " 
Then certain other glorious name* we find ! 

(Which rhyme compel le I h nie lo place below ;) 
Dull victors 1 baffled hya vanquished foe, 

Wheedled by couyuge tongues of laurels due, 
Bund, worthy of each other, in ■■ row 

Sin Arthur, Harry, end the ilixiard Hew 
Dulryinple, seely wight, sure dupe ul lollicr lew. 

XXVI. 
Convention i* die dwnrfy demon 

Thai foiled the knights in Marituve's dome: 
Of brains id brmini they had] be Litem beguiled, 

And turned a nil i shallow Joy in gloom. 

For well I wot, when first the nowe did come, 

Thai Vimiera'e Held by Gaul was lost ; 
For i- ii . ■ ■- r-.t , ■■ ■ »e paper scarce had room, 

Such uiens teemed lor our tri phaut host. 

In Courier, Chronicle, auJ ike in Morning Post. 

XXVII. 
But wheo Convention sent his handy work, 

Pens, tongues, feet, baud., cuiubined in wild uproar ; 
Mayor, aldermen, laid down IV uplifted fork ; 

The bench of Bishops hilt forgot to snore : 
Stern Cobbett, who for uio> whole week forbore 

To question aught, once more with transport leapt, 
And hit his dev'lisli quill agon, Bl ■ : 

With foe such treaty never should be kept. 
Then buret the blatant* beeel, and roared eud raged, and — slept! ! 
XXVIII. 

Thue unto hcavi'ii appealed tbe people ; hesveoj 

\\ iniii loves the lieges ol oni gi ..■ lo 
Decreed thai ere our general! Were forgivi n, 

Inquiry should be held abuut the thing. 
But mercy cloiked the babes benealh her « tog ; 

And as i hey spared our foe* eoepared we then. 

(Where wu the. pity of our tiretfoi Byng?)1 

Yet knaves, not idiole, ehoutd the law eondetno. 
Then live ye, gallant knights ! and bleaa your Judges' phlegm. 

KX1X. 

But ever since that martial synod met, 

Britanole sickens, ' lintra I ai thy name ; 
Aad folks In office at die m* sweat. 

And lain w.mld blush, if blush they could, for shame. 
Bow will posterity the deed pre, Linn ! 
Will not owe end fellow natlooe super, 

T" view the si; i h,iiii| , i h. ,He.t of I heir l.illie 

By foes in fight o'ertlirown, yet victors here, 
Where scorn her finger points through many acomin™ year? 

Originally, the "little page," and "yeoman," of ' hilde Harohi 
Canto 1. were introduced in the following siuiiias, » hull were aAe! 
a ardd erased : 

And of bis train there was a henchman page 
A peasant boy, who servud liismaeter well ; 
Ami often would 'us pre n kiome prate engage 

ChUde Brmin'eear when his j I heart did swell 

\\ lib sullen thoughts thai hedlsdnln'd la lell 
Then would he emlle on him, and \lwinl smiled, 

When aught that from bis v i» li|is archly fell 

The gloomy film from Harold's eye beguiled. 

Him end one yeoman only did he take 
To travel eastward lo n mi oiuiirie ; 

And 1 1 gh the i'"v wai grieved ui leave the lake, 

Oil whose bur banki he grow from infant y, 
Eneoons Us little heart beat merrily. 

\\ itb ln.pi ul" ii.i ml.'ii ii. ii i - ■ r i. - n> behold, 

And man] things rigl relloustosee, 

Of which our vaunting travellers oft have told, 
From Maodeville • 



This stanza was also omitted : 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spa n [arils know, 
SighiH, saints, antiques, ails, anecdotes, and war, 

Go, hie ye hence 10 Pal* !■ r row, — 

Are they not written m ihe boke ol Can ? 

Green ertn's Knight and Europe's wandering star | 

Then listen, readers, to 'be Mm, ol Ink, 

Hear what he did, and sought, ind wrote elar, 

All ihttM are COOp'd within one niuarto'e brink, 
This borrow, steal, (don't buy,) and tell ul what you think. 

• " Blatant beast," a figure for the mnh ; 1 think first used by Smollel 
•n his Adventures of on Atom. Horace has the " Belli) mullorum c 
t ," In England, fortunate enough, Hie illustrious mobility have 

t Dy this query It is not meant that our foolish generali should have 
been shut, ton that Byng might heve been Syeml . though the one swflei 
ed and ib>- others escaped, probably for Candide's rea-ou, " pour «tu:ou- 
Tager Its autr-t." 

1 In the JHS the names " PoMu " and " Rupert " had been NCCC* 
lively inserted here and scratched ou: ag*iu. 



regularly apprizi d. Yourobjectjons I have in par* dune 
away by alterations, which I liope will suffice; and I 
lave sent two or three additional stanzas for both 
Fyttcs? I have been a^ain shocked with a death, and 
haw lost one very dear to me in happier times ; but ' I 
have almost forgot the taste of grief,' and 'supped full of 
horrors 1 till 1 have become callous, nor have I a tear left 
for an event which five years ago would have bowed 
down mv head to the earth. It seems as though 1 wero 
to experience in my youth the greatest misery of age. 
My friends fill around me, and I shall be left a lonely 



The second paragraph in Die preface waa originally thus: 
"It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I eel • 
high value, that in the fictitious character of ' Uuilde Harold," I may m- 

_.,.,,,, i i. .iv,u ■ drawn 'from myself.' Thl 1 beg leave once 
I r all to disclaim i a anted a character to give some connexions to the 

poem, ine adopted suited my purpose is wall ai any ■ ■■ 

some very trivial particulars, and those might i.e 

grounda for such an idea ; but in the main points, l should hope none 
Lhat win ii die author speaks in Ins 
own person, he a,-*<inies ■ very different tone from ihul of 

' The cheerless thing, the man without a friend, 1 

at least till death had deprived him of his nearest connexions 

I . i egotism, which proceeds from my wish to dis- 
card any probable imputoll >1 it m ihe texl." 

The note to Canto I.slonta2I, was in the manuscript as follows: 
" In Mir year 1809, It la ■ well-known fact, that the awawii nations in 
the streets ul l.lsbrtn and its vicinity, were not Confined by the ■'■"'• 
guese to their countrymen ; but Knglishmen were daily hulchi 
su lai from the am vivors obtaining redi ■ d ' nol 'o 

fere it they perceived their compatriot defending himsell sgi • 

amiable allies. I wns once slopped in the way lolhe theaire, at eight Ui 
Ql evening, win n the itrei ts were not more empty i ■ 
ire, opposite W iu "/'?" tftop, and in a carriage with a friend, by three 
,,i ,,,,,,..,■■,.,.,.■ ; ,u , i had we nol fortunately been armed, I bnve nul lbs 
lea-i d milt we ihould b.ive * adorned a tale, 1 instead of telling It. We 

have heard v lei ol thi P mesa lately, and their ealTantry,— 

,n .iv li.-. i'. eu H ' oni i; yet ' wo me h 

were well I 1 Thej must light a great many hours 'by Shrewsbury 
clock,' before tbe number of their slain equals that of our countrymen 
butchered bj those kind creatures, now melemorpboaed into l Caoa« 
dores,' and whai not, I merely state a fncl nol confined to Portugal, 
i.T in Sicily and Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome 
a ve i .,_.,. nigh i Ij . and uoi a Su ilion or Maltese is ever punished ' 'l be 

necli'fi ul | in 1 1 'i i- il.-iL'r;ircful lo our government and governors, for 

n rders are bb notorious as the moon that shines upon tbein,Utd 

Hie npathy thai overlooks them. The Portuguese, il is t" be hoped, are 
complimented with the Forlorn Hope.' If the cowardi an 
brnve. (like thi ■• It ol tbeil kind, in a cm ner, ) pray lei them di 
|!„l there il i - thi >e ' ■'■ .."-i »»J ,,■/ ithcy nei 

' in ihe Npifiarn.) and all the tha- 

i .uvmii'ks, do .miai s 1 in dilRdinl /.. nnd U. 1*. UJ. 

iVmii ' .in .uloin e' ■ ■ :■ 'i l"i ihe li-i- ■■■ ■ 

i it,- li.m ■ I l!i n.-ii brncvol^iice. Well, we have fought nnd sttb- 

scribed, mid bestowed pccr.iges, end huned the kil 
mill |,., , ; nnd lo! nil this is to be dune over again I Like ' TotfD| 
The. 1 (In Goldsmith's t.'i'lsen of the World,! as we ' grow older, we 
grow in '.■•■< ihe l idler.' It would be pleasant to learn wh<* will mb> 

ecribe for iw.inor shout the year 1825, and what na will send filly 

thousand men. first to be d. cimated in the capil J, and then il 

again (In the Irish fashion nine out uf ten) in the '.id ol honour, which, 

as Serjeant Kite says, is i onsidrrably larger nnd more <• nodioui than 

tha ■ | M .i ..| \\ .ire.' 'lii ei i they uinvi have a poet to write thi 

i g« juily beaiow the uroiits o( the well nnd 



of III 

n idi Ij i led qua 



I ud ml ihe ' 

r the hull-masted Higlil leea. l.or.1 W i g> 

tun however, has enacted relv; and so did his oriental 

whom i law chori neerinj nvci the French flag, met heard dipping bad) 

Spanish, eflei lie lo I r of i ndTx, ou 

I ! i na f into that city nnd ihe nit of some live thou* 

imikI bold B tie "in oi tin* * best of all possible worlds.' Sort ly arere 

we pusded how to dispose ol thai same victory ol Talavei > 

..!.,,, for every body claimed it, The ^i>a- 
■ 1 1 it n ue*fut, nnd made no great mi 
the Viscount ; tbe French calledi- inei**, (Iu ro* great discomfiture, for 

a French consul stopped mj lh in Greece with « c etlleut ' »ria(ta« 

/., ii- -, ;n i ai I bud killed Sebastians ' is buckram,' nnd King .1 nh la 

Kendal green,', 1 nnd we have yet determined 

■ cerles it was no t -own. Howbeil, Massena ' 

fort and as we have not been iu the ha il 

,,,,-., ,i . | er we are a little awkwatd nt first. ^>o doubl 

we sball Improve. 01 it not, we bnve nnly to lake to our old way of m- 
■ I. ni homo." 

Thl following uote lo < anto II. stauza 3, was in the original tninu- 
Id ipt . Dill omitted in the publication : 

" In this age nl be:.. irv. when the puritan nnd priest have ebengeg 
place*, and tbe wreti hedcatholli is visited with the ' smaol hisfiilban, 

w o generations far beyond the pale of th it, the cast 

ol 0] ■ n in these etanr-aswilldoubtlesa meet with manyn contemptuous 

anathema. But let it be remembered, that the spirit they i 

deal ling, not sneering, aheptlcism ; that he who ha- seen li 

urn I Mi. I. in <.M|.<i»iii -i ..niend.iie (or nmsiiT) ovei ihe former shrihea 

,,l Polytheism,— who h«s left in his own ( ouuiry ' i ban sees lbaukln| 
(Jod that they are not publleam and sinner,,' nnd Pnaniardi in tbe'rs, 
abhorring the heretics, who have holpen them in then need ,— will be 

.. UtUfl. I ewildeml, and begin to think that »s only one of then eon 

be rr'ht , fbev muv iih»! ul i be in lie ^ roue. With reganl io morale, mid 

■ of religion on mankind, il appeare,from nil historical n-«ti- 

mnny.lo have had lei » effect in uinVing them lovp their n.^'il»ior» 
than inducing that cordial christian abhorrence between sectaries and 

schismatics. The Turks and (lu-'kera are ,|, e n , OM tl il, r ..nl. If an in- 
fidel pari his hrralik 'u lh> former, hr mnv rrsv how. when, and where 
hepiease* ; and ihe mdd tenets and devout deme-iwui of jlie Uiler, make 
their ii ■ e. the truest comaieuiary on the Senuou en tha Mount. 



LETTERS, 1811. 



35 



tree before I am withered. Other men can always lake 
refuge m their families ; I have no resource but my own 
reflections, ami they present no prospect here or here- 
after, except the selfish satisfaction of surviving my bet- 
ters. 1 am indeed very wretched, and you will excuse 
my living so, as you know I am not apt to cant of sen- 
sibility. 

" Instead of tiring yourself with my concerns, I should 
be glad to hear your plans of rc'irement. I suppose 
you would not like to be wholly shut out of society ' 
Now I know a large village or small town, about twelve 
miles oflj where your family would have the advantage 
af verv genteel society, without the hazard of being an- 
ooyed by mercantile affluence; where you would meet 
with men of information and independence ; and where I 
have friends to whom I should be proud to introduce 
yon. There are besides, a coffee-room, assemblies, &c. 
&c. which bring people together. jVlv mother had a 
house there some years, and I am well acquainted with 
the economy of Sourhwell, the name of this little com- 
monwealth. Lastly, you will not be very remote from 
me; and though I am the verv worst companion for 
young people in the world, this objection would not 
apply to you, whom I could see frequently. Your ex- 
penses too would be such as best suit your inclination?, 
more or less, as you thought proper ; but very little 
would be requisite to enable you to enter into all the 
gayeties of a country life. You could be as quiet or 
bustling as you liked, and certainly as well situated as on 
the lakes of Cumberland, unless you have a particular 
ivish to be picturesque. 

"Pray, is your Ionian friend in town ? You have 
promised me an intr oJuciion. — You mention having con- 
sulted some friends on the MSS. — Is not this contrary 
to our usual way? Instruct Mr. Murray not to allow 
his shopman to caJIthe work 'Child of Harrow's Pilgri- 
mage !!!!!' as he has uone to some of my astonished 
friends, who wrote to inquire after my sanity on the oc- 
casion, as well they mi^ht. I have heard nothing of 
Murray, whom I scolded hearlilv. — Must I write more 
notes? — Are there not enough ? — Cawihorn must be 
kept back with the 'Hints.' — 1 hone he is getting on 
with Hobhouse's quarto. Good evening. 

" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER XCVIL 



TO MR. H0DGSOX. 



■Newstead Abbey, Oct. 13, 1811. 
a You will begin to deem me a most liberal corre- 
spondent ; but as my letters are free, you will overlook 
their frequency. I have sent you answers in prose and 
verse to all your late communications, and though I am 
invading your ease a^ain, I dun't know why, or what to 
put down that you are not acquainted with already. I 
am growing nervous (how you will laugh!) — but it is 
true, — really, wretchedly, ridiculously, hne-ladically ner- 
vous. Your climate kills me ; I can neither read, write, 
n'jr amuse myself, or any one else. My days are list- 
less and my nights restless; I have very seldom any 
society, and when I have, I run out of it. At 'this pre- 
sent writing, 1 there are in the next room three ladies, 
and I have stolen away to write this grumbling letter. — 
I don't know that I sha'n't end with insanity, fir I find a 
want of method in arranging my thoughts that perplexes 
me strangely ; but this looks more like silliness than 
madness, as Scrope Dunes would facetiously remark in 
his consoling manner. I must try the hartshorn of your 
company; and a session of Parliament would suit me 
well, — any thing to cure me of conjugating the accursed 
verb ' ennuyer' 

"When shall you be at Cambridge? You have 
anted, I uniik, that your friend lilaiid is returned from 



Holland. I have always had a great respect for his 
talents, and for all that I have heard of his character ; 
but of me, I believe, he knows nothing, except that he 
beard my sixth-form repetitions ten months together, at 
the average of two lines a morning, and those never per- 
fect. I remembered him and his ' Slaves' as I passed 
between Capes Matapan, St. Angelo, and his Isle of 
Ceriga, and I always bewailed the absence of the An- 
thology. 1 suppose he will now translate Vondel, the 
Dutch Shakspeare, and ' Gysbert van Amstef will easily 
be accommodated to our stage in its present state ; and 
I presume he saw the Dutch poem, where the love of 
Pyramus and Thisbe is compared to the passion of 
Cluist; also the love of Lucifer for Eve, and other va- 
rieties of Low Country literature. No doubt you will 
think me crazed to talk of such things, but they are all 
in black and while and good repu'.e on the banks of every 
canal from Amsterdam to Alkmaar. 

" Yours ever, " B. 

" P. S. My Poesy is in the hands of its various pub- 
shers; but the 'Hints from Horace,' (to which I have 
subjoined some savage lines on Methodism, and fero- 
cious notes on the vanity of the triple Editory of the 
Edin. Annual Register,) my ' Hints' I say, stand still , 
and why? — I have not a friend in the world (but you 
and Diury) who can construe Horace's Latin, or my 
English, well enough to adjust them for the press, or to 
correct the proofs in a grammatical way. So that, unless 
you have bowels when you return to town, (I am too far 
off* to do it for myself,) this ineffable work will be lost to 
the world for — I don't know how many weeks. 

" ' Childe Harold's Pilgrimage' must wait till Murray's 
is finished. He is making a tour in Middlesex, and is 
to return soon, when high matter may be expected. He 
wants to have il in quarto, which is a cursed unsaleable 
size ; but it is pestilent long, and one must obey one's 
bookseller. I trust Murray will pass the Paddington 
Canal without being seduced by Payne and Mackinlay's 
example, — I say Payne and Mackintay, supposing that 
the partnership held good. Drury, the vfllain, has not 
written to me ; ' I am never (as Mrs. Lumpkin says to 
Tonv) to be gratified with the monster's dear wild 
notes.' 

"So you are going (going indeed!) into orders. You 
must make your peace with the Eclectic Reviewers— 
they accuse you of impiety, 1 fear, with injustice. De- 
metrius, the 'Sieger of Cities,' is here, with 'Gilpin 
Homer.' The painter is not necessary, as the portraits 
he already painted are (by anticipation) very like th« 
new animals. — Write, and send me your ' Love Song'— 
but I want ' paulo majora' from you. Make a dash be 
fore you are a deacon, and try a dry publisher. 

" Yours always, 8 B." 



LETTER XCVI1I. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

"October 14, 1811 
"dear sir, 
u Stanza 9, for Canto II. somewhat altered, to avoid i 
recurrence in a former stanza. 

STANZA IX. 
■ There, thou !— whose lore and life together fled. 
Have left me here lo love and live in vnin : — 
Twined with my heart, and can 1 deem thee dead. 

When busy memory Antilles o'er my hroin? 
Well— I will dream that we may meet ignin, 

And woo the vision 10 my vacant breaal : 
If aught of youog remembrance then remain. 
Be as it may 

Whaie'er beside Futurily'a behest ; 
or, — Ilowe'er may be 

for me 'LVfln bUi« enough to tea thy •jjirit bletli' 



30 



LK.TTEHS, ISIt. 



"I think it proper to state to you, thai this stanza 
alludes to an event which has taken place sin, m) 
arrival here, and not to the death ..f any mtsV friend. 
"Yours, "B." 

LETTEB XC1X. 

TO H. C. DALLAS, EST). 

" Newstead Abbey, Oct. 16, 1811. 
■lames the wing for Cambridge-. Thence, after o 

short stav, to London. \\ .1. you be g I enough to 

keep an account of all the MSS. you receive, Br rears! 
omission ? Have ywi adopted the thr. . altered stanzas 
of the late*! proof? 1 candonothing more with them.— 
I am glad you like the new ones.— < If the last, and ofthe 
tno, I sent you a new-edition — to-day a/re*, n * Thi 
hues of the second sh.el I fear must stand ; I will give 
you reasons when we meet. 

* Believe me, votirs ever, 

"•Bvitos.* 



In a stanza 



LETTER C. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

'Cambridge, Oct. 25,1811. 
'dear sir, 
"I send you a conclusion to the whole. 
towards the end of Canto Lin the hue, 

' Oh,known the curliest ami beloved the most,' 

I shall alter the epithet to ' esteemed the most.' The 
present stanzas are (or the end of Canto II. In the be- 
rinning ofthe week 1 shall be al No. B, my old lodgings, 
in St. Jamesrs-street, where I hope to have the pleasure 

of seeing you. 

"Yours en r, "B." 



enmelicoi* which some years ajo I consigned to Ma* 
* * * *, indeed gave to her, and now I am noing to make 
the most selfish and rude of requests. The person who 
L-ave tt U> nte, when I was very young, is dead, and 
though a long time has step* d an e we met, as it M 
the orrlv memorial I possessed of that person, (in whom 
I was vet) much interested,) il has acquired a value by 
tins .-vent i could have wished H 11' vcr to have borne m 
my eyes. V, iherefoie, Miss * + * * should have pre- 
served it, 1 must, under these circomstare. s, beg hei "' 
excuse my requesting it to be transmuted to me al S o. 
8,St Jarm-Vs-sired, Loiiil.nr, andt } will replace il bj 
sorrx-tlnny she may remember me hy equally well. A i 
she was always so kind a< to ■ • I nti n sted m the fiil'-- 
of him thai rbrmed the subject ..four conversation, you 
ma) "Il her ihat the prorofthnl cornelian died in fti»» 
last of a, i, at the age of twenty-one, making 

the sBlh,wi hifl >mr months, of friends and relatives that 
I have lost — between May and the end of August. 
"Believe in.-, dear Madam, 

■ Vom * very BBlCSrely, 

"l>YU.oN. 

P. S. I "O to London to-morrow.* 



LETTER CI. 

TO R. C DALLAS, ESO.. 

"S^St.-Iaiiies's-strec^Oct. 31, IS11. 
"dear sir, 

"I have already taken up so nutch of your time that 
there needs ii" excuse on your pari, but a gresl many on 

i i, for the present interruption. I have altered the 

messages according to your wish. With this note I 

■i ,,.! i few stanzas on a subject which has Intel) <m «| I 

.,,■„ , ,.t my thoughts. They refer to the death of one 
to whose name you are a ttranger, and, consequently, 
cannot he interested. I mean them to complete the 
present volume. They relate to the sane- person whom 
I have mentioned in Canto II. and ai the conclusion of 
the poem.* 

" I by no means intend to identify myself with Harold, 
hut to deny all connexion with him. If in parts I may- 
be thou -lit to hive drawn from myself, bolieve me it is 
but in parts, and I shall not own even !<> that. As to 
the ' Monastic dome,' is'-, i though! those circumstances 
would sun him as well as any other, and I could de- 
j.-nhe what I had seen heller than I could invent. I 
would not be Mich a fellow- as 1 have mode my h ro Cor 
Uie world. 

"Yours ever, *B. ! 



LETTER Cllt. 

MR. MOORE TO LORD BVRCCT. 

"Dublin, January 1, 18IG*. 

K KV LORD, 

"Having jus! seen the name of 'Lord Byron' pre- 
fixed to a work, entitled 'English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers,' in which, as it appears lo on-, 'Ac fir 
to a public statement of mine, respecting an atfair witfi 
Mr. Jeffrey some years since, I beg you will have the 
goodness to inform me whether I may consider yout 
lordship as the author of this publication. 

" I shall not, I fear, h. able to return to London for a 
week or two ; but, in the mean time. I trust your lord- 
.hip will not deny me the satisfaction ofknowing whethe. 
you avow the insult contained in the passages alluded to 
" It is needless to suggest to your lordship the pro 
priety of keeping our correspondence secret. 
" I have the honour to be, 
" Your lordship's very humble servant, 

"Thomas Moore. 
"■22, Molesworth-street." 



LETTER CIV. 

TO .MR. -WOOICE. 

"Cambridge, Oct. S7, 1' II. 

"sill, 
" Tour letter followed mc from Notts, to this place 
which will account for the delay of my reply. Yom 



LETTER CIL 

TO MISS PIOOT. 

"Cambridge, Oct. 28, 1811. 
"dear biadam, 
" 1 am about to write to you on a silly subject, and yet 
I cannot well do otherwise You may remember a 



■ Mr. EdieaiCHi. Su« llic- Latter following. 



• See Leller n. 

I Tlic ■' ^ : '' " 

in I lou, with ft renueat Ihut lie wotdd ikthvri il in i«-.s m, Inn 

. .1 ... ,n, . I I Hyi htpnrli n 

\1. M '....'i I il the htuala ol Mr. Ilottevnn, wllo 

I,,!,.,. I WtOttil I , 

It rave rue, mypKi' ' "" t ■' ^,l "ymu'v "turn In Kiiglantl 

,: • i 111 lo ' i"L- '" In ■ loemer letter, 

, ,. r„ i inn! resl « in lararty lite f.int 

I tv red In I 'I), r 

question wi«. calculated 10 convey. " li iinow kee," he .-..uiin.iril. 

- to a 'r.tk ot tin- -i.,s wuli which it win mj il . ,,, il..u 

letter. The lime which Inn el i|»etl »it» I then, ihcttrh il I lone ,.u..y 

neilht i il ."' " mn-lhi • tin ,1 ••. in main revjiecle, n 

,1 Imj tin ion n- only .<'....' which I have now in wr e to 

,,,., |„,l ., . |„,..rv. Mine etmaieteiMy with that former lel'e., 

, I to pi you thai the n.juretl I. rime Hill eaiela, In. were, circum. 

■lance* rrnT compel me ' ' ureeciil, vtli.til 

mr •fniiircri feetuia kit i iur« ] - lordvhip that there i. * 

.i, ,,-!,, vfnrhclive I leolinmy n I toward* you. 1 meau but to ex. 

.,,,,. thut unenftillru liudfti ■ '■ ' lev 10 be) ft charge of Inln. 

li.H.d which nni.t haual » man -I any f--elm2 to in, eraet tinh .. ii.e 
in.olt he rettftClod or atoned for ; ami which, il I .l"l t»l leel I .I.Oidd, 
Incfeed, doaerve fat »c#ae Ibft" yattrU.Btahi|>'»Sniire co.*l loS.ct .,,«, 

-lu.nmhe added,' thai -otarl, „ ,n. mil -.rw 

anErvnrrv«r,ii.il u-.n.." lowarvtl Win, II would eivr him altrCere pleev 

.,,'. |f by nny .Hoi... lory eapta n, he would enable him to rnsrS 

, (|C i,,„, i in, i :,.,,..' rftnfcerl amnne hie ■ rqw ftl n Ua TaT e V 

TO Una letter, LutvJ Uyi Ul i.lorued the above NoMiar, 



LETTERS, nil. 



37 



former letter I never had 'he honour in receive ; — be as- 
Burcd, in whatever-port of the world it had found me, I 
should have deemed n my duty 10 return and answer it 
in person, 

" The advertisement von mention, T know nothing of. 
— At the time of your meeting with -Mr. Jeffrey, I had 
rei i n !v entered College, and remember to have heard 
ami read a number of squibs on the occasion, and from 
the recollection of these I derived all my knowledge on 
the subject, without die slightest idea of fgiving 'he lie' 
to an address which I never beheld. When [ put my 
name to the production which has occasioned this cor- 
respondence, 1 became responsible to all whom it might 
concern, — to explain where it requires explanation, and 
where insufficiently or too sufficiently explicit, at all 
;vems to satisfy. My situation leaves me no choice 
ii rests with the injured and the angry to obtain repara 
Don iti their own way. 

"With regard to the passage in question, j/ou were 
ceriainlv not the person towards whom I felt personally 
hostile. On the contrary, my whole thoughts were en- 
grossed by one whom I had reason to consider as my 
ami ' literary enemy, nor could I foresee that his former 
antagonist was about to become his champion. You 
do not specify what you would wish ti> have done : I can 
neither retract nor apologize for a charge of falsehood 
which I never advanced. 

" In the beginning of the week, I shall be at No. 8, St 
James's-strcet. — Neither the letter nor the friend to 
whom you stated your intention ever made their ap- 
pearance. 

"Your friend, Mr. Rogers, or any other gentleman 
delegated by von, will find me mo«t ready to adopt any 
conciliatory proposition which shall not compromise my 
own honour, — or, falling in that, to make the atonement 
vou deem it necessary to require. 

"1 have the honour to be, sir, 

B Your most obedient, humble servant, 

tt BvRO.N." 



LETTER I'V. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"8, St. James's-street, Oct. 29, 1811. 

"sir, 

"Soon after mv return to England, my friend, Mr. 
l„odgson, apprized me that a letter for me was in his 
possession; but a domestic event hurrying me from 
London immediately after, the letter (which may most 
probably be your own) is still unopened in Ida keeping. 
If, on examination of the address, the similarity of the 
handw riling should lead to such a conclusion, it shall be 
opened in your presence, for the satisfaction of all parties. 
Mr. H. is at present out of town : — on Friday I shall see 
liuii. and request him to forward it to my address. 

" With regard to the latier part of both your letters, 
un'il the principal point was discussed between us,l felt 
myself at a loss in what manner to reply. Was I to an- 
ticipate friendship from one, who conceived me to liave 
charged him with falsehood? Were not advances 
under such circumstances, to be misconstrued, — not, 
perhaps, by the person to whom they were addressed, 
but by others? In my case, such a step was impracti- 
cable. If you, who conceived yourself to be the offended 
person, are satisfied that you had no cause for offence, it 
will not be dirhcult to convince me of it. My situation, 
as I have before stated, leaves me no choice. I should 
have felt proud of your acquaintance, had it commenced 
under other circumstances ; but it must rest with you to 
determine how far it may proceed after so auspicious a 
beginning. 

k I have the honour to be. Sec." 



LETTER CVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"8, St. Jamess-streeljOct. 30, 1811. 
"sir, 

"Vou must excuse my troubling you once more upon 
this very unpleasant subject. It would be a satisfaction 
to me, and I should think, to yourself, that the unoi encd 
letter in Mr. Hodgson's possession, (supposing it to prove 
your own,) should be returned ' in statu quo 1 To the 
writer, particularly as you expressed yourself l no' 
quite easy under the manner in winch I had dwelt on us 
miscarriage. 1 

"A few words more, and I shall not trouble you 
further. I felt, and still feel, very much flattered by 
those parts of your correspondence, which held out the 
prospect of our becoming acquainted. If I did not 
meet them in the first instance as perhaps I ought, let 
the situation in which I was placed be my defence. 
You have now declared yourself satisfied, and on that 
point we are no longer at issue. If, therefore, you still 
retain any wish to do me the honour you hinted at, I 
shall be most happy to meet you, when, where, and how 
you please, and I presume you will not attribute my 
saying thus much to any unworthy motive. 

"1 have the honour to remain, &c." 



LETTER CVII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 



■ 8, St. James's-street, Nov 1,1811. 



'SIR, 



"As I should be very sorry to interrupt your Sunday's 
engagement, if Monday, or anv other day of the ensuing 
week, would be equally convenient to yourself and friend, 
I will then have the honour of accepting his invitation. 
Of the professions of esteem with which Mr. Rogers has 
honoured me, I cannot but feel proud, though undeserv- 
ing. I should be wanting to myself if insensible to the 
praise of such a man: and should mv approaching in- 
terview with him and his friend lead to any degree of 
intimacy with both or either, I shall regard our past cor- 
respondence as one of the happiest events of my life. 
" I have the honour to he, 
"Your very sincere and obedient servant, 

"Byron.* 



LETTER CVIIJ. 

TO MR. HARNESS. 

"8, St. James's-street, Dec. 6, 1811. 
"my dear HAPNESS, 

" I will write again, but don't suppose I mean to la\ 
such a tax on your pen and patience as to expect regular 
replies. When you are inclined, write ; when silent, I 
stiall have the consolation of knowing that you are much 
better employed. Yesterday, Bland and I called or. 
Mr. Miller, who being then out, will call on Bland to- 
day or to-morrow. I shall certainly endeavour to bring 
them together. — You are censorious, child ; when you 
are a little older, you will learn to dislike every body, but 
abuse nobody. 

k With regard to the person of whom you speak, your 
own good sense must direct you. I never pretend to 
advise, being an implicit believer in the old proverb. 
This present frost is detestable. It is the first I have 
felt these three years, though I longed for one in the 
oriental summer, when no such thing is to be had, unless 
I had gone to the top ofHymettus for it. 

6 1 thank you most truly for the concluding part of 
your letter. I have been of late not much accustomed 
tu kindness from any quarter, and 1 am not the less 



33 



LETTERS, 1811. 



pleased lo meet with it again from one, where I had 
known it earliest. I have not changed in all mj ram- 
bungs, — Ilorrow and, of course, yourself never left me, 
and the 

* Dulcea rcminlacltur Argi?' 

attended me to the very spot to which that sentence al- 
leles in the mind of the fallen Argive. — Our intimacy 
began before we be^an to date at all, and it rests with 
yon to continue it til! the hour Which must number il and 
Die with the things that were. 

"0o read mathematics, — I should think X plus y at 
least as amusing as the Curse of Kehama, and much 
more intelligible. Master s.'s poems ore, m fact, what 
parallel lines might be — viz. prolonged ad infinitum 
without meeting any thing half so absurd as themselves. 

' What news, whnt new* ? C^tieen Oreaca, 
Whal newi <-i ici Ibblera five? 

S , W , C e, L— <J, ami I t ?— 

All (luihii'd, lliOUgb yel ulive.' 

"Coleridge is lecturing. 'Many an old fool, 1 said 
Hannibal to some such lecturer, 'but such as this, never. 1 
"Ever yours, Sa.c. n 



LETTER CIX. 

TO MR. HARNESS. 

"8, St. James's-strect, Dec. 8, 181 1. 
" Behold a most formidable sheet, without gilt or black 
edging and consequently very vulgar and indecorous, 
particularly to one of your precision ; but this being Sun- 
day, I cati procure no better, and will atone for its length 
bv not filling it. Eland I have not seen since mv last 
tetter ; but on Tuesday he dines with me and will meet 
M * * e, the epitome of all that is exquisite in poetical 1 1 
personal accomplishments. How Bland has settled 
with Miller, I know not. I have very little interest with 
either, and they must arrange their concerns according 

to their own gusto. 1 have done mv endeavours, tit your 

requrst, to bring them together, and hope they may agree 
to their mutual advantage. 

"Coleridge has been lecturing against Campbell 
Rogers was present, anil from him I derive the informa- 
tion. We are going to make a party to hear this Ma- 
nichean of poesy. — Pole is to marry Miss Long, and 
will be a very miserable dog for all that. The present 
ministers are to continue, and his majesty does continue 
in the same state. So there 's folly and madness for you, 
both in a breath. 

"I never heard but of one man truly fortunate, and he 
was Beaumarchais, the author of Figaro, who buried 
two wives and gained three lawsuits before he was 
thirty. 

"And now, child, what art thou doing? RecuUngj 1 
trust. I want to see you take a decree. Remember 
this is the most important period of your life ; and don't 
disappoint your papa and your aunt, and all your kin — 
besides myself. Don't you know that all male children 
are begotten for the express purpose of being graduates ? 
and thai even I am an A. M. though how I became so 
the Public Orator only can resolve. Besides, you are 
to be a priest ; and to confute Sir William DrummonoVs 
late book abOUl the Bible, (printed, but not published.) 
and all other infidels whatever. Now leave master H.'s 
gig, atid master S.'s Sapphics, and become as immortal 
as Cambridge can make you. 

11 You see, Mto Carissimn, what a pestilent corre- 
spondent I am likely to become ; but th-.-ii \ on shall In- as 
quiet at Newstead as you please, and 1 won't disturb 
your studies, as I do now. When do you fi\ the day, 
that I may take you up according to contract ? Hodg- 
son talks of malting a third in our journey: but we can't 
stow him, inside at least. Positively you shall go with 
me as was agreed, and don't let me have any of your 
folitc&ie to 11, on the occasion. 1 shall manage to ar- 



range lor both with a little con'rivance. I wish H. was 
not quite so fat, and we should pack better. Has he 
lefl off vinous liquors ? He is an excellent soul ; but I 
don't think water would improve him, at least i/iternallv 
You will want lo know what I am doing — chewing 
tobacco. 

a You see nothing of my allies, Scrope Danes and 
Matthews — they don't suit you ; and how does il happen 
that 1 — who am a pipkin of the Same potlery — continue 
in your good graces? Uood nigh:, — I will go on in the 
morning. 

"Dec. 9. — In a morning I 'm always sullen, and to- 
day i- as sombre as myself. Rain and mist are worse 
than a sirocco, particularly in a bcei-eating and beer- 
drinldng country. My bookseller, Cawthorne, has just 
lefl me, and tells me, with a most important men, that he 
is in treaty for a novel of Madame D'Arblay's, for which 
1000 guineas are asked! lie w ants me to read the Ms. 
(if he obtains it,) which 1 shall do with pleasure ; but I 
should be very cautious in venturing an opinion on her 
whose Cecilia Dr. Johnson superintended. If he tenOB] 
it to me, I shall put it into the hands of Rogers and 
Moore, who are truly men of taste. I have filled the 
sheet, and beg your pardon ; 1 will not do it again. I 
shall, perhaps, write again, but if not, believe, silent or 
scribbling, that I am, 

"My dearest William, ever, &c." 



LETTER CX. 



TO Ml-. HODGSON. 



"London, Dec. 8, 1811. 
" I sent you a sad Tale of Three Friars the other day 
and now take a dose in another style. 1 wrote it a day 
or two ago, on hearing a song of former da vs. 

' Away, away, ye notci of wo,* &c. 4c.' 

" I have gotten a book by Sir VV.Drummond, (printed, 
but not published,) entitled CEdipus Judaicus, in which 
be attempts to prove the greater part of the Old Testa- 
ment an allegory, particularly Genesis and Joshua. Ho 
professes himself a theist in the preface, and handles the 
literal interpretation very roughly. 1 wish you could 
see it. Mr. W * * has lent it me, and I confess, to me, 
it is worth fifty Watsons. 

M You and Harness must fix on the time f* your visit 
to Newstead ; I can command mine at your wish, unless 
any thins particular occurs in the interim. * * * 
Bund dines with me on Tuesday to meet Moore. 
Coleridge has attacked the 'Pleasures of Hope,' and 
ill other pleasures whatsoever. Mr. Rogers was pre- 
sent, and heard himself indirectly rmrnl by the lecturer. 
We are going in a party to hear the new Art of Poetry 
by this reformed schismatic; and were I one of these 
poetical luminaries, or of sufficient consequence to be 
noticed by the man of lectures, I should not hear him 
without nn answer. For, you know, 'an' a man will be 
beaten with brains, he shall never keep a clean doublet. 1 
Campbell will be desperately annoyed. I never saw a 
man (and of him I have seen very little) so sensitive ; — 
what a happy temperament! I am sorry fir it ; what 
can ht fear from criticism? I don't know if Bland has 
seen Miller, who was to call on him vesterday. 

"To-day is the Sabbath, — a day I never pass plea- 
santly, but at Cambridge ; and, even there, the organ is 
a sad remembrancer. Things are stagnant enough in 
town, — as long as 'hey don't retrograde, 't is all very well. 
Hohhoitse writes and writes and writes, and is an author. 
I do nothing but eschew tobacco. I wish parliament 
were assembled, that 1 may hear, and perhaps some day 
be heard ; — but on this point I am not very sanguine. I 
have many plans ; — sometimes I think of the East again, 



• Sen Poennp. 186. 



I. KTTER S, 181!. 



39 



and dearly beloved Greece. I am well, bin weal ly 
Yesterday KJnnaird told me I looked very ill, and sen: 
mc home happy. 

"You will never give up wine; — see whai it is !o be 
thirty; if you were six years younger, you might leave 
off any thing. You drink and repenf, you repent and 
drink. Is Scropc still interesting and invalid? And 
how does Hinde with his cursed chvvnistry ? To Har- 
ness I have written, and he has written, and we have all 
written, and have nothing now to do but write again, till 
death splits up the pen and the scribbler. 

"The Alfred has 354 candidates fur six vacancies 
The cook has run away and left us liable, which makes 
nur committee very plaintive. Master Brook, our head 
serving man, has :he gou*, and our new cook is none of 
the best. I speak from report, — for what is cookery to 
a leguminous-eating ascetic ? So now you know as 
much of the matter as I do. Books and quiet are still 
there, and they may dress their dishes in their own way 
for me. Let me know your determination as to New- 
stead, and believe me, Yours ever, 

LETTER OXI. 

TO MR. HODGSOX. 

°8,St. James's-street, Dec. 12, IS11 
" Why, Hodgson ! I fear you have left off wine and me 
at llie same tune, — I have written and written and 
written, and no answer! J\Iy dear Sir Edgar, water 
disagrees with you, — drink sack and write. Bland did 
not come to his appointment, being unwell, but Moore 
supplied all other vacancies most delectably. I have 
Dopes of his joining us at Newstead. I am sure you 
would like him more and more as he developes, — at 
least I do. 

" How Miller and Bland go on, I don't know. Caw- 
thorne talks of being in treaty for a novel of M e . D'Ar- 
blay's, and if he obtains it (at 1000 gs. ! !) wishes me to 
ice the MS. This I should read with pleasure, — not 
that 1 should ever dare to venture a criticism on her 
whose writings Dr. Johnson once revised, but for the 
pleasure of the thing. If my worthy publisher wanted a 
sound opinion, I should send the MS. to Rogers and 
Moore, as men most alive to true taste. I have had 
frequent letters from Win. Harness, and you are silent ; 
certes, you are not a schoolboy. However, I have the 
consolation of knowing that you are better employed, viz. 
eriewing. You don't deserve that 1 should add another 
yllable, and I won't. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. I only wait for your answer to fix our meeting." 



LETTER CXII. 

TO MR. HARNESS. 

B 8, St. James's-street, Dec. 15, 1611. 
a I wrote you an answer to your last, which, on redac- 
tion, pleases me as Utile as it probably has pleased your- 
self. I will not wait for your rejoinder ; but proceed to 
k 11 you, that I had just then been greeted with an epistle 
of **'s, full of his petty grievances, and this at the mo- 
ment when (from circumstances it is not necessary to 
enter upon) I was bearing up against recollections to 
which Ais imaginary sufferings are as a scratch to a 
cancer. These things combined, put me out of humour 
with him and all mankind. The latter part of nay life 
has been a perpetual struggle against affections which 
imbittered the earliest portion ; and though I flatter 
myself I have in a great measure conquered them, yet 
there are moments (and tins was one) when I am as 
foolish as formerly. I never said so much before, nor 
had I said this now, if I did not suspect myself of having 
been rather savage in my letter, and wish to inform you 



thus much of the cause. You know I am not one of 
ycfur dolorous gentlemen: so now let us laugh again. 

" Yesterday I went vtitli Moure to Sydenham ro vi: :t 
Campbell. He was not visible, so .ve jogsed homeward, 
merrily enough. To-morrow I dine with Rogers, and 
am to hear Coleridge, who is a kind of rage at present. 
Last night I saw Keutble in Coriolanus ;— he vas glori 
oas, and exerted himself wonderfully. By good luck, I 
got an excellent place in the best part of the house, which 
was more than overflowing;'. Clare and Delaware, who 
were there on the same speculation, were leSB fortunate. 
I saw them by accident, — we were not together. 1 
wished for you, to gratify your love ofShakspeare and of 
fine acting to its fullest extent. Last week I saw an ex- 
hibition of a different kind in a Mr. Coates, at the Hay- 
market, who performed Lothario in a damned and damn- 
able manner. 

" I told you of the fate of B. and H. in my last. So 
much for these sentimentalists, who console themselves 
in their stews for the loss — the never to be recovered 
loss — the despair of the refined attachment of a couple 
of drabs I You censure my life, Harness: when I com- 
pare myself with these men, my elders and my betters, I 
really begin to conceive myself a monument of prudence 
— a walking statue — without feeling or failing; and yet 
the world in general hath given me a proud pre-eminence 
over them in profligacy. Yet I like the men, and, God 
knows, ought not to condemn their aberrations. But I 
own I feel provoked when they dignify all this by the 
name of love — romantic attachments fur things market- 
able for a dollar! 

"Dec. 16. — I have just received your letter. I feel 
your kindness very deeply. The foregoing part of my 
letter, written yesterday, will I hope, account for the tone 
of the former, though it cannot excuse it. I do like to 
hear from you — more than like. Next to seeing you, I 
have no greater satisfaction. But you have other duties 
and greater pleasures, and I should regret to take a mo- 
ment from either. H * * was to call to-day, but I have 
not seen him. The circumstances you mention at the 
close of your letter is another proof in favour of my opi- 
nion of mankind. Such you will always find them — 
selfish and distrustful. I except none. The cause of 
this is the state of society. In the world, every one is to 
tir for himself — it is useless, perhaps selfish, to expici 
any thing from his neighbour. Eut I do not think we 
are bom of this disposition ; for you find frit-) idship as a 
schoolboy, and love enough before twenty. 

I went to see * * ; he keeps me in town, where I 
don't wish to be at present. He is a good man, but 
totally without conduct. And now, my dearest William, 
I must wish you good morrow, and remain ever most sin 
cercly and affectionately yours, &c." 



LETTER CXIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"December 11, 1S1I. 

B MV DEAR MOORE, 

" If you please, we will drop our formal monosyllables, 
and adhere to the appellations sanctioned by our godfa- 
thers and godmothers. K you make it a point, I will 
withdraw your name ; at the same time there is no oc- 
casion, as I have this day postponed your election 'sine 
die,' till it shall suit your wishes to be anions us. I do 
not sav this from any awkwardness the erasure of your 
proposal would occasion to me, but simply such is the 
state of the case ; and, indeed, the longer your name is 
up, the stionger will become the probability of success, 
and your voters more numerous. Of course you will de- 
\de — your wish shall be my law. If my zeal has 
alreadv outrun discretion, pardon me, and attribute nu/ 
officiousmss to an excusable motive. 



40 



LETTERS, 18)2. 



K I wish you would go down with me to N< 
Hod pon will be there, and a young friend, named Har- 
ness, the earliest an 1 dearesl I i vei had from the third 

form at Harrow to this hour. I can promise you g I 

wine, and, if you like shooting, a manor of 4000 acres, 
fires, books, your own free will, and my own very inda- 
furent company. 'Balnea, vina * *' * * * 

"Hodgson will plague you, 1 fear; with verse ;— f«»r my 
own pan, I will conclude, with Martial, 'ml recitabo 
til.i;' and surely the la-i inducemenl i> nol the least. 
Ponder on my proposition, and believe me, my dear 
Moore, "Yours ever, u Bl uos." 



LETTER CXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"January 29, 1812. 

"MV DKAR MOORE, 

■ 1 wish very much I could have seen you ; I am in a 
State of ludicrous tribulation. 

+ >** * * * * 

" Why do you say that I dislike your poesy? I have 
expressed no such opinion, either in print or elsewhere. 
In scribbling, myself, it was necessary tor me to I'm. I fault, 
and 1 fixed upon the trite charge of immorality, I- can 
I could discover no other, and was so perfectly qualified, 
in the innocence of my heart, to ' pluck that mote from 
my neighbour's eye. 1 

"I feel very, very much obliged by your approbation ; 
but) at this moment^ praise, even your praise, passes by 
me like ' the idle wind.' I meant and mean to send you 
a copy the moment of publication'; hut now, I can think 
of nothing but damned, deceitful, — delightful woman, us 
Mr. Listonsays in the Knight of .Snow, Ion. 
"Believe me, my dear Moore, 

"ever vours, most affectionately, 

"BvRO.X. 



the langua .-■ you ns< J ". the -ir! was (a< she stated ;t) 
i roper. 

"You say thai you also have something to complain 
of; ih. -n stale it to me immediately; il would be very 
unfair, and very contrary to my disposition, not to hear 
both -a lea of the question. 

H If any thing has pa - d between you bqfbnot since 

my last visit to New I* b I- ■ I be afraid to mention i f . 

I am sure i/"" would n * '!■ ■ !■ ■ mi-, th xi ;h ahs would. 
Whatevei it is. you shall hi forgiven. 1 have not been 
without some suspicions on the subjei r, and am certana 
that, at your time of lit' 1 , the blame could hot attach to 
you. Von will not consult any one as to youi answer, 
but write to me immediately. 1 shall he more ready to 
hear what you hav< to adi in< e,afl I do nor remembet 

.\er lo have heard a word from you before agOBMt any 

human being, which convinces me you would m 

uslj assert an untruth. There is not anj onewno 

can do the least 1 injury to you while you conduct yourself 
properlj . 1 shall expect yi ur answi r immediately. 

"Your- & MJwu.n" 



LETTER CXVII. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

fl 8, St. James's-strcet, Feb. 16, 1812. 

" PEAR HODGSON, 

"I send you a proof. Last week I was very ill and 
confined to bed with sione in the kidney, but 1 am now 
quite recovered. If the stone had got into my heart in- 
stead of my kidneys, it would have been all the better. 
The women are gone to their relatives, after many at- 

i,,ii|ii- hi r \|)|;!in what was already too clear. How ever, 

quite recovered that also, and only wonder at my 
(bill In excepting my own strumpets from the : 
corruption, — albeit, a two months 1 weakness .s better 
than i'ii years. I have om n quesl to make, which is, 
never mention a woman again m any letter to me, or 
even allude to the existence of the sex. I won't even 
read a word of the feminine gender; it must all be 
1 propria qua 1 maribus.' 

u In the spring of 1813 I shall leave England for ever. 
Every thing in my affairs tends to tins, and my inclina- 
tions and health do not discourage it. Neither my 
habits nor constitution are improved by your customs or 
our climate. I shall find employment in making myself 
a good oriental scholar. I shall retain a mansion in one 
of the fairest islands, and retrace, at intervals, the most 
interesting portions of the East. In the meantime,! 
am adjusting my concerns, which will (when arranged) 
leaveme with wealth— sufficienl even for home, but enough 
for a principality in Turkey, At preseni they are in- 
volved, but I hope, by taking s e necessary but un- 
pleasant steps, to char every thing. Ilohlnmse is ex- 
pected daily ui London; we shall be Very glad to sec 
him; and, perhaps, you will come up and 'drink deep 
ere he depart, 1 if not, ' Qdabomel must go io the mount , 
'a i n ; hui t lambridge will bring sad recollections lo him, 
and worse to me, though for very different reasons. I 
believe the only human being that evei loved me in truth 
and entirely was of] or belonging to, < 'ambridgn, and, in 
that, no change can now take place. There is one , ,.u- 
solation in death — where he sets his seal, the impression 
can neither be melted or broken, But endureth for ever, 
u Yours always, " B." 



LETTER CXV. 

TO ROBERT Rt'SHTON. 

" 8, St. Jame^s-street, Jan. 21, 1812. 
* Though I have no objection to your refusal to carry 
letters to Mealey's, you will take care thai the letters are 
taken by Spero at the proper tune. 1 have also to ob- 
serve, that Susan [a servant in the family] is to be 
treated with civility, and not insulted by .\ny person over 
whom I have the smallest control, or, indeed, by any one 
whatever, while I have the power to protect her. I am 
truly sorry to have any subject of complaint against you ; 
1 have too good an opinion of you to think I shall have 
occasion to repeat it, after the care I have taken of you, 
and my favourable intentions in your behalf. I see no 
■ I i r hui for any communication whatever between you 
and the women, and wish you to occupy yourself in pre- 
paring for the situation in which you will be placed. If 
a common sense of decency cannot prevent you from 
Conducting yourself towards them with rudeness, 1 should 
at least hope that your own i«t>rcst y and regard for a 
master who has never treated you with Unkindm 
have some weight * Vours, &c. 

■ Byron. 
"P. S. — I wish you to attend to your arithmetic, to 
occupy yourself in surveying, measuring and making 
yourself acquainted with every particular relative to the 
laiul uf Newstead, and you will write to me one Utter 
every week, that I may know how you go on, 

LETTER CXVIIL 

LETTER CXVX. to master john cowell. 

to Robert rushton. « 8, St. Jamess-street, Feb. 12, 1812. 

"8, St. James's-strcet, Jan. 25, 1812. " my DEAB John, 

* Your refusal to curry the letter was not a subject of " You have probably long ago forgotten the writer ..f 

remonstrance ; it was not a part of your business ; but [ these Lines, who would, perhaps, be unablo to recognise 



LETTERS, 1*13. 



4k 



f»tu wit, ^ rnm *«« difference which must naturally have 
taktn place in your stature and appearance since he 
saw you last. 1 have been rambling through Portugal, 
Spain, Greece, &r. Kc, for soaie years, and have found 
sn many changes on my return, that it would be very 
unfair not to expect that you should have had your share 
of al'era'ion and improvement with the rest. I write to 
request \ favour of von : a lillle boy of eleven years, the 
son of Mr. * *, mv particular friend, is about to become 
an Etonian, and I should esteem anv act of protection or 
kindness to him as an obligation to myself; let nic beg 
of you then to take some little notice of him at first, till 
he is able to shift for himself. 

" I was happv to hear a verv favourable account of 
you from a srhooHVHow a few weeks a^o, and should be 
glad to h-aro that voirr family are as well as I wish them 
to be. I presuuK* von arc in the upper school; as an 
Etonian, you will look down upon a Harrow man; but I 
never, even in mv boyish days, disputed your superiority, 
which I once experienced in a cricket match, where 1 
had the honour of making one of eleven, who were 
beaten to their hearts 1 content by your college m o?w 
■mtng*. 

* Believe me to be, with great truth, &c &c" 



LETTER CXIX. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

K February 4, 1S12. 
*MY dear sir, 

■ With my best acknowledgments to Lord Holland, I 
have to offer my perfect concurrence in the propriety of 
the question previously to be put to ministers. If their 
answer is in the negative, I shall, with his lordship's ap- 
probation, give notice of a motion for a Committee of In- 
quirv. I would also gladly avail myself of his most able 
advice, and any information or documents with which he 
might be pleased to intrust me, to bear me out in the 
statement of facts it may be necessary to submit to the 
House. 

u From all that fell under my own observation during 
my Christmas visit to Newstead, I feel convinced that, 
if conciliatory measures are not very soon adopted, the 
most unhappy consequences may be apprehended. 
Nightly outrage and daily depredation are already at 
their height, and not only the masters of frames, who 
are obnoxious on account uf their occupation, but persons 
in no degree connected with the malcontents or their 
oppressors, are liable to insult and pillage. 

" I am very much obliged to you for the trouble you 
have taken on my account, and beg you to believe me 
ever your obliged and sincere, &c." 



LETTER CXX. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"6, St. James's-street, P'eb. 23, 1S12. 

* MV LORD, 

•With my best thanks, I have the honour to return 
the Notts, letter to your lordship. I have read it with 
attention, but do not think I shall venture to avail myself 
of its contents, a< my view of the question differs in some 
measure from Mr. Coldham's. I hope I do not wrong 
him, but las objections to the bill appear to me to be 
founded on certain apprehensions that he and his coad- 
jutors might be mistaken for the 'original advisers* (to 
quote htm) of the measure. For my own part, I con 
sider the manufacturers as a much injured body of men, 
sacrificed to the views of certain individuals who have 
enriched themselves by those practices winch have de- 
prived the frame- workers of employment. For instance 
—by the adoption of a certain kind of frame, one man 
performs the work of seven — six are thus thrown out of 
Wuwiate. But it is to bo observed that the work thus 



done is far inferior in quality, hardly marketable at home, 
and hurried over with a view to exportation- Surely 
mv lord, however we may rejoice in any improvement in 
the arts which may be beneficial to mankind, wo must 
not allow manlnnd to be sacrificed to improvements in 
mechanism. The maintenance and well-doing of tiro 
industrious poor is an object of greater consequence to 
the community than the enrichment of a few monopolists 
by any improvement in the implements of trade, which 
deprives the workman of his bread, and renders the la- 
bourer ' unworthy of his hire.' My own motive for op- 
posing the bill is founded on its palpable injustice, and 
its certain metheacy. I have seen the slate of these 
miserable men. and it is a disgrace to a civilized country. 
l'lnir excesses may be condemned, but cannot be 
subject of wonder. The effect of tire present bill would 
be to drive them into ac'ual rebellion. The few words 
I shall venture to offer on Thursday will be founded 
upon these opinions formed from mv own observations 
on the spot.* Bv previous inquiry, I am convinced 
these men would have been restored to employment and 
the count v to tranquillity. It is, perhaps, not yet too 
late, and is surely worth the trial. It can never be too 
late to employ force in such circumstances. I believe 
your lordship does not coincide with me entirely on this 
subject, and most cheerfully and sincerely shall 1 submit 
to your superior judgment and experience, and take 
some other Hne of argument against the bill, or be silent 
altogether, should you deem it more advisable. Con- 
demning, as every one must condemn, the conduct of 
these wretches, I believe in the existence of grievances 

hich call rather for pity than punishment. I have the 
honour to be, with great respect, mv lord, 
"Your lordship's 
** most obedient and obbged servant, 

6 Bvron. 

tt P. S. — I am a little apprehensive that your lordship 
will think me too lenient towards these men, and half a 
frame-breaker myself" 



LETTER CXXI. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

"8, St. Jamcs's-street, March 5, 1812. 
"mv dear bodgsos, 

" Wt are not answerable for reports of speeches in 
the papers, they are always given incorrectly, and on 
this occasion more so than usual, from the debate in the 
Commons on the same night. The Morning Post should 
have said eighteen years. However, you will find the 
speech, as spoken] in the Parliamentary Register, when 
it comes out. Lords Holland and Grenville, particularly 
the latter, paid me some high compliments in the course 
of their speeches, as you may have seen in the papers, 
and Lords Eldon and Harrowby answered me. I have 
had many marvellous eulogies repeated to me since, in 
person and by prow, from divers persons ministerial— 

a. ministerial ! — as well as oppositionists ; of them I 
shall only mention Sir F. Burdett. He says, it is the 
best speech by a lord since the ' Lord knows when,' 
probably from a fellow-feeling in the sentiments. Lord 
H. tells me I shall beat them all if I persevere, and 
Lord G. remarked that the construction of some of my 
periods are very like Burke's!! And so much for 
vani'v. I spoke very violent sentences with a sort of 
modest impudence, abused every thing and every body, 
and pul the Lord Chancellor very much out of humour; 
an I if I may believe what I hear, have not lost any 
cha-acter by the experiment. As to my delivery, loud 
and tliient enough, perhaps a little theatrical. I could 
not recognise myself or any one else in the newspapers. 



1 See hli tint S|i#ecli, page 272. 



42 



LETTERS, 1612. 



"My poesy comes out on Saturday. Hobhouse is 
here; I shaV tall him to write. Mj rtone is gm* fol 

the present, but I fear is part of my habit. Wc all talk 
of a visit to Cambridge. 

"Yours ever. "B." 



LETTER CXXIT. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"St. JamesVstrect, March 5th, 1812. 

*MV LORD, 

"May I request your Lordship to accept a copy* of 
the thing which accompanies this note? You have 
already so fully proved the truth of the tirst line of 
Pope's couplet, 

1 Forgiveness to Ihc injured doth belong, 

that I long fur an opportunity to give ihc lie to 'he verse 
that follows. Ifl were not perfectly convinced thai any 
thing I may have formerly uttered in tin- boyish rashness 
of mv misplaced resentment had made as little impres- 
sion as it deserved to make, I should hardly havi 
Bdence — perhaps your lordship may give it a stronger 
and more appropriate appellation — to send you a quarto 
of the same scribbler. But your lordship, T am sorry to 
observe to-day, is trouhled with the gout : if my book can 
produce a laugh against itself or the author, it will be of 
some service. If it can set you to steep, the benefit wi" 
be yet greater; and as some facetious personage observed 
half a century ago, that 'poetry is a mere drug, 1 l offel 
you mine as an humble assistant to the '< an m£decinale. 
I trust you will forgive this and all my other buffooneries, 
and believe mi' to U\ with L'lvat re^perl, 

"Your lordship's obliged and sincere servant, 
"Byron." 



he most readily consented to remove this obstacle. A 
: ■-! I drew a pen across the parts I considered 
objectionable, and he undertook to send me the letter 
re-written, next morning. In the mean bine, I received 
from Lord Eyron the following paper for my guidance.' 



" With regard to the passage on Mr. Way's lo^s, no 
unfair play was hinted may fa referring tc 

the book; and it is expressly added that the manager* 
were ignorant of that transaction. As to the prevalence 
of play at the Argyle, ii cannot he denied that there were 
billiards and dire ; — Lord B. has been a witness to the 
use of both at the Argyle Rooms. These, it is pre- 
sumed, come under the denoniination <>f play. If play 
he allowed, the President of the Institution can hardly 
complain of bent- termed the 'Arbiter of Play,' — or 
what becomes of Ins authority ' 

"Lord B. has no personal animosity to Colonel 
Greville. A public institution, t" which he, himselfj was 
a subscriber, he consider! I himself to have a right to 
notice "publicly. Of that institution, Colonel Gresiile 
was the avowed director ; — il is '•"< 'ate :•> enter into the 
on of its merits or dem 

"Lord B. must leave the discussion of the reparation, 
(far the real or supposed injury, to Colonel t;.'s friend 
and Mr. Moore, the friend of Lord B. — be L >i»in.r them to 
recollect that, while they consider Colonel G.'s honour, 
Lord B. must also maintain Ids own. If the business 
can be settled amicably, Lord B. will do as much as can 
ami ought to lie done by a man of honour towards con- 
ciliation; — if not, he must satisfy Colonel G.in the man- 
ner most conducive to his further wishes. 1 ' 



In relation to the following note of Lord Byron, Mr. 
Moore says : — 

"Not long after the publication of Childe Harold, the 
noble author paid me a visit, one morning, and, putting a 
letter into my hands, which he had just received, renin ■ :- 
ed that I would undertake to manage for him whatever 
proceedings it might render necessary. This letter, I 
found, had been delivered to him by Mr. Leckie, (a gen- 
tleman well known by a work on Sicilian affairs,) and 
came from a once active and popular member of the 
fashionable world, Colonel Greville, — its purport being to 
require of his lordship, as author of'English Bards, &c.' 
such reparation as it was in his power to make f >r the 
injury which, as Colonel Greville conceived, certain pas- 
sages in that Satire, reflecting upon his conduct, as 
manager of the Argvle Institution, were calculated to 
Inflict upon his character. In the appeal of the gallant 
colonel, there were some expressions of rather an ;m r v 

cast, which Lord Byron, (hough fully conscious of the 
length to which he himself had gone, was but little in- 
clined to brook, and, on my returning the letter into his 
hands, he said, 'To such a letter as that there can be 
but one sort of answer.' lie agreed, however, to trust 
the matter entirely to my discretion, and I had, shortly 

after, an interview with the friend of Colonel Greville. 
By this gentleman, who was then an utter stranger to 
me, I was received with much courtesy, and with every 
disposition to bring the affair intrusted to us to an ami- 
cable issue. On my premising that the tone of his friend's 
letter stood in the way of negotiation, and thai some ob- 
noxious expressions which it contained musi he removed 
before I could proceed a single step towards explanation, 



* Child* HitmM, To hli s'uter, Mr*. Leigh, one of the first preaen- 
tUinn OOplw win nUo sent, wiih the following ilMCripLlMI In it ! — 

" To Augusta, toy dearcal suter, and nir >>«t friend, who lioi 1VW 
fowl m* much belter 'h*n I de*&v*d, this volume u prevented r * her 
fathtr'i ton, onu ^t#i afTo.ciiftna.t6 brother, ' B." 



"In the morning I received the letter, in its new form, 
from Mr. Leckie, with the annexe 1 note. 

" ( MV DE \K SIR, 

"I found my friend very ill in bed ; he has, however, 
manage I to copy the enclosed, with the alteration- pro- 
... I Perhaps you may wish to see me in the mom- 
inn; I shall therefore be glad to see you any time till 
twelve o'clock. If you rather wish me to call on you, 
tell me, and I shall obey your summons. 
"'Yours, very truly, 

l.l.rCKIE. 

" With such facilities towards pacification, it is almost 
needless to add, that there was hut little delay in settling 
the matter amicably." 



LETTER CXXIII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM HANKES. 

"April 20th, 1812. 
"mv pear BANKFS, 

"I feel rather hurt (not Bavagely) at the speech you 
made to me last night, and my hope is, that it was only 
one of your pro/one jests. I should be very sorry that 
any part of my behaviour Bhould give you cause to sup- 
pose thai 1 think higher of myself] or otherwise of you, 
than I have always done. I can assure you dial 1 am 
as much the humbles) of your servants as at 'Inn. (.'oil.; 
and ifl have no! been ai home when you favoured me 
with a call, the loss was more mine than yours. In the 
bustle of buzzing parties, there i^, there . an he, no 
rational conversation ; hot when I can enjoy it, there is 
nobody's I can prefer to your own. 

"Believe me ever faithfully 

"and most affectionately yours, 

"BlEOH." 



LETTER CXXIV. 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKKS. 



"my dear bankes, 
" My eagerness to come to an explanation has, I 
trust, convinced you that whatever my unlucky manner 



LETTERS, 1812, 



43 



might inadvertently be, the change was as unintentional 
as (if intended) it would have been ungrateful. I really 
was not aware that, while we were together, I had 
evinced such caprices ; that we were not so much in 
each other's company as I could have wished, I well 
know, but I think so acute an observer as yourself musl 
have perceived enough to explain Otis, without supposing 
any slight to one in whose society I have pride and 
pleasure. Recollect that I do not allude here to 'ex- 
tended 3 or 'extending* acquaintances, but to circum- 
stances you will understand, I think, on a little reflection. 

* And now, my dear Bankes, do not distress me by 
supposing that I can think of you, or you of me, otherwise 
than I trust we have long thought. You told me not 
long ago that my temper was improved, and I should be 
sorry that opinion should be revoked. Believe me, your 
friendship is ofinore account to me than all those absurd 
vanities in which, I fear, you conceive me to take too 
much interest. I have never disputed your superiority, 
or doubted (seriously) your good will, and no one shall 
ever ' make mischief between us' without the sincere 
regret on the part of your ever affectionate, &c. 

"P. S. 1 shall see you, 1 hope, at Lady Jersey's. 
Hobhouse goes also." 



NOTES TO MR. MOORE. 

"March 25th, 1812. 

* Know all men by these presents, that you, Thomas 
Moore, stand indicted — no — invited, by special and par- 
ticular solicitation, to Lady Caroline Lamb's, to-morrow 
even, at half-past nine o'clock, where you will meet with 
a civil reception and decent entertainment. Pray, come 
—I was so examined after you this morning, that I en- 
treat you to answer in person. Believe me, &c." 

" Friday noon. 

"I should have answered your note yesterday, but I 
hoped to have seen you this morning. I must consult 
with you about the day we dine with Sir Francis. I 
■appose we shall meet at Lady Spencer's to-night. I 
did not know that you were at Miss Berry's the other 
night, or I should have certainly gone there. 

"As usual, I am in all sorts of Scrapes, though none. 
at pi esent, of a martial description. Believe me, &c." 

"May 8th, 1812. 
u I am too proud of being your friend to care with 
who n I am linked in your estimation, and, God knows, 
I wrni friends more at this time than at any other. I 
am • taking '"ire of myself' to no great purpose. If you 
knew- my situation in every point of view, you would 
excise apparent and unintentional neglect. * * 

I sh ill leave town, I think ; but do not you leave it with- 
out seeing me. I wish you, from my soul, every happi- 
ness vou can wish yourself ; and I think you have taken 
the road to secure it. Peace be with you 1 1 fear she 
has abandoned me. Ever, &c." 

« May 20th, 1812. 
"On Monday, after pitting up all ni;Jif, I saw I >*-U ii itr— 
ham launched into eternity, and at three the same dav 
I saw * * * launched into the country. * * 

" I believe, in the beginning of June, I shall he down 
for a few days in Notts. If so, I shall beat vou up 
*en passant 1 with Hobhouse, who is endeavouring, 
like vou and every body else, to keep me out of scrape: 

I meant to have written you a long letter, but I find I 
cannot. If any thing remarkable occurs, you will hear 
it from me — if good ; if bad i there are plenty to tell it. 
In the mean time do you be happy. 

"Ever yours, &c. 
"P. S. My hest wishes and respects to Mrs. Moore, 
M-sttfi is beautiful. I may say so even to you, for I 
never was more struck with a countenance." 



LETTER CXXV. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"June 25th, 1812. 
"my dear lord, 

"I must appear very ungrateful, and have, indeed, 
been very negligent, but till last night I was not apprized 
ofLady Hollands restoration, and 1 shall call to-morrow 
to have the satisfaction, I trust, of hearing that she is 
well. — I hope that neither politics nor gout have assailed 
your lordship since 1 last saw you, and that you also are 
1 as well as could be expected. 1 

•* The other night, at a ball, I was presented by order 
to our gracious Regent, who honoured me with some 
conversation, and professed a predilection for poetry.— 
[ confess it was a most unexpected honour, and I thought 
of poor BrummeU's adventure, with some apprehensions 
of a similar blunder. I have now great hope, in the 
event of Mr. Pye's decease, of warbling truth at court, 1 
like Mr.MaUett, of indifferent memory. — Consider 100 
marks a year! besides the wine and the disgrace; but 
then remorse would make me drown myself in my own 
butt before the year's end, or the finishing of my first 
dithyrambic. So that, after all, I shall not meditate our 
laureate's death by pen or poison. 

u Will you present my best respects to Lady Holland 
and believe me hers and yours very sincerely " 



LETTER CXXVI. 

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

" St. JamesWreet, July 6th, 1812. 
"sir, 

" I have just been honoured with your letter. — I feel 
sorry that you should have thought it worth while to 
notice the ' evil works of my non-age,' as the thing is 

[ipressed voluntarily, and your explanation is too kind 
not to give me pain. The Satire was written when I 
iv& very young and very angry, and fully bent on dis- 
playing my wrath and my wit, and now I am haunjed 
by the ghosts of my wholesale assertions. I cannot 
sufficiently thank you for your praise ; and now, waiving 
myself, let me talk to you of the Prince Regent. He 
ordered me to be presented to him at a hall ; and after 
some sayings peculiarly pleasing from royal lips, as to 
my own attempts, he talked to me of you and your im 
mortalities: he preferred you to every bard past and 
present, and asked which of your works pleased me 
most. It was a difficult question. I answered, I 
thought the ' Lay. 1 He said his own opinion was nearly 
similar. In speaking of the others, I told him that I 
thought you more particularly the poet of Princes, as 
they never appeared more fascinating than in 'MarmioB, 
and the 'Lady of the Lake. 1 He was pleased to coin- 
cide, and to dwell on the description ofyour Jameses as 
no less royal than poetical. He spoke alternately of 
Homer and yourself, and seemed well acquainted with 
both ; so that (with the exception of the Turks and your 
humble servant) you were in very good company. I 
<\e(v Murray to have exaggerated his royal highness's 
opinion ofyour powers, nor can I pretend to enumerate 
all he said on the subject ; but it may give you pleasure 
to hear that it was conveyed in language which would 
onlv suffer by mv attempting to transcribe it, and with a 
tone and taste which gave me a very high idea of his 
abilities and accomplishments, which I had hitherto con- 
sidered as confined to manners, certainly superior to 
those of any living gentleman. 

" This interview was accidental. I never went to the 
levee ; for having seen the courts of Mussulman and 
Catholic sovereigns, my curiosity was sufficiently allayed, 
and mv polities hem : as perverse as my rhymes, I had, 
in fact, 'no business there.' To be thus praised by your 
Sovereign must be gratifying to you ; and if that gratifi- 






44 



LETTERS, 1812. 



ration is not alloyed by the communication being made 
through me, the bearer of it will consider himself very 
fortunately and sincerely 

** Your obliged and obedient servant, 

" BVAOIf. 

*P. S. Excuse this scrawl, scratched in a great hurry 
and just after a journey." 



LETTER CXXVII. 



TO LOED HOLLAND. 



"Cheltenham, September 10, 1812. 

"my dear lord, 

*Thc lines* which I sketched off on your hint are still, 
or rather u:crt,'in an unfinished stale, for I hare just com- 
mitted them to a flame more decisive than thai of Drury. 
Coder all the circumstances, I should hardly wish a con- 
test with Philo-drama — Philo-Drury — Asbestos, H * *, 
and all the auonvim-s and synonyraes of the Committee 
candidates. Seriously,] think yon have a chance of some- 
thing much better; for prologuizing is not my forte, and, 
at all events, either my pride or my modesty won't let me 
incur the hazard of having my rhymes buried in next 
ni' tilth's Magazine, under'Essays on the Murder of Mr. 
Perceval,' and 'Cures for the Bite of a Mad Dog,' as 
poor Goldsmith complained of the fate of far superior 
performances. 

" I am still sufficiently interested to wish to know the 
successful candidate ; and, among so many, 1 have no 
doubt some will be excellent, particularly in an age when 
writing verse is the easiest of all attainments. 

"I cannot answer your intelligence with the 'like 
comfort,' unless, as you are deeply theatrical, you may 
wish to hear of Mr. * *, whose acting is, I fear, utterly 
inadequate to the London engagement into which the 
managers of Coven t Garden have lately entered. His 
figure is fat, his features fiat, his voice unmanageable, Ins 
action ungraceful, and, as Diggory says, *I defy him to 
crtort that d — d muffin face of his into madness.' I was 
Tery sorry to see him in the character of the 'Elephant 
en the slack rope;' for, when I last saw him, 1 was in 
raptures with his performance. But then 1 was sixteen, 
— an age to which all London thed condescended to 
subside. After all, much better judges have admired, 
and may again ; but I venture to ' prognosticate a pro- 
phecy' (see the Courier) that he will not succeed. 

"So, poor dear Rogers has stuck fast on 'the brow of 
the mighty Helvellvn' — I hope not for ever. My best 
respects to Lady H. — her departure, with mat of my 
other friends, was a sad event for me, now reduced to a 
state of the most cynical solitude. 'By the waters of 
Cheltenham I sat down and drank; when 1 remembered 
thee, oh, Georgiana Cottage ! As for our harp*, we 
hanged them upon the willows that grew thereby. Then 
lln'v said, Sing us a song of Drury-lane,' &c. — but I ;uu 
dumb and dreary as the Israelites. The waters have 
disordered me to my heart's content, — you were right, as 
you always are. 

"Believe me ever your obliged 

* and affectionate servant, 
"Byron." 



LETTER CXXVIIL 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"September 22, 1812. 
■mv dear lord, 
" In a day or two 1 will send you something which you 
will still have the liberty to reject if you dislike it. 1 
should like to have had more time, but will do my best, 



• A'l'lnm At Uw Queuing of Druiy L<uit Tbeatr*. 



— but too happy if I can otofrge own, thongh I may offend 1 
100 scribblers and the discerning public. 

14 Ever yours. 
"Keep my n«m#a secret; or I shall be beset by *1) 
the rejected, and perhaps damned by a party." 



LETTER CXXIX. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"Cheltenham, September 2S, 1ST?. 

"Ecro! — I have marked some |Kis>a,jes with douoft 
readings — choose between lhcm— eiit — atbl — reject — or 
destroy — do with them as you will — I leave it to you and 
the Committee — you CSJH it say so called a 'wn com- 
mittendo. 1 What will thty do (and I do) with the hun- 
dred ami one rejected Troubadours ? *With trumpets, 
yea, and with shawms,' will y<>u be assailed in the most 
diabolical doggerel. 1 wish my name not to bran ink* till 
the day is decided. I shall net be in town, so it won't 
much matter; but let us have a good deliverer. I think 
El list on should be the man, or Pope ; not Raymond, I 
implure von by the love of Khythinus ! 

" The passages marked thus = ==, above and below, 
are t'ur you to choose between epithets, and such like 
poetical furniture. Pra^ - write me a line, and believe 
me ever, &c. 

"My best remembrances to Lady H. Will you be 
good enough to decide between the various readings 
marked, and erase tlie other; or our deliverer mny be as 
puz/led as a commentator, and belike repeat both. If 
these versirles won't do I will hammer out some mure 
endecasyllables. 

"P. S. Tell Lady- H. I have had sad work lo keep out 
the Phmnix — I mean the Pire-Office of that name. It 
has ensured the theatre, and why not the Address ?" 



LETTER CXXX. 

TO LORD HOLLA WD. 

"September 24. 
" 1 send a recast of the first four lines of the concluding 
paragraph. 

" Thii greeting o*tr, the niKimt rule obty'd, 
Thetlrmnn'* homaga hy her HeruM p*M, 
fteceivr "tr vtttomr tou, whose bystj ttit* 
Surixgi hum our henru bimJ Cam would wiu rour ow». 
The curiam rim, A. . fie. 

And do forgive all this trouble. See what ii is to have 
to do even with the gmtuUat of us. Ever, &e." 



LETTER CXXXI. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



"Cheltenham, Sept. 25, 1812. 
"Still 'more matter for a May morning. 1 Having 
patched the middle and end of the Address, I send one 
more couplet for a part of the beginning which, if not too 
turgid, you will have the goodness to add. After thai 
flagr&nt image of tin' Thames, (I hope no unlucky wag 
will sav 1 have set it on tire, though Drydcn, in his 
1 Annus Mirahilis,' and Churchill, in his 'Tunes,' did it 
before me,) 1 mean to uiscrt this: 

" At (tithing Iai the new Volcano shone 
trni tor* 
AM iwcpl thl ilttf» with hylitniin^ not their own, 
While (IiousaixIs throng'*) urouiiJ the burning dome, Ac. Ac. 

I think ' thousands' less flat than ' crowds collected' — but 
don't let me plunge into the bathns, or rise into Nat. 
Lee's Bedlam metaphors. By-the-by, the best view o( 
the said fire (which 1 myself saw from a housetop in 
Oovent-garden) was at Wesuninster Bridge, from the 
reflection on the Thames. 



LETTERS, 1612. 



45 



'Perhaps the present couplet had be**er come in after 
trembled for their homes,' the two lines after; — as other- 
wise the image certainly sinks, and it will run just as 
well. 

" The lines themselves, perhaps, may be better thus — 
('choose,' or 'refuse' — but please yourself ] and don't 
mind 'Sir Fretful') — 

$atUy 
*' As flail. 'tl the vohimed Maze, and glumly shone 

The alii..* wuli lightnings awful as tlnir own. 

The last runs smoothest, and, I think, best ; but you know 
better than best. * Lurid' is also a less indistinct epithet 
than ' livid wave,' and, if you think so, a dash of the pen 
will do. 

"I expected one line this morning; in the mean time, 
I shall remodel and condense, and if I do not hear from 
you, shall send another copy. 

" I am ever, &c. ! 



LETTER CXXXI1. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"September 26, 1812 

You will think there is no end to my villanous 

emendations. The fifth and sixth lines I think to alter 

thus : 

" Ye who behold — t>h oight admired and mourn 'd, 
Wh'ise radiance mixk'd the ruin it uduru'd ; 

oecause 'night' is repeated the next line but one; and, 
as it now stands, the conclusion of the paragraph, 'wor- 
thy him (Shakspeare) ami you? appears to apply tin 
you 1 to those only who were out of bed and in Covent- 
gorden market on the night of conflagration, instead of 
the audience or the discerning public at large, all of whom 
are intended to be comprised in that comprehensive and, 
I hope, comprehensible pronoun. 

K By-the-by, one of my corrections in the fair copy 
seat yesterday has dived into the bathos some sixty 
fathom — ■ 

" When Gar-rick died, and Brinsley ceased to write. 

Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and 
ought not to be first ; therefore I will let the old couplet 
stand, with its half rhymes 'sought' and 'wrote.'* Second 
thoughts in every thing are best, bur, in rhyme, third and 
fourth don't come amiss. I am very anxious on this 
business, and 1 do hope that the very trouble I occasi ra 
you will plead its own excuse, and that it will tend to 
show my endeavour to mala* the most of the time allot- 
ted. I wish I had known it months agojfbr in that ease 
I had not left one line standing on another. I always 
scrawl in this way, and smooth as much as 1 can, but 
never sufficiently; and, latterly, I can weave a nini -line 
stanza faster than a couplet, for which measure I have 
nut the cunning. When 1 began 'Childc Harold, 1 1 had 
never tried Spenser's measure, and now I cannot scribble 
in any other. 

"After all, my dear lord, if you can get a decent Ad- 
dress elsewhere, don't hesitate u put this aside. Why 
did you not trust your own Muse ? 1 am very-sure she 
would have been triumphant, an 1 saved the Committee 
their trouble — l 't is a joyful one 1 to me, but I fear I shall 
not satisfy even myself. After the account you sent me, 
1 is no compliment to say, you would have beaten your 
candidates ; but I mean that, in Oiat case, there would 
have been no occasion for their being beaten at all. 

* There are but two decent prologues in our tongue — 
Pope's to Cato — Johnson's to Drury-lane. These, with 



■ " Such arc the names thai here your plaudits sought, 
When Gamete acted, und when Umislej wrole." 
At present the couplet stands thus : 

*'De6,r«reiheduvs that made our annals bright, 

Lt% Oaniek iWii or Briiule) ccand w writ*/' 



the epilogue to the 'Distressed Mother,' and, I think onu 
of Goldsmith's, and a prologue of old Cohnan's to Beau- 
mont and Fletcher's Philaster, are the best things of the 
kind we have. 

" P. S. I am diluted to the throat with medicine for the 
stone; and Boisragon wants me to try a warm climate 
for the winter — but I won't." 



LETTER CXXXIII. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"September 27, 1812. 
B I have just received your very kind letter, and hope 
you have met with a second copy corrected and ad- 
dressed to Holland House, with some omissions and this 
new couplet, 

*' As glnred each rising flash,* and ghastly shone 
The aides with lightnings awful as their own. 

As to remarks, I can only sav 1 will alter and acquiesce in 
any thing. With regard to the part which "Whilbread 
wishes to omit, I believe the Address will wo off quicker 
without it, though like the agility of the Hottentot, at the 
expense of its vigour. I leave to your choice entirely the 
different specimens of stucco-work ; and a brick of your 
own will also much improve my Babylonish turret. I should 
like Elliston to have it, with your leave. 'Adorn' and 
'mourn' are lawful rhymes in Pope's death of the unfor- 
tunate Lady — Gray has ' forlorn' and ' mourn' — and ' torn' 
and ' mourn' are in Smollet's famous Tears of Scotland. 
"As there will probably be an outcry among the re 
jected, 1 hope the Committee will testify (if it be need- 
ful) that I sent in nothing to the congress whatever, with 
or without a name, as your lordship well knows. All I 
have to do with it is with and through you ; and though 
I, of course, wish to satisfy the audience, I do assure 
you my first object is to comply with your request, and 
in so doing to show the sense 1 have of the many obli- 
gations you have conferred upon me. 

" Yours ever, ° B." 



LETTER CXXXtV. 



TO LOUD HOLLAND. 



"September 27, 1812. 
B I believe this is the third scrawl since yesterdav — all 
about epithets. 1 think the epithet 'intellectual' won't 
convey the meaning I intend ; and though I hate com- 
pounds, for the present I will try (col' permesso) the 
word 'genius-gifted patriarchs of our line'f instead. 
Johnson has ( many-coloured life,' a compound — but they 
are always best avoided. However, it is the only one in 
ninety lines, but will be happy to give way to a better. 
I am ashamed to intrude any more remembrances on 
Lady H. or letters upon you; but you are, fortunately 
for me, gifted with patience already too often tried by 
" Your, &c. &c." 



LETTER CXXXV. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"September 28, 1812. 
" Will this do better ? the metaphor is more complete. 

lava of the 
" Till slowly ebb'd (he •pent volcanic wave, 

Aud OUckeniug una niaik'd the Mines 1 ! grave. 

If not, we will say 'burning' wave, and instead of 'burn- 
ing clime,' in the line some couplets back, have 'glowing.' 
"Is Whit bread determined to castrate all my cavaby 



" At present, " As glared the volumtd blaze." 
f Tim, as liually altered, is 

" iuuowrul names, einllaioued en our lln*." 






43 



LETTERS, ISI2. 



lines?* I don't see why t'other house should be spared; 
besides, ii is the public, who oughl to know bettei ; and 
v u recollect Johnson's was against similar buffooneries, 
of Rich's — but, certes, I am not Johnson. 

' Instead of ' effects, 1 say ' labours' — ' degenerate' "ill 
do, will it? JVIr. Betty ifl no lunger a babe, therefore 
the line cannot be personal. 

"Will this do? 

the burning 
- .1 the lava of that moiien wove,? 

with ' glow ing dome,' in case you prefer ' burning 1 added 
to this 'wave 1 mrfaphoriral. The word 'fiery pillar* 

was suggested by the 'pillar of fire 1 in the I k of V 

odus, whii Ii went before the Israelites through the Red 
Sea. I once thou; lit of saying 'like Israel's pillar, 1 and 
making it a simile, but I did not know, — the great temp- 
tation was leaving the epithel 'fiery 3 for the supplement- 
ary wave. 1 want to work up that passage, as it is the 
only new ground us prologuizers can go upon — 

" Thla is the jjlncc whait) if a poet 
Shined In descripli ha might show it. 

If I part with the p..s- ilnh'v nf a tut m.' . . .nfl r>, :iJi,,m, 
we lessen the compliment to Shakspeare. However, 
We will e'en mend it thus: 

" Yea, it shall he — the magic of that name. 

Thai Korni Lhc scythe ol Time, the torch of Flams, 

On the same spot, tic. &c. 

There — the deuce is in it, if that is not an improvement 
to Whitbread's content Recollect, it is the 'name,' and 
not the 'magic,' that has a noble contempt for those same 
weapons, [fit were the 'magic 9 my metaphor would 
be somewhat of the maddest — so the ' name 1 i- the ante- 
cedent. But, my dear lord, your patience is not quite 
so immortal — therefore, with many and sincere thanks, 
1 am 

" Yours - ver most affectionately. 
"P. S. I foresee there will be charges of partiality in 
the papers; but you know I sent in no Address; and 
glad both you and I must be thai 1 did not, for, in thai 
case, their plea had been plausible. I doubt the Pit will 
be testy ; but conscious innocence (a uo\» 1 End pleasing 
sensation) makes me bold." 



see, now taken ir for granted that these things are re- 
formed, Iconfe I wish thai part of the Address to 
stand; but if W. i> inexorable, e'en let ii got I have 
also new cast the lim rjed the hint of future 

combustion, ■ and sent them offthis morning, u 
n:iVt -' 'I' Id, or insert, the approved ahera- 

tions as they arrive? Thej 'conn like shadows, so 
deparl ;' occupy me, and, I fear, disturb you. 

" I »0 ii"! lei Air. \V. put his Address' into Ellison's 
hands till you have Bottled OU these alterations. E. will 
think it too Ion-; — nun Ii depends on the speaking, I 
fear it will nut bear much curtailing without chasms in 
the sense. 

" 1' i^ certainly loolong in the reading ; but rTEIliston 
exerts himself, such a favouri ■ public will not 

iit tedious. / should think it so, if lie were not 
to speak it. 

'■ Fours ever, &<-. 

"P. S. On looking again, I doubt my idea of having 
obviated W.'s objection. To the other House, allusion 
is a ( non sequitur 1 — but I wish to plead for this part, 
because the thing really is not to be passed over. 
Many after-pieces at the Lyceum bj thi same company 
have already attacked this 'Augean Stable 1 — and John- 
son, in his prologue against 'Lunn, 1 (the barlequiB-ma- 
nager, Rich,) — 'Hunt,' — 'Mahomet,' &c. is surely a fair 
precedent.'' 



LETTER CXXXVF. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"Sept. 28. 
" 1 have altered the middle couplet, so a^ I hope partly 
todoawav with W.'s objection. 1 do think, in the present 
state of the stage, it has been unpardonable to pass over 
the horses and Mis-; Mudie, &c. As Betty i~ no longer 
a boy, how ran this be applied to him? He is now to be 
judged as o mam, If he acts still like a boy, the public 
will but be more ashamed of their blunder. 1 have, you 



• Tin lines he here alludes to, finally were omiu<-i by lhc Commit- 
tee ; tiny ware Lh< 

■■ Nay, lotetr still, the Drama yet deplores 
That late she deign'd to crated up n n..- 
WHsn Richard roar* in Bostc-oriA for ahoree, 
I ijf/u command, the steed must mine in coune. 
If </'"■ ' •end 

lo looth the ilckty tone we dai i inei I 

B . " "t ttioutd we acquiesce, 

A ml gratify \ 

Oh, utiCc your flai *tam| i Di una i lawi, 

i ■ " la It ua u ith mit|iIacotl apj li i . 

Thai />•■' '■■< praise ■ ■ - i need, 

brulee io man n i all 
From babts <•'»/ brute* i i ri'i taete. 

Than, pride shall doubly nerve the actora 1 powen, 

When Id' ,ii. ii | , kvk hy onr«." 

T^i* last couple i but one was again altered Id a lubacquant cony lima 
** 7"he past reproach lit prtttnt scene- 

Nor shift from man to babe, from babe 10 brute." 
t The form of this COUpIet, M printed I* n» follows : — 
" Till blackening ashes urn! the lonely wall 
I iut|.'d the Mujc's realm, iuni mark'd her fall." 



LETTER CXXXVIt. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"Sept. 29,1312. 
" Shakspeare certainly ceased to reign in one of ha 

as t i ■ HI. did in America, and George 

1 V. may in Ireland.! Now, we have nothing to d ii 

of our own, realms, and when the monarchy was gone, 
his majesty had but a barren sceptre. I have cut noay, 
you will see, and alined, but make it what VOU please; 

only I do implore, f>r my own gratification, one lash on 
cursed quadrupeds — k a long shot, Sir Lucius, if 
you love me. 1 I have altered ' wave, 1 &.<■. and tj i 
and so forth, for the timid. 

'■ I ..i me hear from you when convenient, and believe 
me, &c. 

"P. S. Do let tfiat stand, and cut out elsewhere. I 
shall choke, if we must overlook their d — d mena«erie. n 



LETTER CXXXVIU. 

TO LOUD HOLLAND. 

"Sep*. 30,1812. 

'• r sen 1 vou the most r can make of ii ; tor I am nol 
so well as I v. i i mid I 'pall in resolution.' 

"I wish much to see you, and will be at Tetbury by 
twelve on Saturday ; and (ruin thence I go on to Lord 
Jersey's, h is impossible not to allude to the de 
state ofthe Stag , but I have lightened it, and i 
roured to obviate your other objections. There is a new 
couple! for Sheridan, allusive to his Monody. All the 
alterations 1 have marked thus [, — as you will see by 
comparison with the other copy. I have- cudgelled my 
brains with the greatest willingness, and only wish 1 had 
more time to ha /* done hotter. 

''Vcu will find a sort of clap-trap laudatory couplet 
inserted lor the quiet of the Committee, and I have 
added, towards the end, the couplet you were pleased 
io like. The whole Address is seventy-three lines, still 



* It bud been, origin,! illy, 

" Though a-Jier piltt may tint in future Jla^ui, 
On the aa-toe ejiot," &c. &c. 

t Some Objection, ilappearafromlbie, had been madetotb* paataje, 
' and Sbakvjjcare ceased to nign." 



LETTERS, 1813. 



perhaps too !on?, and, if shortened, you will save time, 
but, I fear, a little of what I meant for sense also. 

" With mvnads of thanks, I am ever, &c. 

"Mv sixteenth edition of respects to Lady H. How 
she must laugh at all this ! 

"I wish Murray, my publisher, to print off some 
copies as soon as your lordship returns to town — it wiii 
ensure correctness in the papers afterward." 



LETTER CXXXIX. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" Far be from him thni hour which asks in vain 

Tears such as flew for Garrick in hie strain ; 

or, 
Par be that hour that vainly asks in turn 

croum'd his 
Such verse for him as wept o'er Garrick's urn. 

"Sept. 30,181°.. 

""Will you choose between these added to the lines 
on Sheridan?* I think they will wind up the parn-^vnr. 
and agree with the train of thought prereding them. 

"Now, one word as to the Committee — how could 
solve on a rough copy of an Address never sent 
in, unless you had been good enough to retain in memory 
or on paper, the thing they have been good enoush to 
adopt? By-thc-hy, the circumstances of the case should 
make the Committee less ( avidus gloria?,' for all prai: 
of them would look plaguy suspicious. If necessary to 
be slated at all, the simple facts bear them out. They 
surely had a right to act as they pleased. My sole ob- 
ject is one which, I trust, my whole conduct has shown; 
riz. (hat I did nothing insidious — sent in no Address 
r — but, when applied to, did my best for them and 
myself; but above all, that there was no undue partial- 
ity, which will be what the rejected will endeavour to 
make out. Fortunately — most fortunately — I sent in no 
lines on the occasion. For I am sure that had they, in 
that case, been preferred, it would have been asserted 
that / was known, and owed the preference to private 
friendship. This is what we shall probably have to en- 
counter, but, if once spoken and approved, we sha'n't be 
much 'inbarrassed by their brilliant conjectures, and, as 
to criticism, an old author, like an old bull, grows cooler 
(or ought) at every baitirw. 

"The only thing would be to avoid a party on the 
night oi delivery — afterward, the more the better, and 
the whole transaction inevitably tends to a good deal of 
discussion. Murray tells me there are myriads of iron- 
ical Addresses ready — some, in imitation of what is called 
my style. If they are as good as the Probationary Odes, 
or Hawkins's Pipe of Tobacco, it will not be bad fun for 
the imitated. 

B Ever,&c." 



LETTER CXL. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"October2, 1812. 

" A copy of this Hill altered is sent by the post, but this 
will arrive first. It must be 'humbler' — ' yet aspiring* 
does away the modesty, and, after all, truth if truth. 
Besides, there is a puff direct altered, to please your 
plaguy rent* ra, 

" I shall be at Tctbury by twelve or one — but send 
this for you to ponder over. There are several Little 
tilings marked thus/ altered for your perusal. I have 
dismounted the cavalry, and, I hope, arranged to your 
general satisfaction. 

■Ever.&c. 

"At Tetbury by noon. I hope, after it is sent, there 
will be no more elisions. It is not now so lone — 73 



47 



lines — two less than allotted. I will alter all Committee 
objections, but I hope you wont permit L'lliston to nave 
any twee whatever, — except in speaking it." 



' Thete aiMetl linei, ae Buy be sen. by reference la the prinled Ati- 
rk.vere iiut relumed. 



LETTER CXLI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

K High-street, Cheltenham, Sept. 5, 1812. 

" Pray have the goodness to send those despatches, 
and a No. of the Edinburgh Review with the rest. I 
hope you have written to Mr. Thompson, thanked him 
in my name for his present, and told him that I shall be 
truly happy to comply with his request. How do you 
go on ? and when is the graven image, ' with bays and 
wicked rhyme upon 7,* to grace, or disgrace, some of our 
tardy editions 3 

" Send me ' Rokeby.' Who the devil is he ? — no mat- 
ter, he has good connexions, and will be well introduced. 
I thank you for your inquiries: I am so so, but my 
thermometer is sadly below the poetical point. What 
will you give me or mine for a poem of six Cantos, (when 
complete — no rhyme, no recompense,) as like the last two 
as 1 can make them ? I have some ideas that one day 
may be imbodied, and till winter I shall have much 
leisure. 

" P. S. My last question is in the true style of Grub- 
street ; but, like Jeremy Diddler, I only 'fjsk for inform- 
ation.' Send me Adair on Diet and Regimen, just re 
published by Ridgway." 



LETTER CXLLT. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Cheltenham, Sept. 14, 1812. 

" The parcels contained some letters and verses, all 
(but one) anonymous and complimentarv, and very 
anxious for my conversion from certain infidelities into 
which my good-natured correspondents conceive me to 
have fallen. The books were presents of a convertible 
kind. Also, 'Christian knowledge' and the 'Bioscope,' 
a religions Dial of Life explained ; and to the author of 
the former, (Cadell publisher,) I be<j you will forward my 
best thanks for his letter, his present, and, above all, his 
good intentions. The ' Bioscope' contained a MS. 
copy of very excellent verses, from whom I know not, 
hut evidently the composition of some one in the habit of 
writing, and of writing well. I do not know if he be the 
author of the ' Bioscope' v hich accompanied them ; but 
whoever he is, it you can discover him, thank him from 
me most heartily. The other letters were from ladies, 
who are welcome to convert me when they please ; and 
if I can discover them, and they be young, as they say 
they are, I could convince them perhaps of my devotion. 
I had also a letter from Mr. Walpole on matters of this 
world, win- h 1 have answered. 

" So you are Lucien's publisher ? I am promised an 
interview with him, and think I shall ask you for a letter 
of introduction, as. 'the gods have made him poetical.' 
From whom could it come with a better grace than from 
fiis publisher and mine? Is it not somewhat treasonable 
in you to have to do with a relative of the ' direful foe,' 
as the Morning Post calls his brother? 

" But my book on ' Diet and Regimen,' where is it ? I 
thirst for Scott's Rokeby; let me have your first-begotten 
copy. The Antijacobin Review is all very well, and 
not a bit worse than the Quarterly, and at least less 
harmless. By the by, have you secured my books ? I 

ant all the Reviews, at least the critiques, quarterly, 
monthly, &c. Portuguese and English, extracted, and 
bound up in one volume for my old age; and pray, sort 
my Romaic books, and get the volumes lent to Mr. 
Hobhouse — he has had them now a long time. If any 
thing occurs, you will favour me with a line, and in win 
ter wc shaU be nearer n-'i^hhours. 



48 



LETTERS, 1812. 



"P.S. I was applied to, to write the Address for 
Drury-lane, but the moment I heard of the contest, I 
gave up the idea of contending against all Grub-streel 
and threw a few thoughts on (he subject into the fire 
I did tins out of respect to you, being sure you would 
nave turned off any of your authors who had enoT'd 
the lists with such scurvy competitors. To triumpl 
would have been no glory; and to have been defeated 
— 'sdeath ! — I would have cboked myself] like Otway, 
with a quartern loaf; so, remember I had, and have, 
nothing to do with it, upon my honour!" 



LETTER CXLIIt. 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES 

"Cheltenham, Sept. 28, 1812. 
"my hear baxkes, 

"When you point out to one how people can he int 
mate at the distance of some seventy leagues, I will 
plead guilty to your charge, and accept your farewell, 
but not uittingli/, till you give rue some heller reason than 

my silence, which merely pr eded from a notion 

founded on your own declaration of oM, that youjiated 
writing and receiving Letters. Besides, how Was 1 to 
find out a man of many residences.' It' I had addressed 
you, non; it bad been to your borough, where I must 
have conjectured you were among your constituents. 
So now, m despite of Mr. X. and Lady W. you shall 
be as 'much better* as the Hexham post-office will allow 
me to make you. I do assure you I am much indebted 
to you for thinking of me at all, and can't spare you 
even from among the superabundance of friends with 
whom you suppose me surrounded. 

"You beard that New stead* is sold — the sum 
£140,000; sixty to remain in mortgage on the estate for 
three years, paying interest, ol course, Rochdale is 
also likely to do well — so my worldly matters are mend- 
ing. 1 have been here some tune dunking the waters, 
simply because there are waters to drink, and they are 
very medicinal, and sufficiently disgusting. In a few 
days I sel out ti»r Lord Jersey's, hm return hn-e, where 
I am quite alone, go out very little, and enjoy in its full- 
est extent the ' dolce far niente.' What yon are about, 
I cannot guess, even from your date; not dancing to 
the sound of the gitourney in the Halls of theLowthers? 
one of whom is here, ill, poor tluni', with a phthisic. I 
heard that you passed through here {at the sordid inn 
where I first alighted) ihe vr\* duv hetnre I arrivi-d in 
these parts. We had a very pleasant set here; at first 
the Jerseys, Melbournes, Cowpers, and Hollands, but 
all gone; and the only persons 1 know are the Raw- 
dons and Oxfords, with some later acquaintances of less 
brilliant descent. 

"But I do not trouble them much; and as for your 
rooms and your assemblies, 'they ore not dreamed of in 
our philosophy!!' Did you read of a sad accident in 
the Wye t'other day? a dozen drowned, and Mr. Ros* 
soe, a corpulent gentleman, preserved by a boat-hook 
or an eel-spear, begged, when he heard Ins will- un- 
saved — no — lost — to be thrown in again!! — as if he 

could not have thrown hiins-lfin. hail he wished it: bW 

this passes for a trait of sensibility. What strange 

Winis men are, in and out of the \Y \>- ! 

" I have to ask you a thousand pardons lor not fulfill- 
ing some orders before I left town; but if you knew all 
the cursed entanglements I had to wade through, il 
would be unnecessary to beg your forgiveness. When 
will Parliament (the new one) meet? — in sixty days, 
on account of Ireland, I presume; the lush election 
will demand a longer period for completion than the 
constitutional allotment. Yours, of course is safe, and 
all your side of the question. Salamanca is the mms- 



1 Tlic inJtf vtnt afit'T-wai d. caned!*). 



terial watchword, and all will l'o well with you. I hope 
you will speak d fitly, 1 am sure at least you 

ought, and it will be expected. 1 sec Purtman means 
to stand again. Good night. 

"Ever yours most affectionately, 

■ Nuaiftfr."* 



LETTER CXLIV. 

TO MR. JH'KKAV. 

"Cheltenham, Sept. 27, 1812. 

"I sent in no Address whatever to the Committee i 
but out of nearly one hundred, (this i^ confidenttalA 
none have been deemed worth acceptance; and incon- 
sequence of their subsequent application to nttj I have 
written a prolojrue, which has been received, and will 
In spoken. The MS. is now in the hands ofLord Hol- 
land. 

" I writ.- (his m< in ilj to say, that (however it is re* 
ceived by the au< ience) you will publish it in the next 
edition ofChiide Harold; and I only beg von at present 
to keep m v nun.- secret till you hear farther from me, 
and as soon as possible I wish you to have a correct 
copy, to do with as you think proper. 

"P.S. I should wish a few copies printed off btfore^ 
that the newspaper copies may be correct after the 
delivery. 9 



LETTER CXLV. 



TO MH. RtURRAV. 



"Cheltenham, Oct. 12, 1812. 

"I have a very strong objection to the engraving of 
the portrait, and request that it may, on no account, ba 
prefixed; but lei all the proofs be burned, and the plate 
broken. I will be at the expanse which has been in- 
curred; it is but fair that /should, since I cannot per- 
mit the publication. I be?, as a particular favour, that 
you will lose no time in having this done, for which I 
have reasons thai I will state when 1 see you. For- 
give all the trouble I have occasioned you, 

"I have received no account of the reception of (ha 
Address, but &ee it is vituperated in the papers, which 
does not much embarrass an old author. I leave it to 
your own judgmenl to add it, or not, to your next edi- 
tion when required. Pray comply strictly with my 
wishes as to the engraving, and believe me, &r. 

"P. S. Favour me with an answer, as I shall not be 
easy till I heai that the proofs, &c. are destroyed. I hear 
that the Satirist has reviewed Childe Harold, in what 
manner I need not ask; but I wish to know if the old 
personalities an- revived? [haves better reason for 
asking this than any that merely concerns myself; but 
in publications of that kind, others, particularly female 
names, are sometimes introduced." 



LETTER CXLVI. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"Cheltenham, Oct. M, 1812. 

"MY DF.AR LORD, 

I perceive that the papers, yea, even Perry's, are 
somewhat ruffled at the injudicious preference of the 
Committee. My friend Perry has, indeed, 'el tu Brute'-d 
me rather scurvily, tor which I will send him, for the 
M.C.f 'he next epigram 1 scribble, as a token of my 
full forgii 

tl Do the Committee mean to enter into no explanation 
of their proceedings? You must see there is a leaning 
towards a charge of partiality. You will, a' least, acquit 
me of any great anxiety to push myself before so man* 



• A mcKle nf signature lie fnrquenlly ftdopltd 

t Tbc Morning ( bmUde, oTwJtlch Mr. Perrj w»» the proyHetat* 



LET THUS, ISI2. 



•s» 



elder and beU-er anonymous, to whom the twenty guineas 
[which I take to be about two tliousand pounds Bank 
unrreucy) and the honour would have been equally weK 
cowe. 'Honour,' 1 see, 'hath no skill in paragvapli- 
wri ting.' 

* I wish to tnow how- it wwt olfatthf* second reading 
and wbcRtor any one has had the grace to give n a 
(•lance ivf a|>prohalioH. I h^ve Bean (to taper but Per- 
jy"s,anil two Sunday ones. Perry is severe, and the 
o)hew silent. If, Iw-weivr, you and y>>«r Committee are 
not i.'av diseaiisfied wiih your own judgments) I sluilt 
not mcdi en&aYeas* -myself libout the bri'hunt remark > 
of the journals. My «ws opinion uj*»jft it is what 11 
a!\v-j\»> te'a,i\jM"*lia(.»« pretty near that or the public, 

* Believe mc, my dear lord, &c. &r. 

"P%6, .Mr best respects to Lady H. whose smiles 
wjl be- v<*y cqgSPJatorft, even, ftl tics distance.* 



LETTER CXLVtL 



to mr. .mi;ksav. 



"Chelteniuim, Oct. 18, ?R12- 

"AVWl ym have the goodness to get this Parody of a 
peculiar land 4 (tor all flic first lines are Svahtfs entire) 
inserted in several of the pai«rs, {>:^rreril^ and copied 
tnmtitiy; any Aonrf is difficult,) — |»articularly the Morn* 
big Clironidc ? Tell Mr. Perry I forgive him " : : he has 
juud, and may say against w/ cw/^tss, but Ire w>Ji allow 
me to deal with the doctor— '(«au£ alteram prnteHk) and 
not Mrav me. I cannot think what 5>as befeJlfMi Mr. 
Perrv, for of yore we were very gsjuri friends i^«i>Ut DO 
matter, only get this inserted. 

"I have a poem on W allying mr p&t^ of which I 
make y/nt a presets htttft ifinst be eponymous. It is 
in the old style of Kuglish Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 

"P.S. "With the next edit urn of Chihb; Harold you 
inav print the first fifty 0* a hundred opentaft lines of the 
1 Curse of Minerva*' down fo the couplet beginning 

" M rfi-i (H was thus she spake, 4c. 

Of rourse, the moment the Sotire begin?, there you will 
sinp, and the opening is the best part." 



LETTER CXLYIH. 

TO MR. MBRRAY. 

B Oct. 19,1812. 
° Many thanks, but I must pay the damage, and wi 
thank you to tell me the amount tor the engraving. 
think the ' Rejected Addresses 1 by far the best tiling nf 
('., ■ kind sir.ee the Rolliad, and wishyo* had published 
then*. Tell tlie author 1 ! forgive hin% were b* twenty 
times over a satirist ;' and think his h^katkjns o>.t at a 
inferifefr fcifc tt*«£ (anions ones ol* Hawkins Bro.wne» H 
, a man of very lively wit, and less scurrilous 
thaa wits often are: altogether, I very much admire the 
perF'Tinancey Mid wish it all success. The Satirist ha- 
taken a new tone, us you will see: we have now v I 
think, finished with Childe Harold's critics. I have in 

hind a S Uirr Oil Waltzing^ wlilcll you must publish 

anonymously; it is not long, not quite two hundred 
Snes, b«1 will make a very small hoarded pamphlet. In 
l few days you shall have it. 



■ P. S» The editor of the Satirist ought _o be tnanked 
Sir his revocation ^ it is done handsomely. after (ivt* 
years 1 wartare." 



• Among UV Addrewtei wtxt\ in to the DninMHit Commi'tee wsto« 
bv Dr. Baity, mtltled b Monologue, oi which tht i nrcnty woenfliMed ii 
UufttcU^-. t'he lir«t loir linen ol the Doctor's AAlceM arc a»fcU«ws ;- 
' Wlien enerdEinR nb]«tU ro>*n pursue. 

Wll.it H(^ Thr |>ti». hl - ''" ■'■" v r.diitut (i'.j 7 

A rmuc Edifice *ou litre ■njrv«y, 
ShfM from :li. ruini of die <,iher Hay !' 
JVbkli «riN are Uiui ridiculed in the Parody :— 
" Wht-n enersiztiijg r>bject« men ))i»-sii«,' 
The Lord kii^w* what (* wiii by l,o*-.l Viinwe who. 
' A m'j>tr«*. Huonlogae jroa Bkrt wrVeyJ 
HlM'd from the ibcotre rte ' otiMrd«y. * 

t Sue POtmi [>. <tt. 



LETTER CXLIX. 

TO KB, Wt.TB.RAV. 

'•Tnanh^ as usual. Von go on boldly; but have a 
care of ^totting the public, who have by this time hal 
■ ; ( Hiijde Hajoljl. 'W^tyin^ shsil be prt-jiared. 
It is !»ii'lv.-f «bovs Iwo liMT.-^r-'i lineS| ■ntlh an mlroduo. 
i-iry Letter to the Pu^ish^r. I think of publishing, witk 
Chilli'' Harold, the npeiung tines oi" the 'Curse of Mi» 
iK-rv.t,'* as for as the tafttycech of Pallas,— becausti 
some of the readf-ra like-QApalt bv-Uerthan any I have. 
ewir wvith-ij, and as if ^sotama nuihiog to affect tho 
subject of the subsequent portion, it will find a place a.s. 
a Oe*crtptii« Fragment. 

"The ptofe is itrof<cJi? between oursel\T?s, it was un*. 
like the picture ; and besides, upon the whole, the from 
tis|jiece • i \ ■< aWh • fa visage is but a paltry exhibition. 
At all events, litis would have been no reeomni- : 
to the book. I am sure Sanders would not have fittruttwd 
the engraving. By-the-by^ lYie picture may remain u:th 
yen or him (winch you please) till my Veturn.. The e»* 
of two remahlb)£ copies is at your service till I can giv* 
you a 6etlerj die o&e* must be burned pcrctHpCsrity^ 
Again, dt> not forget that I have an account with you^ 
and t'"t 'his is inctad&L I give you too much IrnuUe to 
allow von to incur Fxjwnsc also. 

« V-M-. best know how far this 'Address riot' will aftec^ 
the future sale of Chiltle Havohl. I like the volume ( uT 
'Rejected Addresses' better and better. The other 
parody which Perry has received is mine elso, {[ be- 
lieve.) It w Dr. Busby's speech versified^ You art* 
removing to Alhcinarle-street, I find, and I rejoice thai 
we shall be nean;r neighbours. I am going to Lord: 
Oxford's, but letters here will be forwarded. When at 
leisure, all communications from you will be wHJinglj! 
received by the humblest of your scribes. Did Mr. 
Ward write the review of Home Tooke's Life in Uid 
Quejcterly * U is excellent.* 



LETTER CL. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

■ Cheltenham, Nov. 22, lel£. 
"On nty retnm here from Lord O.vford's, 1 found your 
obltgino note, and wffl thttnk you to retain the letters, 
ateJ any other subsequent ones to the sanie adtlvess, till 
1 arrive in town to claim them, which wil! psobalily bo 
in a few days, I have ui charge a curious and very 
long MS. poem, written by Lord Brooke, (the./W<W of 
Sir PIdUp Sidnn^) which I wish to submit to the in* 
sueciiun of Mr. GUTord, with the following qu.LM-ics :— 
lii •qL -■ hi tlcM it !.;i< ever been published, and, secondly* 
(if not,) whether it is worth publication'? It is front 
Lord O.vXord's library, and must have escaped or been 
overlooked among the MSS. of the Harleian Miscellany. 
The writing '» Lord Brcokc'o, except a different hand: 
toAvardii the close. It is very long, and in the six-lina 
sirm/a. It is not for me to hazard an opinion upon its 
merits; but I would take the liberty, if not too trouble- 
some, to submit it to Mr. Gifford*s judgment, which, 
from his excellent edition of Masslnger, I should con* 
ceiVe to be as decisive on the wiiuogs of that ago as on 
those of our own, 

"Now for a lew agreeable and important topic 
How came Mr. Af<«> Somebody, without consulting you 

1 • see ftcvnpi ^1. 



60 



LETTERS, 1813. 



or me, to prefix the Address to his volume* of* Dejected 
Addresses?' Is not this somewhat larcenous ? 1 think the 
ceremony of leave might have been asked, though 1 have 
no objection to the thing itself; and leave the 'hundred and 

**even' to tire themselves with 'base comparisons.' I 
bm-'jld think the ingenuous public tolerably sick of the 
subject, and, except the Parodies, I have not interfered, 
nor shall; indeed I did not know that 1 »r. Busta bad 
published his Apologetical Letter and Postscript, or I 
should have recalled them. But I confess I looked 
upon his conduct in a different light before its appear- 
ance. I see some mountebank has taken Alderman 
Birch's name to vituperate Dr. Busby ; he had much 
better have pilfered his pastry, which I should imagine 
the more valuable ingredient — at least for a puff. — Pray 
secure me a copy of Woodiall's new Junius, and believe 
me, &c." 



LETTER CLI. 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 

"December 26. 

"The multitude of your recommendations has already 
superseded mv humble endeavours to be of use to you, 
and, indeed, most of my principal friends are returned. 
Leake from Joannina, Canning and Adair from the city 
of the faithful, and at Smyrna no letter is necessary, as 
the consuls are always willing to do every thing for per- 
son af is of respectability. 1 have sent you three, one to 
(Gibraltar, which, though of no great necessity, will, per- 
haps, put you on a more intimate footing with ;l very 
pleaaant family there. You will very soon find out that 
a man of any consequence has very little occasion for 
any letters but to ministers and bankers, and of them 
you have already plenty, 1 will be sworn. 

"It is by no means improbable, that I shall go in the 
spring, and if you will hx any place of rendezvous about 
August, I will write or join you. — When in Albania, I 
wish you would inquire after Dervise Tahiri and Vas- 
cillie, (or Basil,) and make my respects to trie viziers, 
both there and in the Morea. If yon mention my name 
to Suleyman of Thebes, I think it will not hurt you; if I 
had my dragoman, or wrote Turkish, I could have given 
you letters of real service; but to the English they are 
hardly requisite, and the Greeks themselves can be of 
little advantage. Liston you know already, and I do 
not, as he was not then minister. Mind you visit Ephe- 
BUS and the Troad, and let me hear from you when you 
please. I believe G. Forresti is now at Yanina, but if 
not, whoever is there will be too happy to assist you. 
Be particular about^r/na«na,* never allow yourself to be 
bullied, for you are better protected in Turkey than any 
vt here ; trust not the Greeks ; and take some knieknach- 
tries for presents — watches, pistols, &c. &c. to the Beys 
and Pachas. If you find one Demetrius, at Athens or 
elsewhere, 1 can recommend him as a good dragoman. 
I hope to join you, however; but you will find swarms of 
English now in the Levant. 

u Believe me, &c." 



LETTER CLII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"February 20, 1813. 
* In ' Horace in London, 1 I perceive some stanzas on 
Lord Elgin, in which (waiving the kind compliment to 
myself,) I heartily concur. I wish I had the pleasure 
of Mr. Smith's acquaintance, as [ could communicate 
the curious anecdote you read in Mr. T.'s letter. If he 



* "The genuine Rejected Addresses, presented lo the Committee of 
MnnHgemeiUffir Dmrv-lane Theatre , preceded by that Wlillaj] by Lord 
Hvron »nd adopted hy the Committee : — published by B. M'Mttl*"* 



would like it, he can have the suhstunce for his second 
edition ; if not, I shall add it lo our next, though 1 think 
we already have enough of Lord Elgin. 

- What I have read of this work seems admirably 
done. My praise, however, is not much worth the au- 
thor's having ; but you may thank bun in my name for 
his. The idea is new — we have excellent imitations of 
the Satires, &c. by Pope ; but I remember but one mu- 
tative Otle in his works, and none any where else. I 
can hardly suppose that they have lost any fame by the 
fate of the farce ; but even should this be the case, the 
present publication will again place them on their pin- 
nacle. " Yours, ice." 



LETTER CLIII. 

TO MR. ROOER8. 

"March 25, 1813. 

" I enclose you a draft for the usurious interest due to 
Lord * *'s -proUgi ; — I also could wish you would state 
thus much for me to his lordship. Though the transac- 
tion speaks plainly in itself for the borrower's folly and 
the lender's usury, it never was my intention to quash 
the demand, as I legally might, nor to withhold payment 
of principal, or, perhaps, even unlawful ink-rest. You 
know what my situation has been, and what it is. I have 
parted with an estate, (which has been in my family for 
nearly three hundred years, ;uid was never disgraced by 
being in possess* in of lawyer, a churchman, or a woman, 
during that period,) to liquidate this and similar de- 
mands; and the payment of the purchase is still with- 
held, and may be, perhaps, for years. }t] therefore, I am 
under the necessity of making those persons wait fbf 
their money, (winch, considering the terms,, they can 
afford to surfer,) it is my misfortune. 

'When I arrived at majority in 1809, I offered my 
own security on legal interest, and it was refused. 
Wow, I will not accede to this. This man I may have 
seen, but I have no recollection of the names of any par- 
ties but the agents and the securities. The moment I 
can, it is assuredly my intention to pay my debts. This 
person's case may bo a hard one ; but, under all circum- 
Btances, what is mine? I could n>d foresee that the 
purchaser of my estate was to demur in paying for it. 

"1 am glad it happens to be in my power so far to 
accommodate my Israelite, and only wish I could do as 
much for the rest of the Twelve Tribes. 

" Ever yours, dear R. 

" B.x." 



LETTER CLIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 
"West all has, I believe, agreed to illustrate your book,* 

and 1 fancy one of the engravings « dl be from the pretty 
little girl you saw the other day,t though without her 
nanta, and merely as a model for some sketch connected 
with the subject. I would also have the portrait ( widen 
you saw to-dav) of the friend who is mentioned in the 
text at the close of Canto first, and m the notes — which 
are subjects sufficient to authorize that addiin u.' 1 



Early in the spring he brought out, anonymously, his 
poem on Waltzing, which, though full of very lively 
satire, fell so far short of what was now expe^tV. from 
him by the public, that the disavowal of it, which, as we 
see by the following letter, he thought right to put fortli, 
found ready credence. 



* A new edition ofChilde Harold. 

t Lajly Charlotte Harley, lo whom, under the name of lanlhc, tU 
UnrodSetori HUM to CUlde Harold w«re afterward ■ddfUMd. 



LETTERS, 1813. 



51 



LETTER CLV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 21, 1813 
* 1 shall be in town by Sunday next, and will call and 
have some conversation on the subject of Westell's de- 
signs. I am to sit to him fur a picture at the request of 
a friend of mine, and as Sanders's is not a good one, you 
will probably prefer the other. I wish you to have 
Sanders^ taken down and sent to my lodgings imme- 
diately — before my arrival. I hear that a certain ma- 
licious publication on Waltzing is attributed to me. 
This report, I suppose, you will take care to contradict, 
as the author, 1 am sure, will not like that I should wear 
his cap and bells. Mr. Hobhouse's quarto will be out 
immediately ; pray send to the author for an early copy, 
whicfa I wish to take abroad with me. 

"P. S. I see the Examiner threatens some observa- 
tions upon you next week. What can you have done 
to share the wrath which has heretofore been principally 
expended upon the Prince? I presume all your 
Scribleri will be drawn up in battle array in defence of 
the modern Tonson — Mr. Bucke, for instance. 

" Send in my account to Bennet-strcet, as I wish to 
settle it before sailing." 



LETTER CLVL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Maidenhead, June 13, 1813. 

.-■«*: 4. | ha Ve read the 'Strictures, 1 * which are 
just enough, and not grossly abusive, in very fair cou- 
plers. There is a note against Massinger near the end, 
and one cannot quarrel with one's company, at any rate. 
The author detects some incongruous figures in a pas- 
sage of English Bards, page 23, but which edition I do 
not know. In the sole copy in your possession — I mean 
the Jifth edition — you may make these alterations, that 1 
may profit (though a little too late) by his remarks: — 
For 'hellish instinct,' substitute l brutal instinct;' l harpies' 
alter to 'felons? and for ' blood- hounds' write 'hell- 
hounds.'! These be 'very bitter words, by my troth,' 
and the alterations not much sweeter ; but as I shall not 
publish the tiling, they can do no harm, but are a satis- 

rtion to me in the way of amendment. The passage 
is only twelve lines. 

u You do not answer me about H.'s book ; I want to 
write to him, and not to say any thing unpleasing. If 
you direct to Post-office, Portsmouth, till cniled fur, I 
will send and receive your letter. You never told me 
of the forthcoming critique on Columbus, winch is not 
too fair; and 1 do not think justice quite done to the 
* Pleasures,'^ which surely entitle the author to a higher 
rank than that assigned him in the Quarterly. But I 
must not cavil at the decisions of the invisible infullibles; 
and the article is very well written. The general hor- 
ror of 'fragments' makes me tremulous for the 'Giaour;' 
but you would publish it — I presume, by this time, to your 
repentance. But as I consented, whatever be its fate, 
I won't now quarrel with you, even though I detect it in 
mv pastry ; but I shall not open a pie without apprehen- 
sion for some weeks. 

"The books which may be marked G. O. I will carry 
out. Do you know Clarke's Naufragia ? I am told 
that he asserts Hie first volume of Robinson Crusoe was 
written by the first Lord Oxford, when in the Tower, 
and given by him to Defoe : if true, it is a curious anec- 
dote. Have you got back Lord Brooke's MS.? and 
what does Heber say of it? Write to me at Portsmouth. 
" Ever yours, &.c. 



' Oa the Stair*, by Mr. Crowe. t See Engtitli Budi. 

I Pounw, t>y Mr. Rog«r«. 



LETTER CLVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"June 18, 1813. 

C DEAR SIR, 

" Will you forward the enclosed answer to the kindest 
letter I ever received "in my life, my sense of which I can 
neither express to Mr. Giflurj himself nor to any one 
else. 

"Ever yours,, "N." 

LETTER CLVIII. 

TO W. GIFFORD, ESO.. 

"June 18, 1813. 

K MY DEAR SIR, 

"I feel greatly at a loss how to write to you at all — 
•still more to thank you as I ought. If you knew the 
veneration with which I have ever regarded you, long 
before I had the most distant prospect of becoming your 
acquaintance] literary or personal, my embarrassment 
would not surprise you. 

" Any suggestion of yours, even were it conveyed in 
the less tender shape of the text of the Baviad, or a 
Monk Mason note in Massinger, would have been 
obeyed ; I should have endeavoured to improve myself 
by your censure: judge then if I should be less willing 
to profit by your kindness. It is not for me to bandy 
compliments with my elders and my betters: I receive 
your approbation with gratitude, and will not return my 
brass for your gold, by expressing more fully those sen- 
timents of admiration, which, however sincere, would; I 
know, be unwelcome. 

" To your advice on religious topics, I shall equally 
attend. Perhaps the best way will be by avoiding them 
altogether. The already published objectionable pas- 
sages have been much commented upon, but certainly 
have been rather strongly interpreted. I am no bigot to 
infidelity, and did not expect that, because I doubted the 
immortality of man, I should be charged with denying 
the existence of a God. It was the comparative insig- 
nificance of ourselves and our world, when placed in 
comparison with the mighty whole, of which it is an 
atom, that first led me to imagine that our pretensions 
to eternity might be overrated. 

11 This, and being early disgusted with a Calvinistic 
Scotch school, when I was cudgelled to church, for the 
first ten years of my life, afflicted me with this malady ; 
for, after all, it is, I believe, a disease of the mind as 
much as other kinds of hypochondria." 



LETTER CLIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"June 22, 1813. 

****** 

"Yesterday I dined in company with '* *, the Epi- 
cene,' whose politics are sadly changed. She is for the- 
Lord of Israel and the Lord of Liverpool — a vile anti- 
thesis of a Methodist and a Tory — talks of nothing but 
devotion and the ministry, and, I presume, expects that 
God and the government will help her to a pension. 
****** 

■ Murray, the aval; of publishers, the Anac of station- 
ers, has a design upon you in the paper line. He wants 
you to become the staple and stipendiary editor of a 
periodical work. What say you? Will you be bound, 
like ■ Kit Smart, to write for ninety-nine years in the 
Universal Visiter V Seriously, he talks of hundreds a 
year, and — though I hate prating of the beggarly ele- 
ments — his proposal may be to your honour and profit, 
and, I am very sure, will be to our pleasure. 

" I don't know what to say about ' friendship. 1 I never 



5» 



LfcTtEfti* ttft 



ins m friendship but or*.'*', in my nineteenth year, and 
then rt gave me as much trouble as love. I am afra-M, 
as "VVhut.rea.rs sire said to the km;:, when be wanted to 
fetnght him, that I am ' too old r b>tt, nevertheless, no 
"bhe wishes rou more friend.*, fame, anu iefic.ty, than 

■ V.mrv, &c." 



LETTER rr,\". 

to mr. moorf:. 
■4,Bc..odicVmc-slreet, Si. James*;, JoN- 3. JP.3. 
^ I p r esume by your silence that I li»*e blundered 
ihlo ^onssttnng noxious in my reply to your letter; for 



perls. However, you know ber; ks Srrti e,Wr, ft sefc 
siMe, or good-tempered ? either trowW do^-I scratch. 06* 
the ariEL I d-mt »*k as to her beauty, that I see, but 
my ctrcuiwrtati£es are aimiTrag, and were »>t my othvr 
pFhsfiectic blarh-t-mug, 1 would l**e a wnV, and thai 
should be the woman, had ! a du.;»ce. 1 do net yet 
know fcer much, hot better than I ifiA 

" I want f 6 gel away, but EaVri • Bpte wn ^ 

a passage ill llshfB of war. They had better In are go; 
if I eaaadt) n^rrotkoa is the wonl — e nay, an* they *U 
month, ] K rant as wed as iheyJ Now, wfaal aw yc*J 
doing? writkg, we'aK nope, for o«r ow» Bakes. Re* 
m eaJ b e r roe .unst edtu- say posthwotoiw worts, with a 



the which I beg fcwre to send, bifbreliasdj b iwifenkgitireofthe Anther,** which I will svod yon Confc* 

* Btons, dated 'Lazaretto, Smyrna, AI ana, w Palermo-- 
one enn die anr where. 

There is lube a thin? «n Tuesday yeleped a na- 
tiosai ,, ■ T ■ '■ geol aad * * * are to be tbW*'-, 



apology, which yon may apply to rfhyj «>r af r ; parts of 

that natortunate epistle. It' I err in my conjecture, 1 

expect the like front you, bi putting our correspondence 

bo Ion" in quarantine. God he knows what') hwfe,dsid?r — 

' . ,. also Knows, (if he is not as iitJitU -rent loinorraajl and w body I !sv, who h« sJiahnis enough for woes 
Hhe nemrfouW deities orLocTethis,) that von are the was DnJefe ^ guinea. Vaaafcafl b the scene— there are 

jrjv ( i n omen, and w b sop- 

posed tl.rr. wal be thr« i I • snare. The passports frf 
the ht-. are beVono raj aritfau 

a P. S. The ^Stadl htst night atHckwl m? nnM 
luriomrjr'~frtM that 1 had 'no right to make lo* 
I had used * * baibajwiaty— that I had no feeling and 
was * ' "*v rnscsnnNe lo ki h*He j*ts*t"«, and lift t*-va 
all mv 'r;-.' 1 am very glad ft hear if, but did at* 
know it before. Let me hear from you an:w * 



last person 1 want to offend. So, if 1 have, — why the 
devil bWl yu say it at once, and expectorate your 
Bpfeen) 

B JRogerS is onl of town with Madanls! tie SHfcei, who 

hath pnofished an Essaj against Suicide, which, I pre- 

b/u1 make sornebodr ^i»rt»t hnns'elf; as a sermon 

by Klmla-nsop. in jtmof <»f Christianity, sent a hitherto 
most orthodox acquaintance of nine out of a cfasttel of 
lease a pertitrt atheist. Have yna found or fouiKled a 
besideace fSt 3 and have you bt*y:>n or tinished a Poem? 
If yon won*; U-Il me what / have done, pray say what 
yon have done, or li-ft undone, yourself. I am still hi 
feeaqnoMnl f'»r royaging, and nnsjeos to heal from, or of, 
'yon ti-'jbrc X po, which anxiety you should remove more 
readdv, as von iluuk I shan't cogitate about you after- 
ward. I shall jiive the he to that calumny by rifty 
"ronjttfn letters, particularly from any place where the 
tragus is rife, — without a drop of Vinegar or a whiff of 
sulphur to save you from infection. Pray write: I am 
Wry to say that * * * *- 

B The Oxfords have sailed almost a fortnight, and my 
'&ister is in town, which is a great comfort — tor, never 
h?.vw*g been much together, we are naturally more at- 
laclmt M e*i li bui'er. 1 presume tf 



illuminations hav 
cohfl.ojjra'tcd Co Derby (or wherever you arc) by this 
iimc. We are just recovering from tumuli, and train 
'oil, and ttansparent fripperies, and all tin noise an 
nonsense of victory. Drury^ane had a targe 3 A 11 

thought was Marshal W i-Uin-fon : irfhcrs that 

•t -.;\--\i\. be frnTri si atied into Manager Wnitbread; white 

h«- raduis oi the vicinity and the saloon c eived the 

.last letter to be complimentary to themselves. I leaw 
\his to the commentators to illuminate. If you do rfl 
■ i this, I shan't say whal you deserve, but I thins 
~? deserve a reoly. Do you conceive there Is no Post- 
TBig but fte '1 wop tuny? Sunburn me, if you are not 
-W bad." 



tdSWga CLXII. 

W ?ir.. AIOOKE. 

'W.y?->.?fliS. 

* ( ora w* M TCTS«i enough in the \rtys of .stt^k) 
i-\ii\i> ii. imilu- much laaliaawual progteas. * * 

I hive been ihnins like llie dragon of Wanllrr fill 
th'M (tel week. My bead aches wiih ihe Vintage of 
varioiis cllars, and my brains are muUltxi as thtir 
ilrrps. I met your friends, the D * *s: she m 
of four b*B< BOBS ^n well, ttta*, tot fir the apticaraure 

of aSectauoo, 1 cenffl l-''- cried; he remiada n 

Hunt, If.it handsonreri - ! 1 mate musical ■> son), pat- 
fiap<;. 1 wish to (imi h»' tiiay conquer his ImrriUlo 
anonralwia cornplaiDt. The upper part of bar bee u 
beautiful, and she seems modi attached to her hi 
He is right, nevertheless, to leafthg UnstnusaoW 
The first wmter would MMEMy destroy her eompbaiaa) 
and ibe si-ro-i'l very probablv, eren ibmg 

- I must tell you a story. .M * ' [J WliE .'nt itic- 
niorv) wrt dmteg out tlu- ntlicr day, ami coni[plaitu»'j «»l" 
the )■•'- i - 6U6V 8 I hi old ••■ i '* * <• 

learned .'•■« ) bored him » iih tnajstaM^ >• 
why that? ■ Wh\ r did ' -it thvts /' 'Why, 

sir, on a-* , whl jlit >>> l« ashamed 

onmn-i -it '■' ' .'>".! v.hv rjoulll Lord * * to l«- aslialmd 

of himself?' ' Because tbo Prince, sir, * * * ' 

* * * * .' ' ^nrt why, sir-, did the Prmca pal .<«<« ? 

Krrar. ■ I jivfelt H rnV pr mcip l ra , ' 

'Anil >.-V<; US vfiu sink to n.tir pi > ' 

a p., ■, : tVi i , i.r was piri, 

,v)| J, vi consider to whom 1 I' noarh/ killed M * *. 
Perhaps^ou may iliink it stupid, but, as QoktaDnlh said 
ahi.ui Ihe pear, il was a rer, gooffjoke when ? heard h 
— as I did from an ear-»itness— and is only spoiled ih 
niv narration. 

"Thcsi .'T.s." s,i* with a Dandy Br-.H ; — but I 
toners with the Harrowbys, Rogers, and Krer'u 
and Mackintosh, where I shall drink your health in 
i silent bumper, ami regret your absence till "to* 
nni ~n . ,-.■ -. leSwaih kwij mj mernorv, or render it 
supeTalaons dj a risiorr-of yia at the npposito sidb 

n iisl; "Yrtitrrourcd of the table. OaMnVlg ltas tuWbandcil Ins parly ly 

^rtthLady A. P.-^lmt thn > "> tfa'vnritier|-v«l*.v'»tfr. s - -* BpfeSh Trffc tit * *•* *— ft "> tn»« th»««A 



T'TSft CLXI. 

TO MR. MOOIIE. 

' Julv 13, 1813. 
****** 

* Your letter set me at ease: lor I really thought (as 
'I hear 'of your susceptibility) lliat I had s:;i.l — 1 know 
"jjhSt w Waf f b l (SoreBIYng I should have been rery sorry 
Tor, had it, or I, oft'ended you ; ihoogh 1 do n't see how 
a man with B beaudTul wflfe, fcta >>'rn children, quiet; 
"fame, cempclrtiee, ami frh . nl», !"• will vouch for a thoit- 
rjaii.l, win. h is move than I will for a unit m n'vy own 
behalf) can be offended with ftritj ... 

(i it. v.iih.-.w, \i.. .1- i Sft f ^-n-j'y toenbea 
Terri' am., r I ■ i ■ ri i 1 - Yratno'urcd 



w 



LETTERS, !S!3. 



53 



of a Ton'. Conceive his turning them off in a formal 
harangue, and bidding ihem Uiink f«»r themselves. 1 
have led my ra riinufrms where thry «r- well pi 
There e of the 150 left fchve* and they arc 

for the Ton ti\-rivl {<~t«rrii, might not FalstaH mean the 
Bow-streel officer? Idare say Match's posthumous 
edition wt41 !• 

rote last, I have bee* into the country. I 
y ni^lit — no incident or accident, but an 
alarm on the part of rny Valet on the outside, who, in 
,; Epping Forest, actually, I believe, flung down 
hia purse befi with a glowworm in the 

second figure of number XIX — mistaking it for a foot- 
pod and dark lantern. I can oaly-athrjeute his fears to 
a pair of new pistols, WlH&i'ewith 1 had armed him ; and 
he thought it necessary to display his vigilance by cali- 
co me whenever we passed any thing — no matter 
whether moving or stationary. Conceive ten miles, 
with a tremor every furlong. I have scribbled you a 
fearfully long letter-. This sheet must be blank, and is 
"merely a wrapper, to preclude the tabellarians of the 
post from peeping. You once complained of my not 
Writing ; — I will heap 'coals of fire upon your head' by 
not complaining of your not reading. Ever, my dear 
Moore,your 'n, (isn 't that the Staffordshire termination ?) 

ft BVKOS.° 



LETTER CLXIII. 

TO MB. MOORE. 

"July 27, 1813. 
When yd>i next imitate Hfe stfjfte of 'Tacitus,' pray 
add, 'de moribus Germanorum ;'— this last was a piece 
of barbarous silence, and could only he fallen from the 
•Woods, and, as such, I attribute it entirely to your sylvan 
fenestration at May field Cottage. You will find, on 
Casting up accounts, that fou are Wfy Nobler by several 
sheets and one epistle. I shall bring my action; — if you 
don't discharge, expect to hear from my aitprm-y. I 
have forwarded your letter to Ruggiero; but do n't 
r Tnakc a postman of me again, for fear I should be tempted 
to violate .v our sanctity of wax or wafer. 

"Believe me ever yours, indignantly y 



LETTER CLXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

■July 28,1813. 

"Can't you be satisfied with the pangs of my jealousy 
tt 'Rogers, witft&BI actually making me the pander of 
vour epistolary intrigue? THIS is the second letter you 
ncJosed to my address, notwithstandmg a miracu- 
lous lon« answer, and a subsequent short one or two of 
Tout own. If you do so again, 1 can't tell to what pilch 
v may soar. I shall send you verse or arsenic, 
as'likel'v as any thins,— four thousand couplets on sheets 
feeyoud the privilege of (ranking; that privileg 

you take :m undue advantage over a too suscepli- 
''ble senator, by forwarding your lucubrations to every 
one but himself I wont frank from you, or for you, or 
may I be cursed if I do, unless you Hfend yoot 
"manners. I disown yr-n— -1 disclaim voir— and by all 
the powers of&ulogy, I will write a pSnegyric upon you 
-_o' r dedicate a quarto — if you don't make i> 
amends. 

" P. S. I am in training to dine with Sheridan and 
Rogers this evening, I have a little spile against R. 
and Wit! shed Ins '>'l,;v wines pof&e-deepJ Tins is 
nearly my ultimate or pcnuJtSmate letter : for I am quite 
•equipped' and only wait a passage. Perhaps 1 may 
"Wait a few wCcW for ^Hg-r>; but not if I can help it," . 



LETTER CLXV. 

TO 3j£. CROEER. 

"11!. Str. August 2, 1813. 

DEAR MR, 

'I was honoured with your unexpected and vert 
obliging letter when on the point of leaving London, 
which [iri.-vriir.-.| me from acJCBOw)edging my obligation 
as quickly as I felt it sincerer/i I am endeavouring all 
ower to be ready before Saturday — and even if 
I should not succeed, I can only blame my own tardi- 
ness, which will not the less enhance the benefit I have 
lost. I have only to add my hope of forgiveness for a". 
00 your time and patience, and with my 
best wisnes lor your public and private welfare, I have 
the honour to be, most truly, 

u Vour obliged and most obedfent servant, 
■Br*©*/ 



The following notes to Mr. Murray, have reference 
to a fifth edition <>f the "Giaour" then in press. Tire 
poem first appeared in the May preceding, and contained 
originally but about four hundred lines, and was gradu- 
ally increased through successive editions to its present 
number, nearly fourteen hundred. In a note which ac- 
companied the manuscript of the paragraph commencing 

" Fair clime, where every season smiles," 

he says, ( I have not yet fixed the place of insertion for 
the following lines, but will when 1 sec you. 9 
The whole portion from the line 



lown tb 



' For there the rose o'er crag and Tale,' 



' Snd'TVrm to groans his roundelay,' 



was inserted during the revision of the proo&- 
The passage stood originally thus : — 

" Pairelbnel wlicre ceascfess summer srnflea 
I ■ igoaut o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far Ootonna'l height. 
Make glad the bean that hails Uie sight, 
And gitt to loneliness delight. 
There whine the bright abode* y* »e«t, 
Like d"tj'lr» upon Ocean 1 » cheek,-~ 
So uniting round the vuttrt lace 
These Kdena of the eastern wave. 
Or if, 81 tunes, the transient Lireeie 
Break ihe emooih crystal ol Uie *ear, 
Or bntf/i one bltt ■■■ trees, 

How giale/ui is ihe gentle air 
Thai waki-a ami waits Uie fragrance iher*.^ 

Tlie several passages beginning — 

" He who Imth bent him o'er the dead :" 
"'the cygnet proudly walks lite Water:" 
and 

" My memory now is but the tomb:" 

were added to the fourth edition, between wliich aim 
the first, riffly sh weeks intervened. 
The verses commencing — 

" The browsing camels' bells are tinkling :* 

and the passage 

"Yes, love Indeed ia lieht from heaven," 

were inserted in the fifth edition, and subsequently lh 
following — 

" She wa* a form of life and liehl. 
That. BUSD, became a part of sight, 
And roar;, where'er I ium*d mine eye, 

The Monuiig-stnr of memory 1" 

"If you send more proof, I shall never finish this in- 
fernal ston- — ' Ecce signum' — thirty-three lines more 
enclo ed! to the utter discomfiture of the printer, and, 
I liar, nut lo.your advantage. "E." 



64 



LETTERS, ISIS. 



■ Half-j.ast two in the morning, Aug. 10, 1813. 

" DEAR SIR, 

"Pray suspend the proofs for I am bitten again, ami 
have quantities for other parts of the hravura. 

"Yours ever, H B- 

•P. S. You shall have them in the course of the 
day." 



LETTER CLXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Aug. 26, 1813. 

■ I have looked over and corrected one proof, but not 
so carefully (God knows if you can read it through, but 
1 can't) as to preclude your eye from discovering some 
omission of mine or commission of your printer. If you 
have patience, look it over. Do you know any body 
who can stop — I mean point — commas, and BO toi > 
for I am, I hear, a sail hand at your punctuation. I 
have, but with some difficulty, riot added any more to 
this snake of a Poem, which has been lengthening its 
rattles every month. It is now fearfully long being 
more than a canto and a half of Childe Harold, which 
contains but 882 lines per book, with all late additions 
inclusive. 

"The last lines Hodgson likes. It is not often he 
does, and when he don't, he tells me with great energy, 
and I fret and alter. 1 have thrown them in to soften 
the ferocity of our Infidel, and, for a dying man, have 
given him a good deal to say for himself. * * * * 

" I was quite sorry to hear you say you stayed in 
town on my account, and I hope sincerely you do not 
mean so superfluous a piece of politeness. 

a Our sir critiques! — -they would have made half a 
Quarterly by themselves; but this is the age of criticism." 



The following refer apparently to a still later edition. 
LETTER CLXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY". 

"Stilton, Oct. 3,1813. 

R I have just recollected an alteration you may make 
in the proof to be sent to Aston. — Among the lines on 
Hassan's Serai, not far from the beginning, is this — 

" Unmeet fur Solitude to share. 

Now to share implies more than one, and Solitude is a 
single gentleman ; it must be thus — 

" For many a gilded chamber 'b there, 
WMcb Solitude might well forbear ; 

and so on. — My address is Aston -Hall, Rotherham. 

"Will you adopt this correction? and pray accept a 
Stilton cheese from me for your trouble. 

"Ever yours, a B. tt 

"If* the old line stands, let the other run thus — 

" Nor then will weary irnveller halt, 
To Mens the nu.red bread and tall. 

"JVote. — To partake of food — to break bread and 
taste salt with your host, ensures the safety of the 
guest ; even though an enemy, his person from that 
moment becomes sacred. 

" There is another additional note sent yesterday — 
on the Priest in the Confessional. 

"P. S. I leave this to your discretion; if any body 
thinks the old line a good one, or the cheese a bad one, 
do n't accept either. But, in that case, the word stiare 
is repeated soon after in the line— 

" To share the master's bread aud salt j 



and must be altered to — 

" To break the master's bread and •all. 

This is not so well, though — confound it!" 



LETTER CLXVIII. 

TO MR. Ml'KRAV. 

"Oct. 12, 1813. 

"You must look the Giaour again over carefully; 
there are a few lapses, particularly in the last page.— 
' I know *t was false ; she could not die ;' it \\ a 
ought to be — 'I Anew.' Pray observe this and similar 
mistakes. 

"I have received and read the British Renew. I 
really think the writer in most points very right. The 
only mortifying thing is the accusation of imitation. 
Crahbes passage I never saw, and Scott I no further 
meant to follow than in his lyric measure, which is 
Gray's, Milton's, and any one's who likes it. The 
( ,i.! ,iu is ■ i-riatnly a bad character, hut not dangerous ; 
and I think his fate and his feelings will meet with few 
pn.selvles. I shall be very glad to hear from or of you, 
when you please; but do n't put yourself out of your 
way on my account." 



1 Tiiis is written on a separate slip of paper enclosed. 



LETTER CLXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

K Bennet-street, Aug. 22, 1813. 
****** 

"As our late — I might say, deceased — correspondence 
had too much of the town-life leaven in it, we will now 
' paulo majora,' prattle a little of literature in all its 
branches; and first of the first — criticism. The Prince 
is at Brighton, and Jackson, the boxer, gone to Margate, 
having, I believe, decoyed Yarmouth to see a milling in 
that polite neighbourhood. Mad p . de Stael Holsteui 
has lost one of her young barons, who has been car- 
bonadoed by a vile Teutonic adjutant, — kilt and killed 
in a coffee-house at Scrawsenhawsen. Oorinne is, of 
course, what all mothers must he, — but will, I venture to 
prophesy, do what few mothers cold — write an Essay 
upon it. She cannot exist without a grievance — and 
somebody to see, or read, how much grief becomes |n-r. 
I have not seen her since the event ; but merely judge 
(not very charitably) from prior observation. 

u In a ' mail-coach copy' of the Edinburgh, I perceive 
the Giaour is 2d article. The numbers are still in the 
Leith smack — prut/, which way is the wind 1 The said 
article is so very mild and sentimental, that it must be 
written by Jeffrey in love; — you know he is gone to 
America to man v some fair one, of whom he has been 
for several quatiert t fyerdutneni amoureiuo. Seriously — 
as Winifred Jenkins gays of Lismahagp— Mr. Jeffrey 
(or his deputy) 'has done the hands. .me thing by me,* 
and I say nothing.* But this 1 will say, — if you and I 
had knocked one another on the head in this quarrel, 
how he would have laughed, and what a mighty had 
figure we should have cut in our posthumous works. 
By-the-by, I was called in the other day to meditate 
between two gentlemen bent upon carnage, and, — after 
a long struggle between the natural desire of destroying 
one's fellow-creatures, and the dislike of seeing men 
j. lav the fool for nothing, — I got one to make an apology, 
and the other to take it, and left them to live happy 
ever after. One was a peer, the other a friend untitled, 
and both fond of high play; — and one, I can swear for, 
though very mild, ' not fearful,' and so dead a shot, that, 
though the other is the thinnest of men, he would have 
split him like a cane. They both conducted themselves 



* See Duu Juau, Canto X. slauia IS, 



LETTERS, 1813. 



55 



very well, and I put them out of pain as soon as 1 
could. 

****** 

"There is an American Life of G. F. Cooke, Scurra 
deceased, lately published. Such a book ! — 1 believe, 
since Drunken Barnaby's Journal, nothing like it has 
drenched the press. All green-room and !ap-room — 
drums and ihe drama — brandy, whisky-punch, and, bit- 
terly, toddy, overflow every page. Two things are 
rather marvellous — first, that a man should live so long 
drunk, and, ne\t, that he should have found a sober bio- 
grapher. There are some very laughable things in ii, 
nevertheless : — bul the pints he swallowed, and the parts 
he performed, are too regularly registered. 

■All this time you wonder I am not gone: so do I; 
but the accounts of the plague are very perplexing — not 
so much for the thing itself as the quarantine established 
in all ports, and from all places, even from England. It 
is true the forty or sixty davs would, in all probability, 
be as foolishly spent on shore as in the ship; but one 
likes to have one's choice, nevertheless. Town is 
awfully empty ; but not the worse for that. I am really 
puzzled with my perfect ignorance of what I mean to 
do ; — not stay, if I can help it, but where to <ro ? Silgo 
is for the North, — a pleasant place, Petersbnrgh, in Sep- 
tember, with one's ears and nose in a muff, or else 
tumbling into one's neckcloth or pocket handkerchief! 
If the winter treated Buonaparte with so little ceremom', 
what would it inflict upon your solitary traveller? give 
me a sun, I care not how hot, and sherbet, I care not 
how cool, and my Heaven is as easily made as your Per- 
sian's.* The Giaour is now 1000 and odd lines. 'Lord 
Fanny spins a thousand such a day,' eh, Moore? — thou 
wilt needs be a wag, but I forgive it. 

"Yours ever, "B 

" P. S. I perceive I have written a flippant and rather 
cold-hearted letter; let it go, however. I have said 
nothing either, of the brilliant sex ; but the fact is, [ am, 
at this moment, in a far more serious, and entirely new, 
scrape than any of the last twelvemonth, — and that is 
saying a good deal. * * * It is unlucky we can 
neither live with or without these women. 

*I am now thinking and regretting that just as I have 
left; Newstead, you reside near it. Did you ever see it ? 
do — but do n't tell me that you like it. If I had known 
of such intellectual neighborhood, I do n't think I should 
have quitted it. You could have come over so often, as 
a bachelor, — for it was a thorough bachelor's mansion — 
plenty of wine and such sordid sensualities — with books 
enough, room enough, and an air of antiquity about all 
(except the lasses) that would have suited you, when 
pensive, and served you to laugh at when in glee. I 
had built myself a bath and a ittult — and now l shan't 
eves be buried in it. It is odd that we can't even be 
certain of a grave, at least a particular one. I remem- 
ber, when about fifteen, reading your poems there, — 
which I can repeat almost now, — and asking all kinds 
of questions about the author, when I heard that he was 
not dead according to the preface ; wondering if I should 
ever see him — and though, at that time, without the 
smallest poetical propensity myself, very much taken, as 
you may imagine, with that volume. Adieu — I commit 
you to the care of the gods — Hindoo, Scandinavian, and 
Hellenic ! 

"P. S. 2d. There is an excellent review of Grimm's 
Correspondence and Mad*, de Stael in this N°. of the 
Edinburgh Review. * * * * 

Jeffrey, himself, was my critic last year ; but this is, I 
believe, by another hand. I hjpe you are going on with 
your grand coup — pray do — or that damned Lucien 
Buonaparte will beat us all. I have seen much of his 



poem in MS. and he really surpasses everv thing be- 
neath Tasso. Hodgson is translating him against ano- 
ther bard. You and (I believe, Rogers) Scott, Gi flora, 
and myselfj are to be referred to as judges between the 
twain, — that is, if you accept t^e office. Conceive our 
different opinions ! I think we, most of us (I am talking 
very impudently, you will think — us, indeed !) have a 
way of our own, — at least, you and Scott certainly 
have." 



LETTER CLXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



** A Pervitin '» He«»'o is easily mode — 

"P u but black «f« and lemonade-" — Moo^e. 



"Aug. 28, 1813. 
"Ay, my dear Moore, 'there was a time' — I have 
heard of your tricks when ' you was campaigning at the 
king of Bohemy.' I am much mistaken ii] some fine 
London spring, about the year 1815, that lime does nof 
come again. After all we must end in marriage ; and 
I can conceive nothing more delightful than such a state 
in the country, reading the county newspaper, &c. an<£ 
kissing one's wife's maid. Seriously, I would incorpo- 
rate with any woman of decent demeanour to-morrow— 
that s, I would a month ago, but, at present, * * 

* * *_ 

" Why do n't you ' parody that Ode ?'* — Do you 
think I should be tetchy ? or have you done it, and won't 
tell me? — You are quite right about Giamschid, and I 
have reduced it to a dissyllable within this half-hour.| 
I am glad to hear you talk of Richardson, because it 
tells me what you won't — that you are going to beat 
Lucien. At least, tell me how far you have proceeded. 
Do you think me less interested about your works, or 
less sincere than our friend Ruggiero? I am not — and 
never was. In that thing of mine, the 'English Bards, 
at the time when I was angry with all the world, I never 
' disparaged your parts,' although I did not know you 
personally; — and have always regretted that you do n't 
give us an entire work, and not sprinkle yourself in de- 
tached pieces — beautiful, I allow, and quite alone in our 
language, but still giving us a right to expect a Shah 
Nameh (is that the name?) as well as Gazels. Stick 
to the East; the oracle, Stael, told me it was the only 
poetical policy. The North, South, and West, have all 
been exhausted ; but from the East, we have nothing 
but Southey's unsaleables, — and these he has contrived 
to spoil, by adopting only their most outrageous fictions. 
His personages do n't interest us, and yours will. You 
will have no competitor ; and if you had, you ought to bo 
glad of it. The little I have done in that way is merely 
a 'voice in the wilderness' for you; and, if it has had 
any success, that also wfll prove that the public aro 
orientalizing, and pave the path for you. 

"I have been thinking of a story, grafted on the 
amours of a Peri and a mortal — something like, only 
more philanthropies?, than Cazotte's Diable Amoureux.t 
It would require a good deal of poesy ; and tenderness 
is not my forte. For that, and other reasons, 1 have 
given up the idea, and merely suggest it to you, because, 
in intervals of your greater work, I think it a subject 
you might make much of. If you want any more books, 



' The Ode of Horace, 



" Natis in nsiim Itetitis," He 

•ome passages of which Mr. Moore told him might be parodied, in all* 
stoa to sonic of hie lute adventures ; 

" Quanta Inborn* in Charybdi ! 
Digue puer mcliore flamma!" 
t In his first editinn of Lha I ilaour he had Used ihia word «* a IHnvlla- 
tilc,— " Bright as the gernofGiamai hid,"— bul on Mr. Moora'i rernnrk- 
g to him, upon (he authority of 11 it hind noil's Persian Dictionary, that 
lis was incorrect, ha allarefl It to " Bright as ih e ruby ot Giamschid." 
i In seeing tola, however, Mr. M. wrote ("him '■ that, as the comparison 
of his heroine's eye to a ' ruby' might unluckily call op the idea of ila 
being bloodshot, he had better chance Mi*> line to ' Bright as thr jewel of 
Gtemachid ;' "—which he accordingly did In the following ediU >o. 
I S*a Itcutau and fiailh. pi 



56 



LETTERS, 1313. 



there is *Casie n an's Maura des Ottomans,* the beat 
compendium of the kind 1 ever met will), in six small 
tunics. I am realty taking a liberty by talking in tins 
style to my 'elders and my betters;' — pardon it, and 
do o't Itockcfoucault my motives." 



LETTER CLXXI. 



TO Mil. MOORE. 



"August — September, 1 mean — I, 1*13. 

* I sen! you, begging your acceptance, Castellan, and 
thr^e vols, on Turkish Literature, not yet looked into. 
The last I will thank yon to read, extract what you 
want, and return in a week, as they are lent to me by 
that brightest of northern constellations, v.: ntoBh,— 
among many other kind things into milch India has 
warmed him, for 1 am sure your Iwmc Scotsman is of a 
less genial description. 

" Your Pen, mv dear M., is sacred and inviolable; I 
have no idea of touching the hem of her petticoat. 
Your affectation of a dislike to encounter me is so flat- 
tering that I begin to think myself a very fine fellow. 
But you are laughing at me — 'stop mv vitals, Tarn! 
thou art a very impudent person ;' and, if you are not 
laughing at ma, you deserve to be laughed at. Serious- 
ly, what on earili ran you, or have you, to dread from 
any poetical flesh breathing? It really puts me out of 
humour to hear vou talk thus. 
* * * * * * * 

"The 'Giaour* I have added to a <rood deal; but still 
n foolish Ira .-tin nts. It contains about 1200 lines, ur 
ather more — now printing. You will allow me to send 
/ou a copy. You delight me much by telling me that I 
Lin in your good graces, and more particularly as to 
j'mper ; lor, unluckily, I have the reputation of a verv 
>adone. But they sav the devil is amusing when pleased, 
in I I must have been more venomous than the old ser- 
pent, to have hissed or stun • in your company- It may 
he, and would appear to a third person, an incredible 
thing, but I know you will believe me when I say that 1 
am as anxious for your success as one human being can 
he for another's, — as much as if I had never scribbled a 
line. Surely the field of fame is wide enough fi)r all; 
and if it were not, I would not willingly rob my neighbour 
of a rood of it. Now you have a pretty property of 
come thousand acres there, and when you have passed 
your present Enclosure Hill, your income will be doubled 
(there's a metaphor, worthy of a Templar, namely, pert 
and low,) while my wild common is too remote to in- 
BOminode you, and quite incapable of such fertility. I 
send you (which return per post, as the printer would 
say) a curious letter from a friend of mine,* which will 
lot you into the origin of ' the Giaour.' Write soon. 
"Ever, dear Moore, yours most entirely, &c. 



* The following bttttT uf Lor. I BQgOi 

"Albany, Monday, Aug. 31, 1813. 
" My iji'nr Hymn, 
" Vou have requested m« to (••H you all ttmi l hnrd ai Athens niiom 
(tie affair ul ihiil gi>l w lio win k> near heuig [ml an mil to white you win 

Umn; you have naked mi to rdention •vary tin imetence, in the re test 

degree relating i" It. which i hourd. In compliance with jrour wishes, l 
w. in- to >"» nil I board) and I cannot iQiqguie n in l«- lei y far I'rom ihe 
foci, u> the circumstance happened only a da* or two before I arrived ot 
Athena, ami ooniequenUy wai * raauor of aonuson eoovenaUdn nt the 

It me. 
" The now governor, unaccustomed io have lite same intereourti with 

th#- Christiana *• Mi predaeaeeor, had o) u m Turkish 

idem with regard io women. In consequence and in MMnplIancc with 

the itrlci letter ot Ihe Mal imedan law, heord i tills lirttn ba sewed 

up in a taeJti and thrown into the ih, — as i», indeed, q . marj ai 

Constant pic A* vou «<"« returning from bin hinglti the Pli 

mai the proi esslon going down lo mm wte Ihe senteiu ■ "i the Waywodi 
on this unfortunate gfrf. Report < oniiuuei to sav, that en nmilne out 

wii it the object ol 1 1 ioi i Jo. ey w.n, j ml wlio wai ins mitcrahU; sufferer, 

you immadfetely Interfered ; and on tome delay In obeying your orders, 

J ou wcru ohligeit '.o inform ihe leader of the escort, that i iree should make 
im comply; — thnt, on Farther hesitation! yotidrcw ■ pistol, and told 
him, that fi* In; did not Immediately obey your orderst and come back with 
yon io tin) Aga's house, you would shoot him dead. On tail, 
turned about and went with vou locha gnYernoj , 's house) ban you sue* 
ce*ded, ponlj by persooMtortlU, anditartly by bribery uu>i entreaty, 



* P. S. This letter was written to me on account oft 
diff'eretu story circulated by some wen: lew omen of our 
acquaintance, a litde too close to the text* The part 
erased contained merely some Turkish names, and cir* 
cumstantiaJ evidence o£tha £iri's detection, not very un 
.jtovtaut or decorous;" 



LETTER CI. XXII. 

TO Mil. MOOIIE. 

"Sept. 5,1813. 

° xou need not tie yourself down to a day with Tode* 
rini, but send him at your leisure, having anatomized bird 
into such annotations as you want ; [ do not believe that 
he has ever undergone (h it process before, which is the 
best reason for nousparing him now. 

i rs has returned to town, but not yet recovered 
of the Quarterly. What fellows these reviewers are! 
'these bugs-do fear us all. 1 They made vou fight, and 
me (the milkiest of nun) a satirist, an I will end by mak- 
ing Rogers madder than Ajax. I have been reading 
Memory again, the other day, and Hope together, and 
retain all my preference of the former. His elegance is 
really wonderful — there is no such thing asa vulvar line 
in his book. * * * * 

" A'liai say you to Buonaparte? Remember, I buck 
him against the field, barring Catalepsy and the Ele- 
ments. Kay, I almost wish him success against all 
countries but this, — were it only to choke the -Morning 
Post, and his undutiful father-in-law, with that rebellions 
bastard of Scandinavian adoption, Bernadotte. Rogera 
wants me to go with him on a crusade to die Lake-, aiid 

■ you on our way. This last is a greal 
tation, but I fear it will not he in mv power, unless v >u 
would yo on with one of us somewhere — no matter 
where, [i is too late for Matlock, but we might hit upon 
some scheme, high life or low, — the last would be much 
1 for amusement. I am so sick of the. other, that 
I quite sigh tot a cider-cellar, or a cruise in a smuggler's 
sloop. 

"You cannot wish more than I d'» that the Fft!cs 
were a little more accommodating to our p&fitH 

which prolong ad in5nitum without coming a jot the 
nearer. I almost wish I were married too^ — which is 
saying much. AH my friends, seniors and juniors, are 
in for it, and ask me to be godfather, — the only specie* 
of parentage which, I believe, will ever come to oir share 
in a lawful way; and, in an unlawful one, by the blessing 
of LucUia, we can never be certain, — though the parish 
may. I suppose I thai] hear from you to-morrow. If 
not, this goes as ll hi; bul 1 leave room for a P. S., in 
case any thing requires an answer. Ever, &c. 
" .\o letter — n^importe. Rogers thinks the Quarterly 
ill be at rru tins time : if io, it shall be a war of extol* 
mination — no quarter , I'rom the youngest devil down 
io the oldest woman of thai Review, all shall perish by 
one fatal lampoon. The ties of nature shall bo torn 
asunder, fur I will nut even -pure my bookseller; nay, if 
one were io include readers also all the belter.'' 



LETTER CLXX1II. 

TO 41 K. MOO&E. 

"Sept. 8,1813 
1 1 am sorry to see Tod, again so soon, for fear your 



to procure her |>nrrfoo *n roiiitW.n nf hir laavtfli Athens. I snss laid 
that ""' then i onteyed her i» safely to the eonvi tit, and despatched hit 
off ai iiinui tu Thebes t whert ihe found a » de ssrlutn, Sudi It the storj 
heard, ■■ nearly ae I aan raeoHeci 1< at (iweat. Should sou «Hsh tc 
«li in. any furtiMrquMUoui ubuui it, 1 shall be very ready uml willui 
|0 Jiitwor tltctn. 

" l remain, i"r Sear Hyroo, 

"»■■■. hi, »eir sincrrpty, 

"STJGOt 
I sjn afraid fou *tll tisrdlrhc »'■!*■ to rfs.l tin* seraw] \ liut I nm so 
hurried * a\< thopn |taraUuf>( '•" my Journey, thai j?ou mueleacuH lu' 



LETTERS, 1813. 



57 



scrupulous conscience should have prevented you from fully 
availing yourself of his spoils. By this coach I send you a 
copy of that awful pamphlet, 'the Giaour ,' which has never 
proei .red mt- half so high a compliment as your modest alarm. 
You will (if inclined in an evening) perceive that I have 
added much in quantity, — a circumstance which may truly 
diminish your modesty upon the subject. 

" You stand certainly in great need of a 'lift* with Mack- 
intosh. My dear Moore, you strangely underrate yourself. 
I should conceive it an affectation in any other ; but I think 
I know you well enough to believe that you don't know your 
own value. However, 't is a fault that generally mend: 
and, in your case, it really ought. I have heard him speak 
of you as highly as your wife could wish ; and enough to 
give all your mends die jaundice. 

" Yesterday I had a letter from Ali Pacha I brought by 
Doctor Holland, who is just returned from Albania. It is 
in Latin, and begins * ExceUemissime, nee non Carissime. 
and ends about a gun he wants made for him ; — it is signed 
; Ali Vizir.' What do you think he has been about? H. 
tells me that, last spring, he took a hostile town, where, 
forty-two years ago, his mother and sisters were treated as 
Miss Cunigunde was by the Bulgarian cavalry. He takes 
the town, selects all the survivors of this exploit — children, 
grandchildren, &c. to the tune of six hundred, and has them 
shot before his face. Recollect, he s[>ared the rest of the 
city, and confined himself to the Tarquin pedigree, — which 
is more than I would. Ho much for ' dearest friend.' n 



LETTER CLXXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Sept. 9,1813. 
■ I write to you from Murray's, and I may sav, from 
Murray, who, if you are not predisposed in favour of any 
other publisher, would be happy to treat with you, at a fit- 
ting time, for your woik. I can safely recommend him, as 
(air, liberal, and attentive, and certainly, in point of reputa- 
tion, he stands among the first of 'the trade.' I am sure lie 
would do you justice. I have written to you so much lately 
that you will be glad to see so little now. Ever, &c. &c. v 



LETTER CLXXV. 

TO MR, MOORE. 

"Sept. 27, 1813. 

6 THOMAS MOORE, 

a (Thou wilt never be called 'true Thomas,' like he of 
Ercikloune,) why don't you write to me ? — as you won't, I 
must, I was near you at Aston the other dav, and hope I 
soon shall be again. If so, you must and shall meet me, 
and go to Matlock and elsewhere, and take what, in .flash 
dialect, is poetically termed ' a lark,' with Rogers and ine for 
accomplices. Yesterday, at Holland-house, I was intro- 
duced to Southey — the best-Ior>king bard I have seen for 
some time. To have that poet's head and shoulders, I 
would almost have written his Sapphics. He is certainly a 
prepossessing person to lunk on, and a man uf talent, and all 
that, and — there is his eulogy. 

k* * readmeportof a letter from you. By the foot of 
Pharaoh, I bebeve there was abuse, for he Stopped short, so 
he did, after a tine saying about our evnspaudence, and 
looked — 1 wish I could revenge myself by stacking vou, or 
by telling you that I have had to defend you — an agreeable 
v av which onefa friends have of reconnnendnig themselves, 
bv saying— •* Av, ay, / gave it Mr. Such-a-one f -r what he 
paid about your being a plagiary, and a rake, and so on.' 
But do you know that you are one of the very few whom I 
never have the satisfaction of hearing abused, but die 
reverse ; — and do you suppose I will forgive Outt? 

* I have betn in the country and ran away from the 
Doncaster races. It is odd, — I was a visiter in the sam>' 
house which came to my sire as a residence with Lad- 
Carmarthen (with whom he adulterated bofore his major n \ 

8 



— by-tlie-by, remember, she was not my mamma) — and 
they thrust me into an old room, widi a nauseous picture 
over the chimney, which I should suppose my papa regarded 
with due respect, and which, inheriting the family taste, I 
I *>kcd upon with great satisfaction. I stayed a week with 
the family, and behaved very well — though the lady of the 
house is young, and religions, and pretty, and the master is 
my particular friend. I fell no wish for any thing but a 
poodle dog, which they kindly gave me. Now, for a man 
of my courses, not even to have coveted is a sign of great 
amendment. Pray pardon all this nonsense, and don't 
' snub me when I 'm in spirits.' 

"Ever yours, 

b Bn. 
"Here's an impromptu for yon by a 'person of quality ,* 
wriuen last week, on being reproached for low spirits. 

" When from the heart where sorrow sits,* &e. 



LETTER CLXXVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 



"Oct. 2,1813. 
■ You have not answered some six letters of mine. This, 
therefore, is my penultimate. I will write to you once more ; 
but after that — I swear by all the saints — I am silent and 
supercibous. I have met Curran at Holland-housej — he 
beats every body ; — his imagination is beyond human, and 
his humour (it is di/licult to define what is wit) perfect. 
Then he has fifty faces, and twice as many voices, when he 
mimics ; — I never met his equal. Now, were I a woman, 
and eke a virgin, that is the man I should make my Sca- 
mander. He is quite fascinating. Remember, I have met 
him but once ; and you, who have known him long, may 
probably deduct from my |>anegyric. I almost fear to meet 
him again, lest the impression should be lowered. He tallied 
a great deal about you — a theme never tiresome to me, nor 
any body else that I know. What a variety of expression 
he conjures into that naturally not very fine countenance of 
his ! He absolutely changes it entirely. I have done — 
for I can't describe him, and you know htm. On Sunday I 
return to * *, where I shall not be far from you. Perhaps 
I shall hear from you m the mean time. Good night. 

"Saturday morn. — Your letter has cancelled all my 
anxieties. I did not moped yon in earnest-. Modest again ! 
Because I don't do a very shabby tiling, it seems, I 'don't 
fear your competition ' If it were reduced to an alternative 
of preference, I should dread you, as much as Satan does 
Michael. But is there not room enough in our respective 
regions? Go on — it will soon be mv rum To forgive. To- 
day I dine with Mackintosh and Mrs. Stale — as John Bull 
may be pleased to denominate Coriime — whom I saw last 
night, ai Covent -garden, vawninL'"ver the humour of FalstarE 
The reputation of 'gloom,' if one's friends are not in- 
cluded in the reputant&i is of great service ; as it saves ono 
from a legion of unpertHients, in the shape of commonplace 
acquaintance. But thou kriowest I can be a right merry 
and conceited fellow, and rarely Marmovant.' Murray shall 
reinstate your line forthwith.} I believe the blunder in the 
motto was mine ; and yet I have, in general, a memory fit? 
ymt, and am sure it was riglitlv printed at first. 

I do ' blush 1 very often, if I may believe Ladies H. and 
M. — but luckily, at present, no one sees me. Adieu." 



LETTER CLXXVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



a Nov. 30, 1813. ^ 
■ Since I last wrote lo you, much has occurred, good, bad» 



• See Poems, p. 189. 

1 Sec Memornudumt. p. 266. 

J The motto to the Giiioirr. which ie taken from one nf the Irish Mc!o 
Hei, bad been quoted l>» him incorrectly in tha first editions of the Poem. 
■V marie afterward a similar mislaid* it. the liuu from Buroi pnefliol to 
i he Bride ofA^do*. 



59 



LETTERS, 1813. 



and indifferent, — not to make me forget yott, but to prevent 
mo from reminding you of one who, nevertheless, has often 
thought of you, and to whom your thoughts, in many a 
measure, have frequently been a consolation. We were 
once very near neighbours this autumn; and a good and 
bad neighbourhood il has proved to me. Suffice i) to say, 
that yur French quotation was confoundedly to the pur- 
pose, — though very unexpectedly pertinent, as you may ima- 
gine by what I s,ad before, and my silence since. * * * 
However,' Richard s himself again,' and, except all nighl and 
some part of the morning, I don't think very much about 
the matter. 

K All convulsions end with me in rhyme ; and to solace 
my midnights, I have scribbled another Turkish story* — 
not a Fragment — which you mil receive soon after this. It 
does not trench upon your kingdom in the least, and, if it did, 
you would soon miner me to my proper boundaries. You 
will Uiink, and justly, that I run some risk of losing the tittle 
I have gained in fame, by Alia further experiment on public 
patience; but I have really ceased to care on that bead. I 
have written this, and published it, for die sake of the em- 
ployment, — to wring my thoughts from reality, and take 
refuge in 'imagining^ however ' horrible;' and, as to su<, ess! 
those who succeed will console me for a failure — excepting 
yourself and one or two more, whom luckily I love too well 
to wish one leaf of their Laurels a tint yellower. This is the 
work of a week, and will be the reading of an hour to you, 
or even less, — and so let it go * * * 

"P. S. Ward and I talk of going to Holland. I want 
to sec how a Dutch canal looks, after the Bosphorus. Pray 
respond." 



' Mr. 



it ray, - 



l.iv be the best; or, if nritli 
.-ill dream another." In tin Ions peeuge Ju*i r 



hoomc which of 
II WFtll 



■TheBrtdeoTAbjdw. To ink poem ha made uldltlmu. in ihe course 
of printing, amounting altogether to near two hundred line*; ami inn 
opening line*, " Know ye the land," 4c— supposed to have been suggest- 
eel lo him by a snug of Goethe's, — wen among the number of thOH new 
beertlent, a* were alao those rereea, ■■ \\ be bath not proved . 
woids essay," 4c. Haying, at firal, written the line in stanza 6, 

" Mum! on her tip end music In tier face," 
he afterward altered it to — 

" The mind of music breathing In her face.'* 

But, loll nOtaaUafylng him, the next step of correction bronchi the line 

lu wli.a it is at present — 

" The mind, the moak breathing from her face." 
The whole passage which follows— 

" Thou, my ZuhMka, share ami Hess my bark," 
was sent in successive scraps to the printer, correction following correc 

The line, " And linla to-morrow with prophetic ray," was oiighmlly 
an airy 
" And tints to-morrow with a fancied ray," 
the following note being annexed 
the two ftplthi la. ' fancied, 
do, till me, and I 

to, the six Inns beginning " Bleat .m the Muenia 
oeen despatched to the primer too late for liMerlion, wi 
added In an errata page; the Oral couplet m lu original form, being as 
follows: — 

" Soft us the Mecca-Muezzin's strains Invite 
Him who htith Journey 'd tar to join the rtfe." 

t off, containing the Unas 

"Blest ee (he Mnenin'a strain from Mecca'*, dome, 
\\ bichweaeomce Faith to view bei Prophet's tomb," 

with the following note to Mr. Murray:— 

.,_ . . . _ , " December 3d, t8I3. 

Lookout in the Encyclopedia, article M'eca, whetlier it is there or 
at Mrdiw the Prophet is entombed. If at Medina, the lir»t lines of my 
•iteration must run— 

" Blatl u the call which from Medina*! dome 
Invites Devotion to bei Prophet's tomb, 4c." 
If at Mecca, the lines may stand as Ufore. Page 43, rnnlo »I, IJride of 
Abydoi. ■• Your* 

"B 
" You will find this out either by arlirlo Mecca, Medina, 
vied. 1 have uo book of reference by inc." 
Immediately alter succeeded another note:— 

" Did you lookout? Is it Medina or Mecca thnt contains the Hotv 
Sepulchre? Don't mnke ma buupbema by rnur Oagllgcnce. I have no 



LETTER CLXXVIII. 

TO LEIGH HUNT. 

"4, Bcnnct-street, Dec 2, 1615. 

8 MY DEAR SIR, 

■ Few things could be more welcome than your nolo ; 
and on Saturday mornmg I will avail myself of v our per- 
mission to thank you for it in \ rson. My time has not 
been passed, since we met, either profitably or agn 
A very short period after my last visit, 
with which} I fear, you are nut unacquainted, aa report, in 
many mouths and mure dian one paper, was busy with the 
topic. That, naturally, gave me much uneasiness. Then 
I Dearly incurred a lawsuit on die sale of an estate; but 
that is now arranged : next — but why should I go on with a 
series of selfish and silly details ? I merely wish to assure 
you that it was not the frivolous forgetfuiness of a mind oc- 
cupied by what is called pleasure, (not in the true sen* of 
Epicurus,) lhat kept me away; but a perception of my, 
then, unfitness to share the society of those whom I value 
and wish not to displease. I hate being larmoyant, and 
making a serious face among those who are cheerful. 

It is my wish lhat our acquaintance, or, if you picas* (6 
accept it, friendship, may be permanent 1 have been lucky 
enough to preserve some friends from a very earlv period, 
and 1 hope, as I do not (at leasl now) select them li 
shall not lose them capriciously. I have a thorough i 
for that independence of spirit which you have maiiitamed 
with sterling talent, and at die expense of some sui 
You have not, I trust, abandoned the poem you wen com- 
posing, when Moore and 1 partook of your hospitality m the 
Bummer. 1 hope a lime will come when he and I may be 
able to repay you in kind fur die loiter — for the rhyme, at 
least in qu/mttty, you are in arrear to both. 

*■ Believe me very truly and adectionatelv yours, 

"IJv'ilON" 



■ Muham- 



book «f reference, or I would save vou the troubl 
A-Iusaulman, lo have confused the point. 



I htu*h as a good 
" Yours, 



Notwithstanding all these various changes, the couplet In Question 
aude. at nresent, thus: — 

" Ji, lert a * thp Mueiilna strain from Mecca's wall 
To pilgrims pure and pruetratcal his call." 



LETTER CLXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Dec. 8, 1813. 
8 Your letter, like all the best, and even kindest, things in 
Uiis world, is both painful an 1 pleasing. But, first, to what 
sits nearest Do you know I was actually about to dedicate 

to you, — not inafirmal inscription, as to one's elders, but 

through a short prefatory letter, in which I boasted myself 
your intimate, and held forth the prospect of your Poem ; 
when, lo, die recollection of your strict injunctions of secrecy 
as to die said Poem, more than once repeated by word and 
letter, flashed upon me, and marred my intents. I couid 
have no motive f »r repressing my own desire of alluding to 
you, (and not a day passes mat 1 do not flunk and talk of 
you.) but an idea that you might, yourself dislike it 3 ou 
'■.io!i..i,|uiit l i m y sll!( . rr ,. ;il | ull(;i:i ,, tli „ :ilvlM ^ 1)( . rsii|| . i , rrUi||tl _ 

ship forths present, which, by-the-by, is not leas skit 
deep-rooted, I have you by rote and by heart; of which 
l:imi " r When I was at * +, on im first visit,] 
have a halm, in passing my time a good deal alone, oP-J 
■ " " '■■" "■' i '■' thaj I never attempl except to my- 
self— bul ol uttering to what r think tunes, your 'Oh breathe 
not,' ■ When the last glimpse, 1 and 'Wheahewho adores 
thee, with uih.-rs ol the same minstrel ^-they are n 
tins artd vespers. I assuredly did not intend diem 'to bo 
overheard, btn, one morning in comes, not La Donna, but II 
Marito, with a very grave face, saying, 'Byron, J most re- 
quest you won't sing any more, at "least of those boosts.' I 
stand, and said, 'Certainly, but why?— JTo teD you the 
truth,' quoth he, 'they make my woe cry, and so melancholy, 
that I wish her to hear no more of diem.' 

Now, my dear Moore, the effect must have been from 
your words, and certainly not my music. 1 merely mention 
this foolish story, to show you how much I am indebted 
to you for even your pastimes. A man may praise an I 
praise, but uo one recollects but Uiat which pleases— at 



I.KTTEKS, 1813. 



59 



least^ in composition. Though I think no one equal to yon 
in that department, or in satire, — and surely no one was ever 
so |K>|iular in both, — I certainly am of opinion that yon have 
not yet done all you can do, though more than enough tor 
anv one else. I « ant, and the world expects, a longer work 
from you ; and I see in vou what I never saw m poet before, 
a strange diffidence of your own powers, which I cannot 
account for, and which must be unaccountable, when a CV+- 
sac like me can appal a cuirassier. Your story I did not, 
could not, know, — I thought only of a Peri. I wish you had 
confided in me, not for your sake, but mine, and to prevent 
the world from losing a much hetter poem than mvown, but 
which, I yet hope, this clashing will not even now deprive, 
them of. Mine is the work of a week, written, why I have 
part ly,t old you, and partly I cannot tell you by letter — some- 
day I will. 

***** 

"Go on — I shall really be very unhappy if I at all inter- 
fere with you. The success of mine is yet problematical; 
though the public will probably purchase a certain quantity, 
on the presumption of their own propensity for ' the Giaour 1 
and su'.h 'horrid mysteries.' The only advantage I have is 
being on the spot ; and that merely amounts to saving me 
die trouble of turning over books, which I had better read 
a _m ii i . If your cfiamber was furnished in the same way, y ou 
have no need to go there to describe — I mean only as to ac- 
curacy — because I drew it from recollection. 

***** 

" This last thing of mine may have the same fate, and I 
assure you I have great doubts about it. But, even if not, 
its little day will be over before you are ready and willing. 
Come out — ' screw your courage to the sticking-place.' Ex- 
cept the Post Bag (and surely you cannot complain of a 
want of success there,) you have not been regularly out for 
tome years. No man stands higher, — whatever you may 
Mnk on a rainy day, in your provincial retreat. 'Aucun 
i.<mme, dans aucune langue, n'a ete, peut-etre, plus com- 
letemeot le poete du cceur et le poete des femrnes. Lcs 
r tiqucs lui reprochent de n'avoir represente le nionde ni tel 
i'. il est, ni tel qu'il doit etre ; mais lesjemmes ripundent qu'il 
a represent^ tel auelles le disiient! — I should have thought 
BflnOfldi had written this for you instead of Metastasio. 
" Write to me, and tell me of yourself. Do you remember 
hat Rousseau said to some one — ' Have we quarrelled? 
iu have talked to me often, and never once mentioned your- 

* P. S. The last sentence is an indirect apology for my 
■ti egotism, — but I believe in letters it is allowed. I wish 
rib mutual. I have met with an odd reflection in Grimm ; 
it shall not — at least, the bail part, — be applied to you or me, 
though one of us has certainly an indifferent naniL — but this 
it is:S\Ianv people have the reputation of being wicked, with 
whom we should be too happy to pass our lives.' I need not 
add it is a woman's saying — a Mademoiselle de Som- 
meryW 



LETTER CLXXX. 

TO MR. MURRAY*. 

"Dec. 4,1813. 
■ I have redde through your Persian Tales,* and have 
akentlv liberty of making some remarks on the blank pages. 
There are many beautiful passages, and an interesting story ; 
ind I cannot give vou a stronger proof that such is my opi- 
nion than by the date of the hour — two o'clock, till which it 
has kept me awake without a yawn. The conclusion is not 
quite correct in costume: there is no Mussulman suicide on 
record, — at least for love. But this matters not. The tale 
must have been written by some one who has been on the 
spot, ano i wish him, and he deserves, success. Will you 
apologize to 'he author for the liberties I have taken with his 



MS.? Had I been less awake to, and interested m, his 
theme, I had been less obtrusive; but you know / always 
take this in good pait, and I hope he will. It is difficult to 
say what will succeed, and still more to pronounce what will 
not. I am at this moment in that uncertainty (on our own 
score,) and it is no small proof of the author's powers to be 
able to charm and fix a tnhufs attention on similar subjects 
and climates in such a predicament. That he may have 
the same effect upon all his readers is very sincerely the 
wish, and hardly the doubt^ of yours truly, a B." 



LETTER CLXXXI. 

TO MR. GIFFORD. 

■ Nov. 12, 1813. 

"MT PEAR SIR, 

" I hope you will consider when I venture on any re- 
quest, that it is the reverse of a certain Dedication, and 
is addressed not to 'The Editor of the Quarterly Re- 
view,' but to Mr. Gifford. You will understand this, 
and on that point I need trouble you no farther. 

"You have been good enough to look at a thing of 
mine in MS.* — a Turkish story, and I should feel grati- 
fied if you would do it the same favour in its probationary 
state of printing. It was written, I cannot say for 
amusement, nor ' obliged by hunger and request of 
friends,' but in a state of mind, from circumstances which 
occasionally occur to 'us youth,' that rendered it neces- 
sary for me to apply my mind to something, any thing 
but reality ; and under this not very brilliant inspiration 
it was composed. Being done, and having at least 
diverted me from myself I thought you would not 
perhaps be offended if Mr. Murray forwarded it to you. 
He has done so, and to apologize for his doing so a 
second time is the object of my present letter. 

"I beg you will not send me any answer. I assure 
you very sincerely I know your time to be occupied, and 
it is enough, more than enough, if you read; you are 
not to be bored with the fatigue of answers. 

" A word to Mr. Murray will be sufficient, and send it 
either to the flames, or 

1 A hundred hawkers' load, 
On wings of winds 10 fly or fall abroad.' 

It deserves no better than the first, as the work of a week, 
and scribbled ' stans pede in uno' (by-the-by, the only 
foot I have to stand on ;) and I promise never to trouble 
vou again under forty Cantos, and a voyage between 
each. " Believe me ever 

a Your obliged and affectionate servant, 
"Byron." 



LETTER CLXXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



• ilderira, &c. by Mr. Knight 



"Nov. 12,1813. 
"Two friends of mine (Mr. Rogers and Mr. Sharpe) 
have advised me not to risk at present any single pub- 
lication separately, for various reasons. As they have 
not seen the one in question, they can have no bias for 
or against the merits (if it has any) or the faults of the 
present subject of our conversation. You say all the 
last of the 'Giaour' are gone — at least out of your hands. 
Now, if you think of publishing any new edition with 
the last additions which have not yet been before the 
reader (I mean distinct from the two-volume publica- 
tion,) we can add the < Bride of Abydos,' which will thus 
steal quietly into the world: if liked, we can then throw 
off some copies for the purchasers of former ' Giaours ; ! 
and, if not, I can omit it in any future publication. 
What think you ? I really am no judge of those things, 
and with all my natural partiality for one's own produc- 

• The Bride of Ab;-dot, 



60 



LETTERS, 1811 



tions, I would rather follow any one's judgment than my 
own. 

"P. S. Pray let mc have the proofs I sent ali to-night. 
I have some alterations that I wish to make speedily. I 
hope the proof will be on separate pages, and not all 
huddled together on a mile-long ballad-singing sheet, as 
those of the Giaour sometimes are ; for then I can't read 
them distinctly." 

KOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

u NoV. 13, ISI3. 

"Will von forward the letter to Mr. Gitfoid with the 
proof? There is an alteration 1 may make in Zuleika's 

eprivli, in seeond Canto (the only one of her* in that 
Canto.) It is now thus: — 

" And curse, if I a>uld curve, the d»y> 

It must be — 

" And mourn — I dure not curw — the day 
Thai saw my B06iarj bffth, ft*C. it. 

"Ever yours, u B. 

a In the last MS. lines sent, instead of 'living heart,' 
convert to 'quivering heart.' It is in the line 9th of the 
IV1S. passage. 

" Ever yours again, " B." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Alteration of a line in Canto second. 
Instead of— 

" And links to-morrow with a fancied ray, 
" And linta to-morrow wilh frrophelie my. 
" The evening beum ihul imilrt the cluurti awny, 
And tints lo-murrow witli jiroylietic my ; 
gilds 
• A nd tliili the hope of morning with its ray ; 
" And gilds lo-morrow's lioj* with heavenly ray. 

8 1 wish you would ask Mr. Gilford which of them is 
best, or rather not worst. " Ever, &c. 

" You can send the request contained in this at the 
earn*- tune with the revise, after I have seen the suid re' 
vise" 

WOTE TO MR. HURRAY. 

"Nov. 13, 1813. 

"Certainly. Do you suppose that no one but the 
Galileans are acquainted with Adam, and /'it, and 
Cain,* and JVoahf Surely, I might have had Solomon, 
and Abraham] and David, and even Moses. When von 
know that Zuleika is the Persian poetical name for 
Potiphars wife, on whom and Joseph there is a long 
pm in, in (he Persian, this will not surprise von. If you 
want authority, look at Jones, D'Herbelot, Vathck, or 
the notes to the Arabian Nights; and, if you think it 
necessary, model this into a noie.f 

"Alter, in the inscription, 'the most affectionate re- 
spect,' to 'with every sentiment of regard and respect." 1 

BOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 14, 1813. 
"I send you a note for the ignorantgt but I really 
wonder at finding you among them. 1 don't care one 
lump of sugar for my poetry ; hut for my costume and mv 
correctness on those points {of which I (Junk the funeral 
was a proof,) I will combat lustily. 

" Yours, &c. n 

"Nov. 14, 1813. 
"Let the revise which I sent just now (and not the 
proof in Mr. Gifford's possession) be returned to the 
printer, as there are several additional corrections, and 
two new lines in it. "Yours, &c." 



Some doubt had been evuresned by Mr. Murray nt lo the propriety 
n hi» puttlos the name of Cain into the mouth of a MunuUnaii. 
t See note 3(1, (o the Bride of Abydai. 
I &)• note 28, to the Undu of At>>-do*. 



LETTER CLXXX1II. 

TO Mil. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 15, 1813. 

' Mr. Hodgson has looked over and stopped, or rather 
pointed) this revise, which must In- the one to print from. 
He has also made bouk suggestions, wilh most ol which 
I have complied, as he Lis always, for these ten years, 
been a very sincere, and by no means (at Hiik-s) flatter" 
m r ', intimate of mine, lie likes it (you will think ./later* 
inghff in tins instance) better than the Giaour, but 
doubts (and so di* 1) its being so popular, but, CCA 
to some others, advises a separate publication. On this 
we can easily decide. 1 confess I like the duuUe form 
better. Hodgson sayet « 's fatter versified than any of 
the others; which is odd, if true, as it has cost me less 
time (though more hours at a lime) than ^ny attempt I 
ever made. 

"P. S. Do attend to the punctuation: I can't, for 1 
don't know a comma — at hast, where 10 place one. 

w That tory of a printer has omitted two lines uf the 
opening, and perhaps more, which were in the MS. 
Will you, pray, give him a hinl ofaccuracy .' 1 have re 
inserted the two, but ihey were in the man user ipi, 1 can 
swear." 



LETTER CLXXX1V. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 17,1813. 

" That you and I may distinctly understand each other 
on a subject, which, like 'the dreadful reckoning when 
men smile no more,' makes conversation not wry plea- 
sant I think it as well to arte a few lines on the topic. 
Before I left town for Yorkshire, you said that you were 
ready and willing to give five hundred guineas for the 
Copyright of 'The Giaour;* and my answer was, from 
which I do not mean lo recede, that we would discuss 
the point at Christmas. The new story may or may 
not succeed ; the probability, under present circum- 
s'ances, seems to be, that it may at least pay its ex 
penses ; but even that remains lo be proved, and till II is 
proved one way or another, we will say nothing abort it. 
Thus then be it : I will postpone all arrangement about 
it, and the Giaour also, till Easter, 1^14; and you shall 
then, according to your own notions of fairness, make 
your own oiler for trie two. At tin- same time, I on not 
rate the last in my own estimation at half the Giaour; 
and according to your own notions of its worth and jts 
success within the time men tinned, be tin- addition or 
deduction to or from whatever sum may be your pro- 
posal f>r the first, which has already had Its buccoss. 

■ The pictures of Phillips I consi eras mine, all three 
and the one (not the Aniaoni) of the two best is much 
at your service, if you will accept it as a present. 

" P. S. The expense of- engraving from tlie miniature 
send me in mv account, as it was destroyed by mv de- 
sire; and have the goodness to burn that delegable 
print from it immediately, 

11 To make yon some amends f >r eternally pestering 
you with alterations, I send you Cobbett, to confirm 
your orthodoxy. 

"One more alteration of a into the in the MS.; it 
must be — ' The heart whose so/mesa,' &c. 

"Remember — and in the inscription 'to the Right 
Honourable Lord Holland,' without the previous names, 
Henry, &.c." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 20, 1813. 
"More work for the Row. I am doing my be** to 
beat the 'Giaour*— no difficult task fur any one but the 
author." 



LETTERS, 1S13. 



61 



JSOTE TO Mil, MURRAY. 

"Nov. 22^1813. 
■ I have DO time lo cross-in v estimate, but I believe and hop< 
all is rigliU 1 care less than you "ill believe about its suc- 
cess, but I cant survive a single misprint: it c/toftesmetosee 
words misused by the printers. Pray look over, in case of 
some eyesore escaping me. 

Li P. S. Send the earliest copies to Mr. Frere, Mr. Can- 
lr. Heber, Mr. Gilford, Lord Holland, Lord Mel- 
bourne (Whitehall,) Lad'.' Caroline Lamb (Brocket,) Mr. 
■ii (Cambridge,) Mr. Merivale, Mr. Ward, from the 
author." 

NOTE TC MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 23,1813. 

* You wanted some reflections, and I send you per Selim 
(see his speech in Canto 2d, page 46,) eighteen lines in de- 
cent couplets, of a pensive, if not an ethical tendency. One 
more revise — positively the last, if decently done — at any rate 
the penultimate. Mr. Cannings approbation (if he did ap- 
prove) I need not sav makes me proud. As to printing, 
[Mint as you will and how you will — by itself, if you like; but 
l«-t me have a few copies m sheets. 

"Nov. 24, ISIS. 

■You must pardon me once more, as it is ail for your 
good: it must be thus — 

" He mattes a solitude, and calls it peace. 

Ulakes* is closer to the passage of Tacitus, from which the 
line is taken, and is, besides, a stronger word than Heaves. 1 

' Mark where his carnage and his conquest* cease, 
lie make* .1 solitude, and caJU ii — peace." 



LETTER CLXXXV. 



TO MR. MUKRAV. 



s Nov.27, 1813. 

■Js" you look over this carefully by the last proof 'with mv 
corrections it is probably right; this you can do as well or 
better; — I have not now lime. The copies I mentioned to 
be sent to different friends last night, I should wish to be 
made up widi the new Giaours, if it al^o is ready. If not, 
send the Giaour afterward, 

"The Morning Post says / am the author of Nourjahad!! 
This cornea of len ling the drawings for their dresses ; but it 
is not worth a formal contradiction. Besides, the criticisms 
on the supposition will, some of them, be quite amusing and 
furious. The Orientalism — which I hear is very splendid — 
of the melohaine (whosever it is, and I am sure I don't 
know) is as good. as an advertisement for your Eastern 
Bti ■ •. by filling their heads with glitter. 

" P. S. You will of course say the truth, that I am not the 
nielod amatsl — if any one charges me in your presence with 
Uie ■performance." 



LETTER CLXXXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•Nov. 28, 1613. 

"Send another copy (ifnottoomuchof a request) to Lady 
Il'J'awd of the Journal* in mv name, when you receive 
ibis; i*. is f-r Earl Qrey — and I will relinquish mv awn. 
Abo, to Mr. Sharpe,and Lady Holland, and Ladv Caroline 
Lamb, copies of 'The Bride,' as soon as convenient. 

- P, S. Mr. Ward and myself still continue our purpose ; 
but I shall not trouble you on any arrangement on the score 
of the (iiaour and the Bride till our return — or, at anv rate, 
before -T/iny, 1814 — that is, six months from hence: and be- 
fore that time you will be able to ascertain how far your 
offer may be a losing one ; if so, you can deduct propor- 
uonably ; and if not, I shall not at any rate allow you to go 



• Fenro#e'« Journal, a book publiaoed by Mr. Murray at thi» time. 



higher than your present proposal, which is very handsome, 
and more than fair.* 

H I have had— but this must be cntre nous, — a very kind 
note, on the subject of ' the Bride/ From Sir James Mack- 
intosh, and an invitation to go ihere this evening, which it is 
now too late to accept," 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 29, 1813. 
"Sunday — Monday morning — 3 o'clock — in 
my doublet and hose, swearing, 
tt I send you in time an errata page, containing an omis- 
sion of mine which must be thus added, as it is too late for 
insertion in the text. The passage is an imitation altogether 
from Medea in Ovid, and is incomplete without these two 
lines. Pray let this be done, and directly ; it is necessary, 
will add one page to your book (making.) and can do no 
harm, and is yet m time for the public. Answer me, thou 
oracle, in the affirmative. You can send the loose pages to 
those who have copies already, if they like ; but certainly to 
all the critical copyholdrrs. 

P. S. I have got out of my bed (in which, however, I 
could not sleep, whether I had amended this or not,) and so 
good morning. I am trying whether De L'AUeniagne will 
act as an opiate, but I doubt it." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

B Nov. 29, 1813. 

"' You have looked at it P to much purpose, to allow so 
stupid a blunder to stand ; it is not 'courage* but ( carnage ,-' 
and if you don't want me to cut my own throat, see it altered. 

11 1 am very sorry to hear of the fall of Dresden." 



LETTER CLXXXVIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Nov. 29, 1813, Monday. 
You will act as you please upon that point ; but whether 
I go or stay, I shall not say another word on the subject till 
May — nor then, unless quite convenient to yourself. 1 have 
many things 1 wish to leave to your care, principally papers. 
The vases need not be now sent, as Mr. Ward is gone to 
Scotland. You are right about the enata page ; place it at 
the beginning. Mr. Perry is a little premature in his coro- 
pfiments ; these may do harm by exciting expectation, and I 
think we ought to be above it — though I see the next para- 
graph i< on the Journal^ which makes me suspect you as 
the author of both. 

" Would it not have been as well to have said ' in Two 
Cantos' in the advertisement? they will else think of frag~ 
meats, a species of composition very well for once, like one 
ruin in a view; but one would not build a town of them. The 
Bride, such as it is, is my first entire composition of any 
length (except the Satire, and be d — d to it,) for the Giaour 
is but a string of passages, and Chiide Harold is, and I 
rather think always will be, unconcluded. I return Mr. Hay's 
note, with thanks to him and you. 

"Tlu-re have been some epigrams on Mr. Ward: one I 
see to-day. The first I did not see, but heard yesterday 
The second seems very bad. I only hope that Mr. Ward 
does not believe that I had any connexion with either. I 
like and value him too well to allow my poliiics to contract 
into spleen, or to admire any thing intended to annoy him or 
his. You need not take the trouble to answer tliis, as 1 shall 
see you in the course of the afternoon. 

"P. S. I have said this much about the epigrams, because 
I lived so much in the opposite camp, and, from my post as 
an engineer, might be suspected as the (linger of these hand- 
grenadoes; but with a worthy foe, I am all for open war, and 
not tliis bush-fisbting, and have not had, nor will have, any 
thing to do with it. I do not know the author." 



• Mr. Murray had offered him a thousand guinea* for the two foaiW. 
t Pewoae'a Journal. 



62 



LETTERS, IS13- 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Nov. 30, .1813. 
B Print this at the end of all thai W of the ' Bride vf Jbydo^ 
as an errata page. «». 

■Omitted, canto 2d, page 47, after line 449, 

" So ihfri llwse arms cling cliwtr round my "'eck, 

Read,— 

» Tlien If my lin oiirr murmur, It mm; t>« 
No ai^li for sutetjr , bol a umycr fur line I" 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

14 Tuesday evening Nov. 30, 1813. 
■For the sake of correctness, particularly in tin errata 
page, the alteration of the couplet I have just sent (half an 
hour ago) must take place, in spite of delay or cancel ; let 
me see the proof early to-morrow. 1 fqund out murmur to 
he a neuter vcrh t and have I" < n obliged tu alter the line so 
as to make it a substantive] thus — 

" Tin- deepest murmur of this lip shall be 
Nuaigh for wfety, but u prayer for thee I 

Don't send the copies to the country till this is all right." 

MITE TO MR. Ml'ltRAY. 

"Dec. 2, 1813. 
When you can, let the couplet enclosed he inserted either 
in die page, or in the errata page. I trust it is in time for 
some of the copies. This all-ration is in die same part- 
the page but one before the last correction sent. 

"P. s. I am afraid, from all I hear, thai people are rather 
inordinate in their expectations, which is very unlucky, bui 
ramioi now he helped. Tins comes of Mr. Perry and one's 
wise friends ; but do not you wind your hopes of success to 
the same pitch, for fear of accidents, and I can assure you 
that my philosophy will stand the test very fairly ; and I have 
done i v'-rv ijnng to ensure you, at all events, from positive 
oss, whicn will he some satisfaction to both." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

■Dec 3,1813. 

B I send you a scratch orfcro, the which heal. The Chris- 
tian Observer is very savage^ but certainly wefl written — and 
quite uncomfortable at the naughtiness of hook and author. 
1 rather suspect you won't much like the present to be more 
moral, if it is to share also the usual fate of your virtuous 
volumes. 

"Let me see a proof of the six before incorporation." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

K Monday evening, Dec. 6, 1813. 
« It is all very well, except that die lines are not numbered 
properly, and a diabolical mistake, page 67, which must be 

rorreeled with tin- pen, if no other way remains; it is the 

amis k>ii of 'no? before ^disagreeable^ in the note on tte ameer 
rosary. This is really horrible, and nearly as bad as the 
Btumble of mine at the threshold — I mean the monomer of 
Bride. Pray do not let a copy go without the t tutf it is 

nonsense andw'irsc t h:in n oi * ji- »■ as i! now stands. 1 wish 

die printer was saddled with a vampire. 

B P. S. It Ls still hath instead of hive in page 20; never 
was any one so trammed as I am by your devils of printers. 

*P. S. I hope and trust the 'no*"' was inserted in the firsl 
edition. We must have something — any thing— to set H 
ri«ht. It is enough to answer for one's own hulls, widiout 
other people's." 



new work. I know they are not out; hut it is perhaps po**- 
sihli; lor your Majesty to command what we cannot with 
much suing purchase, as yet. 1 need not say that when you 
are able oi willing u> confer the same favour on me, I >i>:t ; l 
be obliged. I would almost fall sick myself to get at Ma- 
dame D'Arblay^B writings. 

P. s. Ymi were talking to-day of the American edition 

of a certain uu<|ueii<-hal>tr m< mortal of my younger days. 
As it can't be helped now, I own I have some curiosity to 
see a copy of Transatlantic typography. This you will per- 
haps obtain, an I one for yourself; but I must beg that you 

will not import murt, hreanse, seriously } I do uish to have 
that dung forgotten as much as it has been forgiven, 

a If you send to the Globe editor, say that I want neilhei 
excuse nor contradiction, but merely a discontinuance of a 
most ill-ground. -d charge. I never was consistent m any 
thing but mv politics; and as my redemption depeodi on that 
solitary virtue, it is murder to carry away my last anchor.*' 



LETTER CLXXXVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Dec. 27, 1813. 

•Lord Holland is laid up with the gout, and would fee! 
very much obliged if you could obtain, and send as soon as 



LETTER CLXXXIX. 

TO MR. ASHE.* 

"4, Bennet-street, St. James's, Dec. 14, 1813. 
■sir, 

"I leave town for a few days to-morrow: on my return, 
I will answer your letter more at length. Whatever may 
be your situation, I cannot hut commend your resolution to 
abjure and abandon the public&l ion and composition of works 
such as those to which you have alluded. Depend upon it, 
they amuse /'»■, disgrace both reader and imter t and benefit 

ie. It w ill be my « ish to assist you, as far as my limited 
ans will admit, to break such a bondage. In your an- 
awer, inform me what sum you think would enable you to 
extricate yourself from the hands of your employers 

gain at least temporary independence, and J shall be glad 
to contribute my mite towards it. At present I must con- 
dude. Your name is not unknown to me, and I regret, for 
your own sake, that you have ever lent it to the works yOQ 
mention. In saving this, I merely repeat your OUffi ward* 
in your letter to me, and have no wish whatever to say a 
single syllable that may appear to insult your misfortunes. 
If I have, excuse me ; it is unintentional. 

u Yours, &c. "Kyrom.' 

[In answer to this letter, Ashe mentioned as the sum ne- 
cessary to extricate him from his difficulties, 160/. — and, some 
short delav having occurred m the reply to this demand, he, 
m renewing his bujt, ceuipuuned, it appears, of neglect.] 



LETTER CXC. 



TO MR. ASHE. 



"Jan. 5, 1814. 



■ When you accuse a stranger of neglect, you forget that 
it is possible business or absence from London may have 
interfered to delay his answer, as has actually occurred in 
the present instance. But to die point. I am willing todo 

what I run tOCXlru \ite you from voiir situation. Your first 

scheme 1 was considering; but your own impatience ap- 
pears to have render) d it abortive, if not irretrievable. I 

will deposite in Mr. Murray's hands {with his consent) the 
sum von mentioned, to be advanced for the lime :t ten 
pounds per month. 

B P. S. I write in the greatest hurry, which may make 
my letter a tittle abrupt; but, as I said before, I have no wish 
to distress your feelings. 11 



' Author of ft publication relating to the Queen, called " The Book:' 

llsoof " Tnidi through America," omt other notorious libels. He nad 

vriUen to Lord Bvron, alleging powiriy as bit excuse for tnc >nle uses U 

. , , which he had prosUtutfld his l*U, uud soliciting vbe means «f wUaiuwi 

pcssible, Madame D Arblay » (or even Alted Ldguwurtns; j wiUB UUU i.t cdivIitukui. 



LETTERS, 1S11. 



G3 



LETTER CXCI. 

TO AIR. GALT. 

■Dec. 11, 1SI3. 

tt MV dear g mt, 

* There was nu offence — there could be none.* 1 thought 
it hv no means impossible that we might have hit on some- 
thing similar, particularly as you art* a dramatist, and was 
anxious to assure you uf die truth, viz. that 1 had not wit- 
tingly seized upon plot, sentiment, or incident; and I am very 
glad that 1 have not in any respect trenched upon your 
subjects. Something still more singular is, that the yr'rrf part, 
where vou have found a coincidence in some events within 
your observations on life, was drawn from observation of 
mine also; and 1 meant to have gone on with the story, but 
on second thoughts, 1 thought myself two centuries at least 
too late for the subject ; which, though admitting of very 
powerful feeling and description, yet is not adapted for this 
age, at least this country, though the finest works of the 
Greeks, one of Scliiller's and Alfieri's, in modern times, 
besides several of our old (and best) dramatists, have been 
grounded on incidents of a similar ca--t. I therefore altered 
it as you perceive, and, in so doing, have weakened the 
whole by interrupting the train of thought; and, in composi- 
tion, I do not think second thoughts are meoest, though, second 
expressions may improve the first ideas. 

■I do not know how other men feel towardsthose they have 
met abroad, but to me there seems a kind of tie established 
between all who have met together in a foreign country, as 
if we had rael in a state of pre-existence, and were talking 
over a life that has ceased; but I always look forward to 
renewing my travels, and though you, I think, are now sta- 
tionary, if I can at all forward your pursuits Oicre as well as 
here, I shall be truly glad in the opportunity. 

"Ever yours very sincerely, a B. 

*P. S. I believe I leave 'own for a day or two, on Mon- 
day, but after that I am always aliiome, arid happy to see 
vou till hail" past two." 



think 'Live and protect 1 bette: ^cause'Oh who?' implies 
a doubt of Roland's power or inclination. I would allow 
me — but that point you yourself must determine on — I mean 
the doubt as to where to place a part of the Poem, whether 
between the actions or no. Only if you wish to have all the 
success you deserve, never listen to friends, and — as I am 
not the least troublesome of the number — least of all to me. 
u l hope yuu wili be uut soon. JMarrh, sir, JMarch, is the 
month for the trade, and they must be considered. You 
have written a very noble Puem, and nothing but the detest- 
able taste of the day can do you barm, — but I think you will 
beat it. Your measure is uncommonly well chosen and 
ielded." 

****** 



LETTER CXCIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

'Sunday, Jon. 2, IS14. 

; Excuse this dirty paper — it is the penultimate half-sheet 
of a quire. Thanks for your book and the Ln. Chron. which 
I return. The Corsair is copied, and now at Lord Hol- 
land's; but I wish Mr. Gilford to have it to-night. 

" Mr. Dallas is very perverse ; so that I have offended both 
him and you, when I really meant to do good, at least to one, 
and certainly not to annoy either.* But I shall manage 
him, I hope. I am pretty confident of the Tale itself; but 
one cannot he sure. If I get it from Lord Holland, it shall 
be sent. Yours, &c." 



LETTER CXCV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



LETTER CXCIL 

TO MR. LEIGH HUNT. 

■Dec. 22, 1813. 
■mv dear sir, 
■ I am, indeed, ' in your debt 1 — and what is still worse, am 
obliged to follow royal example, [be has just apprized his 
creditors that they must wait till the meeting,] and entreat 
your indulgence for, I hope, a very short time. The nearest 
relation, and almost the only friend I possess, has been in 
London for a week, and leaves it to-morrow, with me, for 
her own residence. I return immediately ; but we meet so 
seldom, and are s-> minuted when we meet at nil, that 1 give Up 
all engagements, till now, without reluctance. On mv return, 
I must see you to console myself fir mv past disappoint* 

m'-nts. I should feel highly honoured in Mr. B- 's 

permission to make his acquaintance, and thtrr you are in 
mu debt, for it is a promise of last summer which I still hope 
to see performed. Yesterday I had a letter from Moore; 
you have probably heard from hun lately; but if not, you 
will he glad to learn that he is the same in heart, head, and 
hfti&h-" 



LETTER CXCIII. 



TO MR. MtRIVALE. 



■Jan. 1814 

MV DEAR MERIVALE, 

* 1 have redde Roncesvaux with very great pleasure, and 
(if 1 were so disposed) see very- little room for criticism. 
There is a choice of two Knee in one of the last Cantos, — I 



■Jan. 6, 1814. 

■I have got a devil of a long story in the press, entitled 
1 The Corsair, 1 in the regular heroic measure. It is a pirate's 
isle, peopled with my own creatures, and you may easily 
suppose they do a world of mischief through the three cantos. 
Now for your Dedication — if you will - accept it. This is 
positively my last experiment on public literary opinion, till 
I tum my thirtieth vear, — if so be I flourish until that down- 
hill period. I have a confidence for you — a perplexing one 
to me, and, just at present^ in a state of abeyance in uself, 

******* 

However, we shall see. In die mean time, you mayamu.se 
yourself with my suspense, and put all the justices of die 
peace in requisition, in case I come into your county with 
'hack but bent. 1 

"Seriously, whether I am to hear from her or him, it is a 
pause, which I shall fill up with as few thoughts of my own 
as I can borrow from other people. Any thing is better than 
stagnation; and now, in the interregnum of my autumn and 
a strange summer adventure, which 1 don't like to think 
of, (I don't mean * *'s, however, which Is laughable only,) 
the antithetical state of my lucubrations makes me alive, 
and Macbeth can 'sleep no more:' — he was lucky in getting 
rid of the drowsy sensation of waking again. 

"Pray write to me. I must send you a copy of the Utter 
of Dedication. When do yon come out? I am sure we 
don't clash this time, for I am all at sea, and in action, — and 
a wife, and a mistress, &c. &c. 

"Thomas, thou art a happy fellow; but if you wish us to 
be so, you must come up to town, as you did last year; and 
we shall have a world to say, and to see, and to hear. Let 
me hear from you. 

■ P. S. Of course you will keep my secret, and don't even 
talk in your sleep of it. Happen what may, your Dedication 
is ensured, being already written; and I shall copy it out 
fair to-night, in case business or amusement — Amant alterna 
CamaiTUB. n 



* " H would *pr*ar that hr hart wrflten to mo ■omttfilnf! which led r 
(.■ imaglBf be was oflennci m my oi.wnatioiu, and lb.« I tiail, in c W 
qui-iiie, tbpftoted bi» wrath." — GcUt. 



• Hr hart mart* a present nfmf o>py-ri?lit of the Corsair to Mr. Pallni 
which occiiiJiievl aorac ULilanaaaweut between tiim and M . Maaj. 



6-1 



LETTERS, 1814. 



NOTE TO Mil. MURRAY. 

"Jan. 7,1814. 
"You don't like the Dedication— very well; there is an- 
other: but you will send the other t«> Mr. Moore, thai he 
may know 1 had written it. I Bend also nioltos for the 

cantos. 1 tliink you will allow ftatanelepliantma) I * 

sagacious, but cannot be mora doale. 

"Yours, "B.n. 
"The name is aj-aui altered to Medora?* 



LETTER CXCVT. 

TO JIH. JIOORE. 

Man. 8,1814. 

"As it would not be fair to press you into b I h d« ati m, 
without previous notice, 1 send you iuw, and 1 will tell you 
why two. Tim first, Mr. Murray, who sometimes takes 
Upon him die critic (and I bear it from astonulmenl) 
says, may do you fmrm — God forbid ! this alone makes me 
listen to him. The fact is, he i> a damned T-tv, and has, 
I dare swear, something of edf t which 1 cannot divine, al 
die bottom of his objection, as it is die allusion to [reland to 
which lie objects. But he be d — d, thodgh B good fellow 
enough, (your sinner would not be worth a d — n.) 

"Take your choice; no one, sa\e he and Mr. 1 Jallas,has 
seen eidier, and D. is quite on my side, and for the lirsi.f 
If I can but testify to you and the world how truly 1 admire 
and esteem you, I shall be quite satisfied. As to prose, 1 
don't know Addison's from Johnson's; bull will try to mend 
my cacology. Pray perpend, pronounce, and don't be o£ 
fended with either. 

" My last epistle would probably put you in a fidget Bui 
the Devilj who ought to be civil on such occasions, proved 
so, and look my letter to the right pun 0, 

****** 

* Is it not odd ? the very fate I said she had escaped from 
* *, she has now undergone from the worthy * *. Like 
Mr. Fitzgerald, shall I not lay claim to die character of 
' Vates T as be did in the Morning Herald fix prophesying 
the fall of Buonaparte, who, hy-thc-hy, 1 don't dunk i- yel 
fallen. 1 wish he would rally and rout your legitimate 
sovereigns, having a mortal hate to all royal entails. But 
I am scrawling a treatise. Good night. Ever, &c. B 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Jan. 11, 1814. 
■ Correct this proof by Mr. Gilford's (and from the 
MSS.) particularly as to the pointing. I have added a 
section for Quinary to rill Up the parting, and dismiss her 
more ceremoniously. If Mr. Grinord or you dislike, 'tis 
but a sponge, and another midnight better employed than 
in yawning over Miss * * ; who, by-the-by, may soon 
return the compliment. 

"Wednesday or Thursday. 

"P. S. I have redde * *. Il is full of pr.u-e-! (1 f Lord 
Kllenborough!!! (from which I infer near and dear rela- 
tions at tin- bar,) and * * * * 

"I do not love Madame de Stael, but depend upon it, she 
beats all your natives hollow as an authoress, in my opinion ; 
and I would not say this if I could help it. 



"P. S. Prav report my best acknowledgments to M.. 
Gi.Tord in an) words thai may best express how truly on 

kindness obliges me. I won't bore him with t'}' thanks or 
notes.'* 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"Jan. 13,1814. 

"I have I. nt :i moment to write, but all is as it ah 

aid really far short of my opinion, bui if you think 
enough, 1 am content. Will you return the proof by the 
post, as 1 leave town on Sunday, and havi no 
reeled copy. I put 'servant,' as being teea famiuai 
th,. public : becau •■ I don 1 ! like presuming upon our friend- 
ship to infringe upon forms. As to the other u»rd, you may 
be sure n i- one 1 i annoi bear or repeal loo oft n. 

"1 write in an agon) of haste and corJusion. — Perdonate." 



• h hail l.een al first Geoei I 

t Tim iim wa« tin e preferred. The oilier wn« un roilowai— 

11 Jan. 7, IBM. 
" My dear Moore, 
'■ i had an tun to fov i long letter ef dedli atlon, which t suppress, be- 

eauae, (hough [1 wnu al i imalbiofl ralallns to you which awry one had 

been glad lo hear, ret there was too not h al i politics, and ] 

sll ihUiga whatsoever, ending widi that topic >nwhicl i 

sverj imusiiuj— «n«'t *tJ/. Il "". •■ vrUum— but 

i.. Mimt [.urpoaw? My prnise could add nothing to your wain 

firmly established Game; and with mj mow h | admiration ■>!" your 

talents, owl delight in vour conversui y»i I' > l > <i llad. In 

availing myself u( your friendly pennies] InacrilM Uila Poem lo you, 

I can only wi*li Die offering were its worthy your accupwuicu as your re- 
gard is Jen. to 

" Years, mgtt aflri(i.iu»lfly and faithfully, 

'DYBON." 



LETTER CXCVII. 
to am. MniuAV. 

•Jan. 15, 1814. 
" 1.1. fire any proof noes t<> Mr. Gitfnrd. n may be as well 

to revise this, where there are twrrfa omitted) fauh c - 

united, and the devil knows what. As n> thi i tedicalii n, 1 
ait oul the parenthe is of Mr.* but notai ird shall 
move unless lor abetter. Mr. Moore baa eeu, 
ledlv preferred, the pari your Tory bile sickens at. If 
,-vs syllable were a rattlesnake, or ever} lellei a pesti- 
lence, i hey si I.I not be expunged. Lei those who cannot 

swallow, chew the expressions on [reland; or should even 
Mr. ( Iroker array himself in all his terrors againsl them, i 
care fur none of you, excepi ' ihlbrd; and be won*l abuse me 
excepi 1 deserve it— which will at leasi reconcile me to his 
justice. As to the [ ui- iii Hohhouse's volume. - } the trans- 
lation from the Romaic ia well enough ; but (he beet of the 
other volume (of mnie, ! mean) have been already printed. 
But do as you please— only, as I shall be absent when you 
come out, cto, yray % let Mr. Dallas and yv have a rare of 
theprew. "Yours, fee" 

KOTE TO Mil. Mi'KK IT. 

["IBM, Jan. 16.] 
°I do believe tliat the Devil never Created or perverted 

such a fiend as die fool of a printer. I am obliged to enclose 
vou, twkilt/ lor me, ilns second proofj corrected, becaua 
is an ingenuity in bis blunders peculiar to himself. Let tho 
press be guided by the present sheet. "Yours, &c. 

" Bum Oir other, 

l, < lorrecj tfda tdn by i he other in some things which f may 
have forgotten. There is one mistake be made, whi h, if it 
had Btood, 1 would most certainly have broken his net k." 



LETTER cxcvin. 

TO MR. MTJBJtAY. 

■Newsi< ...i \bh y, Ian. .'.' 181 i. 

"You "ill be glad to hear of nay safe arrival h< re. Tim 
time of my return will depend upon the weather, which is so 
impracticable thai this letter bastoadvance through more 
in evei op losed the i mpeioi ? s retreat. The roads 
an mi] ttssablc,an 1 return impossible for the present; which 
[do not regret, as l am much at my ease, mi i rix~and-tiflenty 
complere i his -lav — a very pretty age, ifil would always lasi. 
( inr coals aie excellent, our fire-places large, my cellar full, 
and my he.pl empt} ; and I have not yet recovered my joy 
at leaving 1 ."u Ion. If any unexpected turn occurred with 
my purchasers,! believe I should hardly ouil ihe place at ali- 
but shut my door, and let my hear. I grow, 

a l forgot to mention (and 1 hope it is unnecessary) that 



* He tmil m first, after ti"* wofljal " Scoit akna." laserud, In a pan 
IheaUr*-" M * »ille«^sw the Mr.— ' wsitonoi»«) Mr Vmtw,* " 
| See rWna,p. Ibj. 



LETTERS, 1814. 



65 



the lines beginning— Remember turn,* &c. must not appear 
Pith the Corsair. ' You may slip them in with the smaller 
pieces newly annexed lo Viubie Harold; but on no account 
permd them to be appended to the Corsair. Have the 
goodness to recollect this particularly. 

'' l'in_- books 1 have brought with me are a great consola- 
tion for i In confinement, and I bought more as we came 
a I ing. In short, I never consult the thermometer, and shall 
nui, pot up prayers for a thaw, unless I thought n would 
away the rascally invaders of France* Was ever 
such a thing as Blwi-ti.-r's proclamation? 
"Just before i lt£ town, Kemble paid me the compliment 
ing mo io mile a tragedy ; I wish I could, bul I hud 
m . scribbling mood subsiding — not before it was time; but 
kv to clieck it at all. If I lengthen my letter you will 
think it is coining ou again \ so, good bye. 

ft Yours alwav, tt B. 
"P. S. If you hear any news •,£ battle or retreat on the 
part of the .Alius, (as they call them,) pray send it. He 
has my lust wishe to manure the fields of France with an 
i * army. 1 hate invaders of all countries, and have 
no patience with the cowardly cry of exultation over him, 
•*' whose name you all turned whiter than the snow La 
ted for your triumphs. 
u I open my letter to thank you for yours just received. 
The 'I.uies !<» a Lady VYeepihc^ must go with the Corsair. 
I care n ttlung for consequence on this point. Mv politics 
are to me like a young mistress to an old man — the worse 
[row, the fonder 1 become nf them. As Mr. Gilford 
ill es the 'Portuguese Translation,^ pray insert it as an ad- 
dition to the Corsair. 

" In all points of difference between Mr. GitTord and Mr. 
Dallas, let the first keep his place ; and in all points of dif- 
ference betwei n Mr. Gifford and Mr. Anybody-else, I shall 
\ the former; if I am wrong I can't help it. But I 
rather not be right with any other person. So there 
is an end 'if that matter. Afier all the trouble he has taken 
alHwt me and mine, I should be very ungrateful to feel or 
art otherwise. Besides, in point of judgment, he is not to 
be lowered by a comparison. In politics, he may be right 
too; but that with me is Ajedingj and I can't Unify mv na- 
ture." 



LETTER CXCIX. 



TO MB. HURRAY. 



"Newstead Abbey, Feb. 4, 1814. 
•1 need not say that your obliging letter was very wel- 
come, ami no) the less so for being unexpected. 

u Ii doubtless gra*ifiesme much that our./ana&has pleased, 
and rliat the curtain drops gracefully.^ K«e deserve i: 
should. f>r your promptitude ami good nature ui arranging 
: ii-.lv with Mr. Dallas; and I can assure you that 1 
esteem your entering so warmly into me subject, and writing 
Bo Die bo soon upon it, u> a personal obligation. We shall 
now |tari, I hope, satisfied with v.uh other. I tau and am 
quite in earnest in my prefatory promise not to intrude any 
more; and iliis not from any affectation, but a thorough con- 
that il is ihf best policy, and is at least respectfill '■> 
ders, as ii shows thai 1 would not willingly run the 
I irf ing their favour in future. Besides, I have 
plberview< and objc :ts,and think that I shaS keep this reso- 
f ir, since I lefl London, though shut up, xnoto-bound, 
ftoio-baund, and tempted with all kinds of paper, the dirtiest 
of ink, and the bluntest of pens, I have not even been haui* ted 



Poeme, p. I&l. 

I Hn tmiiflli>ljnn of the YretiT PortH^iipse eon;, " Tu mi chamei ■' 
rte wa» 'cnii-tfl to irr another rcrainn »f this iiig»nioue thmiehi , vhU \ 
e, i*ili»i>m. ■ till m..rc happy, and hee never, I Itlicve, appeared in prim. 

" Y»u call m* (till vo'ir lift — ah! chance Uie word— 
1 -iff ia&> Irnnsit-nt n» Hi' incon=l*ut sieh ; 
Sac, rather, I 'in jrour tout, more )uet that name, 
PftC, like Oteaoul. my love* can never Hie." — Moore. 
X Tf will he rwnlleeteil that he hail announced Che Coreair aa " the la" 
iimtuetiou wiiti which tie ahouk) uvc]*m on jjuWic patience for kin, 
fcare." 

9 



by a wish to put them to their combined uses, except in let- 
ters of business. My rhyming propensity is quite gone, ana 
I feel much as I did at Patras on recovering from my fever 
— weak, but in health, and only afraid of a relapse. I do 
most fervently hope I never sKall. 

u l see by the Morning Chronicle there hath been dis- 
cus ii n in the Courier; and I read in the Morning Post a 
wrathful letter about Mr. Moore, in which some Protestant 
Reader has made a sad confusion about India and Ireland. 

" ^ on are to do as you please about the smaller poems ; 
but I think removing them notv from the Corsair looks like 
fear; and if so, you must allow me not to be pleased. I 
should also suppose thai, after the fuss of the^e newspaper 
esquires, they would materially assist the circulation of the 
Corsair; an object 1 should imagine at present of more im- 
porlance loyountclf titan Childe Harolds seventh appear- 
ance. Do as you like ; but don't allow the withdrawing that 
poem tn draw any imputation of < Its-may upon me.* 

"Pray make mv re.j.eeis to Mr. Ward, whose praise I 
value most highly, as you well know; it is in the approbation 
of such men dial fame becomes worth having. To Mr. 
* iuTord I am always grateful, and surely not less so now 
Uian ever. And so good night to my authorship. 

"I have been sauntering and dozing here very quietly, 
and not unhappily. You will be happy to hear that I have 
completely established my uile deeds as marketable, and 
that the purchaser has succumbed to the terms, and fulfils 
them, or is to fulfil them forthw ith. He is now here, and we 
go on very amicably together — one in each ving of the 
Abbey. We set off on Sunday — I for town, he for Che- 
shire. 

"Mrs. Leigh is with me — much pleased with the place, 
and less so wit It me for parting with it, to which not even the 
price can reconcile her. Your parcel has not yet arrived — 
at least the Mags. &c; but I have received Childe Harold 
and die Corsair. I believe both are very correcdy printed, 
which is a great satisfaction. 

1 thank you fur wishing me in town ; but I think one's 
success is most felt at a distance, and I enjoy my solitary 

f-importance in an agreeably sulky way of my own, upon 
the strength of your letter — for winch I once more thank you, 
and am, very truly, &c. 

"P. S. Don't you think Buonaparte's next publication will 
he rather expensive to the Allies? Perry's Paris letter of 
yesterday looks very reviving. ^Yba^ a Hydra and Bnareus 
it is! I wish they would pacify: there is no end to this 
campaigning." 



LETTER CC. 

TO MR. MURRAY 1 . 

"Newstead Abbey, Feb. 5, 1814. 

"I quite forgot, in my answer of yesterday, to mention that 
I have no means of ascertaining whether the Newark Pirate 
lias hem doing what vou say.f If so, he is a rascal, and a 
thabby rascal too; and if Ins offence is punishable by law or 
pugilism, he shall he fined or buffeted. Do you try and dis- 
cover, ami I will make some inquiry here. Perhaps some 
titter in luwu may have gone on printing, and used the same 
deception. 

"The facsimile is nmiited in Childe Harold, which is 
very awkward, as there is a note expressly on the subject. 
Pray replace U as usual. 

* On second and third thoughts, the withdraw ing the small 
noems from the Corsair (even to add to Childe Harold) 
looks like shrinking and shuffling after the fuss made upon 
one of them by the Tories. Pray replace them in die 
I 'or air's appendix. I am sorry that Childe Harold require* 
ome and such abetments to make him move off": but, 
if you remember, I told you his popularity would not bo 
■ ennanent. It is very lucky for the author tliat he had 



■ He all.Mlra to tinea Iwgmmog "Weep, daughter of a royal line.* 
Panne, p. 102. 
1 Reiirinlinp. tt>« " Uenra of Wii-nti*.'* 



C6 



LETTERS, 



"fill. 



made up his mind to a temporary reputation in time. The 
truth is, I do nut think that any of the present day [and 
least of all, one who has not consulted the nattering side of 
human nature) have much to hope from posterity; and you 
may think it affectation very probably, bul to me, my presenl 
and past success has appeared verj singular] sin© A wai 
in tiie teeth of so manv prejudices. 1 almost think people 
like to be contradicted. [fChil le Harold Bags, it will hardly 
be worth while to go on with the engraving . bul do as you 
please; [ have done with the whole concern; and the en- 
clnst-d lines written years ago, and copied from myskuflcap, 

are an g the last with which you will be troubled. If you 

like, add them to Child-* Harold, if only for the sake of 
another outcry. You received so long an answer yesterday, 
that I will not intrude on you further titan to repeat myself" 

" Fours, &c 
'P. S. Of course, in reprinting (if you have occa i m 
you will take great care to he correct. The present editions 
seem very much so, except in the last note of Childe Harold, 
where the word reeponaible occurs twice, nearly together ; 
correct the second into answerable* 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Newark, Feb. 6, 1814. 

B I am thus far on my way to town. Master Ridge 3 ' 1 1 

have seen, and he owns to having reprinted some sfieeU, to 
make up a few complete remaining copies! I have now- 
given him fair warning, and if he plays such tricks again, I 
must either get an injunction] or call for an account of profits, 
(as I never have parted with the copyright^) or, in short] 
any tiling vexatious to repay hirn in his own way. If the 

weather does not relapse, I hope to he m town in a day or 
two. u fours, &.C." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Feb. 7,1 814. 
****** 

■ I see all the papers in a sad commotion with those eight 
lines ;f and the Morning Post, in particular, has found out 
that I am a sort of Richard I II .—deformed in mind and 
body. The last piece of information is not very new to a 
man who passed five years al a public school. 

"I am very sorry you cut out those lines for Childe 
Harold. Pray reinsert them in their old place in 'The 
Corsair.'" 



LETTER CCI. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



"Feb. 28, 1814. 

"There is a youngster — and a clever one, named Rey- 
nolds, who has just published a poem called 'Sane, 1 published 
by Cawthome. He is in the most natural and fearful a\*~ 
prehension of the Reviewers — and as you and I both know 
by experience the effect of such things upon a t,'nung mini. 
I wish ytru would take his production into direction and do 
it gently, /cannot, because it is inscribed to me; bul 1 
assure you this is not my motive fir wishing him to he ten- 
derly entreated, but because 1 know the misery, at hia time 
of life, of untoward remarks upon first appearance, 

"Now for self. Pray thank your cousin — it is just as it 
should be, to my liking, and probably marc than will suit any 
one else's. I hope and trust that you are well and well 
doing. Peace be with you. Ever yours, my dear friend." 



LETTER CCII. 

TO UR. MOORE. 

"Feb. 10,1814. 
'I arrived in town late yesterday evening, having been 
absent three weeks, which I passed in Nolls, quietly and 



' Xht prlnltr *l Nawtrk. 



Iv. You can have no concejUonof the uproar the 
eight lines on th< Ro ■ ty*s weeping in 161$ (now re- 

ined. The Regent, who had always 
i bose — God knows why — ondi 

ingthomto be mine, to be ejected 'in sorrow rather than 
anger.' The .Morning Post, Sun, Herald, < '.urn 
been in hysterics ever since. Murray is in a fright, and 
wanted to shuffle — and the abuse against me in all directions 
i- vehement, unceasing loud — some of it good, and all of it 
hearty. 1 feel :i little compunctious as to the Regent's n- 
gntf* — [ would he had been only angry ! hut I bar bun not ' 
"Some ofthese same assaibnentsyou have probably seen. 
My person (which is excellent for 'the nonet**) has been de- 
nounced in verses, the more like the subject) inasmnch as 
exceedingly. Then, in another,! am an aihast— 
arecej — nnrlai last, the devil^ {botieuX) 1 presume.) My 
demoTiism seems to be a fcmal ■ ire: if so, perhaps 

I could convince her that I am bftl a mere mortal, — if a 
queen of the Amazons may be believed, who says apurrov 
\oAoj oi<pa. I quote from memory, so my Grew is pro. 
bably deficient; but the passage is meant to mean * * 
* * * *_ 

"Seriously,! am in, what the learned call, a dilemma, an** 
V i ulgar, a scrape ; sod my friends desire me not to be in 
a passion, and like !?ir Fretful, I assure them that! am 
k <|uite calm,' — but 1 am nevertheless in a fury. 

"Since I wrote thus far, a friend has come in, and we have 

been talking and buffooning; till I have quite lost the thread 

of my 1 1 i'Ihs; and, as I won't send them unstrung to voii, 

good morning and ■ Believe me ever, &c 

K P.S. Murray, during my absence Tears in 

several of the COpi I have made him replace them, and 
am rery wroth with his qualms; — 'as die wine is poured 
out, let it be drunk to the dregs. 1 * 

NOTE TO MR. Nl'RRAV. 

"Feb. 10,1814. 

" I am much better, and indeed quite well this morn- 
ing. 1 have received two, but I presume there are more 
of the AnOf subsequently, and also something previous, 
to which the Morning Chronicle replied. You also 
mentioned a parody on the SkulL I wish to see them 
all, because there may be tilings tltat require notice 
either by pen or person. 

* Yours, &c. 

"You need not trouble yourself to answer tins; but 
send me the things when you get them." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAV. 

"Feb. 12, 1R14. 

"If you have copies of the 'Intercepted Letters, * Lady 
Holland would be glad of a volume, and when TOU have 
served others, have the goodness to think of your hum- 
ble servant. 

" You have played the devil by that injudicious .wp- 

prsssion, which yon did totally without my consent 

Some of the papers have exactly said what might he 

expected. Now I do not, and will not be supposed to 
shrink, although myself and every thing belonging to me 
were to perish with my memory. 

'" Yours, kc. " Bw 
" P. S. Pray attend to what I slated yesterday >n 
tcchucal topics." 



LETTER CC1II. 

tO MR HUNT. 

■ Feb. 9, 1814. 

n MY DEAR fIR, 

H I have been s io*- '-bound and thaw-swamped (twe 
compound epithets ot fou) in the ' valley of the shadow 



t " To ft Lf«ly Wetphtf." 






LETTERS, 1SH. 



67 



of Newstead Abbey for nearly a month, and have not 
been four hours returned to London. Nearly the first use 
I make of my benumbed fingers, is to thank you for your 
very handsome note in the volume* you have just put 
forth, univ, 1 trust, to be followed by others on subjects 
more worthy your notice than the works of contempo- 
raries. Of myaeHj you speak only too highly, and you 
must think me strangely spoiled, or perversely peevish, 
even to suspect that any remarks of yours, in the spirit of 
candid criticism, could possibly prove unpalatable. Had 
they been harsh, instead of being written as they are in the 
indelible ink and friendly admonition, had they been the 
Bl — as I l;m w and know that you are above any 
personal bias, at least, against your fellow-bards, believe 
me they would not have caused a remonstrance, nor a mo- 
meal of rankling on my part. Your poem I read long 
ago in the 'Reflector,' and it is not much to say it is the 
best ' Session 1 we have, and with a more difficult subject, 
tor we are neither so good nor so bad (taking the best and 
worst) as the wits of the olden lime. 

1 To your smaller pieces I have not yet had time to do 
justice by perusal, and I have a quantity of unanswered, 
and I hope unanswerable letters to wade through before I 
sleep, but to-morrow will see me through your volume. 1 
am glad to sec you have tracked Gray among the Italians. 
You will perhaps find a friend or two of yours there also, 
though not to the same extent ; but I have always thought 
die Italians the must poetical moderns ; our Milton and 
Spenser, and Sliakspeare, (the last through translations of 
their Tales,) are very Tuscan, and surely it is far superior 
to the French school. You are hardly fair enough to 
Rogers- Why ttal you might surely have given him sup- 
per, if only a sandwich. Murray has, I hope, sent you 
my last banding, ' The Corsair.* I have been regaled at 
every inn on the road hy lampoons and other merry con- 
ceils on myself in the ministerial gazettes, occasioned by 
the republication of two stanzas, inserted in 1S12, in 
Perry's paper. The hysterics of the MorningPost are quite 
interesting; and I hear (but have not seen) of something 
terrific in a last week's Courier : all which I take with the 
'calm indifference' of Sir Fretful Plagiary. The Momin; 
Post has one copy of devices upon my deformity which 
certainly will admit of no 'historic doubts' like 'Dickon 
my master's,' another upon my atheism, which is not quite 
so clear, and anouVr very downrightiy says, 'I am the 
devil, (boitcuj:, they might have added,) and a rebel, and 
what not : possibly, my acci m may be Rosa 

Matilda; and if so, it would not be difficult to convince 
her that I am a mere man. I shall break in upon you in 
a day or two, distance has hitherto detained me ; and I 
hope tu find you well, and myself welcome. 

" Ever your obliged and sincere 

■ Byron. 

8 P. S. Since this letter was written, I have been at 
your text, which has much good humour in every sense of 
the word. Your notes are of a very high order indeed, 
particularly on Wordsworth." 



own obstinacy upon the subject. Take any course you 
please to vindicate yourself, but leave me to fight m- 
own way, and, as 1 before said, do not compromise me by 
any thing which may look like sftriiiking on my part ; ai 
for your own, make the best of it. 

"Yours, "Bat." 



LETTER CCV. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 



'Feb. 16, 1814. 



'MY DEAR ROGERS, 



[ 1 wrote to Lord Holland briefly, but I hope distinctly 
on the subject which has lately occupied much of my 
conversation with him and you.* As things now stand, 
upon that topic my determination must be unalterable. 

" I declare to you most sincerely that there is no hu- 
man being on whose rejard and esteem I set a higher 
value than on Lord Holland's; and, as far as concerns 
himself, I would concede even to humiliation without 
any view to the future, and solely from my sense of his 
conduct as to the past. For the rest, I conceive that I 
have already done all in my power by the suppression.! 
If that is not enough, they must act as they please; but 
I will not 'teach my tongue a mo=t inherent baseness, 
come what may. You will probably be at the Marquis 
Lansdowne's to-night. I am asked, but I am not sure 
that 1 shall be able to go. Hobhouse will be there. I 
think, if you knew him well, you would like him. 

"Believe me always yours very affectionately, 

«B* 



LETTER CCVI. 



TO MR. ROGERS. 



LETTER CCIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Monday, Feb. 14, 1814. 
'Before 1 left town yesterday,! wrote you a note, which 
I presume you received. I have heard so many different 
accounts of your proceedings, or rather of those of others 
towards you, in consequence of the publication of these 
everlasting lines, that I am anxious to hear from your- 
self the real slate of the case. Whatever responsibility, 
obloquy, or effect is to arise from the publication, should 
surely not fall upon you in any decree ; and I can have 
no objection to your stating, as distinctly and publicly as 
you please, your unwillingness to publish them, and my 



"Feb. 16, 1814. 

"If Lord Holland is satisfied, as far as regards him- 
self and Lady Hd. and as this letter expresses him to 
be, it is enough. 

" As for any impression the public may receive from 
the revival of the lines on Lord Carlisle, let them keep 
it, — the more favourable for him, and the worse for me 
— better for alt. 

"All the sayings and doings in the world shall not 
make me utter another word of conciliation to any tiling 
that breathes. 1 shall bear what I can, and what I 
cannot, I shall resist. The worst they could do would 
be to exclude me from society. I have never courted 
it, nor, I may add, in the general sense of the word, en- 
joyed it — and 'there is a world elsewhere!' 

"Any thing remarkably injurious, I have the same 
means of repaying as other men, with such interest as 
circumstances may annex to it. 

"Nothing but the necessity of adhering to regimen 
prevents me from dining with you to-morrow. 

" I am yours most truly, 

"Bn" 



• Th« Fwtst of it* Poeu. 



LETTER CCVLT. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Feb. 16, 1814. 
"You may be assured that the only prickles that sting 
from the Royal hedgehog are those which possess a 
torpedo property, and may benumb some of my friends. 
/am quite silent, and 'husli'd in grim repose.' The 
frequency of the assaults has weakened their effects, — if 
ever they had any ; — and, if they had had much I should 
hardly have held mv tongue, or withheld mv fingers. I 
is something quite new to attack a man for abandonin 

" RH.iliie to a | nation between Lord Ca Uale koJ 

hi 

I f Of the S-itira. 



68 



LETTERS, ISIJ. 



nis resentments. I have heard that previous praise and 
subsequent vituperation were rathe* ungrateful, but I did 
not know that it was wrong to endeavour to do justice to 
those who tint not wait till I had made some amends 
for former and boyish prejudices, hut received me into 
Iheu- friendship, when 1 might still have been their 
enemy. 

"You perceive justly that I must mtentwnaOhj have 
made my fortune, like Sir Francis Wronghead It 
u, re better if there were more merit in my independence] 
but it really is something nowadays to \><- independent at 
ail, and the Us* temptation to be otherwise, the more un- 
common tin- ca^e, in thes.- Mine- of pa'vel ah:i1 servility 

1 believe thai most of our hales and likings have been 
hitherto nearly the same; hut from henceforth, they 
must, of necessity, be one and indivisible, — and now lor 
it ! I am for any weapon, — the pen, till one can find 
something sharper, will do tor a beginning. 

" You can have no conception of the ludicrous solem- 
nity with which these two stanzas have been treated. 
The Morning Cost gave notice of an intended motion m 
Ihe House of my brethren on the subject, and God knows 
what proceedings besides ; — and all tins, as Bedridden in 
Ihe 'Nights' says, 'fbr making a cream tart without pep- 
per.' This last piece of intelligence is, 1 presume, too 
laughable to be true ; and the destruction of the Custom- 
house appears to have, in some degree, interfered with 

itiMir ;— added to which, the last battle of BOoDapaite 
has usurped the column hitherto devoted to my bulletin. 

•' I Bend you from this day's Morning Post the best 
which have hitherto appeared on this * impudent dog- 
gerel,' as the < Courier calls it. There was another about 
inv ihrt, wht 'ii a boy — no! at all bad — some time ago; 
but the rest are but indifterent. 

U I shall think about your oratorical hint;* — but I 
have never set much upon ( (hat cast,' and am grown as 
tn if as Solomon of everv thin?, and of myself more than 
anything. This is being what the Learned call philo- 
sophical, and the vulgar, lack-a-dai »ical. I am, however, 
always glad of a blessing ;f pray repeat yours soon, — ai 
least, your letter, and I shall tiunk the benediction in- 
cluded. 

14 Ever, Sic." 



LETTER CCVIII. 



TO MR. DALLAS 



"Feb. 17, 1814. 

"The Courier of this evening accuses me of having 
•received and pocketed' large sums for my works. I 
have never yet received, nor wish to rec -ive, a Birthing 
for any. Mr. Murrav offered a thousand fbrtbe ' Ii* hi 
and Bride of Abydos, which 1 said was too much and 
that if he could afford it at the end of sis months, I w-ould 
then direei bow it might be ii. posed of; but mother 
then, nor at any oilier period, have I ever availed DO ell 
oft lie profits on my own account. For the republication 
of the Satire, I refused tour hundred guineas ; ami f >r the 

previous editions I never asked nor received a sous, nor 

for any writing whatever* I d i not wish you to do am 
thing disagreeable to yourself; there never was nor shall 
be any conditions nor stipulations with regard to any ac- 
commodation (hat I could afford von; and, on your part, 
l can see nothing derogatory in receiving the copyright 
It was only assistance afforded to a worthy man, by one 
not quite so worthy. 

"Mr. Murray is going to contradict this ;| but your 
name will not be mentioned : tor your own part, vou are 
n free agent, and are to do as you please. 1 only hope 

Mr- Moore bad cu.lcikvuiircil itt [wraiinite him lo Hike a yarl in pur- 
laroenur) kfltlr*, uxtl Lot) l*nl fbi ormtori mora Irequtntly. 

I concluding hit letter, Mr. Moor* l.nviug taid "bod b!cH juu :'" 
»J.k-l -" tlim is, if you have no objection." 
* The iUicinctilol'ttte Courier, & c 



that now, as always, you will think that I wish to lake no 
unfair advantage of the accidental opportunity which cir- 
cumstances prriui ted inc of being of use to VOU. 

» fiver, fcc" 



In consequence of this letter, Mr. Dallas addressed an 
explanation to one of the newspapers, of which in* fol 
low ing vs a part: — 

TO THE EDITOB OF THE MORS J NO FObF. 

"MR, 

' : I have seen the paragraph in an evening paper, in 
which Lord Byron is accused of 1 receiving an d pocketing 1 
targe sum-- (or his works. J believe no one who knows 
him has the slightest suspicion of tlis kind : but the as- 
sertion being public, 1 think it a justice I owe to Lord 
Byron to contradict it publicly. * * 

■' I take upon me to affirm that Lord Byron m 
reived a shilling for anv of his works. To inv certain 
knowledge, the profits of the Satire were left entirely to 
the publisher of it. The gift of the copyright of Childe 
Harold's Pilgrimage] I have already publicly acknow- 
ledged in 'tn d^dica'ion of the new edition of my novels: 
and I now add in. acknowledgment f -r that of Ihe i'or- 
sair, not onlj (or Uie profi able pan of it, but for th 
c&te and delightful manner of bestowing it while yet un- 
published. With res pert (o his two Otbet poems, the 

Griaour and the Bride of Abydos, Mr. Murray, the pub- 
usher of them, c-d.n truly attest that no pan ol the 
them has ever touched his hands, or been disposed of for 

Ins use." 



LETTER CCIX. 

TO * + * *. 

"sir, tt Feb. 20, 18T4. 

"My absence from London till within these last few 
days, and business since, have hitherto prevented my ac- 
knowledgment of the volume 1 have lately recehr< 
me inscription which it contains, fix- both of which I ben 
leave to re'urn you my thanks, and beet wishes fur the 
success of the book and its author. The poem ilsel£ as 
[hi workof a young man, is creditable to yourtalen 
promises better for future efforts than any which T can now 
recoil. -et. Whether you intend to pursue your | 

eareer, I do not know, an 1 ran have no ntrht to inquiro— 

but, in whatever channel your abilities are directed, I think 
it will be your own fault ifihcy do not eventually lead to 
distinction. Happiness mu*t of course de|iciid upon coc 
dun — and even fame itself would be but b poor compen- 
sation for self-reproach. You ■ il 1 ex< use me f>r tnlkmg 
to a man perhaps not many years my junior, with these 
"nive airs of seniority \ but diougb-l cannot claim much 
advantage b thai respt 1 1. it was ray otto be thrown very 

early upon the world — to mi\ a good deal in it in more cli- 
mates than one — and to purchase experien e which would 
probably have been of gi mi r i rice to any one than 
myself. But my business *ith yon is in your capacity 
of author, and to that I will cot in 

"The firsl thing a young wri i t must expect, and yet 
can least of all suffer, is criticism, I did not bear it— u 
few years, and many changes have since passed over mv 
head, and my reflections on that subject are attended witti 
regret. I find, on dispassionate comparison, my own re- 
venge more than the provocation warranted, fi is true, [ 

was very young — that might be an excuse to those 1 at- 
tacked — but to me it is none: the best reply to all objec- 
tions is to write beiier — and if your enemies will not then 
do you justice, the world will. On the other hand, you 
should not he discouraged — to be opposed, is not to be 
vanquished, though a timid mind is apt to mistake every 
scratch tor a mortal wound. There is a saying of Dr. 
Jolinson's, which it is as well to remember, that 'no man 
was ever written down except by himself. 1 I sincerely 
hope that you will meet with as few obstacles as yourself 



LETTERS, 1811. 



69 



can desire— but if you should, you will find thai they are 
tobestepp d ovei ; to k>fc them down is the lirst resolve 
(if a young and fiery spirit— a pleasant thing enough al 
the time— 4ml nol so afterwards: on tills point, I speak of 
,i man's own reflections — what others think br say, is a 
Bcoondwy cvn idcralion — at least, it has been so with me, 
bnt will not answer as a general maxim: he who would 
make his way in the world, must let the world bi lieve thai 
it was made for him, and accommodate himself to the 
minutest observance of its regulations. I beg once more 
to thank you for your pleasing present, 

"And have the honour to be 
■ Your obliged and very obedient servant, 

"Byron." 



LETTER CCX. 

TO MK. MOORE. 

"Feb. 26, 1814. 

•Dallas had, perhaps, have better kept silence; — but 
that was fa* concern, an I, as his facts are correct, and in- 
motive not dishonourable lo himself, 1 wished him well 
through if. As for his interpretations of the lines, he and 
i Ise may interprel them as they please. I have 
and shall adhere to my taciturnity, unless something very 
particulai occurs to render this impossible. Do not you 
say a word. If any one is to speak, it is the person prin- 
tncerned. The most amusing thing is, that every 
one [to me) attributes ihe abuse to the man they perxonr 
ally most 'Jivikc! — some say Croker, some G * * e, 
others Fitzgerald, &c. &e. &e. I do not know, and have 
no clue but conjecture. If discovered, and he turns out a 
hireling, he must be left to his wages; if a cavalier, he 
must l wink, and hold out his iron.' 

"I had some thoughts of putting the question to Croker, 
but Hobhouse, who, I am sure, would not dissuade me, if 
it were right, advised me by all means not ; — 'that I had 
no right to take it upon suspicion,' &c. &c. Whether 
Hobhouse is correct, I am not aware, but he believes him- 
self so, and says there can be but one opinion on that sub- 
ject. This 1 am, at least, sure of^ that he would never 
prevent me from doing what he deemed the duty of a 
preux chevalier. In such cases — at least, in this country 
—we must act according to usages. In considering this 
instance, I dismiss my own personal feelings. Any man 
will and must tight, when necessary, — even without a mo- 
live. Here, I should take it up really without much re- 
sentment ; for unless a woman one likes is in the way, it 
is some years since 1 felt a long anger. Hut, undoubt- 
ed I, or may I, trace it to a man of station, I 
should and shall do what is proper. 

L " * was angerly, but tried to conceal it. You are not 
called upon to avow the 'Twopenny, 1 and would only 
c i i ifj them by so doing. Do you not see the great ob- 
jei i of all these fooleries is to set him, and you, and me, 
and all persons whatsoever, bv the ears 1 — more especially 
those who are on good terms — and nearly succeeded. 
IjOI i 1 1- wished me 10 concede to Lord Carlisle — concede 
i.i the den il ' — to a man who used me ill ? I told him, in 
answer, that 1 would neither concede, nor recede on the 
subject, but be silent altogether; unless any tiling more 
cuul I be sai 1 about Lady H. and himself who had been 
i my very good friends; — and there it ended. This 
was no time tor concessions to Lord C. 

u I have been interrupted, but shall write again soon 
Believe me ever, my dear Moore, &c." 



is the only answer to the tilings you mention; nor should! 
I regard that man as my friend who said a word more on 
the subject. I care little for attacks, but I will not submit 
to defences; and I do hope and trust that you have never 
entertained a serious thought of engaging in so foolish a 
controversy. Dallas's letter was, to his credit, merely as 
to the facts which he had a right to state ; / neither have 
nor shall take the least puMic notice, nor permit any one 
else to do so. If I discover the writer, then 1 may act in 
a d liferent manner ; but it will nol be in writing. 

"An expression in your letter has induced me to write 
this to you, to entreat you not to interfere in any way in 
such a business, — it is now nearly over, and depend upon 
it they are much more chagrined by my silence than they 
could I"- by the best defence in the world. I do not know 
any thing that would vex me more than any further reply 
to these things. 

"Ever yours, in haste, "B." 



abl 



LETTER CCXI 

•O W * * W * *, ESQ. 1 



"MY DEAR W 

"I have but a few moments to write to you 



"Feb. 28, 1814. 

Silence 



i relation lo lite " Twi 



LETTER CCXIL 

TO MR. MOURE. 

"March 3, 1814. 
K MY dear friend 
I have a great mind to tell you that 1 am ' uncomfort- 
j.' if only to make you cpme to town; where no one 
ever mofe delighted in seeing you, nor is mere any one 
to whom I woulu sooner turn for consolation in my most 
vapourish moments. The truth is, I have 'no lack of 
,u -mum hi' to ponder upon of the most gloomy description, 
but tins arises from other causes. Some day or other, 
when we are veterans, I may tell you a tale of present and 
past times; and n is not from want of confidence that 1 do 
not know,— but — but — always a but to the end of the 
chapter. 

8 There is nothing, however, upon the spot either to 
love or hate; — but 1 certainly have subjects for both at 
no very great distance, and am besides embarrassed be- 
tween three whom I know, and one (whose name at least) 
I do not know. All this would be very well, if I had no 
heart; but, unluckily, I hav* found that there is such a 
thing still about me, though in no very good repair, and, 
also, that it has a habit of attaching itself to oae, whether 
I will or no. ' I hwde et irnpera,' 1 begin to think, will 
only do for politics. 

If I discover the 'toad,' as you call him, I shall 'tread,' — 
and put spikes in my shoes to do it more effectually. The 
effect of ail these fine things,- 1 do not inquire much nor 
perceive. I believe * * felt them more than either of us. 
People are civil enough, and I have had nodcarthof invita- 
ii,in -, — none of which, however, 1 have accepted. 1 went 
out very little last year, and mean to go about si ill less. I 
have no passion for circles, and have long regretted that I 
evi t gave way to whal is called a town life; — which, of all 
ili< lives I ever saw (and they are nearly as many as Plu- 
tarch's) seems to me to leave die least for the past and 
future. 

" How proceeds the Poem? Do not neglect it, and 1 have 
no fears. I need not say to you that your fame is dear to 
me*— I r eally might say dearer than my own; f >r I have 
lately begun to think my things have been strangely over- 
rated ; and. at any rate, whether or not, I have done with 
them for ever. I may say to you, what I would not say to 
every body, that the last two wens written, the Brideinfour, 
and the Corsair in ten daySf-which I take to be a most 
humiliating confession, as it proves my own want of judg- 
ment m publishing, and the public's in reading dungs, which 
cannot have stamina for permanent attention. 'So much 
for Buckingham. 1 

"I have no dread of your being too hasty, and I have still 
less of your failing. But I think a year a very fair allotment 
of Dine to a composition which i- not to be Epic; and even 
Horace's* Nonum prematur 1 must have been intended for 
the MUlemuum, or some longer-lived generation than our*. 



70 



LETTERS, 1914. 



i wonder howmuch we should have had of Ann, had he 
observed his own doctrines to the letter. Peace be with 
you! Remember thai I am always and. most truly yours, &c. 
•P. S. I never heard the 'report' you mention, nor, I 
dare Bay, many others. But, in course, you, as well as 
others, have 'damned good-natuied friends, 1 who do their 
duty in the usual way. One thing will make you laugh 



LETTER CCX1II. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"March 12,1814. 
"Guess darkly, and vou will seldom err. At present, ! 
shall say uo more, and, perhaps — but no matter. I hope we 
shall some day meet, and whatever years may precede or 
sut-o'cd i', I shall mark it with the 'white stone 1 in my 
calendar. I am not sure that I shall not soon be in your 
neighbourhood again. Ef so, and i am alone, (as will pro- 
bably be the ease,) I shall invade and carry you off] and 
endeavour to atone For sorrj fare by a sincere welcome. I 
don 1 ! know the person absent (barring 'the sect'] I should 
be so glad to ^ e again. 

■ I have nothing of the sort you mention but tile tines, (the 
Weepers,) if you like to have them in the Bag. I wish I" 
give diem all possible circulation. The Vault reflection is 
downright actionable, and to print it would he peril to the 
publisher; but 1 think the Tears have a natural right to he 

\ and die editor (whoever he maybe) might supply 
a facetious note or not, as he pleased. 

"I caonol conceive how the Vault* has got about, — but 
so it is. It is loo farouche; but, truth to say, my satires 
arc not very playful. 1 have the plan (if an epistle m my 
head, at him ami to him; an J, if they are not a little quieter, 
1 shall imbodj it. 1 should say little or nothing of myself. 
As to mirth an 1 ridicule, that ifl out of my way; but 1 have 
a tolerable fund of sternness and contempt, an.l, with Juvenal 
before me, I shall perhaps read him a lecture he has not 
lately heard in the t.'uurt. From particular rircurnstances, 

■ .inn- to m\ knowledge almost by accident, I could 
'ted him what he is — I know him well.' 

■ l meant, my dear M. to write to you a long letter, but I 
am hurried, an i time clips my inclination down to yours, &c. 

u l\ S. Think again before you shelf your Poem. There 
i a young ti r, (older than me, by-the-hy, but a young* r 
poet,) Mi*. G. Knight, with a vol.ofEastern Tales, written 

sin . !,).- return, fir he has been in the countries - , lie m nl 

i i summer, and I advised him to write one in each 
measure, without any intention, at that time, of doing the 
same thing. Since that, from a habit of writing in a fever, 
I have anticipated him m the variety of measures, hut quite 
iintntenlionally. Of the stories, I know nothing not having 
seen diem; but he has some lady in a sack, too, like the 
Giaour: — he told me at the time. 

B The best way to make the public 'forget 1 me is to remind 
them of yourself. You cannot suppose that 1 would ask 
you or advise you to publish, if I thought youwould^oi/. 1 
really have no literary envy; and I d i QOl b< tieve a friend's 
success j-'ver sat nearer another than yours do to my besl 
wishes. It is for elderly gentlemen to 'bear no brother near, 1 
and cannot become our disease foe more years than we may 
perhaps number. I wish you to he out before Eastern sub- 
leds are again before the public." 



LETTER CCX1V. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 



"March 1?, 1814 
"I have not time to read the whole MS.f but what I 
have seen seems very well written, (both prose ami nr.v,) 



* The luifH on ihe opening of the vtinll thai contained ihc rMMlu »f 
B»nr?VIU. and Chattel I. 

* The uniiiUDctiitl ol'ft long grove snlinr, entitled " Anti-Byron," which 
had hum ient to Mr, Murray, and «»y hlmfbrwardtd to I, on) ityroii, with 
« rtqueal— not meant, I balleve, wrioual*— that In would j;iva Im opUlloD 
■a to ih« prep-feui of puijlialiiiig iu— Afooi*. 



and, though I am and can be no judge, (at least a far 

one on this subject,) containing nothing which you ought 

At publishing upon my account. If the author 

is not Dr. Busby himselfj 1 think it a pity, on Ins mm 

account, that he ahould dedicate It t" his subscribers; 
nor can 1 perceive what Or. Busby has to to with the 
matter, except a> a translator of Lucretius, for whose 
doctrines he is surely not responsible. I tell you openly, 
and really most sincerely, that] if published at ad, there 
is no earthlv reason why you should not; on the contrary 
1 should receive it as the greatest compliment you could 
pay to your good opinion of my eandour, to print and 
circulate that, or any other work, attai king me in a manly 
manner, and without any malicious iniention. from which, 
as tar as I have seen, I must exonerate this writer. 

"He is wrong in one thing — / am no atheist; but if he 
thinks I have published principles tending to such opi- 
nions, he has a perfect right to controvert them. Pray 
publish it; I shall never forgive myself if 1 think that I 
have prevented you. 

•' Make my compliments to the author, and tell him 1 
wish hint success; his vt rse is v< i \ d< serving of it; and 
I shall be the last person tb suspect his motives. Yours, 
ice. 

"P. S. If you do not publish it, some onr else will. 
Vou cannot suppose me bo narrow-minded as to shrink 
from discussion. 1 rep-at une.- i r all, that 1 think it a 
good Poem, (as tar as 1 have reddc ;) and that is the only 

point you si Id consider. How odd that nglU (diss 

ahould have given birth, t really think, to eight thousand^ 
in< luding oil Lhat has been said, and will be, on the 
mbjei 1 1" 



LETTER CCXV, 

TO MR. MUKKAV. 

"April 9, 1814. 
"All these news are very fine ; but nevertheless I want 
my books, if you can find, or cause them to be found for 
me, — if only to lend them to Napoleon in 'the island of 
Elba,' during his retirement 1 also (il convenient, and 
you have no parly with you) should be -lad to speak with 
von for a few minutes tins evening, as 1 have had a letter 

from i\lr. Moore, and wish to ask vou, as the best judge, 
of the best time for him to publish the work he has com- 
posed. I need not say, thai I have Ins sue. ess much at 
heart; not only because he is my friend, but BOD 
much better — a man of great talent, of which lie is less 
sensible than 1 believe any even of his enemies. If you 
can so far oblige me as to step dovi n, do so ; and if you 
ore otherwise occupied, say nothing about A. 1 shall lind 
you al home in the course ofnexl week, 

B P, S. I see Sotheby's Tragedies advertised! The 
I tenth of I vniil.v is a famous subject-H>ne of the best, I 
should think, lor the drama. Pra) let me have a copy, 
when ready. 

u Airs. Leigh was very much pleased with her books; 
and desired me to thank you; she means, 1 behove, lu 
write to you her acknowledgments." 



LETTER CCXVI. 

TO AIR. MOORE. 

"2, Albany, April 9, 1814. 

M Viscount Althorp is about lo be married, and I have- 
gotten his spacious bachelor apartments in Albany, to 
which vou will, I hope, address ft speedy answer to this 
mine epistle. 

" I am hut just returned to town, from which you may 
infer that I have been out of it ; ami I have been boxing, 
for exercise, with Jackson fortius last month daily. I 
have also been drinking, — and, on oneocca ion, with three 
other friend.-, at the Cocoa Troo, from si* till tour, yea, 



LETTERS, ISM. 



71 



unto five in the matin. We claret cd and champaigned 
till two — then supped, and finished with a kind of regent 
punch composed of madeira, brandy, and green tea, no real 
water being admitted therein. There was a night foi 
you ! — without once quilting the table, except to ambul; 
home, which I did alone, and in utter contempt of a hack- 
ney-coach and my own lis, both of wliich were deemed 
necessary for our conveyance. And so, — I -am very well, 
and they say it will hurt my constitution. 

a I have also, more or less, been breaking a few of the 
favourite commandments; but I mean to pull up and 
marry, — if any one will have me. In the mean time, thi 
other day I nearly lulled myself with a collar of brawn, 
wliich I swallowed for supper, and indigested for 1 doui 
know how long; — but tiiat is by-the-by. All this gor- 
mandize was in honour of Lent; for I am forbidden meat 
all the rest of the year, — but it is strictly enjoined me 
during your solemn fast. I have' been, and am, in very 
tolerable love; — but of Uiat hereafter, as it may be. 

"My dear Moore, say what you will in your preface; 
and quiz any thins,. or anv body, — me, if you like it. Oons ! 
dost thou think me of the oW, or rather ehhrh/, school ? If 
one can't jest with ones friends, with whom can we be 
facetious? You have nothing to fear from * *, whom I 
have not seen, being out of town when he called. He will 
be * ery correct, smooth, and all that, but I doubt whether 
there will be any ' grace beyond the reach of art $ — and 
whether there is or not, how long will you be so d — d 
modest? As for Jeffrey, it is a very handsome tiling of 
him to speak well of an old antagonist, — and what a mean 
mind dared not do. Any one will revoke praise; but — 
were it not partly my own case — I should say thai rery 
few have strength of mind to unsay their censure, or follow 
it up with praise of other things. 

M What think you of the review of Ijevis? It beats the 
Bag and my hand-gTenade hollow, as an invective, and 
hath thrown the Court into hysterics, as I hear from very 
good authority. Have you heard from * * * *. 

* No more rhyme for — or rather, from — rne. I have 
taken my leave of that stage, and henceforth will mounte- 
bank it no longer. I nave had my day, and there's an end. 
The utmost I expect, or even wish, is to have it said in 
the Biographia Bntannica, that I might perhaps have been 
a poet, had 1 gone on and amended. My great comfort 
is that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the 
world has been in the very teedi of all opinions and preju- 
dices. I have flattered no ruling powers ; I have never 
concealed a single thought that tempted me. They can't 
Kay 1 have truckled to the times, nor to popular topics, (as 
Johnson, or someb »\\\ --aid of Cleveland,) and whatever I 
have gained has been at the expenditure of as much pcr- 
S'lmil favour as possible ; for I do believe never was a bar I 
more unpopular, rpioatl homo, than myself. And now 1 
have done; — 'ludite nunc alios. 1 — Every bodv may be 
d— d, as they seem fond of it, and resolved to stickle lustily 
'jr endless brimstone. 

"Oh — by-the-by, I had nearly forgot. There is a Ion? 
Poem, an 'Anti-Byron, 1 coming out, to prove that I have 
formed a conspiracy to overthrow, by rhyme, all religion 
and government, and have already nude great progress ! 
It is not very scurrilous, but serious and ethereal. I never 
felt myself important, nil I saw and heard of mv being such 
a little Voltaire as to induce such a production. Murray 
would not publish it, for which he was a fool, and so 1 told 
him; but some one else will, doubtless. 'Something too 
much of this.' 

"Your French scheme is good, but Vt it be Italian ; all 
the Angles will be at Paris. Let.it be Rome, Milan, 
Naples, Florence. Turin, Venice, or Switzerland, and 
'egad!' (as Bayes saith,) I will connubiate and join vou : 
and wc will write a new ' Inferno' in our Paradise. Pray, 
think of tins — and I will really buy a wife and a ring, and 
fav the ceremony, and settle near you bi a summer-house 
upon the Arno, or the Po, or the Adriatic. 



"Ah! mv poor little p&god, Napoleon, has walked off" his 
pedestal, lie has abdicated, they say. This would draw 
molten brass from the eyes of Zatanai. What ! ' kiss the 
ground before young Malcolm's fee', and then be baited by 
the rabble's curse !' I cannot hear such a crouching cata- 
strophe. I must slick to Sylla, for my modern favourites 
don't do, — ■their resignations are of a different land. All 
health and prosperity, my dear Moore. Excuse tins 
lengthy letter. Ever,',&c. 

"P. S. The Quarterly quotes you frequently in an ar- 
ticle on America; and every body I know asks perpetually 
after you and yours. When will you answer them in 
person 2" 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

*" April 10, 1S14. 

"I have written an Ode on the fall of Napoleon, which, 
if you like, I will copy our, and make you a present of. 
Mr. Merivale has seen part of if, and likes it. You may 
show it to Mr. Girford, and print it, or not, as you pleas- — 
it is of no consequence. It contains nothing in his favour, 
and no allusion whatever to our own government or die 
Bourbons. Yours, &c. 

" P. S. It is in the measure of my stanzas at the end of 
Childe Harold, which were much liked, beginning, 'And 
thou art dead, 1 &c. There are ten stanzas of it — ninety 
lines in all." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY". 

"April 11,1814. 

a I enclose you a lettered from Mrs. Leigh. 

"It will be best not to put my name to our Ode; but you 
may say as openly as you like that it is mine, and I can 
inscribe it to Mr. Hobhouse from the avtliur, wliich will 
mark it sufficiently. After the resolution of not publishing, 
though it is a tiling of little length and less consequence, it 
will be better altogether that it is anonymous ; but we will 
incorporate it in the first tome of ours that you find time or 
the wish to publish. "Yours alway, "B. 

K P. S. I hope you got a note of alterauons. sent tliis 
matin ? 

" P. S. Oh my books ! my books ! will you never find 
my books ? 

"Alter c potent spell' to ' quickening spell :' the first (as 
Polonius says) ' is a vile phrase,' and means nothing, be- 
sides being commonplace and RosarMuXildaish? 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 12, ISI4. 
8 1 send you a few notes and trifling alterations, and an 
additional motto from Gibbon, which you will find smgw- 
laxly appropriate. A 'Good-natured Friend' tells me there 
is a most scurrilous attack on us in the Antijacobin Re- 
view, which you have not sent. Send it, as I am in that 
state of languor wliich will derive benefit from getting into 
a passion. Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Albany, April 20, 1 SI 4. 
"I am very glad to hear that you are to be transient from 
Mayfield so very soon, and was taken in by the first part 
of your lctter.f Indeed, for aught 1 know, you may be 



■ See Poems, p. 178. . 

i 1 had beim mv Mterin the follow in- manner:-" I'ave TOO *een the 

' Ode to Nap il i Unoimjiarle?'— 1 Biiepect it to J>e either 1 KlgeraU • 

or Koea Matilda's. Those rapid nml masterly portrait* ol all the tyrants 
that preceded Napoleon have a v.pour lit il.em which would Incline 1MM 
niiylhat Rosa Mnl it.liiU the |wr.on- Ijiii then, on the other hand, Jut 
p.jwerful grasp of histoi v," 8tC. &(. Alier a In tie more uf ih.s mock 
parallel the letter went on thus: -•' I ih wld Hire 1 1 know what you think 
of the matter > Rome friends of mine here mil insist that it is the work 
of the author of Childe Harold,— urn iheu ihej are ntf unwell read lu 
Fitzgerald nml Rosa Matilda aa 1 am and, bcaldea, they seem loforeel 

that you pr> m ■■■■ I, ■ I i month or two ago, not io write any more lor 

rears. Senuualy.'' *•■ & c - 



72 



LETTERS, 11M. 



ireating me, as Slipslop eays, with ' ironing even now. I 

shall say nothing of the >hock, which had ing •■' 

i„ i, ; as I am apt to take oven a critic, and snU re a 

f lend at Lis word, and never to doubt thai I have b, i n 

writing cursed i sense if they say so. Then- wasamen- 

ltt | reserve i in my pact with the public, m behall ol 

nd, even had there not, the provoeati vas 

, i ike it physically impossible topass ovei Bus 

,1 nble ei h "t' triumphant tameness. "1 is a cursed 

business; an, I, aft, ,, all, I shall think higher of rhyme _an^ 
reason, and very humbly of your heroic people, nil— Elba 

i 3 nvoleano,and sends him again. leant dunk 

n all over yet. 

- My departure for the Continent depends, in some mea- 
8ure,on the incontinent I have two country invitations 

at I , anddniri know what to say or do. lnthemean 

Uine, I have bought a ma- aw and a parrot, and have £,» 
oprnj books, and 1 box and fence daily, and go out very 

hllle. 

«Al this present writing, I s the Gouty is wheeling m 

triumph into 1 iccadilly.in-all the pomp and rabbleroentol 

royalty. I had an offer.of seats to see d pass;but,as 

1 have seen a sultan going to mosque, and been at fas 

r ipuon of an ambassador, the most I ihristian King haih 

no attractions tor mer— though in some coming veat ol 
the Hegira, I should not dislike to see the place w.iero he 
had reigned, shortly after the second revoluUon, and a 
happy sovereignty of two months, the last su weeks being 
rivil war. 

■ Pray write, and deem me ever, &c. 

LETTER CCXVI11. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 21, 181-1. 

"Many thanks with the letters which 1 return. You 
knmv I am a jacobin, and could not wear white, nor see the 
installation ol Louis die Gouty. 

"This is s.id n,-«s, and very hard upon the sufferers at 
any, but more it sued a time— I mean the Bayonm sortie 

"You should urge Moore to i oina eat 

"P. s. [ want Moreri to purchase for good and alL 1 
have a Bayle, but want .Moreri too. 

"P. S. Perry hath a piece of compUmenl Unlay; but I 
think the mime might have been as well omitted. No 
matter; they can but throw the old story of inconsistency 
;„ myteeth— let ibem,— I in, -an as n, nui publishing. How- 
ever, now 1 will lo-p my word. Nothing bul Ihe occasion, 
w hi, h was fhyaealh) uresis ible, made me swerve; and I 
thought an mumyme within my pact with the public. It is 
the only thing 1 have or shall set about." 



LETTER CCXX. 

TO Mil. Ml'HI-M- 

"April 26, 1814. 

" I have been dunking that it migh' he as well to pubbs* 
no more of Ihe Ode separately, but incorporate il with any 
.if the other things, and include Ihe smaller Poem too (in 
ha, ,., e)— which I must previously correct, nevei 
I can't, lor the head of me, add a line worth 6. ribbfing ; my 

'vein' is quite gone, tnd mypresenl occupa'ionsa I the 

gymnastic order— boxing and fencing— and my pi 
conversation is with in) macaw and Bayle. 1 want my 
Moreri, ind I want Atherueus. 

«P. S. I hope you seni back that poetical packet tothe 

address which I forwarded toyi n Sundaj I if noi.pray 

do; or 1 shall have the author screaming after la 



LETTER t'CXXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•April 26, 1814. 

, i i aven ssal your author<— but it isa noble Poem,* 

and worth a thousand Odes of an) body's. I suppose I may 
keep this e„pv , -alter reading it, I reall) rcgrel 
written my own. I say due vi rj sine, rely, albeit unused to 
think humbly of myself. 

don't like the addi a! stanzas at ,,//, and the] bad 

better be lefl out. The faci is, I can't do any diingl am 
,, i,,,] i do, howevei gladly I would; and at the end ol a 

week my ml. -rest in a composition goes off. This will 

a m to you for m) d g no better for your 'Stamp 

Duty 1 Postscript. 

The S. R. is verv civil— but what do they mean by 
Childe Harold resembling Mannion? and the next two, 

Giaour and Bride, not re bl'ing Scotl ' I certainli nevi r 

intended to copy him; but, if there be any eopyism, it must 
he m the two Poems, where the same versification is 
adopted. However, die) exempt the Corsair fi 
resemblance to any thingf— though 1 rather wondei ai his 
escape. 

* If ever I did any thing original, it was in Childe ' 
which / prefei to the othei things always, after 
week. Yesterday! re-read F.uglisli Bards:— bating the 
mo/ice, it is the test " Eve, 'i &c -" 



I.F.TTER CCX1X. 

TO Mil. MURRAY. 

"April 26, 1814. 

■ Let Mr. Gilford have the letter and return it at his lei- 
sure. I would have offered it, had I thought that be eked 
things of the kind. 

■■ i ),, you want the lasl page mmtdiatdy? I have doubt 

the 1 s bein- worth printing ; at any rate, 1 mu I see them 

asain and alter some passages, before they go forth in any 

shape mi" the ocean of circulation ;-a very c teited 

phrase hv-th.-bv: well then— ctomelol publication wiU do. 

«'] am not i' Ihe vein,' or I could knockoffa stanza or 
ihree for the Ode, that might answer die purpose better. 
At all events, 1 mod see Ihe lines again fa*, as there be 
two I have altered in my mind's manuscript already. Has 
any one seen and judged of them .' that is the criterion b) 
which I will abide— only give me a fair report, and ' nothing 
extenuate.' as I will in that case do someduug else. 

' Ever, &c. 

» I want Afjreri and an Atlinuriu. v 



LETTER CCXXII. 

TO Mil. Ml'RRAY. 

"2, Albany, April 29, 1S14. 

" DEAR s|R, 

'■I enclose a drafl for the money; when paid, send the 
copyright. 1 release you from the thousand pounds agreed 
on for il„- 1 iiaour and I'.nde, and there's an end. 

« n'aiiv a, , idem occur to me, j ay do then as you 

please; but, with the exception of two copies of ea h I „ 
i expect and request thai Ihe advertisements 
be withdrawn, and the remaining copies of all destroyed ; 
and any expense s , unci, 1 will be glad to defray-! 

- For all tins, ii might be as well to assign I s reason, 

I have none to give, except my owu caprice, and I do not 
the. ircumstance of consequent ughtorequiri 

explanation, 

•In course, I need hardly assure you dial Ihey in v.-r 

shall be pllblis 1 With HIV Colielll.dire, tly 01 llldll eel U , h> 

anv other person whatsoever,— that lam perfectly sale-hcl. 
a,„l have ever) reas in so to be with your conduct ui UJ 

a-ansac is between us as publisher and author. 

"It will give me great pleas,,,, to preserve your acquaint 



• .. n,, T ,»r«." i ■ v- ;; ., ,„*„„»* 

written. 



LETTERS, 18H. 



73 



ance, ami to consider you as ray friend. Believe me very 

criJy, and C* much attention, 

* Vour obliged and very obedient servant, 

"Bv'HOX. 

"P. S. I do not think that I have overdrawn at Ham- 
mersley's ; but tl" tiuti be die case, I call draw for the superfiux 
on Hoares. The draft U bl. short, but that I will mike up. 
On payment — imt before — return die copyright papers. 11 



LETTER CCXXIII. 



TO Mil. MURRAV. 



"May 1,1814. 

* DEAR SIR, 

* L" yoir present note is serious, and it really would be 
inconvenient, there is an end of die matter: t'-ar my draft, 
and go on as usual; in that case, we will recur to our former 
basis. That / was perfectly seriou.% in wishing to ippr< ss 
ail future publication, is true ; but certainly not to interfere 
with the convenience of others, and mure particularly your 
own. Some day, I will tell you the reason of this apparently 
strange resolution. At present, it -nay be enough i<> .i\ 
that I recall it at your suggestion: and as it appears to have 
annoyed you, I lose no tune m saying so. 

ta Yours, truly, "B." 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

8 May 4,1814. 

* Last nigh! we supp'd at R fc's board, kc. 

****** 

* I wish people would not shirk their dinners — ought it not 
;•■ Ijave been a dinner I — and that d — d anchovy sandwich ! 

" That plaguy voice of yours made me sentimental, and 
nlmost hill in love with a girl who was recommending her- 
self during your song, by hiding music. But the song is 
past, and my passion, can wait, till the pucelle Is more har- 
monious. 

" Do you go to Lady Jersey's to-night ? It is a large 
party, and you won'i be bored into ' softening rock-, 1 and all 
thit. Othello is tomorrow and Saturday too. Which day 
shall we go f When shall I see you? if you call, let it be 
alter three and as near four as you please. Ever, ivc. 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

■May ^ 1814. 

"DEAR TOM, 

•Thou hast asked me (or a song, and I enclose you an 
experiment, which has coal me something more than trouble, 
and is, therefore, less likely to be worth vour takino any in 

your proposed setting.* Now, if it be so, throw it into tile 
fire without pfiruie. 

'Ever yours, "Bvron." 



•" 1 *|*al£ not, I irare not, I DTHUU not tl'jr name ftc." 
NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

■Will you and Rogers come to my box at Covent, then ? 
I dial! be there, and none else — or I wont be there, if you 
twain would like to go without me. You will not «et so 
gond a place hustling among the publican oarers, with 
damnable apprentices (six feel high) on a back row. Will 
you both oblige me and come — or one — or neither — or, what 
you will ? 

* P. S. An 1 you will, 1 will call for you at half past six, or 
any tune of your own diaL" 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

*I have gotten a box for Odiello to-night, and send the 
Ueket for your friends the li — fc's. I seriously recommend 



to you to recommend to them to go for half an hour, if only 
to see the third act — U>cy will not easily have another op- 
portunity. We — at least, I — cannot he there, so there will 
be no one in the way. "Will you give or send it to Uiem? 
it will come with a better grace from you than me. 

u [ am in no good plight, but will dine at * *'s with you, 
if I can. There is music and Covent-g. — Will you go, at 
all events, to my box there afterward, to see a debut of a 
young lt>,* in die 'Child of Nature?'" 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"Sunday matin. 

* Was not Iago perfection ? particularly the last look. I 
was close to him (in (he orchestra,) and never saw an Eng- 
lish countenance half sp expressive. I am acquainted with 
no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting; and, 
as it is tilting there should be good plays, now and then, 
I r i ■!"•■ Sliakspeare'sj I wish you or Campbell would write 
one : the real of' us youth' have not heart enough. 

"Von were cut up m ihe Champion — is it not so? this 
day, so am I — even to slacking the editor. The critic 
writes well; and as,al present, poesy is not my passion 
i predominant, and my snake of Aaron has swallowed up all 
the other serpents, I don't feel fractious. 1 send you the 
paper, which 1 mean to take in for the future. We goto 
M.'s together. Perhaps I shall see you before, but don't let 
me bore you, now, nor ever. 

" Ever, as now, truly and affectionately, &c' 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"May 5, 1814. 

8 Do you go to Lady Cahir's this even ? If you do — and 
whenever we arc bound to the same follies — let us embark 
in die same ' Shippe of Fooles/ I have been up till rive, and 
up at nine ; and feel heavy with only winking for the last 
three or fair nights. 

" I lost my party and place at supper, trying to keep out 
of the way of* * * *. I would have gone away altogether, 
but that would have appeared a worse affectation than 
t' other. You are of course engaged to dinner, or we may 
go quietly together to my box at Covent-garden, and after- 
ward to dns assemblage. Why did you go away so soon? 

* Ever, &c. 

"P. S. Ought not R * * * fVs supper to have been a 
dinner? Jackson is here, and I must fatigue myself into 
spirits." 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

"May 18,1814. " 
■Thanks — and punctuality. fj r kat\\zs passed at* ** * 
House? I sir.pose that / am to know, and ' pars fufof the 
conference. I regrej that your * * * *s will detain you so 
late, but I suppose you wfl] Le at Lady Jersey's. I am 
going earlier with Hobhouse. You recollect dial to-morrow 
we sup and see Kcan. 
R P. S. Two to-morrow is die hour of pugilism." 



10 



LETTER CCXXIV. 

TO MH. MOORE. 

"May 25 1SI4 

"1 must send you the Java government gazette of July 3, 
1 813, just sent to me by Mu.-ray. Only think of our (for it 
i you and I) setting paper wirriors in array in the Indian 
-•as. Does not this sound late fame — something almost 
,r posterity? It is^omcthing to have scribblers squabbling 
ihoul us 5000 miles otl^ while we are agreeing so well at 
'•ime. Bring i' with you in your pocket; it will make you 
iitugh,as it hath me. 

■Ever yours, "B. 

■ P. S. Oh, the anecdote ! * * * *. 

* &Jin Foote'i fim efi«iirante. 



74 



LETTERS, 1814. 



LETTER CCXXV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"May 31, 1814. 

"As I shall probably not see you here to-day, I write to 
request that if not inconvenient to yourself, yuu will stay 
in town till Sunday; if not to gratify me, yet to please a 
great many others, who will be very sorry to lose you. As 
for myself, I can only repeat that I wish you would either 
remain a long time with us, or not come at all ; for these 
smitrfies of society make the subsequent separations bitterer 
than ever. 

U I believe you think that I havo not been quite fair with 
that Alpha and Omega of beauty, &C with whom you would 
willingly have united me. But if you consider what her 
sister said on the subject, you will less wonder that my pride 
should have taken the alarm; particularly as nothing but 
tho every-day flirtation of ev< ry-'lav people ever occurred 
between your heroine and myself Had Lady * * appeared 
to wish it, or even not to oppose it, 1 would have gone on, 
and very possibly married (that is, iT the other had been 
equally accordant) with the same indifference which has 
frozen over the 'Black Sea' of almost all my passions. It is 
that very indifference which makes ine so uncertain and 
apparently capricious. It is not eagerness of new pursuit: 
hut that nothing impresses me sufficiently toji-z; neither do 
I feel disgusted, but simply indifferent to almost all excite- 
ments. The proof of this is, that obstacles, the slightest 
even, stop me. This can hardly be limvlitu, for I hare done 
some impudent things too, in my time; and in almost all 
cases, opposition is a stimulus. In mine, it is not; if a straw 
were in my way, I could not stoop to pick it up. 

"I have sent this long tirade, because I would not have 
you suppose that I have been trifling designedly with you 
or others. If you think so, in the name of St. Hubert (the 
patron of antlers and hunters) let me be married out of hand 
— I don't care to whom, so that it amuses any body else, 
and don't interfere with ine much in the daytime. 

■Ever,&c.' 



LETTER CCXXVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"June 14, 1814. 

"I covldbc very sentimental now, but I won't. The truth 
is, that I have been all my life trying to harden mv heart, 
and have not yet quite succeeded — though there arc great 
hopes — and you do not know how it sunk with your depar- 
ture. What adds to my regret is having seen so little of 
you during your stay Ul this crowded desert where one 
ought to he able to bear diirst like acamel, — the springs are 
so few, and most of them so muddy. 

"The newspapers will tell you all that is to be told of 
emperors, &C. They have dined, and supped, and shown 
their flat faces in all thoroughfares, and several saloons. 
Their uniforms are very becoming, but rather short in the 
skirts; and their conversation is a catechism, for which and 
the answers I refer you to those who have heard it. 

U I think of leaving town tor New-stead Boon. If so, I ghaJJ 
not lie remote from your recess, and (unless Mrs. M. detains 
you at home over die caudle-cup and a new era! lie.) we will 

meet. You shall come ti . me, or I to you, as you like it ; 

but meet we will. An invitation from Aston has reached 
me, but I do not think I shall go. I have also heard of 
* * * — I should like to see her again, for I have not met 
her for years; and though 'the light that ne'er can shins 
again' is set, I do not know that 'one dear smile like those 
of old' might not make me for a moment forget the 'dulnesa 1 
of life's stream.' 

■ I am going to JR. * *'s to-night — to one of those suppers 
which i ought to be dinners.' I have hardly seen her, and 
never him, since you set out. I told you, you were the last 
link of that chain. As for * *, we have not svllabled one 



another's names since. The post will not permit me to 
continue my scrawl. More anon. 

• Ever, dear Moore, &c. 
*P. S. Keep die Journal, I care not what becomes of 
it, and if it has amused you, I am glad that I ke|rt it. ' Lara' 
is finished, and I am copying him tor my third vol. now 
collecting ; but no separate publication." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"June 14, 1814. 
8 1 return your packet of tins morning. Have you heard 
that Bertrand has returned to Paris with the account of 
Napoleon's having lost his senses ? It is a report; but, if 
true, I must, like Mr. Fitzgerald and Jeremiah, (of lament- 
able memory,) lay claim to prophecy ; that istosav.of saying 
that he ougfii to go out of his senses, in the penultimate 
stanza of a certain Ode, — the which, having been pronounced 
nonsense' by several profound critics, has a still further pro* 
tension, by its uninteHigibility, to inspiration. 



LETTER CCXXVII. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

"June 19, 1814. 

°I am always obliged to trouble you with my awkward- 
nesses, and now I have a fresh one. Mr. W.* called on me 
several times, and I have missed die honour of making his 
acquaintance, which 1 regret, but which you, who knew mv 
desultory and uncertain habits, will not wonder at, and will, 
I am sure, attribute lo any thing but a wish to offend a 
person who has shown me much kindness, and possesses 
character and talents entitled to general respect. My 
mornings are late, and passed in fencing and boxing, and a 
variety of most uit poetical exercises, very wholesome, etc ; 
but would be very disagreeable to my friends, whom I um 
obliged to exclude during their operation. I never co out 
till the evening, and I have not been fortunate enough to 
meet Mr. W. at Lord Lansdowne's or Lord Jersey's, where 
I had hoped to pay him my respects. 

u I would have written to him, but a few words from w u 
will go further than all the apologelical sesnuipcdalihes I 
could muster on die occasion. It is onry to say mat, without 
intending it, I contrive to behave very iU to every bodv, and 
am Veiy sorry for it. . 

"Ever, dear R. &c" 

The following undated notes to Mr. Rogers were wrkti o 
about this time. 

c Sunday 
"Your non-attendance at Connne's is very apropos, a;< I 
was on the eve of sending you an excuse. I do not feel 
well enough to go there this evening, and have Ken 
to despatch an apology. 1 believe I need not add one for not 
accepting Mr. Shenaan^s invitation on Wednesday, which 
I fancy both you and I Understood in the same sense }— 
with him the-saving of Mirabeau, that l words are Hang*} is 
not to be taken literally. ■ Ever, fee. 

"I will call for you at a quarter before seven, if that will 
suit you. I return yon Sir Proteus,f and shall merely add 
"n return, as Johnson said of, and to, somebody or other 
Are wo alive after all this censure? 1 

" Believe me, &c." 

* Tuosday 
8 Sheridan was yesterday, at first, too sober to remembe* 
your invitation, but in the dregs of the third botde he fished 
up his memory. The Stat'l out-talked Wbitbread, was 
ironed by Sheridan, confounded Sir Humphrey, and utteily 
perplexed your slave. The rest (grea'. names in the red 



* Mr. Wranpham. 

t A »&Uri L «l (lJ in l 4ikt,l[] which all Oi«»nt*r§ot Jitdjj t _<* ntlMtd. 



LETTERS, 



1814. 



75 



book, nevertheless) were mere segments of the circle. 
Ma'mselle danced a Russ saraband with great vigour 
grace, and expression. a liver, &c. n 

NOTE TO Mil. MURRAV. 

"June 21, 1814. 
* I suppose ' Lara 1 is gone to the devil, — which is no great 
matter, only let me know, that I may be saved the trouble 
<>f copying the rest, and put the first part into the fire. I 
really have no anxiety about it, and shall not be sorry to 
be saved the copying, which goes on very slowly, and may 
prove to you that you may speak oul~~ot I should be less 
slugg.Ji. a Yours, Sic," 



LETTER CCXXVIU. 



TO MR. ROGERS. 



c June 27,1814. 

* You could not have made me a more acceptable pre- 
sent man Jacqueline, — she is all grace, and softness, and 
poetry ; there is so much of the last, that we do not feel the 
want of story, which is simple, yet enough. I wonder that 
you do not oftener unbend to more of the same kind. I 
have some sympathy with the softer affections, though very 
little in my way, and no one can depict them so truly and 
successfully as yourself. I have Haifa mind to pay you in 
kind, or rather unkind, for I have just ' supped full of horror' 
in two Cantos of darkness and dismay. 

'Do you go to Lord Essex's to-uighl ? if so, will you let 
me call fir you at your own hour '? I dined with Holland- 
house yesterday at Lord Cowper's ; my lady very gracious, 
which she can be more than any one when she likes. 1 
was not sorry to see them again, for 1 can't forget that they 
have been very kind to me. 

"Ever yours most truly, " Bn. 

c P. S. Is there any chance or possibility of making it 
up with Lord Carlisle, as I feel disposed to do any thing 
reasonable or unreasonable to effect it ? I would before, 
but for the ' Courier,' and the possible misconstructions at 
such a lime. Perpend, pronounce.'' 



LETTER CCXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"July 8, 181-1. 

M returned to town last night, and had some hopes of 
seeing you to-day, and would have called, — but I have been 
(though in exceeding distempered aood health) a little head- 
achy with free living, as it is called, and am now at the 
freezing point of returning soberness. Of course, I should 
be sorry that our parallel lines did not deviate into inter- 
section before you return to the country, — after that name 
DODSuit whereof die papers have told us, — but, as you must 
be much occupied, I won't be affronted, should your time 
and business militate against our meeting. 

•Rogers and I have almost coalesced into a joint invasion 
of the public. Whether it will take place or not, I do not 
yet know, and I am afraid Jacqueline (which is very beau- 
tiful) wiH be in bad company.* But, m this case, the lady 
will not be the sufferer. 

k I am going to the sea, and then to Scotland ; and I have 
been doing nothing, — that is, no good, — and am very truly, 
&c." 



LETTER CCXXX 



TO MR. MOORE. 



• I suppose, by your non-appearance, that the philosophy 
of my note, and the previous silence of the writer, have put 



* Lnn and Jacqueline, liie Ullvr by Mr. Rugir», lxK.li appears*! in the 

•ante volume. 



or kept you in humeur. Never mind — it is hardly worth 
while. 

M This day have I received information from my man of 
law of the non — and never likely to be — performance of 
purchase* by Mr.Claughton, of iznpecuniary memory. He 
don't know what to do. or when to pay ; and so all mv hopes 
and worldly projects and prospects are gone to the devil. 
He (the purchaser, and the devil too, for aught I care) and 
I, and my legal advisers, are to meet to-morrow, — the said 
purchaser having first taken special care to inquire ' whe- 
ther I would meet him with temper?* — Certainly. The 
question is this — I shall either have the estate back, which 
is as good as ruin, or I shall go on with him dawdling, 
which is rather worse. I have brought my pigs to a Mus- 
sulman market. If I had but a wife now, and children, 
of whose paternity I entertained doubts, 1 should be hap- 
py, or rather fortunate, as Candide or Scarmentado. In 
the mean time, if you don't come and see me, I shall think 
that Sam's bank is broke too ; and that you, having assets 
there, arc despairing of more than a piastre in the pound 
for your dividend. " Ever,&c M 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

•July 11, 1814. 

" You shall have one of the pictures. I wish you to send 
die proof of ' Lara 1 to Mr. Moore, 33, Bury-street, to-night. 
as he leaves town to-morrow, and wishes to see it before he 
goes ; and I am also willing to have the benefit of his re- 
marks. * Yours, &c. n 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

-July IS, 1S14. 

"I think you will be satisfied even to repletion with our 
northern friends,f and I won't deprive you longer of what I 
think will give you pleasure: for my own part, my modesty 
or my vanity must be silent. 

"P. S. If you could spare it for an hour in the evening, I 
wish you to send it up to Mrs. Leigh, your neighbour, at the 
London Hotel, Albemarle-streeL. 11 



LETTER CCXXXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

c July 23, 1814. 

*I am sorry to say that the print J is by no means ap- 
proved of by those who have seen it, who are pretty con- 
versant with the original, as well as the picture from whence 
it is taken. I rather suspect that it is from the copy and not 
the exltibited portrait, and in this dilemma would recommend 
a suspension, if not an abandonment of the prefixion to the 
volumes which you purpose inflicting upon the public. 

a With regard to Ijira don't be in any hurry. I have not 
yet made up my mind on die subject, nor know what to think 
or do till I hear from you ; and Mr. Moore appeared to me 
in a similar state of indelermination. I do not know that i. 
may not he better to reserve it for the entire publication you 
promised, and not adventure in hardv singleness, or ever 
backed by the fairy Jacqueline. I have been seized with 
all kinds of doubts, &c. &c. since I left London. 

"Pray let me hear from you, and believe me, &c." 



LETTER CCXXXIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•July 24, 1814. 
"The minority must, In this case, carry it, so pray let it be 
so, for I don't care sixpence for any of the opinions you 
mention, on such a subject ; and Plullips must be a dunce to 



• Purchase of Newslead Abbey. See letter 141. 

* Hi b i '■ refen lo *a article in ihe Dumber of the Edinburgh Review 
Just then pabfohecl, (No. IS ) m itw Uomirand Bride of Abydoi. 

; An BOpUTiNi by Agar from Phillipi't portrait of bun. 



76 



LETTERS, ISIL 



agree wiih them. For my own part, I have no objection at 
all ; but Mrs. Leigh and my cousin must be better judges 
of the likeness than others; awl they hate it; and so L won't 
have it at all. 

■Mr. Hobhrjuse is right as for his conetusion ; but I deny 
the premises. The name only is Spanish; 4 the country is 
not Spain, but the Morea. 

■Waverlcy l- the besl an I mosl intere ting novel I have 

red.!'- since — I don't kttOW WDC11. I like it as much 0£ I 

hate ' ', and * *,and * *»and all the feminine trash of the 
bat four months. Besides, it is all easy to me, 1 'nave been 
in Scotland so much, (though thon young enough too,) and 

feel at home with the people, Lowland and Gael. 

V\ DOtewiD correct what Mr. Hobh use thinks an error, 
(about the feudal system in Spain ;) il is not Spain. If he 
nuts a few words of prose any where, it will set all i ight 

"1 bave been ordered to town to vote. I shall disobey. 
There is no good in so much prating since 'certain issues 
strokes should arbitrate.' ll'you have any thing to say, let 
roe bear from you. * Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXXXIII. 

TO Mil- Mt'BIl.VV. 

* Aug. 3; 1814. 

■Itis certainly a little evtraordinary that you have not 
sent the Edinburgh Renew, as I requested, and hoped it 
would not require a note a day to remind you. Is. 
tv*:tnents of Lara and Jacqueline; pray, why? when I re- 
qiic .ted von lo ;nisijiniic publication till my return to town. 

a [ have a most amusing epistle from the Kttnek bard — 
Hi: j ; in which, spv<ikiii'„ r of Ins bookseller, whom he deno- 
minates the 'shabbiest' of the trade for not 'lifting his bills,' 
he adds in s<> many words, 'G — d d — nhim and them bofh. 1 
This is a pretty prelude to asking you to adopt him (the said 
II <%<* :) but this he wishes ; and it" you please, you and 1 w ill 
talk it over. He has a poem rea Iv lor the press, (and your 
lulls too, if '/i/iable,') and bestows some benedictions on 
Mr. Moore f>r (us abJueiini of Lara from the forthcoming 
Miscellany. 

"P. S. Sincerely, I think Mr. Hogg would suit youverj 

well ; and surely he is a man of great power-, and da serving 

nf ericeurageTaent. I mast knockout a tale lor him, and 
von ihould al all events consider before you reject his suit. 
Scotl B gone to the Orkneys in a gale of wind, antl Hogg 
says that, during the said gale, 'he is sure thai Scotl is, noi 
quite at his ease, to say the best of it.' Ah! [wish these 
home-keeping bar. Is could taste a Mediterranean white 
squall, or the < Jut in a gale of wind, or even the 1 fay >f 
Biscay with no wind at all." 



LETTER CCXXXIV. 

T/O MR. MOORE. 

"Hastings, Au«. S, 1SI4. 
"By the time this reaches your dwelling, 1 shall (God 
wot) be in town again probably. I have here been re- 
iu-w mo my acquaintance with mv old friend I >ei*an ; i ■ i ■ I I 

find his bo*>m as pleasant a pillow for an hour in the morn- 
ing as his daughters of Paphos could be in the tw ill t1 
[have been swimming and eating turbot, and smuggling 
neat brandies and silk handkerchiefs, — and listening to 
jn\ friend Hodgson's raptures about a pretty wife-elect 
of his, — and walking on cliffs, and tumbling down hills, 
and making the most of the 'dolcefarni ite' for the last 
fortnight. I met a son of Lord Brskine's, who says hi 
has been marrii da year, and is die : men ;' and 

I have met the aforesaid II. who is also the ( happi< si of 
men; 1 so, it is worth while being here, if only to witness 

the superlative felicity of these to,\<-s, wlio have cut oil' 
their tails, and would persuade the rest to part with 
their brushes to keep them ui countenance. 



' AUuilinii to Lw*. 



"It rejoiceth me that you like 'Lara/ Jeffrey s ont 
with his forty-fifth number, which I suppose you have 
»ot. He is only loo kind to me, in my share of it, and 1 
begin to fancy n> . ■ n pheasant, upon the strength 

of the phjDinge wherewhn he hath bedecked me. But 
then, 'smgrtarnarV &c — the genlk men of theChampioni 
and Perry, have got luld (( know not how) of the condo- 

latory address to La Iv J. on U* •abduction by oui 

Uegent, and have published tbcm — with my name, Iota 
smack — without even asJriug leave, or mquhine whether 
or no! D — n their impudence, and d — n --wry thing. It 
has put me out of patience, and so I shall say no mora 
about it.* 

•Too shall hnve Lara and Jacuue (both with some 
additions) when out, but I am -still demurring and de- 
laying] an I in a fuss, and so i-- Hi igers in ins way. 

- N--W :. a I is to l"' mine again. Clanghton forfeits 
twenty-five thousand pounds; bul that dm ft. prevent (no 
from being very prettily runad. I mean to bury wysi ; 
tlnre — dihl let mv beard grow — and hate you ail. 

"Ob! I have bad the most amusing letter from Hogg 
the Ettrick minstrel and shepherd. 1!.- wan*s me to 
-ecomroend him to Murray, and, speaking ol Ire presenl 
: Is 1 are never ^lifted,' lie adds /"*/.'<■//* 
vcrlrix, *G — il d — n him and them both.' I laughed, i a I > i 
would you too, ai the way w which this extrication was 
introduced. The said IJogg is a strange being bul of 
great, though uncouth, powers. I dunk very highly of him 
as a poet; but he, and half of these Scotch and Lake 
troubadours, arc spoiled by living in little i ifcles and petty 

societies. London and the world i.s iheooiy place i .'- 

the conceit out of a man — in the milling phrase. 
he said, is gone to the Orkneys in a gale of wind ; — during 
which what, he affirms, the said Scott, fc he is sure ls not at 
his ease, — to say the best of it.' Lord, Lord, if these home- 
keeping minstrels had crossed your Atlantic or my Medi- 
terranean, and tasted a little open boating in a white 
squall — or a gale in 'the Gut' — or the 'Bay of Biscay, 
with no gale at all — how it would enliven and introduce 
them to a few of the sensations! — to say nothing of an 
illicit amour or two upon shore, in the way of eSsaj Upt n 
the Passions, beginning with simple adultery, and com- 
pounding it as they went along. 

"1 have forwarded your tetter to Murray* — by the way 
you had addressed it to Miller, Pray write toracyand say 
what art thou doing ? ' Not hnisluxl ! — < tons - how i 

— these 'daws and starts 1 nwst be 'aui "Bed by your 

grandam,' and arc becoming of any other author. I was 
sorry to hear of your discrepancy with * *s, or rather, 
your abjuration of agreement. 1 don't want to be imper- 
tinent, or buffoon on u serious sul jei i, and am tlierefore at 
a loss what to say. 

" I hope nothing wiD mdnce jrou to abate from the proper 
price "I pour poi in, as long .■ tl ere is I prospect of getting 
it. Kor my own part, I have .si riwtsly and not wldm 
(tor that is not mv way — al lea ednotl ibej neither 

hopes, nor prospects, and ■■■■,.■■■.. even wishes. 1 am, in 
some respects happy, bul not m a mann i ,: si canorQughl 
to last, — but enough of that. The worst of it is I feel nuke 
enervated and indifferent. 1 really do noi know, F Jupiter 
were to offer me my choice ufthecontcntsofhis benevoleni 
cask, what I would pick out of it. If I was born 
run -e -■. say with b l lilvt r spoor in my m (uth, 1 u has stuck 
ui my throat, and sp >iled my palate so (hat nothing put mto 
it is swallowed with much reushj — unless H bi cayenne. 
However. I have grievances enough tooccupv medial way 
too; but fir fear of adding to yours by this pestilent long 
diatribe, I postpone the reading them, sine die. Ever, dear 
AL your-, &C 

" I*. S. I t.n't forget my godson. You could not have 
fixed on a liner porter for Ins sins than me, being used tc 
carry double without inconvenience." * * * 



• See Poem', p. 161. 



LETTERS, 1811. 



77 



LETTER CCXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Aug. 4, 1814. 

"Nui having received llie slightest answer lo my last 
three letters, nor the buck (the last number of the Edin- 
burgh Review ) winch they requested, I presume that you 
were the unfortunate person* who perished in thi i 

on Mod lay last, and address this rather to your executors 
than l --■ I, fcjri-i'iii^ 1 1 iiit v<"i should have had the ill- 
luck i" be the sole victim on thai joyous oi casion, 

"1 beg leave then to inform these gen lemen (whoever 
they may be) that 1 am a little surprise 1 at the previous 
neglect of the deceased, and alsoal ob erviug an advertise- 
ment of an approaching publication on Saturday next, 
against the which X protested, and do protest, for die 
present. 

"Yours, (or theirs,) &c. "B." 



LETTER CCXXXVI. 

TO MR. MUKKAV. 

"Aug. 5, 1814. 

°The Edinburgh Review is arrived — thanks. I enclose 
Mr. Hnbhouse's letter, from which you wifl perci 
work you have made. However,! have done: you must 
send r i iv rhymes to the devil your own way. It seems 
also that LheTaitfiful and spirited likeness' is another of 
your publications. I wish you joy of it ; but it is no like- 
ness — that is the point. Seriously, if I have delayed your 
join ncy to Seodand, I am sorry that you carried your com- 
, ;e so far; particularly as upon trifles you have a 
more summary method; — witness the grammar of Hob- 
house's L Inf of ;:i iv-ii-,' v. Inch has put him and mc into a fever. 

"Hogg must translate his own word-: * lifting? is a 
quota ion from his letter, together with l G — dd — n,'&c. 
wl ich I suppose requires no translation. 

"I was unaware of the contents f -Mr. Moore's letter ; 
I think your offer very handsome, but 'if that you and he 
milsl judge, [f he can get more, you won't wonder that he 
should accepl it. 

■Out with Lara since it must be. The tome looks 
prettj enough — on the outside. I shall hem town next 
urrk, and in the mean tune wish you a pleasant journey. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXXXVII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

tt Aug. 12,1814. 

c 1 was not alone, nor will he while I can help it. New- 
,ii not yet decided. Claughton is to make a grand 
effbi i by Saturday week to complete, — if not, he must give 
up twenty-five thousand pounds, and the estate, with ex- 
: ii ,&C. &C. If I resume the Abbacy, you shall have 
tfue notice, and a ceil set apart for your reception, with Q 
pious welcome. Rogers I have not seen, bul Larry and 
Jaekv came out a few days ago. Of their effect, I know 
nothing. 

a * * * * * 

*There is something very amusing iri your being an 
Edinburgh Reviewer. You know. I suppose, that Thurlow 
is none of the placidest, and may possibly enact some 
tragedy on being told thai he is onl) a fool. I£ now, Jeffrey 
were to be slain ou accounl of an article of yours, there 
would be a fine conclusion. For my part, as Mrs. Winifred 
Jenkins says 'he has done the handsome thing by me,' 
particularly, in his last number; so, he b the best of men 
und the ablest of critics, and I won't have him killed, — 
though I dare say many wish lie were, for being so good- 
humoured. 

"Before I left Hastings, I got in a passion with an ink 



bottle, which I f^ung out of the window one night with a 
vengeance; — and what then? why, next morning I was 
horrified by seeing that it had struck, and split upon, die 
petticoat of Euterpe's graven image in the garden, and 
grimed her as if it were on purpose.* Cnlv thuik of my 
distress, and — the epigrams that might be engendered en 
die Must- and her mi-adventure. 

"1 had an adventure, almost as ridiculous, at some private 
theatrii al near Cambridge — tfiongh of a different descrip- 
tion — since I saw you last. I quarrelled with a man in the 
.lark for asking me who I was (insolently enough, to bo 
sure,) and followed him into the green-room (a Halle) in a 
rage, among a set of people 1 never saw befbie. He turned 
out to he a low comedian, en aged to act with the amateurs, 
and to be a civil-spoken man enough, when he found out 
that nothing very pleasant was to be got by rudeness. But 
you would have been amused with the row, and the dialogue, 
and the dress — or rather die undress — of the party, where 
I hat! introduced myself in a devil of a hurry, and the asto- 
nishment that ensued. I had gone out of the theatre, for 
coolness, into the garden ; there I had tumbled over some 
logs, and, coming away from them in very ill-humour, en- 
countered the man u» a worse, which produced all llus 
confusion, 

" Well — and why don't you 'launch V — Now is your time 
The people are tolerably tired w ith me, and not very much 
enamoured of Wordsworth, who has just spawned a quarto 
of metaphysical blank verse, w Inch is nevertheless only a 
part of a poem. 

" Murray talks of divorcing Larry and Jacky — a bad si»n 
f r the authors, who, I suppose, will be divorced too, and 
irow the blame upon one another. Seriously, I don't care 
a cigar about ir, and I don't see why Sam should. 

Let me hear from and of you and my godson. Tf a 
daughter, the name will do quite as well. * * * 

"Ever, Sec." 



LETTER CCXXXVItl. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Aug. 13, 1814. 

"I wrote yesterday to Mayfield, and have just now en* 
franked your letter to mamma. My slay in town is so un- 
certain (not later than next week) that your packets tor the 
north may not reach me; and as I know not exactly where 
I am going — however, Newstcad is my most probable des- 
tination, arid if you send your despatches before Tuesday, 
I can forward them to our new ally. But, after thai day, 
you had belter not trust to their arrival in time. 

"* * has been exiled from Tan-, on 'lit, for saying the 
Bourbons were old women. The Bourbons might have 
been content, I think, with returning the compliment. * 
* * * 

"I told you all about Jacky and Larry yesterday; — tl.ey 
are to be separated, — at least, so says the grand Murray, 
and I know no more of the matter. Jeffrey has done me 
more than 'justice;' hut as to tragedy — um! — I have no 
time for fiction at present. A man cannot paint a storm 
with the vessel under bare poles, on a lee shore. When I 
<;et to land, I will try what is to be done, and, if I founder, 
there be plenty of mine elders and belters to console Mel- 
pomene. 

"When at Newstcad, you must come over, if only for a 
day — should Mrs. M. b< eri 'tootle of your presence. The 
place Is worth seeing, as a r ..i;i, and I can assure you there 
■■ fun there, even in my time; but thai is past. The 
ghosts, however, and the gothics, and the waters, and the 
desolation, make it very lively still. 

"Ever, dear Tom, yours, &c." 



* See uuic lo the tiiuu from Horace, p. 439. 



lnn»e Jar of ink, into which, not nip. 
. i do vu w t'"- wi } bottom. I'.u- 

Ln.iur: it tome out all ameatvrl wi< k, he (tutu iiie lottle -»jt 

ndow into the garden, when li lighll I, as berewKribed, upou 
.. . >hi leu , , . i, -t , irora 

i ■ .hk oiuih baviu£ bceo ( by iodic ixcidout^luO Lwhiud. — Swart* 



* Himervant had brought hit 
poring ii Lobe full, b« bad ihrui 
nuntrf,. ' 

|)| l)l« V 



78 



LETTERS, 1814. 



LETTER CCXXXIX. 

To MR. MCRRAV. 

" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 2, 1814. 



"I am obliged by what you hav« sent, bul would rather 
not Bee any thing of die kind;* we have hail enough ..l 
these things already, good and bad, and next month you 
,„., i ,„,, trouble yourself to colleol even the higher gene- 

, a , ,„„_„„ ,„v account. It gives me much pleasure tu hear 
of Mr. Hobhouse's ami Mr. Merivale's good entreattnenl 
bv ii„- journ you mention. 

.. I soil think Wr. Hogg-and yourself might make oul an 

alliance Dodsfeji's was, 1 believe, the last decent thing of 

the kind and /its had great success in its day, and lasted 

several years; but then he had die double advantage of 

1U I publishing. The Spleen, and several ol Cut/s 

odes, much "I' SliLiixlmu; and many others ot :: I repute, 

made their first i ui his collection. Now, with 

the support ofScott, Wordsworth, Soulhey.&c. 1 see little 
reas in why you should not do as well; and II one I url) 

established, you vt Ihaveassiste i i youngsters, 

1 dare say. Stratford Canning (whose 'Buonaparte' is 
excellent,) and many others, and Moore, ami Hobhouse, 
and I would try a fall now and then (if permitted,) and you 
might coax Campbell, too, into it, By-the-by, ..c ha- an 

unpublished (though printed) m on a scene m German) 

(Bavaria, I think) which 1 saw last year, thai is perfecUy 
magnificent, and equal to himself. 1 wonder he don't pub- 
lish u. 

► Oh!— do you recollects * *, the engraver s, mad letter 
about not engraving Phillips's picture of Lord Foley? (as 
he blundered if,) well, I have traced it,] think. Itseems, 

by the papers, n preacher of Johann I ' '■ mi' d 

/■bleu ; and I can noway ace it for the said S ' " 

fusion of words and ideas, bul by thai ofhis head's running 
on Johanna and her apostles. It was a mercy he did not 
say Lord Tozar. You know, of course, that S * * is a 
believer in ibis new (old) virgin of spiritual impregnation. 

"I long to know what she will produce; her being wit] 
child at sixty-five is indeed a miracle, but her gelling any 
one to hejet it, a greater. 

•■ it you were not goingto Parisor Scotland,! could send 
y,,u some game: if you n m Ii I me know. 

"P. S. A word or two of 'Lara,' which your enclosure 
brings before me. It is of no great promise separately ; 
but, as connect. -.1 with the other tales, it will do very well 

vol syou mean to publish. I would re t tnd 

this arrangement— Childe Harold, the smaller Poems, 
Giaour, Bride, Corsair/Lara; thelasl completes the series, 
and its »ery likeness rentiers it necessarj to the others. 
Cawthome writes thai they are publishing Engluh Bardt 
ui Ireland: pray inquire into this; because it must be 
slopped." 

LETTER CCXL. 

TO MR. MtliK w. 

'Kewstead Abbey.Sept. 7,1814. 
"I should think Mr. Hogg, for Ins own sake as well as 
yours, would be 'critical' aslago himself in hi edil ria 
capacity; and that such a publication would answer his 
purpose, and yours too, with tolerable management You 
should, however, have a good number to start with— 1 
mean, good in quality;ui these days, there can be utile fear 
of not coming up to the mark in quantity. There must be 
Aianv 'line things' in Wordsworth J bul 1 should think il 

difficult to make six quartos (the amount of the wholl ) all 

fine, particularly the pedlert portion of the [ m; but there 

can be no doubt of his powers to do almost any thing. 

«1 em' very idle.' I have read the few books I had with 
mc, and been'forccd to fish, for lack of argument. I have 
caught a great many perch, and some carp, which is a 
comfort, as one would not lose one's labour willingly. 



I'tt.v, who corrects the press of your volumes 7 I hope 
' The Corsair' is printed from the copy I corns 

first Canto, and some no&ufroi 
raondi andLavater, whii h 1 gave you loadd thereto. The 
arrangement is very well. 

"Mj cursed | pie liawn.it sent my papers since Stoi- 

dav, audi have lost Johanna's divorce from Jupiter. Who 
hath gotten her with prophet 1 Is it Sharpe .' and how .' 
* * * » * * 

I should like to buy one of her seals: if salvation can be 
had at half a guinea a head, the landlord of tie Crows and 
Anchor should be ashamed of himself for charging double 
for tickets to a mere terrestrial banquet 1 am afraid, se- 
riously, thai these matters will lend a sad handle to your 
profane Scoffers, and give a loos, to much damnable laugh- 
ter. 

"I have not seen Hunts Sonnets nor Descent ol I 

he has chpsi n a pretty place wherein toe pose lb) last 

Let DM hear from you before you embark. Ever, &C. 



• Tim Roviawi nnd Miig.i-uie.-of the month. 



LETTER CCXLI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

■ Newstead Abbey, Sept 15, 1814. 

"This is the fourth letter 1 have begun to you within the 
month. Whether I shall finish or not, or burn it like the 
rest, I know not. When we meet, 1 shall explain why 1 
have not written— why 1 have not asked you here, as [ 
„i s hed— with a great many other whys and wherefores, 
which will k'-fp cold. In short, you must evens.- all my 
seemino ,. missions and commissions, and grant me more 
remission than St. Athanasins will to yourself, if you lop 
off a single shred of mystery from his pious puzzle. It is 
my creed (and it may be St. Athanasius's too) that your 
art* le on T + * will get somebody killed, and that, on the 
Somtt, gel him d— d afterward, which will be quite .now 
for one number. Oons, Tom! you must not meddle just 
now with the incomprehensible,; for if Johanna Southcote 
turns out to be * * * * * * 

"Now for a little egotism. My affairs stand thus, to- 
morrow I shall know whi that a circumstance of importance 
enough to change many of my plans will occur or not If 
n does not, 1 am off for Italy next month, and Loud in 

antime, next week, i have got hack Newstead and 

twenty-five thousand pounds (out of twenty-eight paid 
already,)— as a 'sacrifice,' the late purchaser calls it, and 
he may choose his own name. I have paid some of my 

debts, and'.. Mil, a. I. .1 others; but] have a few thousand 
pounds, which I can't spend after im own heart 111 this 

cuma te, and so, I shall go back to the south. Hobhouse,! 
think and hop.-, will gowithme; but, whether la- will or 

not I shall. 1 want to see Venice, and the Alps, and Par- 
mesan cheeses, and look at the coast of I .... ci or rather 
Kpirus, fiom Italv, as I once did—or fancied I did— thai of 
Italy, when offCorfu: All this, however, depends upon an 
event, which may, or may not, happen. Whether il will, 

I shall know probably to-morrow, and it" it does, I can't well 
go abroad at present. 

"Pray pardon this parenthetical scrawl. 1™ shall hear 
from me again soon;— I don't call this an answer. 

" K,.-r most affectionately, &c." 

The "circumstance of importance,"' to which he alludes 
in this leti.-r, was his second proposal for Miss Milbanko, 
of which he was now waiting the result. 



LETTER CCXLII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

■Nd.Sept. 15, 1814. 
«I have written to you one letter to-night, but must send 
you this much more, as I have not franked my number, to 
say that I rejoice in my goddaughter, and will send hor a 



LETTERS, 1814. 



79 



coral and bells, which. I hope she will accept, the moment I 
get back to London. 

" My head is at this moment in a state of conn" ision.from 
various causes, which I can neither describe nor explain — 
but let that pass. Mv employments have been very rural 
— fishing, shooting bathing, and boating. Books I have 
but few here, and those I have read ten times over, till sick 
of them. Soj I have taken to breaking soda water bottles 
with my pistols, and jumping into the water, and rowing 
over it, and firing at the fowls of the air. But why should 
I 'monster my nothings' to you who are well employed, and 
happily too, I should hope. For my part, I am happy too, 
in my way — but, as usual, have contrived to get into three 
or four perplexities, which I do not see my way through. 
But a few days, perhaps a day, will determine one of them. 

"You do not say a word to me of your Poem. I wish I 
could see or bear it. I neither could, nor would, do it or iis 
author any harm. I believe I told you of Larry and Jacquy. 
A friend of mine was reading— at least a friend of his \\ as 
reading — said Larry and Jacquy in a Brighton coach. A 
passenger took up the book and queried as to the author. 
The proprietor said ' there were tutt — to which the answer 
of the unknown was, ( Ay, ay — a joint concern, I suppose, 
mm/not like Stemhold and Hopkins. 1 

8 Is not this excellent ? I would not have missed the 
file comparison' to have scaped being one of the 'Arcades 
mbo et cantare pares.' Good night. Again yours." 



LETTER CCXLin. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"New-stead Abbey, Sept. 20, 1SI4. 

" Here's lo her who long 

Haiti waked ihe poei'a iigh I 

Tlir girl WhO gave 10 Snug 

Whai g"ld could never buy. 

My dear Moore, I am going to be married — that is, I 
am accepted, and one usually hopes the rest will follow. 
My mother of the Gracchi (lhat are to be) you think too 
strait-laced forme, although the paragon of only children, 
and invested with 'golden opinions of all sorts of men,' anil 
full of 'most blessed conditions' as Desdemona herself. Miss 
Milbanke is the lady, and I have her fathers invitation to 
proceed there in my elect capacity, — which, however, I can- 
not do till 1 have settled some business in London, and got 
a blue coat. 

"She is said lobe an heiress, hut of that I really k now 
nothing certainly) and shall not inquire. But I do know, that 
she has talents and excellent qualities, and you will no' deny 
her judgment, after having refused sjx suitors and taken me. 

u Now, if you have any tiling to say against this, pray dp ; 
my mind's made up, positively fixed, determined, and flu n - 
fore I will listen to reason, because now it can do no harm. 
Things may occur to break it off, but I will hope not. In 
the mean tune, I tell you (a secret, by-the-by, — at least, till 
I know she wishes it to be public) that I have proposed 
and am accepted. You need not be in a hurry to wish 
nie joy, for one may n't be married for months. I am going 
to town to-morrow; but expect to be here, on my way there, 
\\ nliiii ;i fortnight. • 

"If this had not happened I should have gone to Italy. 
In my way down, perhaps, you will meet me at Notting- 
ham, and come over with me here. I need not say that 
nuhing will give me greater pleasure. I must, of course, 
reform thoroughly; and, seriously, if I can contribute to her 
happiness, I shall secure my own. She issogood a person, 
that — that — in short, I wish I was a belter. 

"Ever,&c." 



LETTER CCXLIV. 

TO THE COUNTESS OF * * *. 

"Albany, Oct. 5,1814. 

■ DEAR T,*T>Y * *, 

■Your recollection and invitation dome great honour; 



but I am going to be 'married, and can't come.' My in- 
tended is two hundred miles off] and the moment my busi- 
ness here is arranged, I must set out in a great hurry to ba 
happy. Miss Milbanke is the good-natured person who 
has undertaken me, and, of course, I am very much in love 
and as silly as all single gendemen must be in that senti- 
mental situation. I have been accepted these three weeks ; 
but when the event will take place, I don t exactly know. 
It depends partly upon lawyers, who are never in a hurry. 
One can be sure of nothing; but, at present, there appears 
no other interruption to this intention, which seems as mu- 
tual as possible, and now no secret, though I did not tell 
first, — and alluur relatives are congratulating away to right 
and left in the most fatiguing manner. 

"You perhaps know the lady. She is niece to Lady 
Melbourne, and cousin to Lady Cowper, and others of your 
acquaintance, and has no fault, except being a great deal 
too good for me, and that 7 must pardon, if nobody else 
should. It might have been two years ago, and, if it had, 
would have saved me a world of trouble. She has em- 
ployed the interval in refusing about half a dozen of my par- 
ticular friends (as she did me once, by the way,) and has 
taken me at last, for which I am very much obliged to her. 
I wish n was well over, for I do hate bustle, and there is no 
marrying without some ; — and then I must not marry in a 
black coat, they tell me, and I can't wear a blue one. 

"Pray forgive me for scribbling all this nonsense. You 
know I must be serious all the rest of my life, and this is 
a parting piece of buffoonery, which I write with tears in 
my eyes, expecting to be agitated. Believe me most se- 
riously and sincerely your obliged servant, "Bvron. 

"P. S. My best rems. to Lord * * on bis return." 



LETTER CCXLY. 



TO MR. M00KE. 



"Oct. 7, 1814. 

"Notwithstanding the contradictory paragraph in the 
Morning Chronicle, which must have been sent by * *, or 
perhaps — I know not why I should suspect Claughton of 
such a thing, and yet I partly do, because it might interrupt 
Ins renewal of purchase, if so disposed; in short, it matters 
not, but we are all in the road to matrimonv — lawyers set- 
tling, relations congratulating, my intended as kind as heart 
could wish, and every one, whose opinion I value, very 
glad of it. All her relatives, and all mine too, seem equally 
pleased. 

"Perry was very sorry, and has re-contradicted, as you 
will perceive by this day's paper. It was, to be sure, a 
devil of an insertion, since the first paragraph came from 
Sir Ralph's own County Journal, and ibis in the teeth of 
it would appear to him and his as my denial. But I have 
written to do away that, enclosing Perry's letter, which was 
very polite and kind. 

w Nobody hates bustle so much as I do ; but there seems 
a fatality over every scene of my drama, always a row of 
some sort or other. No matter — Fortune is my best friend, 
and as I acknowledge my obligations to her, I hope she 
will treat me better than she treated the Athenian, who 
took some merit to himself on some occasion, but (after 
that) took no more towns. In fact, she, that exquisite god- 
dess, has hitherto earned me through every thing, and 
will, I hope, now; since I own it will be all her doing. 

"Well, now for thee. Your article on * * is perfection 
itself. You must not leave off reviewing. By Jove, I be- 
lieve you can do any thing. There is v\it, and taste, ant' 
learning, ami good-humour (though not a whit less sever* 
for that) in every line of that critique. 

* * * * * * 

" Next to your being an E. Reviewer, my being of th« 
same kidney, and Jeffrey's being such a friend to both, are 
among the events which I conceive were not calculatea 
Upon ui Mr. — what's his name?'s — 'Essay on Probabili- 
ties.' 



so 



LETTERS, 1S14. 



•But, Tom, 1 sajt-Oons! Scott menaces the Lord of 

,1,1^.' D umca «■>"* 

wave hash .upon "<* ■«*! 

_,;„.. 

' " 11.- ..^ i.r(.v',.klll" llll'l 



her virtues fcc &c. you "ill hoar enough ofthem (f.r she 

BakindofDnUerainihenorih,) without m; inmg into 

on u ci. liUwelllhaiomjrfusuofBUC* 

emorofc of that arucls 



.'mypartr- ' .ofasiar/uCplW 

:„.. a .... i '■'" "" b,r v -\ ... . ' 

Parker* ke was my 6 "" " ■ "<* 

rela ion I n I me,and I have scribbled 

and given it to Perry, who will chr le it to-morrow. 1 

; U „; sorry for him as could be for .■ 1 D< 

Bmce I was a child; but should not have wept melodiously, 

, i ,.,„ '.„ the request offri rid ■' . 

«] j,o I out of town and be married, but 1 shall 

lake Ne ad ... mj vaj .... I ) '-< '' l »» " 

Nottingham .....1 ac m ""' Aobey. 1 will 

tell you the day when I know it- Ever, etc. 

«f> s By the way, my wifc-elect is perfecuon; and I 
hear of nothing but her merits and her wonders, arid that 
she is 'very pretty.' Her expectations, I am I 
peal ; but what, I have not asked. 1 have not seen her 
.■I. months." 



UOII iiiiinr. jr> " 

... ,, T ' '. what n « " 

****** 

"Tour long delayed and i n Iwork— I sup]) 

will take nighl al 'The Lord of the Isles' and Spoil now 
I,..,,,, . . -i . I my say. iouougn 

tofearcomi « i and any >i Id stare 

who heard von were so Iremulouar-thougn, aflei 

lieveit is thesurosl sign of talent. Goodmoming. Ih n a 

, soon,bui I will write a lapsyou 

at Nottingham. Praj say so. 

np.S. If thi duclive, you shall name tno 

first fruits." 



LETTER t'i'XLVI. 

TO MR. BUST. 

"Oct. 15, Ml 
■itr DEtn iiu.nt, 

b] S end you - ■ game, of which I beg youi 

ance I ipecify ihe quanlil 

rwrter; a hare, a pheasant, and two hi 

which i • *>■ M J s,a% l "'"' ,: ' 

],,„. and [am in all I quittingil 

week on i ■) '" 'achangeol i 

,. „ i called i :1 '' tere ' ' ■'".'■"■"" 

tobemarri l;and im,ofcotirse,ina ihemi 

mpursuitol happiness, vlt intended] two hundredmdes 

off and the efforts I am mailing with lawj 

id, faMi econn 

,!,.,„! inveterate habifs, to say nothing ol mdoli 
prodigious! I sincerely hope you are belter ui 

,:,.,..,■ intit idlatelv.and that yo i 

will find you in fuU health to enjoj it Yoursovei 

J " I'.v ROB. 



LETTER CCXLVII. 

TO Mil. MOOH£. 

•Oct. 15, 1814. 
An' Ihnrewere any thing in marriage that would maki 

adiffeionce between friends i to, pat icularl) in your 

casej would 'none onV My agent aelsofffor Durham 
next week, and 1 shall follow him, taking News ead a id 
you ... my way. 1 certainly did not address Mi Mi - 
banke with these views, but it islikolj she ma) 
considerable parti. All her father can give, or li 

he will in mliei cliildl, n le, Lori Wjntworth, 

Whosebarony.itissupposed.willdevolveonl.j Milbaoke 
(hissisler.) .he has expectation . Bullhesewil depend 
,.,.,,! ndisposilion.whichseemsveryparlialtowards 

her. " i " ! I ■■'" ' >h " '" "'' 

,1, | „. | by • leclioneering, ai e. Pari ol ihem 

i , , her; bul wh titer (Aat will b 

, I w,— thou i '■"" l t0 

,lywill. Thelawyersa 
them, and I am getting my propel int. m n inialarray, 
and myself ready for the joume) <■■ Seaham, which I mu i 
make in ■ week nr ten days. 

« l a r-.Hi.lv did not dream that sin- was atta hed to me, 
whirl, n seems she has been for aome time. lal o 
her of a very cold disposition, in which I was also mistaken 
—ii is ii long stury, and I won't trouble you with it. As to 



LETTER i (XI. VIII. 

TO NK. 11KNKV DKUR.7. 

"Oct. 19, 1S14. 

"mv pear rmt'RV, 
« Many lhanks for your hitherto unadmowledged 'Anec- 
dotes ' Now for t i" mine— 1 -m going lo be married. 

andliave bcenen a edthi month. H isalongsb 

ther'el .re 1 • ' !l "' h ' 

|mo» it "II lately) a mi 

r have led since 1 
forlheoffs and ona in this now to be arran 
IVeat 

andnexl ' ""'-'■ lown '".f 6 *; 

ham in ihe ne« ' Jar suitor for a wife of 

mine OV n. . 

***** * 

«Ihoi I 

[saw him and hi* idol at Hasting. I wish he would be 
married at Ihe same rime. 1 should like to make a party, 
; in ., row, by (or rather through) 

• on ,, ter-s nan 

ing the shock at 1 havenol yet ipprrzed hunol Ihts. 

li,, ,,,,!.,.. uch .. si rious matter of all these ihulgs, and is 
, 'melancholy and genuemanUke,' that it is quite over- 
-uming tons choice spirits, 

*•..* * * 

•■•, :„ ) , . ne si dn'l be married in a black coaL I 

, blue bnej — lhat'a fiat. 1 hate it. 

« VulilS,&C." 



LETTER CCXLIX. 

i,. ui'.VELL. 

"Oct. 22, 1S14. 

* mv Dl 1 R l '•'.."•I 
■Many an I sincere thanks for yourl ind letter— die bet, 
was one hundred to Uawke, and fitly tc 

Hay (u : > receivedfr *chof 

the two former. 4 I sliallfeel much obliged by your setting 

« i i ' anj ■•' 

have ret - for wishing you to reco led us eh 

ible of what passed, and state ittoHodgson. Mj 

inn,- ago Mr. ' I » bet ol ma 

which [never ms le, and of course re I opay,andhave 

,, m ■ ,1 n : to pi went - ir mi lake* ,- my oth 

iect in wis ling you toren borwell what passed, and to 

put Hodgson in p issesa ryour inenjory on ihe subject, 

«I hope i i iei you - t »' mj "" "nrough Cambridge. 

Remember me to H. and believe me ever and truly, be 



Potli 



1W. 



• Heh»di.irr«odU) brfeil KM nu t« U» pcnoiiiiMoUMied.iliiwUI 
be ever iniury. 



LETTERS, 1815. 



61 



LETTER COL. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



* Dec- 14, 1814. 

* MY DEAREST TOM, 

*I will Bend the pattern to-morrow, and since you dnn'i 
go to our friend ('of the keeping part of the town 1 ) this 
evening I shall een sulk at home over a solitary potation. 
My selfopurioa rises much by your eulogy of my social 
qualities. As mv friend Scrope is pleased to say, I befceve 
I am verv well for a ' holyday drinker. 1 Where the devil 
are you '/ with Wodkidge, I conjecture — for which, you de- 
serve Knottier abscess. Hoping that the American war 
will last for many years, and that all the prizes may be 
registered at Bermoothes, believe me, &c. 

-l\ S, I have just been composing an epistle to the 
archbishop for an especial license. Oons! it looks serious. 
Murray is impatient to see you, and would call, if you will 
give bun audience. Your new coat ! — I wonder you like 
lite colour, and dont go about, like Dives, in purple.'" 



LETTER CCLI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Dec 31, 1814 
* A thousand thanks for Gibbon: all the additions are very 
great improvements. 

■ At last, I must be most peremptory with you about the 
print from Phillips's picture: it is pronounced on all hands 
the most stupid and disagreeable possible ; so do, pray, have 
a new engraving, and let me see it first ; there really must 
be no more from the same plate. I don't much care, my- 
self; but every one I honour torments me to death about it, 
nd abuses it to a degree beyond repeating. Now, don't 
answer with excuses ; but, for my sake, have it destroyed 
I never shall have peace till it is. I write m the greatest 
haste. 

•P. S. 1 have written this most illegibly; but it is to beg 
you to destroy the print, and have another ' by particular 
desire.' It must be d — d bad, to be sure, since every body 
says so but the original ; and he don't know what to say. 
But do do it: that is, burn the plate, and employ anew either 
from the other picture. This is stupid and sulky." 



LETTER CCLII1. 



LETTER CCLIL 



TO MR. NATHAN. 

"Jan. 7, 1815. 

r DEAR NATHAN, 

'Murray, being about to publish a complete edition of 
my poetical effusions, has a wish to include the stanzas of 
the Hebrew Melodies. "Will you allow him that privilege 
without considering it an infringement on your copyright? 
I certainly wish to oblige the gentleman, but you know 
Nathan, il is a gainst all good fashion to give and take back. 
I therefore cannot giant what is not at my disposal. Let 
me hear fruin you on the subject. Dear Nadian, 

"Yours truly, 
"By ron* 



LETTER CCLIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

■Halnaby, Darlington, Jan. 10, 1815. 

B I was married this day week. The parson has pro- 
nounced it — Perry lias announced it — and the Morning 
Post, also, under the head of* Lord Byron's marriage' — as 
if it were a fabrication, or the puff-direct of a new stay- 
maker. 

" Now for thine affairs. I have redde thee upon the 
Fathers, and it is excellent well. Positively, you must not 
leave off reviewing. You shine in it — you kill in it ; and 
this article has been taken for Sydney Smith's (as 1 heard 
in town,) which proves not only your proficiency in parson- 
ology, but that you have all the airs of a veteran critic at 
your first onset. So, prithee, go on and prosper. 

t( Scott's * Lord of the Isles' is out — ' the mail-coach copy 
I have, by special license of Murray. 

* ***** 

"Now is your time: — you will come upon them newly 
and freshly. It is impossible to read what you have lately 
done (verse or prose) without seeing that you have trained 
on tenfold. * * has floundered ; * * has foundered. / 
have tired the rascals (i. e. the public) with my Harrys and 
Larrys, Pilgrims and Pirates. Nobody but Southey has 
done any tiling worth a slice of bookseller's pudding ; and 
lie has not luck enough to be found out in doing a good thing. 
Now, Tom, is thy time — ' Oh joyful day ! — I would not take 
a knighthood for thy fortune.' Let me hear from you soon, 
and believe me ever, Sec. 

"P.S. Lady Byron is vastly well. How are Mrs. Moore 
and Joe Atkinson's 'Graces V We must present our wo- 
men to one another." 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

■Kirkby, Jan. 6, 1815. 
tt 17tc marriage took place on the 2d instant; so pray 
make haste and congratulate away. 

" Thanks f<>r the Edinburgh Review and the abolition of 
the print. Let the next be from the oUier of Phillips — I 
mean {not the Albanian, but) the original one in the exhi- 
bition ; the last was from Ule copy. I slwuld wish my sisler 
and Lady Byron to decide upon the next, as they found 
fault with the last /have no opinion of my own upon the 
subject. 

"Mr. Kinnaird will, I dare say, have the goodness to 
furnish copies of the Melodies,* if you state my wish upon 
the subject. You may have them, if you think them worth 
inserting. The volumes in their collected state must be 
inscribed to Mr. Hobhouse, but I have not yet mustered 
the expressions of my inscription ; but will supply them ji 
time. 

" With many thanks for your good wishes, which have all 
Seen realized, I remain very truly, "Yours, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCLV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Jan. 19, 1815. 
"Egad ! I don't think he is 'down :' and my prophecy — 
like most auguries, sacred and profane — is not annulled, 

but inverted. 

* * * * * * 

■ To your question about the ' dog'*— Umph ! — my ( mo- 
ther I won't say any tiling against — that is, about her ; but 
how Ion" a * mistress' or friend may recollect paramours or 
competitors (lust and thirst being the two great and only 
bonds between the amatory or the amicable,) I can't say, — 
or, rather, you know as well as I could tell you. But as for 
canine recollections, as far as I could judge by a cur of 
mine own (always bating Boatswain, the dearest, and, alas ! 
the maddest of dogs,) 1 had one (half a wolf by the she side) 
that doted on mc at ten years old, and very nearly ate me 



■ Tha Hebrew Melodies which he l»»d employed himself to writing 
AunuM hU recent nay in London- 

11 



• Mr Mowe had lust been reAding Mr. Soulhey's poem of " Rode- 
rick," and with reference lo an iiici.lrni ... it, Ud p«-t U» l«:iow n.e omm- 
[lon to 1 orf Byron-" I should like to know from t/ou, wltoone one ol ihe 
Pliiloeyiiic meet, whether il is ul all probable, thai any dog (onl of a mclo- 
drumel could recoenise n mailer, whom neither his own mother or mi«- 
UCMWU able to find out. 1 don't care about Ulysses'i doe, 4 c— all I 
want is to know from y -w (who art renown'd m ' friend of lb* dof, com- 
Ipaiiujuof U»t0«ir,| wnetoer»«ch»U.uuils t 'rob«tle." 



S2 



LETTERS, 1915. 



a; tw. nty. When I tJiought he was going to enact Argus, 
he bit away the backside of my breeches, and never would 
consent to any kind of recognition, in despite of all-kinds of 
bones which 1 offered him. So, let Southey blush, and 
Homer too, as far as I can decide upon quadruped memo- 
ries. 141 

K I humbly take it, the mother knows the son that pays 
her jointure — a mistress her mate, till he * + and refuses 
salary — a friend bis fellow, till he loses cash an 1 character, 
and a dog his master, till be changes him, 

"So, you want to kn >w about Milady and me? But let 
me not, as Roderick Random says, 'profane the chaste 
mysteries of Hymen'f — damn die word, I had nearly spelled 
it with a small h. I like Bell as well as you do (or did, you 
villain '.) Bessy — and that is (or was) saying a gnat deal. 

" Address your next to Seahani, Stockton-on-Tees, 

where we are going on Saturday (a bore, by-the-way) to 

see father-in-law, Sir Jacob, and iny lady's lady-mother. 

Write — and write more at length — both to the public and 

* Yours ever roost affectionately, a B." 



LETTER CCLV1. 



TO MR. 3IOORE. 



"Seaham, Stockton-on-Tees, Feb. 2, 1815. 

•I have heard from London that you have lefl ChatS- 
worth and all the women full of ( ciitusymusy'J about you, 
personally and poetically ; and, in particular, that ' When 
first I met thee 1 has been quite overwhelming in its effect. 
I told you it was one of the best things you sverwrote, 
though that dog Power wanted you to omit part of it. They 
are all regretting your absence at Chatswortb, according to 
mv informant — 'all the ladies quite, &c. &c.&c.' Stap nn 
vitals ! 

"Well, now you have got home again — which I dare- 
say is as agreeable as a 'draught of cool small beer to 
the scorched palate of a waking sot? — now yon have got 
home again, I say, probably I shall hear from you. Since 
I wrote last, I have been transferred to my father-in-law's, 
with my lady and lady's maid, &C. &c. &C and the treacle- 
moon is over, and I am awake, and find myself married 

My spouse and I agree to — and in — admiration. Swili 
says 'no wise man ever married; 1 but, for a fool, I think it 
the most ambrosial of all possible future staler I still think 
one ought to marry upon lease; but am very sure I should 
renew mine at the expiration, though next term were t> 
ninety and nine years. 

"I wish you would respond, for I am here 'oblitusque 
meorum obliviscen Ins et Mis. 1 Pray tell me wh it is going 

on in the way ofintriguery, and how the w s and rogues 

of the upper Beggars Opera go on — or rather good- — ui or 
after marriage; or who are going to break any particular 
commandment. Upon this dreary coast, we have nothing 
but county meetings and shipwrecks ; and I have this daj 
dined upon fish, which probably dined upon the crews of 

several colliers lost in the late «al"s. IJut I saw Uie sea 
Once more in all the glories of surf and foam, — almost equal 

to the Bay of Biscay, and the interesting white squalls and 
short seas Of Archipelago memory. 

"My papa, Sir Ralpho, hath recently made 
a Durham tax-meeting; and not only at Durham, but here, 
several times since, after dinner. He is imw, l believe, 
speaking it to himself (1 left him in the middle) over various 
decanters, wliich can neither interrupt him nor fall asleep, 
— as might possibly have been the case with some of his 
audience. "Ever thine, "H." 

"I must go to tea— damn tea. I wish it was Kinnaird's 
brandy, and with you to lecture me about it." 



LETTER CCLVII. 



TO MK. Ml'RHAV. 



■Sraham, Stockton-upon-Tees, Feb. 2, 1815. 
"You will oblige me very much by maknlf 

inquiry at Albany, at my chambers, whether my I ks Stc. 

are kept in tolerable* order] and how far my old woman* 
continues in health and industry as keeper of my ■ 
Vour parcels have been duly receiver! and perused ; bul I 
had hoped to receive 'Guy MRnnering 1 before Una time 
1 won't intrude further for the present on your avocations 
professional or pleasurable, but am, as usual, 

"Very truly, &c" 



LETTER CCLVI1I. 



TO MR. .MOORE. 



•Feb. < 1815. 

"I enclose you half a letter from * * which "ill explain 
itself — at least the latter part — the firmer refers to private 
business of mine own. Lf Jeffrey will take such an article, 
and you will undertake the revision, or, indeed, any portion 
of the article itself (for unless </"" do, by Phcebus, 1 will 

have nothing to do with it.) v. e i ai k up, be ween us 

three, as pretty a dish ofsoujvcrout as ever tipped ovar the 
tongue of a book-maker. * * * * 

"You can, at any rate, try" Jeffrey 'a inclination. Your 
late proposal from him made me hint this to * *, who is a 
much better proser and scholar than 1 am, and a \erv 
superior man indeed. Excuse haste — Answer this. 

"Ever yours most, "B," 

"P. S. All is well at home. I wrote to you yesterday 



LETTER ( "VI. I a. 



l u mk. HOORE. 



"Feb. 10,1815. 

" MV DEAB TIIOM, 

u Jeffrey has been so very kin 1 about me and my damn- 
able works, that I would ri"t l"' in lirect or emrivocal with 
him, even for a friend. So, h may I"' as well t>> t<-|| him 
that it is u >t mine ; bul that, it' I did not firmly and truly 
bi hove it to I"' much better than I could offer, 1 would 
never have troubled him or you about it. You can judge 
In 'tween you how far it is admissible, and reject it, if not 
of the right sort. For my own part, I have no interest in 
the article one way or the other,further than to oblige * *, 
and should the composition be a good one, it can hurt 
neither party, — nor, indeed, any one, saving and excepting 
Mr. ***'*. 

****** 

"Curse catch me if 1 know what H * * me i 

meaned about the demonstrative pronoun,^ hut I admire 
your fear of being inocul iled with the same. Have rou 
never found out that you have a particular Btyle of your 
own, wluch is as distinct (rom all other people, as I [afw of 
Shiraz from Hafia or the Morning I ' 

■So '."i, allowed B - * and such like to hum and haw 
you, i>r, rather, 1 .a ly Jersey 6ul of her compliment, and me 
out of mine.} Sunburn me bul this was pitiful hearted. 
However, 1 will tell her all about it when I see her. 

B Hell desires me to say all kinds of civilities, and assure 
you of her recognition and high consideration. 1 will tell 
you of our movements south, which may be in about three 
•eeks from this present writing. By-the-way, don 1 ! en- 
elf i iv 1 1 a veiling t-xp"diiion,as 1 have a plan 

of travel into Italy, which we will discuss. And then, think 
oi" the poesy wherewithal we should overflow, from Venice 



* Don Jnun, ranto 3, ulanwi 23, letter 92. 
1 The letter H in bWted in Uu MSI. 

J It WMthnsihul, according to hi« account, Mr. Graham, UW Celebrated 
■toseroarl actor uwkA rraqaeutly U> ironounce the word "enlhueiaMB.'* 



* Mrs. Mule, his hoii&ekei*|«r, 

t Some remark whldi had becu made with reepec: to the frcminit use o( 

It i MNiliv,- |.t i. I.uili hv Liinm-II I l,\ Nn \V. SCOU. 

; Veme u Ladj Jeraej (couulnlnj m elluel >g i i LonlByrau,) w).ich 
Mr. Moure had written, while at t'tuiewortli, but aflerwanie dteuoyau 



LETTERS, 1815. 



83 



to Vesuvius, to say nothing of Greece, through all which — 
Gud willing — we might perambulate in one twelvemonth. 
If I take my wife, you can take yours; and if I leave mine, 
you may do the same. 'Mind you stand by me, in either 
case, Brother Bruin.' 

"Auil believe me inveterately yours, B B." 



LETTER CCLX. 

TO BLR. MOORE. 

•Feb. 22, 1815. 

TesterJaVjI sentofTthe packet and letter to Edinburgh. 
It consisted of forty-one pages, so that 1 have not added a 
line; but in my letter, I mentioned what passed between 
you and dm in autumn, as my inducement for presuming 
to trouble him either with my own or * *'s lucubrations. 
I am any thing but sure that it will do; but I have told 
Jeffrey that if there is any decent raw material in it, he 
may cut it into what shape he pleases, and warp it to his 
liking. 

" So you toon 1 ! go abroad, then, with me, — but alone. I 
fully purpose starting much about the time you mention, 
and ali me, too. 

****** 

tt I hope Jeffrey won't think iriervery impudent in sending 
k * only; there was not room for a syllable. I have avowed 
* * as die author, and said that you thought or said, when 
I mel you last, that he (J.) would not be angry at the coali- 
tion (though, alas! we have not coalesced,) and so, iff have 
got into a scrape, I must get out of it- — Heaven knows how. 

"Your Anacreon* is come, and with it I sealed (its first 
Impression) the packet and epistle to our patron. 

"Curse the Melodies, and the Tribes to boot. Braliam 
is to assist — or bath assisted — but will do no more good than 
a second physician. I merely interfered to oblige a whim 
of Kinnaird's, ami all I have got by it was 'a Speech 1 and a 
receipt (be stewed oysters. 

■ Not in- ri' — pray don't say so. We must meet some- 
where or somehow. Newstead is out of the question, being 
nearly sold again, or, if not, it is uninhabitable for my spouse. 
Pray write again. I «ill soon. 

*P. S. Pray when do you come out? ever, or never? 

[ hope I have made no blunder ; but I certainly diink you 

said to me (after Wordsworth, whom I first pondered upon, 

u up) that * * and I might attempt * * *. ./fin 

invented me from trying my part, though 1 

should have been less severe upon the Re vie wee. 

"Your seal is the best and prettiest of my set, and I thank 
you very much therefor. I have just been — or, rather, 
ought to be — very much shocked by the death of the Duke 
of 1 lorset. VA •■ were at school together, and there I was 
passionately attached to him. Since, we have never mel 
— but once, 1 tliink, since 1S05— and it would be a paltry 
affectation to pretend that I had any feeling for him worth 
the-name. But there was a time m mv lift when tins event 
would have broken my heart ; and all I can Bay for it now 
is, that — it is not worth breaking. 

"Adieu — it is all a farce." 



LETTER CCLXI. 

TO MB. MOORE. 

■March 2, 1815. 

*HV DEAR THOM, 

•Jeffrey has sent me the most friendly of all possible let- 
ters, and has accepted + * y s article. He savs he has Ions 
liked not only, &c&c. but my* character.' This must be 

■ i ■!■■::—, ii 'n't you ;i^!iann'd i.f yourself, know- 
ing me so well ? This is what one gets for having you for 
a father couiessor. 



*itli ili? head of Anacroo, wh'cli Mr Hex 

t Sot HihiiS ol IdletKSS- 



s had given hiro 



fc I feel merry enough to send you a sad song.* You 
once asked me for some words which you would set. Now 
you may set or not, as you like, — but there they are, in a 
legible hand,! and not in mine, but of my own scribblino ; 
so you may say of them what you please. Why don't vou 
write to me ? I shall make you 'a speech'j if you don't 
respond quickly. 

' I am in such a state of sameness and stagnation, and 
so totally occupied in consuming die fruits — and sauntering 
— and playing dull games al cards — and yawning — and 
trying to read old Annual Registers and the daily papers — 
and gathering shells on the shore — and watching the growth 
of stunted gooseberry bushes in the garden — that I have 
neither time nor sense to say more than 

"Yours ever, " B. 

a P. S. I open my letter again to put a question to you. 
What would Lady Cork, or any other fashionable Pidcock 
give, to collect you and Jeffrey and me to one party? J 
have been answering his letter, which suggested this dainty 
query. I can't help laughing al the thoughts of your face 
and mine; and our anxiety to keep the Aristarch in gooc 
humour during the early part of a compotation, till we got 
drunk enough to make him ' a speech.' I think the critic 
would have much the best of us— of one, at least — for I 
don't Uihik diffidence (I mean social) is a disease of yours." 



LETTER CCLXIL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"March 8,1 SI 5. 

"An event — the death of poor Dorset — and the recol- 
lection of what I once felt, and ought to have felt now, but 
could not — set me pondering, and finally into the train of 
thought which you have in your hands. I am very glad 
you like them, for I Hatter myself they will pass as an imi- 
tation of your style. If I could imitate it well, I should 
have no great ambition of originality — I wish 1 could make 
you exclaim with Dennis, ' That's my thunder, by G — d \* 
I wrote them with a view to your setting them, and as a 
prevent to Power, if he would accept the words, and //uu did 
not think yourself degraded, for once in a way, by marrying 
them tn music 

"Sunburn Nathan! why do yon always twit me with his 
vale Ebrew nasalities? Have I not told you it was all K.'s 
doing and my own exquisite facility of temper? But thou 
wilt be a wan, ThorHas: and see what vou £et tor it. Xow 
tor my revenge. 

•Depend — and perpend — upon it that your opinion of 
* *'s Poem will travel through one or other of the quintuple 
correspondents, till it reaches the ear and die liver of the 
author.§ Your adventure, however, is truly laughable ; but 
bow could you be such a potato? You, 'a brother 1 (of tlw 
quill) too, 'near the throne,' to confide to a man's own pub' 
Usher (who has 'bought,' or rather sold, 'golden opinions' 
about lum) such a damnatory parenthesis! 'Between you 
and me,' quotha, it reminds me of a passage in me Heir at 
Law — ' Tete-a-trtc with Lady Duberly,I suppose' — ( No— 
tcte-a-tele with Jire hunrfrtrf people f and your confidential 
communication will doubtless be in circulation to that 
amount, in a short time, with several additions, and in several 
letters, all signed L. H. R. 0. B. &c. &c. &c. 



* The verses enclosed were UlOM melancholy ones, r.ow printed in hi* 
works, " Tt»ra '• noi a joy the world cm got like that it Ukei iww.' 1 

P B. t&J. 

t The MS. w,n in the hand writing of Lady Byron. 

{ These atlUhions to "a S|ieccli" nre connected with a little incident, 
not worth mentioning, Which Imd amused us both when I was in town 
He was rather food (and had been always so, as may be seen in hi* early 
letters) of tlma harping on some convent at phrase or joke. — Moor'. 

§ He here al ludes toa circt u < wl ill itetl to him 

in ■ preceding l titer. In writing to ra i the numerous ptu men of a 

•rail-Known publishing eaiabliahmi ni , (with wliii h I have lin >■ been lucky 
.■ii tugh to form a more intimate connexion,) I had mM confidentially, (as 
I thought,) in reference toa Poem thai had just appeared,—" 
you and me, I do not much admire Mr, * "s Poem." The letter being 
chiefly upon business, was answered through the regular business chaone^ 
Bud, to mv dlsmny, concluded with - la: — H'e are very 

sorry that you do not approve ui Mr. * "i new Poem, and axe your 
tiusV-iwui. 4.*. i« 1-. H. K. L'.ui. aC."— Movrt. 



LETTERS, IMS. 



64 

•Weleatc this place to-morrow, and shall stop on our 
way to town (in the interval of taking a house there) at Co 
Leigh's, near Newmarket, where any epistle of yours will 
find its welcome way. 

« I have been very comfirtaMe here, listening to Hal 4-<l 

moool IB, which elderly gentlemen call conversation, and 

is which my pious father-in-law repeats himself every eve- 
ning, save one, when he played upon the fiddle. ""' 
the? have been verv kind and hospitable, and I Bke them 
and the place v astly, and I hope they win 3»e many happy 
months. BeS is in health, and unrofad gwrf-huirwur and 
behaviour. But we are all in the agonies ..I packing and 
parting; and I suppose by this time to-nwtrow I shall be 
■tuck ui the chariot with inv chin upon a bandbox. 1 have 
prepared, however, another carriage for the abijail, and all 
the trumpery which our wives drag along with thern. 

" Ever thine, most atfecuuiiatcfy, "B. 



LETTER CCLX11I. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

•March 0,1815. 

«I meant to write to you before on the subject of your 
loss;* but the recollection of the usekssneas arul worthi- 
ness' of any observations on such events prevented me. 

■hall only now add, that I rejoice to sen you bear it so well, 
and thatl trust time will enable Mrs. M. to sustain it better. 
Every thins should be done to divert and occupy her with 
other thoughts and cares, and I am sure all that can be done 

will. 

"Now to ynnr letter. Napoleon— bat the papers will 
have told you all. ! quite think with you upon the subjl I '. 
and for inv rent thoughts this time last year, 1 would refer 
you to the last pages of the Journal I gave you. I can 
forgive the rogue for utterly falsifying every line of mine 
Ode— which I lake to be the last and uttermost stretch of 
human magnanimity. D> you remember the story ofa 
certain abbe, who wrote a Treatise on the Swedish Con- 
stitution, and proved it indissoluble and eternal? Just as 
he had corrected the last sheet, news came that Gustavus 
III. had destroyed this immortal government: 'Sir,' quoth 
the abU'-, ' the kins; of Sweden may overthrow the consti- 
tution, but not my book'. V I think of the abbe, but not will, 
him. 

"Makino every allowance for talent and most consum- 
mate daring, there is, after all, a good deal in luck i ir destiny. 
He might have been stopped by out frigates — or wrecked 
in the gulf of Lyons, which is particularly lempestuoo — <n 

a thousand things. But he is certainly Fortune's fa 

vourite, and 

Oner fairly «ft not Oil Ml forty of plcafmv, 

Taking towiu ■! hi* liking i, .el cnwoi M l,iol>i»nre, 

Pl Klh.i lo l.yi'ii. .ind P»ri» lie goea, 

Mskiug balU for Hie IsdUs, and ooie* lo kla &>«•■ 
Vou must have seen the account of his driving into the 
middle of die royal army, and the immediate affect of his 
pretty speech* And now, if he don't drub the alius, there 
is 'no purchase in money.' If he call take France by him- 
self, the devil's in'l if be don't repulse the uivaders, when 
backed by those celebrated sworders — those boys of the 
blade, the Imperial « .irird, and the old and new army. It 
is impossible not to bo dazzled and overwhelmed by his 
character and career. Nothing ever so disappointed me 
as his ahdicauon, and nothing could have reconciled me lo 
him but some such revival as his recent exploit ; though no 
one could anticipate such a complete and brilliant reno- 
vation. 

"To your question, I can only answer that there have 
been some symptoms which look a Utile gestatory. It is a 
subject upon wluch I am not particularly anxious, except 

that 1 think it would please her le, Lord VVentworth, 

mid bar father and mother. The former (Lord W.) isnow 
hi town, and in very indifierenl health. You perhaps know 

• ThodeaU, oi>»uifui.l goddaughter, Olivia Byroo Mu-»B. 



that his property, amounting lo seven or eight thousand a 
year, will eventually devolve upor. Bell. But the okl geo- 
lleinan has been so very kind to her and me, that 1 hardly 
know how lo wish him si heaven, if he can be cumin-table 
on earth. Her father is still in the country. 

"We mean to metropnbze to-morrow-, and you will ad- 
dress your next to Piccadilly. We have got the Dutchess 
of Devon's house there, she being in France. 

a I don't care what Power says lose, -are the property of 
the Song, so that it is not complimentary to me, nor any 
tiling about 'condescending' or •riotle auuW — both 'viln 
iilirases,' as Polonius says. 

» * * * * 

"Pray, let me hear from you, and when yon mean to he 
in town. Your continental scheme is impracticable for the 
present. I have to thank you for a longer letter than usual, 
which I hope will induce you lo tax my gratitude sull far 
dier in the same way. 

"You never told me about 'Longman' and 'next w'mlc. 
and I am not a 'inncslone.' ~* 



LETTER CCLXIV. 

TO MK. CIILKRinOE. 

" Piccadilly, March 31, 1815. 

" DEAR SIR, 

It will give me great pleasure to comply with your re- 
quest, though I hope there is still taste enough left among 
us lo render it almost unnecessary, sordid and interested 
as, it must be admitted, mam of'the trade' are, where 
circumstances give dieniau advantage. 1 trust you, lorn* 
pennit yourself to be depressed by the temporary partiality 
of what' is called 'the public' fir the favourites of the mo- 
ment ; all experience is against the permanency of such 
impressions. You must have lived to see many of these 
pass away, and will survive many more — 1 mean peison- 
allv, tor poetically, I would not insult you by a comparison. 

"If I may be permitted, 1 would suggest that there never 
was such an opening for tragedy. In Kean, there is an 
actor worthy of expressing the thoughts of the characters 
which you haw every power of iirtboaymg; and I cannot 
but regret that die part of Otrdonio was disposed of before 
his appearance at Drury-latic. We have nothing lo be 
mentioned in the same breath with 'Remorse' for very 
many years; and I should think thai the reception of that 
plav was sufficient to encourage the highest hopes of author 
and audience. It is to be hoped that you arc praci i ding 
iii a career which could not but be successful. With my 
best respects to Mr. Bowles, I have the honour lo be, 
-Your obliged and very obedient servant, 

"Bvrox." 

"P. S. You mention my 'Satire,' lampoon, or whatever 
vou or others please to call it. 1 can only say, that it was 

written "Inn I was very > ig and very angry, and has 

been a dlorn ill inv side ever since; more particularly as 
almost all the persons animadverted upon became subse- 
luently my acquaintances, and BOme of them my friends, 
which is 'heaping fketipon an enemy's head,' and forgiving 
me too readily to permit me to forgive myself. The (.art 
applied to you is pert, and petulant, and shallow enough; 

but, although 1 have long d ewaty dung in my power to 

suppress the circulation of the "hole diing, 1 shall always 
regret the wantonness or generality of many of its attempt- 
ed attacks." 



LETTER CCLXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 9, 1815. 
"Thanks for the books. I have great objection to your 



accused him of haying enlirvlv forgo! that, in o i-rereding Idler, 
rill, the Mrnr«. I.oogmaa 



• I had n 

I hod informed him of my inic, n U publish " 

iothc enauin» winter, and ad.k-.l that, n. going him ihn .nforimumn, I 
found I had hcen.— to uae no elegc.nl Irlili metaphor,— •' wtniluotf Jiga W 
a. milemoiuj."— JVtowra. 



LETTERS, 1815. 



89 



proposition about inscribing the vase,* which is, that it 
would appear ostentatious on my part ; and of course I must 
■send it as it is, without any alteration. " "V ours, &c." 



LETTER CCLXVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"April 23, 1815. 
■ Lord Wentworth died last week. The bulk of bis pro- 
perty (from seven to eight thousand per aim.) is entailed 
nn Lady Milbanke and Lady Byron. The first is gone 
to take possession in Leicestershire, and attend the funeral, 
&c. this day. 

***** 

H I have mentioned the facts of the settlement of Lord 
WVs property, because the newspapers, with their usual 
accuracy, have been making all kinds of blunders in their 
statement. His will is just as expected — the principal 
part setded on Lady Milbanke (now Noel) and Bell, and 
a separate estate left for sale to pay debts (which are not 
great,) and legacies to his natural son and daughter. 

"Mrs. * **a tragedv was last night damned. They may 
bring it on again, and probably will ; but damned it was, — 
not a word of the last act audible. 1 went {malgrt that I 
ought to have staid at home in sackcloth for unc, but I 
could not resist ihejrrst night of any thing) to a private and 
quiet nook of mv private box, and witnessed the whole 
process. The first three acts, with transient gushes of 
applause, oozed patiently but heavily on. I must say it 
was badly acted, particularly by * *, who was groaned 
upon in the third act, — something about 'horror — such a 
horror' was the cause. Well, the fourth act became as 
nuiddv and turbid as need be; but the fifth — what Garnck 
used to call (like a fool) the concoction of a play — the fifth 
act stuck fast at the King's prayer. You know he says, 
'he never went to bed without saying them, and did not 
like to omit them now.' But he was no sooner upon his 
knees, than the audience got upon their legs — the damn- 
able pit — and roared, and iinmned, and hissed, and whis- 
tled. Well, that was choked a little ; but the ruffian scene 
— the penitent peasantry — and killing the Bishop and the 
Princess — oh, it was all over. The curtain fell upon un- 
heard actors, and the announcement attempted by Kean 
|.,r Monday was equally ineffectual. Mrs. Bartley was 
■o frightened, that, though the people were tolerably quiet, 
the Epilogue was quite mandible to half the house. In 
slmrt, — vou know all. I clapped till my hands were skin- 
less, and so did Sir James Mackintosh, who was with me 
in the box. All the world were in the house, from the 
s, Grevs, &c. &c. downwards. But it would not 
do It is, after all, not an acting play ; good language, but 
no power. * * * ** . * 

Women (saving Joanna Baillie) cannot write tragedy; they 
have not seen enough nor felt enough of life for it. I think 
Scmiramis or Catherine II. might have written (could they 
have been unqueened) a rare play. 



ful, that I made no mention of the drawings,* &c. when I 
had the pleasure of seeing you this morning. The fact is, 
that till this moment I had not seen them, nor heard of their 
irrival : they were carried up into the library, where I have 
not been till just now, and no intimation given me of their 
coming. The present is so very magnificent, that — in short, 
I leave Lady Byron to thank you f >r it herself, and merely 
send this to apologize for a piece of apparent and uninten- 
tional neglect on my own part. "Youis, &.C. 1 



LETTER CCLXVIII. 



TO MR. HUNT. 



s It is, however, a good warning not to risk or write tra- 
I never had much bent that way ; but, if I had, this 
would have cured me. "Ever, carissime Thorn. 

"Thine, B.' 



«13 Piccadilly Terrace, May— June 1, 1815. 

*MV DEAR IU NT, 

I am as glad to hear from as I shall be to see you. We 
came to town what is called late in the season ; and since 
that lime, the death of Lady Byron's uncle (in the first 
place) and her own delicate state of health, have prevented 
either of us from going out much ; however, she is now bet- 
ter, and in a fair way of going creditably through the whole 
process of beginning a family. 

"I have the alternate weeks of a private box at Drury- 
lane Theatre ; this is my week, and I send you an ad- 
mission to it for Kcan's nights, Friday and Saturday next, 
in case vou should like to see him quietly : it is close to the 
stage, the entrance by the private-box door, and you can go 
without the bore of crowding, jostling, or dressing. I also 
enclose you a parcel of recent letters from Paris ; perhaps 
you may find some extracts that may amuse yourself or 
your readers. I have only to beg you will prevent your 
copyist, or printer, from mixing up any of the English names, 
or private matter contained therein, which might lead to a 
discovery of the writer; and as the Examiner is sure to 
travel back to Paris, might get him into a scrape, to say 
nothingof his correspondent at home. At any rate I hope 
and think the perusal will amuse you. Whenever you 
come this way, I shall be happy to make you acquainted 
with Lady Bvron, whom you will find any thing but a fine 
lady, a species of animal whom you probably do not affect 
more than myself. Thanks for the 'Mask;' there is not 
only poetry and thought in the body, but much research 
and good old reading in your prefatory matter. I hope 
you have not given up your narrative poem, of which I 
heard you speak as in progress. — It rejoices me to hear 
of the well-doing and regeneration of the 'Feast,' setting 
aside my own selfish reasons for wishing it success. 1 fear 
you stand almost single in your liking of ' Lara,' it is na- 
tural that I should, as being my last and most unpopular 
effervescence: pasting by its other sins, it is too little nar- i 

ive, and too metaphysical to please the greater number 
of readers. I have, however, much consolation in the 
exception with which you furnish me. From Moore I have 
not heard very lately ; I fear he is a little humorous, be- 
cause I am a lazy correspondent; but that shall be mended. 
"Ever your obliged 

and very sincere friend, 

■Byroh 

"P. S. 'Politics!' The barking of the war-dogs for the«r 
carrion has sickened me of them for the present." 



LETTER CCLXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAT. 

•May 21, 1815. 

• Vou must have thought it very odd, not to say ungratt 



• A large sepukhml vase of silver, presented hy Lord Byron , through 
Mr. Murray, to Sir Walter Scntt. H was full of deed mtn'a bones. and 
had inscription* nti two aides of the base. One ran thus — ■ The bona 
contained in ihis urn were found in certain ancient sepulchres within ihc 
land walls of Athena in the month of February, tall." The other face 
bean the lines of Ju»enai : 

" Eipende — quot li^ra< In dure mmmo inveniet. 
v — Mors vjU i»i»ui quant ula bo milium cur^uacula." — /up. t. 



LETTER CCLXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"13, Piccadilly Terrace, June 12, 1815. 
I have nothing to offer in behalf of my late silence, ex- 
cept the most inveterate and ineffable laziness ; but I am 
too supine to invent a lie, or I certainty should, being 
ashamed of the truth. Kinnaird, 1 hope, has appeased 
our magnanimous indignation at his blunders. I wished 



- Mr. Murrey had presented l.»<ly Byrou with twelve drawing!, by 
Sioihird, from Lord Byroo't foeiu. 



cSO 



LETTERS, 1815. 



and vrish you were mCornmittee, with all my heart.* ItjtelJ him that I am the laziest and moel in 
bo hopeless a business, thai the company of a friend moi 



would be quit' i bul more ofthis whi n •• 

In ill,- mean time, you intn ated to prevail upon Mrs. 

rself. I believe she has been written 
your influence, in person, or proxy, would probabl) 
her than our proposals. What they are, I know 

n *;all my new function consists in listening tothi d 

ndish Bradshaw, the hopes of Kiunair.l, ihi 
i i . „ i I ex, the complaints ofWhitbn 

, of Peter Moore,— all of which, and wh n 
at variance. C. Bradshaw wants to light the 
theatre with gas, which may, perhaps, (if the vulgar be 
I the audience, and all the Dramali* 

i ex has endeavoured to persuade Keai I 

to gel drunk, the consequence of which is, thai he bos never 
bi n :ober since. Kinnaird, with equal success, would 

ed Raymond thai he, the said Raym 

too mueh salary. Whitbread wants us to as i 
another sixpenccf— a il— d insidious proposition^— which 
1,1 an 1 1. P. combustion. To crown all, Robins 

caus, lie has no dividend. The villain is a proprietor of 
shar, , and a lorjg»lunged orator in the meetings. I hear 
hi hai prophesied our incapacity,— 'a foregone conclusion^ 
whereof I hope to give him signal proofs before we are 
done. 
■ w HI you give us an Opera? no, I'll be sworn, but I wis!, 

youw, ****** 

"To go on with the poetical world, Walter Scotl has 
gone back to Scotland. Murray, the bookseller, hai been 
cruelly cu Igellcdofmisbegotti n knaves, 'jo Kendal grei n,' 

at Newington Butts, in his way horn, ra i lieu dinner 

—and robbed,— would you bclieveit? — f three i 

bonds "I fort) pounds apiec ■. and a seal-ring ol bris grand- 
father's worth a million! This is his vorsio%— bul others 

,.| thai D'lsraett, with wl he dined, knocked him 

downwithhis last publication, the Quarrels of Authors, 1 
_i ng dispute aboul copyright. Be that as it may, the 

newspapers have te I with his 'injuria forrruc, 1 and he 

has I n embrocated and invisible to all bul theap 

ever sin 

"Lady IS. is better than I ed" her 

progress towards maternity, and, we hope, likely to go well 
through with it. We have been very little oul this season, 
is 1 wish to keep her quiet in her presenl situation. Her 
father and mother have changed their names to Noel, in 
. .,,, iancewith Lord WentwortMs will, and in complai- 
sance to the propi rty bequoathi i by him. 

"I hear that you have been gloriously received by the 
Irish,— and ra you ought. But do n't let them kill you with 

and kindness al the national dinner in youi I our, 

whii h, I hear and hope, is in contemplation. If you wi 

i the day, 1 'II get drunk my If on tliia si le of the 
water, and wafl you an applauding hiccup over the 
( lhann I. 

«Of politics, we have nothing bul the yell for v. 
Cast] res i is preparing his head for the pike, on which 

see it i ■ '""' I"' has d '• ' be ban has 

made evei Ik) I I" ai oftei '"' • '"" ,!1 

djrei i c radiction to thelioine stati men ol oui hirelings. 

Of domestic doings, there has been nothing since Lad) 

D**. Not a divorce stirnngf— bill a g I man)' in 

embryo, in Ihe shape ofm u 

« I enclose you an epi de received this momii 
know not whom; but I think it will amuse you. The 
writer must be ;i rare fellow. 

"P. S. A gentleman named IVAItnn (not j t Dalton) 

has sent me a National Poem called 'Dermi 

which prevented my writing to you opi rat, dagainsl 
my wish to write to him an epistle of dunks, [fyou see 
him, will you make all lands offine speeches for me, and 



"A word more; — don't let Sir John Stevenson (as nn 
evidence on trials for copyright, &c.) talk iiboui the i'ri.-e 
of your next Poem, or they will come upon you for the 
Property V'.u- fhr it. I tun serious, and have jusi heard a 
long story of the rascally tax-men making Scotl pay tor 
his. So, take care. '1 hree hundred is a devil ol a de- 
duction out of three thousand. 



LETTER CCLXX. 

TO MH. MOORE. 

"July 7, 1815. 

Grata Bupervcniet,' &c. &c. I had written |a you 

again, but burnt the lett.r, because I began to think you 

hurt at my indolence, and did not know how the 

buffoonery n contained might he taken. In th mean time 

ad .,il is wll. 

•Ihad given o leeof yours. By-the-by,roy, 

'grata supcrveniet' should be in Ihe pr sent tense; for I 

.,1 looks now ai il il applied to this presenl crawl 

reaching you, whereas il is I v 1 of thy Kilkenny 

epistle dial I ha' n intent. 

'Tiur Wliitbread died yesterday morning,— a sudd 
senre loss. His health had been waverbig, hut so fatal an 

attack was not apprehended. He dropped down, I, 1 

believe,never spoke afterward. I perceive Perry attributes 
his death to Drury-lanej— « oonsolatorj eno 
the lie., < lommittee. I have no doubl thai ' '. who is of 
a pleth "ie lull, ii, mil !■•■ bled immediately; and as 1 havo 
since my marriage, losl much of my paleness, and, — ' hor- 
resco rcferens* (for I hai ratefirt) — that happy 

slenderness, to which, when I first knew you, I bad ana I, 

I by no means sit easy under thi noftheMom- 

ing Chronicle. Every i musl rcgretthe loss of Whit- 

bn .id; Ii ■ was surely a greal and ver) [ I men. 

"Pans is taken for the second time. I presume it, for the 
future, will have an annivei ary capture. Inthelat 
like all the world, I hive losl a connexion/— poor Frederick 
Ihe I" -i of his race. I had 
.i , wnli Ins family, l"it I nevi r saw or beard but 

g lof him. Eiobhouse's brother is killed 

., ■' Ii i a I oi ' ol ' e ndi ' ' 

"Every hope of & republic is over, and we musl 
under the old system. Bul I am sickal hear! ol 
ami slaughters; and the luck which Provkl . 
to lavi !i mi Lord * *,is only a proof of the little value the 

upon prosperity, when they permit such 
he and thai drunken corporal, old Blucher, t<» bully their 
hetti ' From this, however, Wi Ilii ' be ex- 

cepted. He is a man, — and Ihe Scipioofour H 
frosts, which de 
die real dfte of the French army, for th ofWa- 

s rloo. 

"La! Moore— how you bla oul 'Parnassus' 

and 'Mo as!' J 

thing for the drama ; W eb » u Kinnaird's 

blunder was parti) mini . I >■ all things in the 

Committee, and so did he. Bul we are now glad you wen 
wiser; for » is, I doubt, a bitter business. 

"When shall we see ) n England? Sft Ral) 

(taeMilbanke— hedoi ■> ! •'■ Noelinahurry) 

finding thai man cairt inhabil two houses, has given his 

place in the I, to me tin a habitation; and there Lady 

B. threatens to be brought to bed in November. Sir R. 
and in, Lady Mother are to quarter al Kirby— Lord 

V, entworth's thai was. Perhaps you and Mrs. M 

will pay us a mil al Seaham in the course of the autumn. 
It's, , ,u,n ami 1 (»*»' rill take a to* to 

burgh and embrao ] Efrey. It isnot mueh above one 
hundred miles from us. But all dus, and other high mat- 



• Tin Commkue ol Maatfoi ut I)i ury-Uue Tu«air«. 



• Set CUkl^ H.uuUI, Oulo III— .tai.ui'a. 



LETTERS, IS15. 



S7 



«rs,wewill discuss at meeting, which [hope will be 01 
•-our return. We don't leave town till August. 

" EvlTj &c." 



LETTER CCLXXI. 

TO MR. SOTBTEBV. 

■Sept. 15, 1S15. Piccadilly Terrace. 
"HEIR sin, 
in 1 * is accepted, and will be put in progress on 
Kern's arrival. 

"The theatrical gentlemen have a confident hope of its 
success. I know not that any alterations for the Stage will 
be necessary: it' any, they will be trifling, and you shall be 
di ly apprized. I would suggest that you should not attend 
.111. except the latter rehearsals — the managers have re- 
quested me to state this to you. You can see them, viz. 
Dibdin and Ran, whenever you please, and I wUI do any 
thing you w ish to be done, on your suggestion, in the mean 
time. 

".Mrs. Mardyn is not yet out, and nothing can be deter- 
mined till she has made her appearance — I mean as to her 
capacity lor the part you mention, which I take it for 
granted is not in Ivan— as I think Ivan may be performed 
very well without her. But of that hereafter. 

"Ever yours, very tn.lv, "Byron. 

"P. S. You will be ./lad to hear that the season has 

begun uii well — great and constant hotiMs — the 

oners i.i much harmony with the Committee and one 

am ither, and as much good-humour as can be preserved in 

implicated and extensive interests as the Drury-lane 

propiietary." 



LETTER CCI.XXUI. 

TO MR. TAYLOR. 

" 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Sept. 25, 1815. 

"riEAR SIR, 

"I am sorry you should feel uneasy al what has by no 
means troubled me.* If your Editor, his correspondents, 
and readers, are amused, I have no objection to be the 
theme of all the ballad- ,-.— provided his 

lucubrations are confined to im: only. 

•It is a long time since things of this kind have ceased 
foTnght me from my propri tj ; nor do I know any similar 
attack which would induce me to turn again, — unless it 
involved those connected with me, whose qualities, I hope, 
are such as to exempt them in the eves of those who bear 
no good-will to myself In such a case, supposing it to 
occur — to reoerse the saying of Dr. Johnson,— ' what the 
law could not do for me, I would do for myself; be the 
consequences what they might. 

"I return you, with many thanks, Colman and the letters. 
The Poems, I hope, you jitenued me to-keep; — at least, I 
shall do so, till I hear the contrary. 

" Very truly yours." 



LETTER CCLXXJX 

TO MR. SOTHEBY. 

"Sept. 25, 1815. 

"dear sir, 

" I think it would be adviseable for you to see the acting 

ii convenient, as these must be points on 

you will want to confer; the objection I stated was 

merely on the part of the performers, and is general and 

not particular to this instance. I thought it as well to 

mention it at once — and some of the rehearsals you w ill 

doubtless see. notwithstanding. 

,1 rather think, has his eye on Naritzen fur him- 
self. He is a more popular performer than Bardev, and 
certainly the east will be stronger with him in it; 
he is one of the managers, and will feel doubly in 
if he can act in both capacities. Z\Irs. Banley will be 
na; — as to the Empress, I know nut what to sat or 
think. The truth is, we are not amply furnished with 
women ; but make the best of those we have, you can 
take your choice of them. Wc have all gn 
i 3 — on which, setting aside other con 
are particularly anxious, as being the first tragedy to be 
he old Committee. 
"By-the-way — I have a ch igainsl you. As the 

great Mr. I 'inns roared out en a similar occasion — 'I'-y 
G — il. that is my thunder! 1 so dr. I exclaim '27 
lightning!' I allude to a speech of Ivan's, in the scene with 
Peirowu.i and the Empress, where the thought and almost 
ion are similar toConracfa in the. Sd Canto of the 
I, however, do not say this to accuse von, but 
to exempt inyselffn in suspicion, as there is a priority i f sot 
months' publication, on my part, between the appearance 
of that composition and of your tragedies. 

"George Lambe meant to have written to you. If you 
don't like to confer with the managers at present, I will 
attend to your wishes — so state them. 

" Yours very truly, " Byron." 



• A Tr*eerly, bf Mr. Solhcbv. 



LETTER CCLXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY'. 

"Sept. 25, 1815. 

Will you publish the Drury-I 'Irlagpye T or, what is 

more, will u L .. fifty, or even forty, pounds for the copy- 
right of the said ? I have undertaken to ask you this ques- 
tion on behalf of the translator, and wish you would. >Ve 
can't get so much for him by ten pounds from any body 
else, and I, knowing your magnificence, would be glad of all 
answer. "Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCLXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Sept. 27, 1815. 

• That 's right, and splendid, and becoming a publisher of 
high degree. Mr. Concanen (the translator) will be de- 
lighted, and pay his washerwoman ; and in reward for your 
bountiful behaviour in this instance, I won't ask you to 
publish any more for Drury-lane, or any lane whi 
again. You will have no tragedj or any thing else from 
me, I assure von, and may ihink yourself lucky in bavin" 
got rid of me, fur good'and all, without more damage. Bui 
I 'II tell you what we will do for you,— act Sotheby's Ivan, 
which will succeed; and then your present and next im- 
pression of die dramas uf tiiat dramatic gentleman will be 
expedited to your heart's content : and if there is any thine 
very good, you shall have the refusal ; but you shan't have 
any more requi 

"Sotheby has | almost the words, from 

the third Canto ol i • h, you know, was pub- 

lished six months l>< fore Ins tragedy. It is from thi 
in Conrad's cell. I have- written to Mr. Sotheby to claim 
it; and, as Dennis roared out of the pit, 'By G — d,//.. 
thunder:' so do I, and will 1, exclaim, 'By G— d, il; 
liglitnir.gr diat electrical fluid beuig, in fact, the subject of 
the said passage. 

"You will have a print of Fanny Kelly, in the Maid, to 
prefix, which is honestly worth twice the monev yen have 
given for the MS. Pray what did you do with the note I 
gave you about Alungo Park '? "Ever, &c." 

LETTER CCLXXYI. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

"13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. 7. 1815. 

"MY DEAR HIM', 

"I had written a long answer to your last, which 1 p..£ 



An tuiack on Lord enj Loilr Eyron.in the Sun newspaper, otwlilct 
- Tiuflor was proprietor. 



m 

into the fire, partly, because it was a repetition of what I 
have already said, and next, because I considered what 
my opinions arc worth, before I made you pay double 
.as your proximity lays you within the jaws of 
the tremendous 'Twopenny, 1 and beyond the verge of 
franking, the only parliamentary privilege, (saying one 
other,) of much avail in these ' costermonger' days. 

u Pray don't make me an exception to the 'Long live King 
Richard 1 of yourbardsinthe' Feast. 1 I do allow him 4 to 
he ' the prince of the bards of his time, 1 upon the judgment 
of (hosn who must judge more impartially than I probably 
Ho. I acknowledge him as I acknowledge the Houses of 
Hanover and Bourbon, the— not the 'one-eyed monarch of 
the blind/ — but the blind monarch of the one-eyed, I merely 
take the liberty of a free subject to vituperate certain, of 
his edicts, and that only in private. I shall be very glad to 
see you, or your remaining canto ; if both together, so 
much the better. — I am interrupted." * * * * 



LETTERS, 1815. 



LETTER CCLXXVII. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

"Oct. 15,1815. 
"dear hunt, 

"I send you a thing whose greatest value is its present 
rarity;f the present copy contains some manuscript cor- 
rections previous to an edition which was printed, but not 
published, and, in short, all that is in the suppressed edition, 
the fifth] except twenty lines in addition, for which there 
was not room in the copy before me. There are in it many 
opinions I have altered, and some which I retain ; upon the 
whole, I wish that it had never been written, though my 
sending you this copy (the only one in my possession, unless 
one of Lady B.'s be excepted) may seem at variance with 
this statement: but my reason for this is very different ; it 
is, however, the only gift 1 have made of the kind this many 
a day. 

*P. S. You probably know that it is not in print for sale, 
nor ever will be (if I can help it) again." 



LETTER CCLXXVIII. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

"Oct. 22,1815. 

K MY DEAR HUNT, 

"You have excelled yourself, if not all your contempo- 
raries, in the canto which 1 have just finished. I think it 
above the former books; hut that is as it should be; it rises 
with the subject, the conception appeals to me perfect, and 
the execution perhaps as nearly so as verse will admit. 
There is more originality than 1 recollect to have seen else- 
where within the same compass, and frequent and great 

1 »s of expression. In short, I must turn to the faults, 

or what appear to be such to me: these are not many, nor 
such as may not be easily altered, being almost all wbal; 
and of the same kind as I pretended to point out in the 
former cantos, via. occasional quaintness and obscurity, and ■ 
a kind of harsh and yet colloquial compounding of epithets, j 
as if to avoid saying common things in the common way ; , 
difficile est proprie eorntnuiiia dieere,' seems at times to' 
have met with m you a literal translator. I have made aj 
few, and hut a few peneil marks on the .MS. whieli you can 
follow, or not, as you please. 

"The Poem, as a whole, will give you a very high station; 
but where is the conclusion '? Do n't let it cool in the com- J 
position! You can always delay as long as you like re- 
vising, though 1 am not sure, in the very face of Horace,' 
that the 'nonum, 1 &c. is attended with advantage, unless, 
we read 'months' for 'years.' I am glad the book sentf I 
reached you. I forgot to tell you the story of its suppres- , 



• Word* worth. 

♦ A copj or the Engliih Bardi ami Scotch Rtvlcwera. 



sion, which shan't be longer than I can make it. Mv mo- 
live for writing that poem was, I fear, not so fair as you aro 
willing to believe it; I was angry, and determine^ to be 
witty, and, fighting in a crowd, dealt about my blows against 
all alike, without distinction or discernment. When 1 came 
home from die East, among other new acquaintances and 
friends, politics and the stale "t the Nottingham rioters, (of 
which county I am a landholder, and Lord Holland Re- 
corder of the town,) led me by the good olfices of Mr. 
Rogers, into the soeiety of Lord Holland, who, with Lady 
Holland, was particularly kind to me; about March, 1812, 
this introduction took place, when 1 made mv first speech 
on the Frame Bill, in the same debate in whieh Lord Hol- 
land spoke. Soon after this, I was correcting the fifth 

editi f'K. B.' for the press, when Rogers represented to 

me thai he knew Lord and Lady Holland would not be 
sorry if 1 suppressed any farther publication of that Poem ; 
and J immediately acquiesced, and with great pleasure, for 
I had attacked them upon a fancied and false provocation, 
with many others; and neither was, nor am sorry, to have 
done what I could to Stifle that ferocious rhapsody. Thn 
was subsequent to my acquaintance with Lord Holland, 
and was neither expressed nor understood, as a condition 
of that acquaintance. Rogers told me be thought I ought 
to suppress it ; I thought so too, and did as far as I could, 
and that's all. I sent you my copy, because I consider your 
having it much die same as having it myself. Lady Byron 
has one; I desire not to have any other, and sent it only as 
a curiosity and a memento." 



LETTER CCLXXIX. 

TO AIR. MOORE. 

■13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. 2S, 1815. 
"You are, it seems, in England again, as 1 am to hear 
from every body but yourself; and I suppose you punctilious 
because I did not answer your last Irish l< Iter. When did 
you leave the 'swats country?' Never u bad, I forgive you; 
— a strong proof of— I know not what — tc give the lie to— 

' Hr nticr pardom who hitlh dofM tlir ITHMfl * 

"You have written to * *. You have also written to 
Perry, who intimates hope of an t tpera (rom vmi. Cole- 
ridge has pTOinised a Tragedy. Now, if vou keep Perry's 
word, and Coleridge keeps bis own, 1 burv-lane will be set 
up ; — and, sooth to say, it is in grievous want of such a lift. 
We began at speed, and are blown already. When I say 
( we,' I mean Kinnaird, who is the 'all in all sufficient, 1 and 
can count, which none of (he rest of the Committee can. 

" It is really very good fun, as far as the daily and nightly 
stir of these strutters and fretters go; and, if die concern 
could be brought to pay a shillil t * in the pound, would do 
much credit to the management Mr. has an ac- 
cepted tragedy, * * * * *, whose first seen.- is in his sleep, 
(I don't mean the author's.) I( was forwarded to us as a 
prodigious favourite of Keen's; but the said Keen, upon 
interrogation, denies his eulogy, and protests against \\m 

part. How it will end, ' know not. 

"I say so much about the theatre, because there is no- 
thing else alive in London at this wason. All the world 
are out of it, except us, who remain to lie in, — in Deceini>er, 
or perhaps earlier. Lady B. is very ponderous and pros- 
perous, apparently, and t wish it well over. 

"There is a play before me from a personage who signs 
himself 'Hraernicus. 1 The hero is IVlalachi, the Irishman 
and king; and the villain and usurper, Turgeshsj the Dane. 
Ths conclusion is fine. Tur ge siua is chained by the leg 
(mile stage direction) to a pillar on the stage; and King 
Malaeln makes him a speech, not unlike Lord Caslie- 
rcagh's about the balance of power and the lawfulness of 
legitimacy, which puts Turgeshn into a phreosy — as Cos- 
tlereagh's would, if his audience was chained by the leg. 
He draws a dagger and rushes at the orator ; but, finding 
himself at the end of his tether, he sticks it into his own 
carcass, and dies, saying, he has fulfilled a prophecy. 



LETTERS, ISIS. 



S!) 



* Now, this is serj'w.s, downright matter offset, and the 
gravest part of a iragcdv which is not intended for bur- 
lesque* I tell it you for the honour of Ireland. The writer 
hopes it will be represented: — but what is Hope ? nothing 
but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of 
Truth rubs it orf| and then we see what a hollow-cheeked 
harlot we have got hold of. I am not sure that I have not 
said this last super'i^e reflection before. But never tnmd ; 
i — it will do for the tragedy of Tuigcsms, to which I can 
append it.. 

u Well, but how dost thou do? thou bard, not of a thou- 
sand, but three thousand ! I wish your friend, Sir John 
Piano-forte, had kept that to himself, and not made it pub- 
lic at the trial of die song-seller in Dublin. I tell you w hy : 
it is a liberal thing for Longman to do, and honourable for 
you to obtain ; but it will set all the 'hungry and dinncrless 
lank*jawed judges' opoo the fortunate author. But they 
b>- d— d! — the 'Jeffrey and the Moore together are confi- 
dent against the world in ink !' By- the- way, if poor Cole- 
ridge — who is a man of wonderful talent, and in distress, 
ami about to publish two vols, of Poesy and Biography, 
and who has been worse used bv the clitics than ever we 
were — will you, if he comes out, promise* me to review him 
favourably in the E. R. ? Praise him. I think you must, 
but you wilt also praise him uWZ, — of all tilings the most 
difficult. It will be the making of him. 

" This must be a secret between you and me, as Jeffrey 
Blight nol like such a project — nor, indeed, might Coleridge 
himself like it. But I do think he only wants a pioneer, 
and a sparkle or two to explode most gloriously. 

"liver yours most all ec donate ly, a B." 



LETTER CCLXXX. 



TO MR. HUNT. 



• 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Sept.— Oct. 30, 1815. 

*MY PEAR HUNT, 

"Many thanks for your books, of which you already 
know my opinion: their external splendour should not dis- 
turb you as inappropriate — they have still more within than 
without. I take leave to di tier from vou on Wordsworth, 
as freely as I once agreed with vou; at that lime 1 gave 
him credit f-r a promise, which is unfulfilled. I still thmk 
lacity warrants all yon say of it only, but that his 
performances since 'Lyrical Ballads* are miserably inade- 
quate to the ability which lurks within him: there is un- 
doubtedly much natural talent spilt over the 'Excursion,' 
but it is ram upon rocks, where it stands and stagnates, or 
rain upon sands, where it fulls without fertilizing. Who 
can understand him? Let those who do, make him intel- 
Jacob Behmi-u, Swcdenborg, and Joanna South- 
cOto, are mere types of ibis arch-apostle of mystery and 
ism. But 1 have dnne, — no, I have not done, for I 
have two petty, and perhaps unworthy objections in small 
matters to make lo him, which, with his pretensions to 
accurate observations, and fury against Pope's false trans- 
of'the moonlight scene in Homer, 1 I wonder he 
should have fallen into: these be they: — He says of Greece 
in the body of his book, that it is a laud of 

* Rivers, fertile plnins, awl sounding shores, 
Dndei i cope ui variegated »ky.' 

The rivers are dry half the year, the plains are barren, and 
the shores still and tidtlcss as the Mediterranean can make 
them; the sky is any thing but variegated, being for months 
and months but 'darkly, deeply, beautifully blue.' — The 
uuxl is in bia notes, where he talks of our 'Monuments 
crowded together in the busy, &c. of a large town,' as com- 
pared with the 'still seclusion of a Turkish cemetery it. 
some remote place.' This is pure stuff; for one monument 
in oar churchyards there are ten in the Turkish, and so 
crowded that you cannot walk between them; that is, 
divided merclvby a path or road; and as to 'remote places,' 
men never take the trouble, m a barbarous country, to 

12 



carry their dead very far; they must have lived near to 
where they were buried. There are no cemeteries in 
'remote places,' except such as have the cypress and the 
tombstone still left, where the olive and the habitation uf 
the living have perished. . . . These tilings I was struck 
with, as coming peculiarly in my own way ; and in both of 
these he is wrong: yet I should have noticed neither, but 
tor his attack on Pope for a like blunder, and a peevish 
affectation about him of despising a popularity which he 
will never obtain* I write in great haste, and, I doubt, not 
much to the purpose, but you have it hot and hot, just as it 
comes, and so Jet it go. By-ihe-wav, both he and you go 
too far against Pope's 'So when the moon,' &c. ; it is no 
translation, I know ; but it is not such false description as 
asserted. I have read it on die spot ; there is a hurst, and 
a lightness, and a glow about the night in the Troad, which 
makes the 'planets vivid,' and the 'pole glaring.' The moon 
is, at least the sky is. clearness itself; and I know no more 
appropriate expression fbr the expansion of such a heaven 
— o'er the scene — the plain — die se"a — the sky — Ida — the 
Hellespont — Silnois — Scanaander — and the Isles — than 
hat of a ' llnud of glory.' I am getting horribly lengthy, 
and must stop: lo die whole of your letter I say 'ditto to 
Mr. Burki ,' as the Bristol candidate cried by way of 
electioneering harangue. You need not speak of morbid 
feelings and vexations to me ; I have plenty ; hut I must 
blame partly the limes, and chiefly myself: but let us forget 
them, /shall be very apt to do so when I see you next. 
Will you come to the theatre and see our new manage- 
ment .' You shall cut it up to your heart's content, root 
and branch, afterwards, if vou like, but come and see it! 
If not, I must come and see you. "Ever yours, 

" Very truly and affectionately, 

" Byrox. 
u P. S. Not a word from Moore for these two montlis. 
Pray let me have die rest of Rimini. You have two ex- 
cellent points in that Poetn, originality and Italianism. 1 
will back you as a Bard against half the fellows on whom 
you have thrown away much good criticism and eulogy; 
but do n't let your bookseller publish in quarto, it is the 
worst size possible for circulation. I say tliis on biblio- 
poticnl authority. "Again, yours ever, "B." 



LETTER CCLXXXI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

u Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. 31, 1815. 

" I have not been able to ascertain precisely the time of 
duration of the stock market; but I believe it is a good time 
for selling out, and 1 hope so. First, because I shall see 
vou ; and, next, because I shall receive certain moneys on 
behalf of Lady B. the which will materially conduce to my 
comfort, — I wanting (as the duns say) 'to make up a sum. 

"Yesterday, 1 dined out with a largeish party, where 
were Sheridan and Colinan, Harry Harris of C. G. and his 
lirother 9 Sir Gilbert Hea'hcote, Ds. Kinnaird, and others 
of note and notoriety. Like other parties of the kind, it 
was first silent, thentalky, then argumentative, then dis* 
putaiiouF, then unintelligible, then altogether}', then inar- 
ticulate, and then drunk. When we had reached the last 
step of this glorious ladder, it was difficult to get down again 
without stumbling; — and, to crown all, Kinnaird and I had 
to conduct Sheridan down a d- — d corkscrew staircase. 
which had certainly been constructed before the db 
pRferinenied Liquors, and to which no legs, however crooked 
could possibly accotnmodafe themselves. We deposited 
him safe at home, where his man, evidently used to the 
business, waited lo receive him in the hall. 

" B'itli he and Colmon were, as usual, very good ; but ] 
carried away much wine, and the wine had previotmlj 
carried away my memory ; so that all was hiccup anc 
happiness for the last hour or so, and I am not impregnate* 
wiili any of the conversation. Perhaps you heard of a lam 



90 



LETTERS, 1815. 



answer of Sheridan to the watchman who found him bereft 
of that ' divine particle of air,' called reason, — * * 
*****. He, the watchman, found 
Sherry in the street, fuddled and bewildered, and almost 
Insensible. 'Who are you, sir? 1 — no answer. ' What's 
your name?' — a hiccup. ' What 's your name V — Answer, 
in a slow, deliberate, and impassive tone, — l Wilber- 
force!!! 1 Is not that Sherry all over? — and to my mind 
excellent. Poor fellow, hit very dregs are better than the 
'first sprightly runnings' of others. 

'• My paper is full, and I have a grievous headach. 

K P. S. Lady B, is it* full progress. Next month will 
bring to light (with the aid of ' Juno Lucina, fer opemf or 
rather opes, for the last are most wanted) the tenth wonder 
of the world ; Gil Bias being the eighth, and ho (my son's 
father) the ninth. 8 



LETTER CCLXXXIL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Nov. 4, 1815. 

8 Had you not bewildered my head with the 'stocks,' 
your letter would have been answered directly. Had n't I 
to go to the city? and had n't I to remember what to ask 
when I got there? and had n't I forgotten it? 

a I should be undoubtedly delighted to see you; but I don't 
like to urge against your reasons my own inclinations. 
Come you must soon, for stay you won't. I know you of 
old ; — you have been too much leavened with London to 
keep long out of it 

"Lewis is going to Jamaica to suck his su^ar-eanes. 
He sails in two days ; I enclose you his farewell note. I 
saw him last night at D. L. T. for the last time previous 
to his voyage. Poor fellow ! he is really a good man ; an 
excellent man ; he left me his walking-stick and a pot of 
preserved ginger. 1 shall novel ear the last without tears 
n my eyes, it is so hot. We have had a devil of a row 
among our ball arinas: Miss Smith has been wronged about 
a hornpipe. The Committee have interfered ; but Byrne, 
the d — d ballet-master, won't budge a step, /am furious, 
so is George Lambe. Kinnainl is very glad, because — he 
do n't know why ; and 1 am very sorry, for the same reason. 
To-day I dine with Kd. — we are to have Sheridan and 
Colman again ; and to-morrow, once more, at Sir Gilbert 
Heallicote's. 

****** 

•Leigh Hunt has written a real good and very original 
Poem, which I think will be a great hit. You can have no 
notion how very well it is written, nor should I, had I not 
redde it. As to us, Tom — eli, when art thou out? If you 
think the verses worth it, I would rather they were em- 
balmed in the Irish Melodies, than scattered abroad in a 
separate song; much rather. But when are thy great 
things out? I mean the Po of Pos ; thy Shah Nameh. 
It is very kind in Jeffrey to like the Hebrew Melodies. 
Some of the fellows here preferred Sternhold and Hopkins, 
and said so; — 'the fiend receive their souls therefor!' 

*J must go and dress for dinner. Poor, dear Murat, 
wha'. an end! You know, I suppose, that his white plume 
used to be a rallying point in battle,* like Henry the 
Fourth's. He refused a confessor and a bandage; so 
would neither suffer his sou! or body to be bandaged. You 
shall have more to-morrow or next day. "Ever. &tc." 



LETTER CCLXXXm. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

8 Nov.4, 1815. 
•When you have been enabled to form an opinion on 
Mr. Coleridge's MS. you will oblige me by returning it, as, 
in fact, I hare no authority to let it out of my hands. I 

• See Foemt, p. 196. 



think most highly of if, and fuel anxious hat you should bo 
the publisher; but if you are nol, I do uot despair of finding 
those who will. 

"I have written to Mr. Leigh Hunt, stating your willing- 
ness to treat w ith turn, which, when I saw you, I understood 
you to be. Terms and tune I leave to his pleasure and 
your discernment; but :1ns I will say, mall think it the 
suftst thm^ yuu ever engaged in. I speak to you u a man 
of business: were I to talk to you as a reader or a l 1 

i\, il was a very wonderful and beautiful | I 

ance, with just enough of fault to make its beauties more 

remarked and remarkable. 

"And now to the last ; my own, which I feel ashamed of 
after the Others: — publish or not as you like, 1 don't care 
one damn. If you do n't, no one else shall, and I never 
thought or dreamed of it, except as one in the collection. 
If it is worth being in ttie fourth volume, put it there and 
nowhere else ; and if nut, put it in the fire. "Yours, 



LETTER CCLXXXIY. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Nov. 14, 1815. 

R I return you your bills not accepted, but certamlv not 

unhonnurcd. Your present r.tfW is a favour winch I would 
accept from you, if I accepted such from any man. Had 
such been my intention, I can assure you I would have 
asked you fairly, and as freely as you would give ; and I 
cannot say more of my confidence or your conduct . 

"The circumstances which induce me to pari with my 
books,* though sufficiently, are no) mm$£ahfy t pressing. 
I have made up my mind to them, and there 's an end. 

"Had 1 been disposed to trespass on your kindness in 
tins way, it would have been before now; but I am not 
sorry to have an opportunity of declining it, as it sets my 
opinion of you, and indeed of human nature, in a different 
light from that in which I have been accustomed to con- 
sider it. ■ Believe me very truly, fce," 



LETTER CCLXXXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Dec. 25, 1815. 
°I send some tines, written some fines ago, and intended 

as an opening to the 'Siege of Corinth.* I had forgotten 
them, and am not sure that they had not better be left out 
now : on that, you and yoUl Synod can determine. f 

• Yours, &c." 



FRAGMENTS OF LETTKRS WRITTEN ABOUT THIS TIME 
TO MR. HUNT. 

"With regard to the Enghsh Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers, 1 have no concealments, nor desire to have any, 
from you or yours ; the suppression occurred (I am assure 
as] can be of any thing) in the manner stated: I have 
□ever regretted that, but very often me composition, that is, 
the humenr of a great deal in it. As to the quotation you 
allude to, I have DO tight, nor indeed desire, to prevent il ; 
but, on the contrary, in common with all other writers, I do 
and ought to take it as a compliment. 

"The paper on the Methodists I redde, and agree with 
the writer on one point, in which you and he perhaps differ; 



* In convenience of hi* pecuniary rmharraument* at this time, be Knd 
expreued an intention of parting with hi» book*. On hearing thia, Mr. 
Muritiv imuiillv forwnr.ieil him UQOI.wllfa an assurance that soother 
! ! It nt his ferriee in u few met let, and that 
Ifauch uiiatancc ibould not be niflb Ecut, Mr. Motnywii mot* nsuJy to 
liapou of the copyrights of all hn ]<aal worka for hi* use. 

T Set Poem*, p. 131. 



LETTERS, 1816. 



91 



that an addiction to poetry is very generally the result of 
'an uneasy mind in an uneasy body;' disease or deformity 
have been the attendants of many of our best. Collins mad 
— Chatterton, / think, mad— Cowper mad — Pope crooked 
—Milton blind— Gray (I have heard tbat the last was 
afflicted by an incurable and very grievous distemper, 
though not generally' known) and others — I have some- 
where read, houevr, that poets rarely go mad. I suppose 
the writer means that their insanity etiervesces and evapo- 
rates in verse — may be so. 

" I have not had lime to attack your system, which ought 
to be done, were it only because it is a system. So, by and 
by, have at you. "Yours, ever, 

"Byron." 

"Of i Rimini,' Sir Henry Englefield, a mighty man in the 
bint- circles, and a very clever man any where, sent to 
Murrav, in terms of the highest eulogy; and with regard to 
the common reader, my siiler and cousin (who are now all 
my family, and the last since gone away to be married) 
were in fixed perusal and delight with it, and they are ' not 
critical,' but fair, natural, unaffected, and understanding 
persons. Frere, and all the arch-literati, I hear, are also 
unanimous in a liigh opinion of the Poem." 



LETTER CCLXXXVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Jan. 5, 1816. 
■I hope Mrs. M. is quite re-established. The little girl 
was born on the 10th of December last: her name is Au- 
gusta Ada, (the second a very antique family name, — I 
believe not used since the reign of King John.) She was, 
and is, very flourishing and fat, and reckoned very large 
for her days — squalls and suclis incessantly. Are you 
answered '? Her mother is doing very well, and up again. 
"I have now been married a year on the second of this 
month — heigh-ho! I have seen nobody lately much worth 
noting, except S * * and another general of the Gauls, once 
or twice at dinners out of doors. S * * is a fine, foreign, 
v.ilairious-looking, intelligent, and very agreeable man ; his 
compatriot is more of the petU-ma'Urc, and younger, but 1 
should think not at all of the same intellectual calibre with 
tli. Cnrsiean — which S * *, you know, is, and a cousin of 
Napoleon's. 

" A n- you never to be expected in town again? To be 
sure, there is no one here of the 1500 fillers of hot rooms, 
called the fashionable world. My approaching papa-ship 
detained us for advice, &c. &c. — though I would as soon 
be here as any where else on this side of the straits of 
Gibraltar. 

M would gladly — or, rather, sorrowfully — comply wife 
your request of a dirge for the poor girl you mention.* But 
how can I write on one I have never seen or known ? 
Besides, you will do it much better yourself. I could not 
write upon any tiling, without some personal experience 
and foundation ; far less on a theme so' peculiar. Now, you 
have Kith in this case; and, if you had neither, you have 
more imagination, and would never fail. 

1 Tin-, is but a dull Bcrawi, and I am out a dull fellow. 
Just at present, I am absorbed in 500 contradictory con- 
templations, though with but one object in view — which will 
probably end in nothing, as most things we wish do. But 
never mind — as somebody says, 'for the blue sky bends 
over all.' I only could be glad, if it bent over me where it 
is a litde bluer ; like the ' skyish top of blue Olympus, 1 wliich, 
by-the-way, looked very white when I last saw it. 

"Ever, &c* 



LETTER CCLXXXVH. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

"Jan. 29, 1816. 

•DEAR HUNT, 

1 return your extract with thanks for the perusal, and 
hope you are by this time on the verge of publication. My 
pencil-marks on the margin of your former manuscripts I 
never thought worth the trouble of deciphering, but I had 
no such meaning as you imagine for their being withheld 
from Murrav, from whom I differ entirely as to the terms 
of your agreement; nor do I think you asked a piastre too 
much for die Poem. However, I doubt not he will deal 
fairly by you on the whole ; he is really a very good fellow, 
and his faults are merely the leaven of his 'trade' — 'the 
trade !' the slave-trade of many an unlucky writer. 

The said Murray and I are just at present in no good 
humour with each other; but he is not the worse for that ; I 
feel sure that he will give your work as fair or a fairer 
chance in every wav than your late publishers; and wliat 
lie can't do for it, it will do for itself. 

"Continual business and occasional indisposition have 
been the causes of my negligence (for I deny neglect) in 
not writing to you immediately. These are excuses; I 
wish they may be more satisfactory to you than they are 
to me. I opened my eyes yesterday morning on your 
compliment of Sunday. If you knew what a hopeless and 
lethargic den of dulness and drawling our hospital is during 
a debate .; and what a mass of corruption in its patients, you 
would wonder, not Uiat 1 very seldom speak, but that I ever 
attempted it, feeling, as I trust 1 do, independently. How- 
ever, when a proper spirit is manifested ' without doors,' I 
will endeavour not to be idle within. Do you think such a 
time is coming? Methinks there are gleams of it. My 
forefathers were of the other side of the quesUon in Charles 1 
days, and the fruit of it was a title and the loss of an enor- 
mous property. 

u If die old struggle comes on, I may lose the one, and 
shall never regain the other, but no matter; there are 
things, even in this world, better than either. 

"Very truly, ever yours, "B." 



LETTER CCLXXXVIII. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

K Feb. 8, 1816. 

"Do not mistake me — I really returned your book for 
the reason assigned, and no other. It is too good for so 
careless a fellow. I have parted with ail my own books, 
and positively won't deprive you of so valuable 'a drop of 
that immortal man.' 

a 1 shall be very glad to see you, if you like to call, though 
I am at present contending with ( the slings and arrows of 
outrageous fortune,' some of which have struck at me from 
a quarter whence I did not indeed expect them. But no 
matter, ' there is a world elsewhere,' and I will cut my way 
through this as I can. 

"If you write to Moore, will you tell him that I shall 
answer liis letter the moment I can muster time and 
spirits? "Ever yours, "Bk." 



• 1 hnd mentioned to him, as a subject worthy of hi" best powers of 
pnthn», b melancholy event which htui just occurred in myunigl 

ci. I I li n I havi h". te if made allusion io out uf the Sacred MduJiet- 

** W'tey u#l for tw."— Mojre. 



LETTER CCLXXX1X. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Feb. 29, 1816. 

u I have not answered your letter for a time; and, at 
present, the reply to part of it might extend to such a length, 
that I shall delay it till it can be made in person, and then 
I will shorten it as much as I can. 

" In Uic mean time, I am at war ' with all the world and 
his wife? or rather, ' all the world and my wife' are at war 
with me, and have not yet crushed mc. whatever they may 
do. 1 do 0*1 know that in die course of a huirbreadifc 



92 



LETTERS, 18JP. 



existence I was ever, at home or abroad, in a situation so 
completely uprooting of present pleasure, or rational hope 
for the future, as this same. I say tin-, because I think so, 
nod led it. Bitt I shall not sink under it the more for that 
mode of considering the question. I have made up my 
mind. 

*By-the-way, however, you must not believe ail yea 
hear on the subject ; and donrt attempt In rf< fi nd me. If 
you succeeded in that,il would be ;i mortal, or aa immortal 
offence— who can bear n futatioD? i havebut a very short 
answer for those whom h concerns; and all Bus activity ol 
mys If and some rigorous friends have no) jn I food on inj 
tangible ground or personage, on which or wkh writ as I can 
discuss mailer-, in a summary way, with ■ fail preiett; 
though I nearly had nailed oru yesterday, but heevadodby 

what was judged by others — a satisfactory explanation. 

I speak of circulators — against whom I have no enmity, 
(hou"h I must act according to the common cods of usage, 
when [ hit upon those of the serious order. 

"Nowf.r other matters— Poesy, for instance. Leigh 
Buat^poemis adevilish good one — quaint, here and there, 
but with the substratiun of originality, and whn poetry 
about ii that will stand (he test, I do not say this bi cau» 
he has inscribed ii t«> me, which T am sorry for, as I should 
otherwise have begged you Co review it in the Edinburgh, 
ji is reaBy deserving of much praise, and a favourable 
critique in the E. K. would but do it justice, and Baft it up. 

before the public eye where it ought to be. 

" How are vou? and where? i have not the most distant 
alea what I am going to do myself or with myself— or 
where — or what. I had, a few weeks ago, some things to 
say, that would have made you laugh; but they teU me 
no\\ that 1 must not laugh, and bo 1 have been very serious 
—and am. 

'•I have ii"t been verv well— with a /it>cr complaint— but 
am much better within the last fortnight, though still under 
latncnl advice. 1 have latterly seen a hale of * * 

"I must go and dress to dine. My little girl is in the 
country, and, they tell me, fc a verv fine child, and BOW 
nearly three months old. Lady Noel (my mother-in-law, 
or rather, at law) is at present overlooking u. HerdaugblM 
(Miss Milbanke that was) is, l believe, in London with 
her father. A Mrs. Chartmont,* (now a kind of house- 
keeper and spy of Lady NOs) whoj in her belter days, was 
a washerwoman, is supposed I© be — by the learned — very 
much the occult i ause of our late domestic discrepancies. 

"In all this business, I am the su/riest for Sir Ralph. 
He and 1 are equally punished, though rnagu paretouem 
thiites ifl our affliction. Vet it is hard kir both to Buffi 
for the fault of one, and so it is — I shall be separated from 
lay wife ; he will retain his. u Liver, &.c." 



in the mean time I shall merely request a suspen 
opinion. Your prefatory letter to ' Kimim' 1 accej 



it was meant, as a public complimenl and a private kind- 
ness. I am only sorry that it may perhaps operate against 
you as an inducement, and, with some, a pretext for attack 
on the part of the political and personal enemies of both ; 
not that this can be of much consequence, for in the end 
the work must be judged by its merit-, and, in that respect^ 
vou are well armed. Murray tells me it is going on well, 
and, ve* any depend upon it, there is a substratum of 
poetry, which » a foundation for solid and durable fame. 

eclions (if there be objections, f.r tins is a pre- 
sumption, and not an assumption) "ill be merely as to die 
mechanical part, and such, as 1 stated before, the usual 
consequences of&i her novelty or revival. 1 desired Mur- 
ray to forward to you a pamphlet with two things of mine 
in n, the most part of both of them, and of one in particular, 
wntterkbefure often of my a m| i ring, which have pi 
them in puhUeaAm; they are neither of theni of much 

n, nor intended for n. Vou will perhaps wondej 
at my dwelling so much and so frequently on former sub- 

' scenes ; but the fa--t is, that 1 found them fading 
fast from my memory; and 1 was, at the same time, so 
partial to their place, (and -v. nts connected with it,) that 
I have stamped them while 1 could, in such colours a* I 
could trust to now, but might have confused and misapplied 
hereafter, had \ longer delayed the alUmpud deinn MtiooJ 



LETTER CCXC 

TO MH. IIUMT. 

"Feb. 26, 1816. 
"dear hunt, 
"Your letter would have been answered before, had I 
not thought ii probable dial, as you were in town for a day 

nr so, I should have seen vou; — 1 don't moan this as a hint 
at reproach for not calling but merely that of course I 
should have been very glad if you had called in your way 
home or abroad, as 1 alwavs would have been, and always 
phall be. Wiih regard to the circumstances to which you 
allude, there is no reason why you Bhoukl not speak openly 
tome on a subject already sufficiently rife in the mouths 
anil minds of what is called 'the world.' Of the 'fifty re- 
ports,' it follows that forty-nine must have more or less 
error and exaggeration; but 1 am sorrv to say, that on the 
main and essential point of an intended] and, it may be, an 
inevitable separation, I can contradict none. At present 1 
shall say no more, but this is not from want of confidence ; 



* Urj. Uuu-uiwui. s« fteiata p. ISS 



LETTER CCXCI. 

TO MR. MOOKE. 

"March 5, ISIS. 
"I nj-iice in your promotion as Chairman and I Lin- 
table Steward, &c. &c. These be dignities which await 

nly the virtuous. But then, recollect, you are s?.r~and<- 
//ir-Vy, (I speak this enviously— not of your age, but the 

honour — love — obedience — troops of friends, 1 which ac- 
company it,) and I have eight years good to run I. 
arrive at such hoary pt-rferiioii; by whi. h lime, — if 1 am at 
all, — it will probably be in a slate of grace or pro. 
merits. 

"I must set you right in one point, however. The faint 
was not — no, nor even the misfortune^ — in my 'choice' 
(unless in choosing "t id I) — G» 1 do not believe, and 1 must 
say "it, in the very dregs of all this bitter business, that there 
aver was a better, or even a brighter, a kinder^ or a mete 
amiable and agreeable being than 1 .adj B. I Dover bad, 
nor can have, any reproach to make her, while with me. 
Where there is blame, ii belongs to myself; and, if J cannot 

redeem, I must bear it. 

" Hit Dearest relatives area * * * * — my circumstances 
have been and are in a state of greal confusion — my health 
has been a good deal disordered, and my mind ill at ease 
for a considerable period, Such are the causes (I do not 
Bante then as excuse*) whjah Nave frequently driven n»e 
bto excess, and disqualified my temper l">r comfort. Some* 

tiling also may be attributed to the s: range and desultory 

habits wlujcb, becoming nt) own master at an early age, 
and scrambling about, over and through the world) may 
have induced. I still, however, think that, if 1 had had a 
fair chance, by being placed in even a tolerable situation, I 

ruighl have gone "it fairly. But that seems hopeless, and 

mere is nothing more to be sai I, At present — except my 
bed Mi, which i> better (it is odd, but agitation or contest of 
any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me up f>>r 
the time)—] have to battle with all hinds of unpleasant* 
nessos, mcluding private and pecuniary difficulties, &C.&C, 
"I believe I may have said this before to you, — but I 
risk repeating it. It is nothing tO bear the privations of 
adversity, or, more properly, ill fortune; but my pride recoils 
from its iwlignities. However, I have no quarrel with that 
same pride, which will, I think, buckler me thtotigh every 
thing. If my heart could have been broken, it wouid have 
been so years ago, and by events more aillicling than these 



LETTERS, 18IC. 



93 



■I agree with you (to turn from this topic to our shop) 
lhat 1 have written too much. The last things were, how- 
ever, published -'-rv reluctantly by ine, and for reasons I 
will explain when we meet. I know noi why 1 have dwell 
b on tiif same scenes, except 'bat * h nu " them fading, 
or cvnfu.tu i g (if such a word may he) in my memory, in 
the midst of present turbulence and pressure, and I fell 
anxious to stamp before the die was worn out. I now 
break it. Wi:li countries] and events connected with 

them, all my really poetical feelings begin anil end. Were 
I to try, I could make nothing of any other subject, and 
thai I have apparently exhausted. l Wo to him,* says 
Voltaire, 'who says all he could say on any subject.' 
There are some on which, perhaps, I could have said still 
more: but 1 leave them all, and not too soon. 

"Do you remember the lines t sent you ear Iv last vear. 
which you still have ? I do n't wish (like Mr. Fitzgerald, 
in the Morning Post) to claim the character of 'Vales' in 
all its translations; but were they not a litUe prophetic? T 
mean those hegmning 'There's not a joy the world can,'* 
£<.- Slcou which I rather pique mvself as being the truest, 
luMigh the most melancholy, I ever wrote. 

* What a scrawl have I sent vou! You sav nothing of 
ycurseUj except that you are a Lancasterian churchwarden, 
and au encourage* of mendicants. When are you out? 
ami bow is your family ? My child is very well and 
floii. ishing, I bear ; but I must see also. I feel no disposi- 
ng) to resign it to the contagion of its grandmother's society, 
though I am unwilling to take it from the mother. It is 
weaned, however, and something about it must be decided. 

"Ever, &.c." 



[The letter that follows was in answer to one received 
fr-.m Mr. Murray, in which he had enclosed him a draft 
for a thousand guineas for the copyright of bis two Poems, 
the feiege of Corinth and Parisina.] 

LETTER CCXCIl. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•Jan. 2, 1816. 

•Your offer is liberal in the extreme, (you see I use the 
word to you and of you, though I would not consent to your 
using it of yourself to Mr. * * * *,) and much more than 
the two poems can possibly be worth; but I cannot accept 
it, nor will uot. You are most welcome to them as addi- 
tions to the collected volumes, widiout any demand or 
expectation on my part whatever. But I cannot consent 
to their separate publication. I do nut like to risk any 
funi'- [whether merited or not) which I have been favoured 
witli, upon ^impositions which I do not feel to be at all 
equal to my own notions of what they should be, (and as 
I Batter mvself some have been, here and there,) though 
they may do very well as things without pretension, to add 
to the publication with the lighter pieces. 

"I am very glad that the handwriting was a favourable 
onnn of the morale of the piece: but you must not trust to 
that, for my copyist would write out any thing I desired in 
all the ignorance of innocence— I hope, however, in thL> 
iu > nice, viih no great peril to either. 

" P. S. 1 have enclosed your draft tarn, for fear of acci- 
dents by the way — I wish you would not throw temptation 
in mine. It is not from a disdain of the universal idol, not 
from a present superfluity of his treasures, I can assure 
you, that I refuse to worship him; but what is right is right, 
and must not yield to circumstances." 



LETTER CCXCIU. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 



"Feb. 20, 1816. 
•I wrote to you hastily this morning by Murray, to say 



lhat I was glad to do as Mackintosh and you suggested 
al> »ut Mr. * *. It occurs lo me now, thai as I have net i 
seen Mr. * * but once, and consequently have no claim to 
his acquaintance, dial you or Sir J. had better arrange it 
wiili lulu hi such u manner as may be least offensive to his 
feelings, and so as no! to have the appearance ofofficious- 
ness nor obtrusion on my part. I hope vou will be able to 
do this, as I should be very sorry lo do am* thing by him 
that may be deemed indelicate. The sum Murray offered 
and offers was and is one thousand and fifty pounds: this 
I refused before, because I thought it more than the two 
things were worth to Murray, and from other objections, 
which are of no consequence. I have, however, closed 
with M. in consequence of Sir J.'s and your suggestion, 
and propose the sum of six hundred pounds to be trans- 
ferred to Mr. * * in such manner as niav seem best to 
your friend,— the remainder I think of for other purposes. 
w As Murray has offered the money down for the copy- 
rights, ii may be done directly. I am ready to sign and 
seal immediately, and perhaps it had better not be delayed. 
1 shall feel very glad if it can be of any u^e to * * ; only 
don't let him be plagued, nor think himself obbged and all 
that, winch makes people hate one another, &c. 

" Yours, very truly, * B * 



LETTER CCXCIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

K Feb.22,1816. 

"When the sum offered by you. and even pressed by 
you, was declined, it was with re r eience to a separate 
publication, as you know and I know. That it was large, 
I admitted and admit; and that made part of mv conside- 
ration in refusing it, till I knew belter what you were likely 
to make of it. AYiuS regard to what is past, or is to pass, 
ab. 'ut Mr. * *, the case is in no respeel different from the 
transfer of former copyrights to Mr. Dallas. Had I taken 
you at your word, that is, taken your money, I might have 
used it as I pleased ; and it could be in no respect different 
to you whether I paid it to a w — , or a hospital, or assisted 
a i.. in of talent in distress. The truth of the matter 
seems this: you offered more than the poems are worth, 
I said so, and I think so; but you know, or at least ought to 
know, your own business best ; and when you recollect 
what passed between you and me upon pecuniary subjects 
before this occurred, you w ill acquit me of any wish lo take 
advantage of your imprudence. 

"The things in question shall not be published at all, jnj 
there is an end ufthe matter. a Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXCV. 



TO MR. JIIRRAV. 



"March 6, 1816. 



* 6m i .■■-■'•'* , \- iyi, 



" I Bent to you to-day for this reason — the books you 
purchased are again seized, and, as matters stand, had much 
better be sold at once by public auctiou. I wish to see 
you, to return your bill for them; wliich, thank God, is 
neither due nor paid. Thai part, as far as you are con- 
cerned, being settled, (which it can he, and shall be, when 
I see you to-morrow,) I have 00 further delicacy about die 
matter. Tins is about the tenth execution in as many 
mouths; so I am pretty well hardened ; but it is tit I should 
pay the forfeit of my forefather's extravagance and my 
own; and whatever mv faults may be, 1 suppose they will 
be pretty well expiated in lime — or eternity. 

a Ever,&c. 

"P. S. I need hardly say that I knew nothing till this 
day of the new seizure. I had released them from former 
ones, and thought, when you took them, that they were 
yours. 
1 * You shall have your bill again to-morrow, 8 



94 



LETTERS, 



1610. 



LETTER CCXCVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Feb. 3, 1816. 

* I sent for ' Marmion,' which I return, because it occurred 
to mr. then- might be a resemblance between part of 'Pa- 
n-ipj.' and a similar scene in Canto '2 oftManmon. 1 I fear 
there is, though 1 never thought of it before, ami could hardly 
wish to imitate that which is inimitable. I wish you would 
ask .Mr. Gilford whether I ought to say ai.y Uini^ upon n ; 
— I had completed the story on the passage fn-m Gibbon, 
which indeed leads to a like scene naturally, without a 
thought of the kind: but it conies upon me not very com- 
fortably. 

"There are a few words and phrases I want to alter in 
the MS. and should like to do it before you print, and will 
return it in an hour. " Yours ever." 



LETTER CCXCVH. 



TO MK. MUKHAV. 



■Feb. £0,1816. 



* To return to our business — your epistles are vastly 
agreeable. With regard to the observations on careless- 
ness, &c. I think, with all humility, that the gentle reader 
has considered a rather uncommon, and designedly irregu- 
lar, versification fur haste ami negligence. The measure 
is not that uf any of the other poems, which (I believe) 
were allowed to be tolerably cor reel, according to Bvsslie 
and the fingers — or ears — by which bards write, and readers 
reckon. Great part of the 'Siege 5 is in (1 ihink) what the 
learned railed Anapests, (though 1 am not sure, being 
heinously forgetful ot my metres and my ' Grudus',) and 
many of the lines intentionally longer or shorter than its 
rhyming companion; and rhyme also occurring at greater 
or less intervals of caprice or convenience. 

u I mean not to say that tin-, is right or good, hut merely 
Jiat I could have been smoother, had it appeared to me of 
advantage; and that I was not otherwise without being 
aware of the deviation, though I now feel sorry for it, as I 
would undoubtedly rather please than not. My wish has 
been to try at something different from my former efforts; 
as I endeavoured to make them differ from each other. 
The versification of the 'Corsair' is not that of 'Lara;' nor 
the '< riaour 1 that of the 'Bride:' 'Childe Harold' is again 
varied from these; and I strove to vary the last somewhat 
from aU of the others. 

" Excuse all this d — d nonsense and egotism. The fact 
is, that I am rather- trying to think on the subject of this 
note, than really thinking on it. — I did not know you had 
called: you are always admitted and welcome when you 
choose. " Yours, &c. &c. 

"P. S. You need not he in any apprehension or grief on 
my account: were I to be beaten down by the world and 
its inheritors, I should have succumbed to many tlnn L - 
ycars ago. You must not mistake my not bullying for 
den ill. .ti ; nor imagine thai because I feel, I ain to faint: — 
but enough for the present. 

U I am sorry for Sotheby's row. What the devil is it 
about? I thought it all settled ; and if I can do any thing 
about him or Ivan still, I am ready and willing. I do not 

iliink it proper for me just now to be i h behind the 

scenes, but I will see the committee and move upon it, if 
Solheby likes. 

u If you see Mr. Sotheby, will you tell him that I wrote 
to Mr. I loleridge, on getting Mr. Sotheby's note, and have, 
I hope, done what Mr. S. wished on that subject?" 



LETTER CCXCVIII. 

TO UK. ROGERS. 

"March 25, 1816. 
■You are one of the few persons with whom I have lived 



in what is called intimacy, and have heard me at Umos 
conversing on the untoward topic of my recent fanniy 
disquietudes. Will you have the goodness to say to me at 
once, whether you ever heard me speak of her with dis- 
respect, with unkindiiess or defending myself at fur expense 
by any serious impotalion of any description agiunst hwt 

Did you never hear me say, 'that when there was a right 

or a wroug, she had the rigid/ 1 — The reason 1 put than 
questions to you or others of my friends is because I arn 
said, by her and hers, to have resorted to bui b means of 
exculpation. "Ever very truly your*, b B. B 



LETTER CCXCIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ouchy, near Lausanne, June 27, 1816. 

a I am thus far (kepi by stress of weather) on nrj way 
back to 1 tiodali, (near Geneva,) from a voyage in my boat 
round the lake; and I enclose you a sprig of Gfooon's 
acacia and some rose leaves from liis garden, which, with 
part of his house, 1 have just seen. You will find honour- 
able mention, in his Life, made of this 'acacia,' when he 
walked out on the night of concluding his history. The 
garden and su.-nmtr house, where lie composed, arc ne- 
glected, and the last Utterly decayed; but they still show it 
as his 'cabinet, 1 and seem perfectly aware of his memory. 

"Mj route, through Flanders, and by the Rhine, to Swit- 
zerland, was all 1 expected and more. 

"1 have traversed all Rousseau's ground, with the Heloiso 
before me, and am struck to a degree that I cannot express 
will i the force and accuracy uf his descriptions, and the 
beauty oftheir reality. Meillerie^Clarena, and Vevay,and 

the Chateau de Chillon, are places of which 1 shall say 
little, because all I could say must fall short of the impres- 
sions they stamp.* 

"Three days ago, we were nearly wrecked in a squall 
otf Meillerie, and driven to shore. 1 ran no risk, being 
so near the rocks, and a good swimmer; but our party 
were wet, and incommoded a good deal. The wind was 
strong enough to blow down some trees, u we li>und at 
landing ; however, all is righted and right, and we are thus 
far on our return. 

"Dr. Polidori is not here, but at Diodati, left behind in 
the hospital with a sprained ankle, which he acquired in 
tumbling from a wall — he can't jump. 

"I shall be glad to hear you arc well, and have received 
for me certain helms and swords, sent from Waterloo, 
which I rode over with pain and pleasure. 

"I have finished a thud Canto l<C Childe Harold, (con- 
sisting of one hundred and seventeen stanzas,) longer than 
either of the tWO former, and in some pails, it may be, 
better; but of course on that 1 cannot determine. I shall 

send it l»v the first safe-looking opportunity. 

•Ever.&c." 



LETTER CCC. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



ft Diodati, near Geneva, July 22, 1816. 
T wrote to you a few weeks ago, and Dr. Polidori 

received your tetter; but the packet has not made iis 
appearance, nor the epistle, of which VOU gave notice 
therein. 1 enclose you an advertisement,^ which was 
copied by I >r. ! 'olidori, and which appears to be about the 
most impudent imposition thai ever i sued from Grub- 
street 1 need hardly say that I know nothing of all this 



* Sec noU-iloSd Canto of Chilili' HnruM, 

t The follow me win the tdVHtlttmtBt etido»»d : 

" Neatly nrtnmn' 111(1 tint pmwirl.Ts' Bit 

" Lord fly nm '■ Farawtltto England, with three other i nu — Ode to 

Si. Ilcltim, i" \lv Daughter <■* bsr Birthday, end to the l.ilv ..(" France. 
" Prune! I.v J. Johnston, (/henusidc. 335 ; Oafonl, 9 
Tin ftbOYC •.,,■;■ P ■ ■. i ■ [j ii, [creel, 

as ttle probable thsywlllni thslnetol u* author's that will afi'cur 'a 
£u£laod."— rTbe> were wmiui by s Mr, Jolm aggj 



LETTERS, 1816. 



05 



trash, nor whence it may spring, — 'Odes to St. Helena,' 
' Farewells to England,' &c. &c. — and if it can be dis- 
avowed, or is worth disavowing, you have full authority to 
iio so. X never wrote, nor conceived, a line on any thintf 
of the kind, any more than of two other things with which 
I ma saddled — something about 'Gaul,' and another about 
'.Mrs. La Valeric' and as to the 'Lily of France, 1 I should 
a won think of celebrating a turnip. 'On the morning of 
my daughter's birth,' I had other tilings to think of than 
verses; and should never have dreamed of such an inven- 
tion, till Mr. Jolinston and his pamphlet's advertisement 
broke in upon me with a new light on the crafts and subtle- 
ties of the demon of printing, — or rather publishing. 

" I did hope that some succeeding lie would have super- 
seded the thousand and one which were accumulated 
during last winter. I can forgive whatever may be said of 
or against me, but not what they make me say or sing for 
myself. Jt is enough to answer for what I have written; 
but it were too much fir Job himself to bear what one has 
not. I suspect that when the Arab patriarch wished that 
his 'enemy had written a book,' he did not anticipate his 
own name on the title-page. I feel quite as much bored 
with this foolery as it deserves, and more than I should be 
if I had not a headach. 

*Of Glenarvon,* Madame de Stael told me (ten days 
ago, at Copet) marvellous and grievous tilings; but I have 
seen nothing of it but the motto, which promises amiably 
'for us and for our tragedy.' If such be the posy, what 
should the rinu lie . ? — 'a name toallsucceeding,'! &c. The 
generous moment selected for die publication is probably 
its kindest accompaniment, and — truth to say — the time 
was well chosen. I have not even a guess at the contents, 
except from the very vague accounts I have heard. 



K I ought to be ashamed of the egotism of this letter. It 
is not my fault altogether, and I shall be but too happy to 
drop the subject, when others will allow me. 

"I am in tolerable plight, and in my last letter told you 
what I had done in the way of all rhyme. I trust that you 
prosper, and that your authors are in good condition. I 
should suppose your stud has received some increase by 
what I hear. BertramJ must be a good horse ; does he 
run next meeting? I hope you will beat the Row. 

"Yours alway, &c." 



LETTER CCCI. 



TO MR. ROGERS. 



"Diodati, near Geneva, July 29, 1S16. 

B Do you recollect a book, Mathieson's Letters, which 
you lent me, which I have still, and yet hope to return to 
your library? Well, I have encountered at Copet and 
elsewhere Grays correspondent, that same Bonstetten, to 
whom I lent die translation of his correspondents epistles 
for a few days; but all he could remember of Gray amounts 
to little, except that he was the most 'melancholy and 
gentlemanlike' of all possible poets. Bonstetten himself is 
a fine and very lively old man, and much esteemed by his 
compatriots; he is also a lUUrateuT of good repute, and all 
his friends have a mania of addressing to him volumes of 
letters — Mauueson, Mufler the historian, &c. &c. He is 
a good deal at Copet, where I have met him a few times. 
All there are well, except Rocca, who, I am sorry to say, 
looks in a very bad state of health. Schlegel is in high 
for*-' 1 , and Madame as brilliant as ever. 

8 1 came here by the Netherlands and the Rhine route, 
and Basle, Berne, Morat, and Lausanne. I have circum- 



• A Novel, by Lady Caroline Lamb : Lord Byron, under another name 
ire* one of it* principal characters. 
1 The motto is- 

" He left a name '" til •nfrpedinj: times, 
Link 'd with one virtue and a thousand crime*." 
bbtnrio'a Tragedy 



navigated the Lake, and go to Chamouni with the first fair 
weather; but really we have had lately such stupid mists, 
fog?, and perpetual density, that one would think Castle- 
reagh had the Foreign Affairs of the kingdom of Heaven 
also on his hands. I need say nothing to you of these 
parts, you having traversed them already. I do not think 
of Italy before September.. I have read Glenarvon, and 
have also seen Ben. Constant's Adolphe, and his preface, 
denying the real people. It is a work which leaves an 
unpleasant impression, but very consistent with the conse- 
quences of not being in love, which is perhaps as disagree- 
able as any thing, except being so. 1 doubt, however, 
whether all such liens (as he calls them) terminate so 
wretchedly as his hero and heroine's. 

" There is a third Canto (a longer than either of the 
former) of Childe Harold finished, and some smaller things, 
— among them a story on the Chateau de Chillon; I only 
wait a good opportunity to transmit them to the grand 
Murray, who, I hope, flourishes. Where is Moore ? Why 
is he not out? My love to him, and my perfect conside- 
ration and remembrances to all, particularly to Lord and 
Lady Holland, and to your Dutchess of Somerset. 

"Ever, &c. 

"P. S. I send you a.fac simile, a note of Bonstetten's, 
dunking you might like to see the hand uf Gray's corre 
spondent." 



LETTER CCCII. 

TO MR. MURRAY, 

"Diodati, Sept. 29, 1816. 
I am very much flattered by Mr. Ginord's good opinion 
of the MSS.* and shall be still more so, if it answers youi 
expectations and justifies his kindness. I liked it myself, 
but that must go for nothing. The feelings with which 
most of it was written need not be envied me. With 
regard to the price, / fixed none, but left it to Mr. Kinnaird, 
Mr. Shelley, and yourself, to arrange. Of course, they 
would do their best ; and as to yourself, I knew you would 
make no difficulties. But I agree with Mr. Kinnaird 
perfectly, that the concluding Jive hundred should be only 
conditional; and for my own sake, I wish it to be added, 
only in case of your selling a certain number, that number 
to be fixed by yourself. I hope this is fair. In every thing 
of this kind there must be nsk; and till that be past, in one 
way or the other, I would not .willingly add to it, particularly 
in times like the present. And pray always recollect that 
nothing could mortify me more — no failure on my own part 
— than having made you lose by any purchase from me. 

"The Monody t was written by request of Mr. Kinnaird 
for the theatre. I did as well as I could ; but where I have 
not my choice, 1 pretend to answer for nothing. Mr. 
Hobhouse and myself are just returned from a journev of 
lakes and mountains. We have been to the Grindelwald, 
and the Jungfrau, and stood on the summit of the Wengen 
Alp ; and seen torrents of nine hundred feet in fall, and 
laciersofall dimensions; we have heard shepherd's pipes, 
and avalanches, and looked on the clouds foaming up from 
the valleys below us, like the spray of the ocean of hell.J 
Chamouni, and that which it inherits, we saw a month 
ago; but, though Mont Blanc is higher, it is not equal in 
wildness to the Jungfrau, the Eighers, the Shreckhorn, and 
die Rose Glaciers. 

We set off* for Italy next week. The road is within 
this month infested with bandits, but we must take our 
chance and such precautions as are requisite. 

"Ever, &c. 

°P. S. My best remembrances to Mr. Gifford. Pray 
say all that can be said from me to him. 

"I am sorry that Mr. Matunn did not like Phillips 
picture. I thought it was reckoned a good one. If he bad 



• Childe Harold. Sd Canto. 

t On the death of Sheridan, Poems, p. 190. 

J See Journal in Switzerland, Sept. 23. 



96 



LETTERS, 1816 



made the speech on the original, perhaps he would have 
been more readily forgiven by the proprietor and the 
painter of the portrait." + * * 



LETTER CCCIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Diodati, Sept. 30, 1816. 
8 1 answered your obliging letter* yesterday : to-day (he 
Monody 4 arrivod with its titfe-page, tvhich is, I presume, 
a separate publication, 'The request ofa friend:'— 

1 Unlived l.y hooger and request of friends.' 

I will request you to expunge that same, unless you please 
to add, 1 by a person of quality, 1 or 'of wit and honour about 
town.' Merely say, 'written t" b spoken at Drury-lane.' 
To-morrow 1 dine at Copet. Saturday I strike tents t" >r 
Italy. This evening, on the lake in my boat with Mr. 
Hobhouse, the, pole which sustains the mainsail slipped in 
tacking, and struek me so violently on one of mv legs, (the 
ttwaf, luckily,) as to make me do a tboush thing, viz. to 
fiiird — a downright swoon; the thing must have jarred 
some nerve or other, for i lie bone is not injured, and hardly 
painful, (it is six hours sine.-,) and cost Mr. Hobhouse 
some apprehension and much sprinkling of water to re- 
cover me. The sensation was a vrrv odd "in-: I never 
had but two such before, once from a cut on the head from 
a stone, several years ago, and once (long ago also) in 
tailing into a great wreath of snow; — a sort of gray giddi- 

ness first, then nothingness and a total loss of me ry on 

beginning to recorer. The last part is not disagreeable, 
il one did not tin I it aL'aui. 

" You want the original MSS. Mr. Davies has the first 
fair copy in my own hand, and I have the rough composition 
here, and will send or save it for you, since you wish it. 

■ With regard to your new literary project, if any thin" 
falls in the way which will, to the best of my judgment, suit 
you, I will send you what I can. At present I must lay 
by a little, having pretty well exhausted myself in what I 
have sent yon. Italy or Dalmatia and another summer 
may, or may not, set me off again. I have no plans, and 
am nearly as indifierenl what may come as where I go. I 
shall take Felicia Hemans 1 Restoration, &c with me; it 
is a good poem — very. 

"Pray repeat my best thanks and remembrances to Mr. 
Gilford for all his trouble and good-nature towards me. 

"Do not fancy me laid up, from the beginning of this 
scrawl. I tell yon the accident for want of better to say; 
but it is over, and 1 am only wondering what the deuce 
was the matter with me. 

"I have lately been over all the Bernese Alps and their 
lakes. I think many of the scenes (some of which were 
not those usually frequented by the English) finer than 
Chamouni, which 1 msiicI „,,ine time before. I have been 

to Clarens again, and crossed the m tains behind it: of 

this tour 1 kept a short jnurnalt for mv sister, which I sent 
yesterday in tiree letters, li is not all for perusal : but if 
you like to hear about the romantic part, she will, I dare 
say, show you what touches upon the rocks, &c. 

■Christabel — I won't have any one sneer at Christabel: 

It is a tine wild poem. 

***** 
".Madame de Slael wishes to see tie- Antiquary, and I 

am going to take it to her to-morrow, she ha- made 
Copot as agreeable as society and talent can make any 
place on earth. "Yours ever, "Is'."' 



by Longman ; but do not send out more books — 1 have ton 
many. 

"The 'Monody 1 is in too many paragraphs, which makes 
it unintelligible to me; if any one else understands it in the 
[iresent form, they are wiser; however, as it cannot lie 
rectified till my return, and has been already piiblished, 
even publish if on in the collection — i> will fill up die place 
of the omitted epistle. 

"Strike out 'by request of a friend,' which is sad trash, 
and must have been done 10 make it ridiculous. 

"lie careful in die printing the stanzas beginning, 
' Though die day of my rtmlllj '■,' &c.* 

which I think well of as a composition. 

"'The Antiquary' is not the best of the three, but much 
above all the last twenty years, saving its elder brothers. 
Holcrofi's Memoirs are valuable, a- showing the strength 
Of endurance in the man, which is uorth more than all the 
talent in die world. 

"And so you have been publisliing 'Margaret of Anion 1 
and an Assyrian tale, and refusing W. W.'s Waterloo, and 
ile- 'Hue and fry.' I know not which most to admire, 
your rejections or acceptances. I believe that prose is, 
after all, the most reputable: for ecries, if on< 

■but I won'i go on — that is, with this sentence , but poetry 
1 fear, incurable. God help me I if 1 proceed in this 
scribbling, I shall have flittered away my mind before 1 am 
thirty ; but it is at times a real relief to nle. For the pre- 
sent — good evening." 



LETTER CCCIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Diodati, Oct. 5, 1816. 
****** 
•Save mo a copy of 'Buck's Richard HI. 1 republished 



LETTER CCCV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

■Martiimy, Oct. 9,1816. 

"Thus far on my way to Italy. We have just passed 
the 'Piss,- \'.„ li,.' (one of the first torrents in Switzerland) 
in time to view the iris which die sun flings along it before 
noon. 

" I have written to you twice lately. Mr. Davies, I 
hear, is arrived. He brings the original MS. which you 
wished to see. Recollect that 'he printing is t- be from 
that which Mr. Shelley brought; and recollect alsc that 
the concluding stanzas of Childe Harold (those to my 
'daughter) which I had not made up my mind whether to 
publish or not when they w.re.AVst ?! rilten. (as you will see 
marked on the margin of the first copy,) I had (and have) 
fully determined to publish with the re ,t of the Canio ,,s 
in the copy which you received by Mr. Shelley, before I 
sent ii in England. 

"Our weather is very fine, which is more than the sum- 
mer has been.— At Milan I shall expect to hear from yon, 
Address either to Milan, posts resftmte, or by way of Ge- 
neva, to the care of Monsr. Hentsch, Banqirier. I wnte 
these few lines in case my other letter should not reach 
you : I trust one of them will. 

"P. S. My best respects and regards to Mr. GifTnrd. 
Will you tell him, it may perhaps be as well to put a short 
note to thai pan relating to Clara*, merely to say, that of 
course the description does not refer lo tint particular spot 
so much as to the conunand of scenery round ii? I do 
not know that this is necessary, and leave it to Mr. G.'s 

' ' ' • as my editor,— if be will allow me to call hitn so at 

this distance." 



LETTER Cl'<\ [, 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

■Milan, Oct. 16,181*. 

"I hear that Mr. Davies has arrived in England, but 

that of some letters, &c. commilted to his care by Mr. 
"lohholtse, only /W/"have been deliver. -d. This intelligence 
naturally makes me feel a little anxious lor nine, and 



• On ui e death of Sheridan. See Leller 439. J See Journal, p. 1U:< 



' See i\>ea», ii. 198. 



LETTERS, 1810. 



07 



among them for the MS. which I wished to have compared 
Mill the one s*-nt by me through the hands of Mr. Shelley. 
I trust that i/ has arrived safely, — and indeed not less so, 
that some little crystals, &c. from Mont Blanc, for my 
daughter and my nieces, have reached their address. Pray 
have the goodness to ascertain from Mr. Davics that no 
a> . idenl (b\ custom-house or loss) has befallen them, and 
nil sfy me on this point at vour earliest convenience. 

" If I recoiled rightly, you told me that Mr. GifTord had 
Kindly undertaken to correct the press (at my request) 
during inv absence — at least 1 hope so. It will add to my 
many obligations to that gentleman. 

"I wrote to vou, on mv way here, a short note, dated 
Martigny, Mr. Hobhouse and myself arrived here a few 
days ago, by the Simplou and LagoMaggiore route. Of 
course we visited the Borromean Islands, which are fine, 
bm too artificial. The Simplon is magnificent in its na- 
ture and its ar', — both God and man have done wonders, 
— 'ii say nothing of the Devil, who must certainly have 
I tad a hand (or a hoof) in some of the rocks and ravines 
i .ind over winch the works are carried. 

''Milan is striking — the cathedral superb. The city 
ther reminds me of Seville, but a litile inferior. "We 
liad heard divers bruits, and took precautions on the road, 
near the frontier, against some 'many worthy fellows (i. e. 
felons) that were out,' and had ransacked some pre- 
ceding traveller?, a few weeks ago, near Sesto, — or Cestr*, 
I forget which, — of cash and raiment, besides putting thetn 
in bodily fear, and lodging about twenty slugs in the re- 
treating part of a courier belonging to Mr. Hope. But 
wc were not molested, and, I do not think, in any danger, 
except of making mistakes in the way of cocking and 
priming whenever we saw an old house, or an ill-looking 
thicket, and now and then suspecting the 'true men, 1 who 
have very much the appearance of the thieves of other 
countries. What the thieves may look like, I know not, 
nor desire to know, for it seems they come upon you in 
bodicE ofthirty ('in buckram and Kendal green) at a time, 
lo that voyagers have no great chance. It is something 
poor dear Turkey in that respect, but not so goal, lor 
t^ere you can have as great a body of rogues to match the 
regular banditti; but hire the gens-d'amies are said to be 
no great things, and as for one's own people, one can 1 ! carry 
them about, like Robinson Crusoe, with a gun on each 
shoulder. 

"I have been to the Ambrosian library — it is a fine 
CuBectJon — full of MSS. edited and unedited. I enclose 
vou a list of the f >mier recently published: these are mat- 
ters for your literati. For me, in my simple way, I have 
been most delighted with a correspondence of letters, all 
original and amatory, between Lucretia Borgia and Cm- 

(ttiud Jirmln, preserved there. 1 have pored over them and 
a lock of her hair, the prettiest and fairest imaginable — I 
never saw fairer — and shall go repeatedly to read the 
- over and over ; and if I can obtain some of the hair 
bv lair means, I shall trv. I have aheady persuaded the 
librarian to promise me copies of the letters, and I hope he 
will not disappoint me. They are short, but very simple, 
tweet, and to the purpose; there are some copies of verses 
■ Spanish also by her \ the tress of her hair is long ami as 
I said before, beautsrul. The Brera gallery of paintings 
has some fine pictures, lmt nothing of a collection. Of 
painting I know nothing; but ! like a Guercino— a picture 
of Abraham putting away Hagar and Ishmael — which 
seems t" me natural and goodly. The Flemish school, 
such as I saw it in Flanders, I utterly detested, despised, 
and abhorred ; it might he painting, but it was not nature; 
the Italian is pleasing and their vleal very noble. 

•The Italians I have encountered here are very intelli- 
gent and agre*-ab'e. In a few days I am to meet Monti. 
By-the-way, I have iw*t heard an anecdote of Beceaiia, 
who published sneh admirable things against the punish- 
ment of death. As soon as his booh was out, his wrvant 
(having read it, I presume,) stole his watch; and his master, 

13 



while correcting the press of a second edition, did all ho 
could to have him hanged by way of advertisement. 

"1 forgot to mention the triumphal arch begun by Na- 
poleon, as a gate to ihis city. It us unfinished, but the part 
eonipleted worthy of another age and the same country. 
The society here is very oddly carried on. — at the theatre, 
and the theatre only, — whli h answers to our opera. Peoplo 
meet there as at a mut, but in verv small circles. From 
Milan I shall go to Venice. If you write, write to Geneva, 
as before — the letter will be forwarded. "Yours ever." 



LETTER CCCYII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Milan, Nov. 1,1816. 
B I have recently written to you rather frequently, bu* 

without any late answer. Mr. Hobhouse and myself set 
out for Venice in a few days; but you had better still ad- 
'lress to me at Mr. Hcnt sen's, Banqtricr, Geneva; he will 
forward your letters. 

a l do not know whether I mentioned to you, some time 
ago, that I had parted with the Dr. Pohdori a few weeks 
previous to mv leaving Diodati. I know no great harm of 
him; but he had an alacrity of getting into scrapes, and was 
too young and heedless : and having enough to attend to in 
mv own concerns, and without time to become his tutor, I 
thought ii much better to give him his conge. He arrived 
al Milan some weeks before Mr. Hobhouse and myself. 
About a week ago, in consequence of a quarrel at the 
theatre with an Austrian officer, in which he was exceed- 
ingly in the wrong, he has contrived to get sent out of the 
territory, and is gone to Florence. I was not present, the 
pit having been the scene of altercation ; but on being sent 
for from the Cavalier Breme's box, where I was quietly 
staring at the ballet, I found the man oi" medicine begirt 
with grenadiers, arrested by the guard, conveyed into the 
guard-room, where there was much swearing in several 
languages. Thev were going to keep him there for the 
night ; but on mv giving my name, and answering for his 
apparition next morning, he was permitted egress. Next 
dav he had an order from the government to be gone in 
twenty-four hours, and accordingly gone he is, some days 
ago. We did what we could for him, but to no purpose^ 
and indeed he brought it upon himself, as far as I could 
'cam, for I was not present at the squabble "itself. I believe 
this is the real state of bis case; and 1 tell it you because I 
believe things sometimes reach vou in England in a false 
or exaggerated form. We found Milan very polite and 
Ik isphable, and have the same hopes of Verona and Venice. 
I have filled my paper. "Ever yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCVIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

K Verona, Nov. 6, 1816. 

"MV PEAR MOORE, 

" Your letter, written hef >re my departure from England, 
nd addressed to me in London, only reached me recently. 
Since that period, I have been over a portion of that part 
of Europe which I had not already seen. About a month 
ince, I crossed the Alps from Switzerland to Milan, 
which I left a few davs ago, and am thus far on my way to 
Venice, where I shall probably winter. Yesterday I was 
on the shores of the Benams, with his JkutibtU el fremitu. 
Catullusrs Sirmium has still its name and site, and is re- 
membered for his sake ; but the very heavy autumnal rains 
and mists prevented our quilting our route (that is, Hob- 
house and myself, who are at present voyaging together,) 
a- it was better not to see it at all than to a great disad- 
vantage. 

■ 1 found on the Benacus the same tradition of a city 
still viable in calm weather below the waters, which you 
havi preserved of Lough Neagh, When the clear, cold 



98__ 

ove's declining.' I do not know that it is authorized by 
records; but they tell you such a story, and say that the 
city was swallowed up by an earthquake. We moved 
lo-day over the frcntier to Verona, by a road suspected 
of thieves— ' the wise convey it call,'— but without molesta- 
tion. I shall remain here a day or two to gape at the 



LETTERS, 181o. 



usual marvels— amphitheatre, paintings, and all thai time- 
lax of travel— though Catullus, Claudian, ami Shakspeare 
have done more for Verona than n ever did for itself. 
They still pretend to show, 1 believe, til 
Capulets' — we shall see. 

"Among many things at Milan, one pleased me nar- 
deularlv, viz. the correspondence (in the prettiest love- 
letters in the world) of Lucretia Borgia with Cardinal 
Bembo, (who, you say, made a very good cardinal,) and a 
lock of her hair, and some Spanish verses of hers,— the 
lock very fair and beautiful. I took one single hair of it 
as a relic, and wished surely to get a copy of one or two 
of the letters; but it is prohibited : Utal I don't mind; but 
it was impracticable; and so I only got some-of them by 
heart. They are kept in the Ainbrosian Library, which 
I often visited to look them over — to the scandal of the 
librarian, who wauled to enlighten inc with sundry valuable 
MSS. classical, philosophical, and pious. But I stick to 
|h< Pi pa's daughter, and wish myself a cardinal. 

« I have seen the finest parts of Switzerland, the Rhine, 
the Rhone, and the Swiss and Italian lakes ; for the beau- 
ties of which I refer you to the Guide-book. The north of 
Italy is tolerably free from die English ; but the south 
swarms with them, I am told. Madame de Stall I saw 
frequently at Copet, which she renders remarkably plea- 
sant. She has been particularly kind to me. I was for 
some months her neighbour, in a country-house called 
Diodali, which I had on the Lake of Geneva. My plans 
are very uncertain ; but it is probable that you will see me 
in England in the spring. I have some business there 
If you write to me, will you address to die care of Moos. 
Hentsch, Banquier, Geneva, who receives and forward, my 
letters. Remember me to Rogers, who wrote to me lately, 
with a short account of your poem, which, I trust, is near 
the light. He speaks of it most highly. 

•My health is very endurable, except diat I am subject 
to casual giddiness and faintnesses, which is so like a fine 
lady, diat I am radier ashamed of the disorder. When I 
sailed, 1 had a physician with me, whom, after some months 
of patience, I found it expedient to part with, before I left 
Geneva some time. On arriving at Milan, I found dlis 
gentleman in very good society, where he prospered for 
some weeks; but, at length, at the theatre he quarrelled 
with an Austrian officer, and was sent out by the govern- 
ment in twenty-four hours. . I was not present at his 
squabble ; but on hearing that he was put under arrest, I 
went and got him out of his confinement, but could not 
prevent his being sent oti; which, indeed, ho partly deserved, 
being quite in the wrong, and having begun a r.iwfor row's 

sake" I had preceded the Austrian government some 
weeks myself, in giving him his conge' from Geneva. He 
13 not a bad fellow, but very young and hotheaded, and 
more likely to incur diseases than to cure them. Hobhouse 
and myself found it useless to intercede for him. This 
happened some time before we left Milan. He is gi 
Florence. 

" At Milan I saw, and was visited by, Monti, the most 
celebrated of the living Italian poets. He seems near 
sixty: in face he is like the late Cooke the actor. H 
frequent changos in politics have made him very unpopular 
as a man. I saw many more of their literati; but none 
whose names are well known in England, except Acerbi 
I lived much with the Italians, particularly with the Mar- 
quis of Breme's family, who aro very able and intelligent 
men, especially the Abate. There was a famous impro- 
visator who held forth while I was there. His fluency 
astonished me; but although I understand Italian, and 
•peak it, (with more readiness than accuracy,) 1 could only 



carry off a few very commonplace mythological iuii.-e*, 
and one line about Artemisia, and another about Algiers, 
unli sixty words of an entire tragedy about Etioclcs and 
Polynices. Some of die Italians liked him — others called 
bis performance ' scccatura' (a devilish good word, bv-thc- 
,vay) — and all Milan was in controversy about him. 

"The state of morals in these pans is in some sort lax. 
A mother and son were pointed out at the theatre, as being 
pmnncuced by die Milanese world to be of the Theban 
tomb of all the j dynastv— but this was all. The narrator (one of the first 
men iri Milan) seemed to be not sufficiently scandalized by 
the ii i. or die lie. All society in Milan is carried on at 
the opera: they have private boxes, where diey play at 
cards, or talk, or any tiling else ; but (except at the Cas- 
siuo) there are no open booses, or balls, &c. &c. * 



"The peasant girls have all very fine dark eyes, and 
many of them are beautiful. There are also two dead 
bodies in fine preservation — one Sainl Carlo Boromeo, at 

Milan; the other not a saint, but a chief named Vw tt, 

at Monza— both of which appeared very agreeable. In 
one of il,i> Boramean isles, (the (sola beuaj there is a large 

laurel the largest known — on which Buonaparte, staying 

there |osl before the battle of Marengo, carved with hut 
knife the word 'Battaglia.' I saw the letters, now half 
worn out and partly erased, 

• Excuse this tedious letter. To be tiresome is the pri- 
vilege of old age and absence: I avail myself of die latter 
and the former I have anticipated. If I do not speak to 
you of my own affairs, it is not from want of confidence, 
but to spare you and myself. My day is over— « bat then' 
— I have bad it. To be sure, 1 have shortened it J* and if 
I had done as much by this letter, it would have been as 
weli. But vow will fugue that, if not the other faults of 
" Yours, ever and most affectionately, "B. 
« P. S. Nov. 7, 1816. 

" I have been over Verona. The amphitheatre is won- 
derful—beats even Greece. Of the truth of Juliet's si >ry, 
they seem tenacious to a degree; insisting on the fact — 
giving a date, (130S,) and showing a tomb. It is a plain, 
open, and partly decayed sarcophagus, with withered leaves 
in it, in a wild and desolate conventual garden, once a 
cemetery, now ruined to the very graves. The situation 
struck rue as very appropriate to die legend, being blighted 
as their love. I have brought away a few pieces of die 
granite, to give to my daughter and my nieces. Of tho 
other marvels of this city, paintings, antiquities, Sec. except- 
ing die tombs of the Scabgei pri ■-, I have no pretensions 

to judge. The Gothic monuments of the Scaligers pleased 
me, but ' a poor virtuoso ain 1,' and "Ever yours." 



LETTER CCCIX. 

TO MR. MOOItE. 

'Venice, Nov. 17,1816. 
" I wrote to you from Verona the other day in my pro- 
gress hither, which letter I hope you will receive. Some 
three years ago, or it may be more, I recollect your telling 
me diat you had received a letter from our friend Sam, 
dated 'On board bis gondola.' My gondola is, at this 
present, waiting for me on the canal; but I prefer writing 
to you in the house, it being autumn — and rather an 
English autumn than otherwise. It is my intention to 
remain at Venice during the winter, probably, as it has 
always been (next to the East) tho greenest island of my 
imagination. It has not disappointed me; though its evi- 
dent decay would, perhaps, have that effect upon others. 
But I havo been familiar with ruins too long to dislike 
desolation. Besides, 1 have fallen in love, which, next to 
fallini into the canal, (which would be of no use, as I can 



■ See Don Juno, Canto 1. ■Iaau'il3 l Ac 



LETTERS, 1816. 



swim,) is the best or the worst thing I could do. I have 
got some extremely good apartments in fhe house of a 
1 Merchant of Venice,' who is a good deal occupied with 
business, and has a wife in her twenty-second year. Ma* 
rtauna (that is her name) is in her appearance altogether 
like an antelope. She has the large, black, oriental eyes, 
with that peculiar expression in them which is seen rarely 
anions Europeans — even the Italians — and which many 
of the Turkish women give themselves by tinging the eye- 
lid, — an art not known out of that country, I believe. This 
expression she has naturally, — and something more than 
this. In short, I cannot describe the effect of this kind of 
eye, — at least upon me. Her features are regular, and 
radier aquiline — mourn small — skin clear and soft, with a 
kind of hectic colour — forehead remarkably good: her hair 
is of the dark gloss, curl, and colour of Lady Jersey's: her 
figure is tight and pretty, and she is a famous songstress — 
scientifically so: her natural voice (in conversation, I 
mean) is very sweet; and the naivete" of the Venetian dia- 
lect is always pleasing in the mouth of a woman. 

* Nov. 23. 
■You will perceive that my description, which was pro- 
ceeding with the minuteness uf a passport, has been inter- 
rupt^ for several days. In the mean time, * * 



99 



"Dec. 5. 
"Since my former dates, I do not know thai I have much 
to add on the subject, and, luckily, nothing to take away ; 
for I am more pleased than ever with my Venetian, and 
begin to feel very serious on that point — so much so, that I 
shall be silent. 

***** 

B By way of advertisement, I am studying daily, at an 
Armenian monastery, the Armenian language. I found 
that my mind wanted some tiling craggy to break upon; and 
this — as die most difficult thing I could discover here for 
an amusement — I have chosen, to torture me into atten- 
tion. It is a rich language, however, and would amply 
repay any one the trouble of learning it. I try, and .shall 
go on ; but I answer for nothing, least of all for my intentions 
or my success. There are some very curious MSS. in 
the monastery, as well as books ; translations also from 
Greek originals, now lost, and from Persian and Syriae, 
&c; besides works of their own people. Four years ago 
the French instituted an Armenian professorship. Twenty 
pupils presented themselves on Monday morning, full of 
noble ardour, ingenuous youth, and impregnable industry. 
They persevered, with a courage worthy of the nation and 
ot universal conquest, till Thursday; when Jifteen of the 
twenty succumbed to the six- and- twentieth letter of the 
alphabet. It is, to be sure, a Waterloo of an alphabet — 
that must be said for them. But it is so like these (Vllnws, 
In do by it as they did by their sovereigns — abandon both ; 
to parod) the old rhymes, 'Take a thing and give a thin^ 
— 'Take a King and give a King.' They are the worst 
of animals, except their conquerors. 

U I h«ar that Hodgson is your neighbour, having a living 
in Derbyshire. You will find him an excellent-hearted 
fellow, as well as one of the cleverest; a little, perhaps, too 
much japanned by preferment in die church and the tuition 
of youth, as well as inoculated with the disease of domestic 
felicity, besides being overrun with fine feelings about 
woman and constancy, (that small change of Love, which 
people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and 
repay in baser metal ;) but, otherwise, a very worthy man, 
who has lately got a pretiy wSe, and (I suppose) a child 
by this time. Pray remember me to him, and say dial I 
know not wliich to envy most — his neighbourhood, him, or 
you. 

"Of Venice I shall say little. You must have seen 
many descriptions; and they are most of them like. It is 
a poetical place ; and classical, to us, from Shakspeare and 



Otway.* I have not yet sinned against it in verse, nor do 
I know that I shall do so, having been tuneless since I 
crossed the Alps, and feeling, as yet, no renewal of the 
'estro.' By-the-way, I suppose you have seen 'Glenarvon.' 
Madame de Stael lent it me to read from Copet last 
autumn. It seems to me, that if the authoress had written 
the truth, and nothing but the truth — die whole truth — the 
romance would not only have been more romantic, but more 
entertaining. As for the likeness, the picture can't be good 
— I did not sit long enough. When you have leisure, let 
me hear from and of you, believing me ever and truly yours, 
most affectionately, «B. 

P. S. Oh! your Poem — is it out? I hope Longman 
has paid his thousands: but don't you do as Horace Twiss' 
father did, who, having made money by a quarto tour, 
became a vinegar merchant; when, lo! his vinegar turned 
sweet (and be d — d to it) and ruined him. My last letter 
to you (from Verona) was enclosed to Murray — have you 
got it J Direct to me here, paste restante. There are no 
English here at present. There were several in Switzer- 
land — some women; but, except Lady Dalrymple Hamil- 
ton, most of theni as ugly as virtue — at least, those that I 
saw." 



LETTER CCCX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Venice, Dec. 24, 1816. 
a I have taken a fit of writing to you, which portends 
postage — once from Verona*— once from Venice, and again 
from Venice — thrice that is. For this you may thank 
yourself, fur I heard that you complained of my silence — 
so, here goes for garrulity. 

"I trust that you received my other twain of letters. My 
'way of life' (or 'May of life,' wliich is it, according to the 
commentators f) — my 'way of life' is fallen into great 
regularity. In the mornings I go over in my gondola to 
hobble Armenian with the friars of die convent of St. 
Lazarus, and to help one of theni in correcting the English 
of an English and Armenian grammar which he is publish 
ing. In the evenings I do one of many nothings — either 
at die theatres, or some of the conversaziones, which are 
like our routs, or rather worse, for the women sit in a semi- 
circle by the lady of the mansion, and the men stand about 
the room. Tobe sure, there is one improvement upon ours 
— instead of lemonade with their ices, they hand about stiff 
rum~punch— punch, by my palate; and this Uiey think 
English. I would not disabuse them of so agreeable an 
error, — 'no, not for Venice.' 

"Last night I was at the Count Governor's, which, of 
course, comprises the best society, ami is very much like 
odier gregarious meetings in every country, — as in ours,— 
except that, instead of the bishop of "Winchester, you have 
the patriarch of Venice ; and a motley crew of Austrians, 
Germans, noble Venetians, foreigners, and, if you see a 
quiz, you may be sure he is a consul. Oh, by-the-way, I 
forgot, when I wrote from Verona, to tell vou that at Milan 
I met with a countryman of yours— a Colonel * * * *, a 
very excellent, good-natured fellow, who knows and shows 
all about Milan, and is, as it were, a native there. He is 
particularly civil to strangers, and this is his history, — at 
least, an episode of it. 

u Six-and-twenty years ago Col. * * * * } then an ensign, 
being in Italy, fell in love with the Marchesa * * * *, and 
she with him. The lady must be, at least, twenty years 
his senior. The war broke out ; lie returned to England, 
to serve — not his country, for that 's Ireland — but England, 
which is a different thing; ami she — heaven knows what 
she did. In the year 1814, the first annunciation of the 
definitive treaty of peace (and tyranny) was developed to 
the astonished Milanese by the arrival of Col. * * * * 
who, flinging himself full length at the feel of Madamo 



• S*e CilJt Harold. Cuito IV. iUa&. 4 ami 18. 



100 



letters, me. 



* * * *, murmured forth, in hal£ forgot ten Irish Iialian, 
eternal vows of indelible constancy. The lady screamed 
and exclaimed, 'Who are you ? The Colonel cried, 

' What, don't you tf&OW me > I am so and so,' &c. &.C.&.C.; 

till, at length, die JVlarchcsa, mounting from rennrasi - m ■•■ 
to reminiscence, through the lovers of the intermediate 
twenty-five years, arrived at last at the recollection of her 
pnvero sub-heutcnanf. She then said, 'Was there ever 
ouch virtue ? (that was her very word,) and, being now 
widow, gave him apartments iu her palaee, reinstated him 
in all the rights ofwron*, and hekl him up to the adminii: 
world as a miracle of incontinent liddity, and the unshaken 
Abdiel of absence. 

"Methinks this is as pretty a tnoral tale as any of Mar- 
montePs. Here is another. The same lady, several years 

a^'o, made an < '-<-;i;,a f,: u nh a Swede, ( \miil Ferscn, (the 
same whom the Stockholm mob <|»iarfered and lapidated 

not very long since,! and they arrived at an osteria on the 
road to Rome or thereab mts. It was a summer evening, 
ajid, while they were at supper, they were suddenly regaled 
by a symphony of fiddles in an adjacent aparmuiit, so 

prettily pfaveii, that, wishing to hear ihem more distinctly, 
the Count rose, and going into the musical society, said, 
'Gentlemen, I am sure that, as a company of gallant cava- 
liers, vou will he delighted to show your skill to a lady, who 
feels anxious,' &c. &c. The men of harmony were all 
acquiescence — every instrument was tuned and toned, and, 
striking up one of their most ambrosia] airs, the whole 
band followed the Count to the lady's apartment. At their 
head was the first tiddler, who, bowing and fiddling at the 
same moment, I faded ins troop and advanced up the room, 
Death and discord ! — it was the Marquis himself who was 
on a serenading party in the country, while ins sp use had 
run away from town. The re^l may be imagined — but, 
firs! of all, the lady tried to persuade him thai shfl was there 
on purpose to meet him, and had chosen this method for 
an harmonic surprise. So much for this gossip, which 
amused me when 1 heard it, and 1 send it to you, in the 
hope it may have the like edict. Now well return to 
Venice. 

"The day after to-morrow (to-morrow hemg Christmas* 
day) the Carnival begins. I dine with the Countess 
Albrizzi and a party, and go to the opera.* On that day 
the Phe nix (not the Insurance Office hut the t heal re of 
that name) opens; 1 have gol me a l*>x there for the 
season, for two reasons, one of which is, that the music is 
remarkably good. The Contessa Albrizzi, of whom I 
have made mention, is the I '♦ Stael of Venice, not young, 
but a verv learned, unaffected, good-natured woman, very 
polite to stranger*, and, 1 believe, not at all dissolute, as 

most of the women nre. Stie has written very well on die 

works of Canova, and also a volume of Characters, besides 
other printed matter. She is "I ' loriu, but married a dead 
Venetian — that is, dead since he married. 

"My tlame (my L Donna' whom I spoke of in my former 
epistle, my Marianne.) is still my Marianna, and 1 her — 

what she pleases. She is by far the prettiest woman I 
have seen here, ami the most Liveable I have met with any 
where — as well as one of the most singular, [believe 1 
told you the rise an I progress of our tiauon in m\ former 
letter. Lest that should not have reached you, I will 
merely repeat that she is a Venetian, two-and-twenlv 
years old, married to a merchant welt to do in the world 
and that she has great black oriental eyes and all the 
qualities which her eyes promise. Whether being in love 
with her has steeled me or not, I do not know; bui 1 have 
not seen many other women who seein pretty. The no- 
bility, in particular, are a sad-looking race — the gentry 
rather belter. And now, what art Uiou doing ? 

" What arc you doing now, 
ill,, Thornst Moors? 

What nre jrou tloing now, 
Oh, Thointti Moore? 

* Saw Letter U7. 



Sighing or firing new, 
Rliyimit* or wooing uuv, 
i: i,_- rcoatog ■**! 
K tacti, TIkpbbu Moure? 

Art- vmi not near the Luddites? By the Lord! iflherw\i 
a row, but I 'II be among ye! How go on thr weavers- 
tin' breakers of frames — die Lutherans vt' politic* — ilw 
reformers / 

l. 
*• At the Nbtrtv Uib o*« lha *-* 

BuUglr* Ut-ir lirtColn, attck tliraol;, with bluotl, 
N. at, I-.;;*, we 
Will Hit ffghtrOg, «.r tire free. 
And Jmni with all kings bin king l.uihl I 



"Winn the avh lhal wi- nsvc iacornjiletc, 
Ami the abniik exchanged for ii>« »»otii, 

Wt wtii diugUM wkidaig! atiatl 

O'er lha iJeauul al OUT t"-t, 
Aixt djc it i!u v in tin- -ore Ik liai (tour'd. 

3 
" Though Mack n» M> hmmrl luhoo, 

."■line hla n m an corrupted 10 mod, 

v. i blue dew 

WMch n.<r rm ihntl renew 
Ol liberiy, ulanied by IajiW • 

There's an amiable chanson tor you — all impromptu. J 
have written it principally \<> shock your neighbour Hodg- 
son, who is all clergy and loyalty — mirth and innocence — 
milk and water. 

11 But thr Cornt*>] *» Cuming, 

nli, I'hoonti Mwore, 

The Carnival 'l uMMbuj, 

Oli, Tlioniiia Moon, 
Maaking and humrabiE, 

Filini* mill drunit 2, 

Gniturriiie mid •tltim ruing, 
Ob, 1'hoinj.i Moore. 

The other night I saw a new play, — and the author. The 
subject was the sacrifice of Isaac. The play surer t ded 

and they called for the author — according to com its 

custom — and he presented himself) a noble Veneliail 

Mali, or Malapieio, by name. Mala was his name, and 
petatma his production, — at least, I thoughl so, and I ought 
to know, having read more or less of five hundred Drurv- 
lane offerings, during my coadjutorship with the sub-and- 
ijuper Couuiiittoe, 

■ When docs your Poem of Poems come our ? I hear 
thai the Edinburgh Review has cut up Coieridgc'd Chris- 
label, and declared against me tor praising it.* I praised 
it, firstly, because I thought well of it; secondly, because 
1 loli ridge was in great distress, and, afler doing what tittle 
I could for him in essentials, 1 thought thai the public 
avowal of my good opinion might help hirri farther, at leas; 
with the booksellers. I am ver) sorry that Jeflrei has 
attacked him, because, poor fellow, it will hurt him m mind 
and pocket. As fbr me, he's welt ome — 1 shall never think 

less of Jeffrey for any thing he may say against me or mine 

in future.) 

■ I suppose Murray has senl you, or will send (for I do 
not know whether they are out or no,) the poem, or poesies 
of mine, of lasl summer. By the mass! they're sublime — 
'Ganioti Cohcriza' — gainsay who dares! Pray, let me 
hear from you, and of you, and, at least, let me (mow thai 
you have received these three letters. Direct, right ktre. 
paste restante. " Ever and ever, &c. 

"P. S. I heard the other day of a pretty trick of u Itook- 
SoDer, who has published some d — d nonsense, swearino' 
die bastards to me, ;uid saying he gave me five hundred 
guineas for them, lie lies — I never wrote such stuff never 
saw the poems, nor the publisher of them, iu mvlife, nor 
had any communication, directly or indirectly, with the 
Allow. Pray say as much for me, if need be. J have 
written to Murray, to make him contradict the impo*»*'»r. 

R.-r NoteS to the 'SScgvef rnrinth.' 

fee Own Juan t ai.io Iu blWrfa 'b- 



LETTKKii, 1816. 



161 



LETTER CCCXU 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•Venice, Nov. 25, 1816. 
•It is some months since I have heard from or of you— 
t think, not since I left Diodati. From Milan 1 wrote 
•nice ot twice; but have been here some little time, and 
intend to pass the winier without removing. I was much 
pleased wilh the Lago di Garda, and wilh Verona, par- 
Ucularly the amphitheatre, and a sarcophagus in a convent 
garden, which thev show as Juliet's: they insist on the truth 
of her history. Since my arrival at Venice, the lady of 
the Austrian governor told me that between Verona and 
Vicenzo there are still ruins of the ca-tle of the Slontecdu, 
and a chapel once appertaining to the Capulets. Romeo 
seems to have been of Vuxma, by the tradition; but 1 was 
a good deal surprised to tind so lirm a faith in Bandello's 
novel, which seems really to have been founded on a fact. 
" Venice pleases me as much as I expected, and I 
expected much. It is one of those places which I know 
bef ire I see them, and has always haunted me the most 
after the East. I like the gloomy gayety of their gondolas, 
and the silence of their canals. I do not even dislike the 
evident decay of the city, though I regret the singularity ol 
its vanished costume: however, there is much left still; the 
Carnival, ,oo, is coining. 

"Si. Mark's, and indeed Venice, is most alive at night. 
The theatres are not open till nine, and the society is pro- 
portionably late. All this is to my taste, but most of your 
countrymen miss and regret Uie rattle of hackney coaches, 
without which they can't sleep. 

" I have got remarkably good apartments in a private 
house; I see something of the inhabitants, (having had a 
good many letters to some of them ;) I have got my gon- 
dola; I read a little, and luckily coujd speak Italian (more 
fluently than correctly) long ago. I am studying, out of 
curiosity, die Venetian dialect, which is very naVve, and 
soft, and peculiar, though not at all classical; I go out fre- 
quently, and am in very good contentment. 

" The Helen of Ca'nova (a bust which is in the house 
of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi, whom I know,) is, 
without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful 
of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human 
execution. 

' In thlfl bdond marble Tiew.' &C. # 

Talking of the 'heart' reminds me that I have fallen in love, 



If you write, address to me here, jtustc restante, a?. I 
shall probably stav the winter over. 1 never see a news- 
paper, and know nothing of England, except in a letter 
now and then from my sister. Of the MS. sent you, 1 
know nothing, except that you have received it, and are to 
publish it, &e. &c; but when, where, and how, you leave 
me to guess; but it don't much matter. 

"1 suppose you have a world of works passing through 
your process for next year? When does Moore's Poem 
appear? I sent a letter for him, addressed to your care 
the other day." 



which, except falling into the canal, (and that would be 
useless, as I swim,) is the best (or worst) thing I could do. 
I am therefore in love — fathomless love; but lest you 
should make some splendid nuslake, and envy me the 
possession of some of those princesses or countesses with 
whose affections your English voyagers are apt to invest 
themselves, I beg leave to tell you that my goddess is only 
the wife of a 'Merchant of Venice;' but then she is pretty 
as an antelope, is but two-and-twonty years old, has the 
large, black, oriental eyes, with the Italian countenance, 
and dark jl-issv hair, of the curl and colour of Lady Jer- 
sey's. Then she has the voice of a lute, and the song of a 
seraph, (though not quite so sacred,) besides a long post- 
script of graces, virtues, and accomplishments, enough to 
furnish out a new chapter for Solomon's Song. But her 
great merit is finding out mine — there is nothing so amiable 
as discernment. Our little arrangement is completed, the 
usual oaths having been taken, and every thing fulfilled 
according to the 'understood relations' of such luasons, 

"The general race of women appear to be handsome 
hut in Italy, as on almost all the continent, the highest 
orders are by no means a well-looking generation, and 
indeed reckoned by their countrymen very much otherwise. 
Some are exceptions, but most of them as ugly as Virtue 
oerself. 



LETTER CCCXII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Dec. 4, 181b. 
"I have written to you so frequently of late, that you 
will diink ine a bore ; as I think you a very impolite person 
for not answering my letters from Switzerland, Milan, 
Verona, and Venice. There are some things I wanted, 
and want to know ; viz. whether M r. Davies, of inaccurate 
memory, had or had not delivered the MS. as delivered to 
him ; because, if he has not, you will find that he wiil boun- 
tifully bestow transcriptions on all the curious of his ac- 
quaintance, in which case you may probably find your 
publication anticipated by the 'Cambridge,' or other 
Chronicles. In the next place — I forget what was next ; 
but, in the third place, I want to hear whether you have 
yet published, or when you mean to do so, or why you have 
not done so, because in your last (Sept. 20, — you may be 
ashamed of the date,) you talked of this being done imme 
diately. 

"From England I hear nothing, and know nothing of 
any thing or any body. 1 have but one correspondent, 
(except Mr. Kinnaird on business now and then,) and her 
a female ; so that I know no more of your island, or city, 
Uian the Italian version of the French papers chooses to 
tell me, or the advertisements of Mr. Colburn tagged to 
the end of your Quarterly Review for the year ago. I 
wrote to you at some length last week, and have little to 
add, except that 1 have begun, and am proceeding in, a 
study of the Armenian language, which I acquire, as well 
as I can, at the Armenian convent, where I go every day 
to take lessons of a learned friar, and have gained some 
singular and not useless information with regard to the 
literature and customs of that oriental people. They have 
an establishment here — a church and convent of ninety 
monks, very learned and accomplished men, some of Uiem. 
Thev have also a press, and make great efforts for the 
enlightening of their nation. I find the language (which 
is hum, the lilerul and the vulgar) difficult, but not in- 
vincible (at least, I hope not.) I shall go on. I found it 
necessary to twist my mind round some severe study, and 
tliis, as being the hardest I could devise here, will be a file 
for the serpent. 

" I mean to remain here till the spring, so address to me 
directly to Venice, pottle rcstonte. — Mr. Hobhouse, for the 
present, is gone to Rome, wilh his brother, brother's wife, 
and sister, who overtook him here; he returns in two 
months. I should have gone too, but I fed in love, and 
must stay Uiat over. I should think that and the Armenian 
alphabet will last the w inter. The lady has, luckily for me, 
been less obdurate than the language, or, between the two, 
I should havo lost my remains of sanity. By-lhe-way, 
she is not an Armenian but a Venetian, as I believe I told 
you in my last. As for Italian, I am fluent enough, even 
in its Venetian modificaUon, which is something like the 
Somersetshire version of English; and as for the more 
classical dialects, 1 had not forgot my former practice much 
during my voyaging. "Yours, ever and truly, 



■becP>.n..., !■ »» 



»P S Roncmber me to Mr. GuTord." 



102 



LETTERS, 1817. 



LETTER CCCXIU. 

TO MR. MURRA7. 

"Venice, Dec. 9,1816. 
■In a letter from England, I am informed that a man 
named Johnson has taken upon himself to publish some 
poems called a ' Pilgrimage to Jerusalem, a Tempest, and 
an Address to mj I daughter,' &c. and to attribute them to 
me, adding that he had paid five hundred guineas for them. 
The answer to this u short:/ never turafe eweft noems, ruwr 
received Vie sum lie mention^ nor any oVier in the same 
ouartcr t nor (as far as moral or mortal certainly can be 
sure,) ever tiad, directly or indirtcdy, Vie slightest communi- 
cation with Jofoom m my life; not being aware that the 
person existed till this intelligence gave me to understand 
that there were such people. Nothing surprises me, or 
this perhaps xvotdd, and most things amuse me, or this 
probably would not. With regard to myseHj the man has 
merely lied; that's natural — his betters have set him the 
example: but with regard to you, his assertion may per 
haps injure you in your publications; ami I desire that it 
mav receive the most public and unqualified contradiction. 
I do not know that there is any punishment for a thing of 
this kind, and if there were, I should not feel disposed to 
pursue this ingenious mountebank farther than was ne- 
cessary for his confutation ; but thus far it may be neces- 
sary to proceed. 

* You will make what use you please of this letter ; and 
Mr. Kmnaird, who has power to act for me in my absence, 
will, I am sure, readily join you in any steps which it mav 
be proper to take with regard to die absurd falsehood of 
tJiis poor creature. As you will have recently received 
Beveral letters from me on my way to Venice, as well as 
two written since my arrival, I will not at present trouble 
you farther. " Ever, &c 

*P. S. Pray let me hear that you have received this 
letter. Address to Venice, poste restitute. 

"To prevent the recurrence of similar fabrications, you 
may state, that I consider myself responsible for no pub- 
lication from the year 1812 up to the present date, which 
is not from your press. I speak of course from that period, 
because, previously, CawthotU and Ridge had both printed 
compositions of nunc. ' A Pilgrimage to Jerusalem? how- 
the devil should I write about Jerusalem^ never having yet 
been there? As for 'A Tempest,' it was not a tempest 
when I left England, but a very fresh breeze: and as to an 
'Address to little Ada,' (who, by-the-way, is a year old to- 
morrow,) I never wrote a line about her, except in 'Fare- 
well' and the third Canto uf Childe Harold." 



LETTER CCCXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Dec. 27, 1816. 

•As the demon of silence seems to have possessed you, 
I am determined tQ have my revenge in postage : this, is 
my sixth or seventh letter since summer and Switzerland. 
My last was an injunction to contradict and consign to 
confusion that Cheapside impostor, who (1 heard by a 
letter from your island) had thought proper to append my 
name to his spurious poesy, of which 1 know nothing nor 
of his pretended purchase or copyright. 1 hope you have, 
at least, received OuU letter. 

B As the news of Venice must be very interesting to you, 
I will regale you with it. 

"Yesterday, being the feast of St. Stephen, every moulh 
was put in motion. There was nothing but riddling and 
playing on the virginals, and all kinds of conceits and diver- 
tiscments, on every canal of this aquatic city. I dined with 
the Countess Albrizza and a Paduan and Venetian party, 
and afterward went to the opera, at the Fenice theatre 
(which opens for the Carnival on that day,)— the finest, 
by-the-way, I have ever seen: it beats our theatres hollow 
m beauty and scenery, and those of Milan and Brescia 



bmv before it. The opera and its sirens were much like 
other operas and women, but die subject ut the said opera 
was something edifying; it turned — the plot and conduct 
thereof— Upon a fact narrated by Livy of a hundred and 
fifty married ladies having poisoned a hundred and fifty 
husbands in good old times. The bachelors "t Rome be- 
lieved this extraordinary mortality to be merely the coin- 
mon effect ofmatrimooy or a pestilence; but the surviving 
Benedicts, being all seised with the colic, examined into 
the matter, and found that ' their possets had been drugged ;' 
Uie consequence of which was, much s< an<l;d ;md several 
suits at law. This is really and truly the subject of the 
musical piece at the Fenice; and you can't conceive what 
pretty things are sung and reoitativoed about the ftonaida 
strage. The conclusion was a lady's head about to be 
chopped off by a lictor, but (I am sorry to say) he l< fl it 
on, and she got up and sung a trio with the two Consuls, 
the Senate in the back ground being chorus. The ballet 
was distinguished by nothing remarkable, except that the 
principal she-dancer went into convulsions because she 
was not applauded on her first appearance; and the mana- 
ger came forward to ask if there was L ever a physician in 
the theatre.' There was a Greek one in my box, whom I 
ished very much to volunteer his services, being sure that 
this case these would have been the last convulsions 
huh would have troubled the ballarma; but he would 
not. The crowd was enormous, and in coming out, having 
a lady under my arm, I was obliged, in making way, almost 
to 'beat a Venetian, and traduce the state,' being com- 
pelled to regale a person with an English punch in tho 
guts, which sent him as far back as the squeeze and the 
passage would admit. He did not ask for anodier, but, 
with great signs of disapprobation and dismay, appealed 
to his compatriots, who laughed at him. 

" I am going on with my Armenian studies in a morning, 
and assisting and stimulating in the English portion of an 
English and Armenian grammar, now pubbshing at tho 
convent of St Lazarus, 

" The superior of the friars is a bishop, and a 6ne old 
fellow, with the beard of a meteor. FaUier Paschal is 
also a learned and pious soul. He was two years in 
England. 

U I am still dreadfully in love with the Adriatic lady 
whom I spake of in a former letter (and not in this — 1 add, 
for fear of mistakes, for the only one mentioned in the first 
part of this epistle is elderly and bookish, two things which 
I have ceased to admire,) and love in this part of tho 
world is no sinecure. This is also the season when every 
body make up their intrigues for the ensuing year, and cut 
for partners for die next deal. 

And now, if you do'nt write, I do 'nt know what I won't 
say or do, nor what 1 will. Send me some news — good 
news. 

" Yours very truly, &c. &c. &c. * B. 

a P. S. Remember me to Mr.Giflbrd, with all duty. 
* I hear that the Edinburgh Review has cut up Cole- 
ridge's Christabel, and me for praising it, which omen, I 
think, bodes no great good to your forthcome or coming 
Canto and Castle (of Chilian.) My run of luck within the 
last year seems to have taken a turn every way ; but never 
mind, I will bring myself through in the end — if not, 1 can 
be but where I began. In the mean time, I am not dis- 
pleased to be where I am — I mean at Venice. My Adri- 
atic nymph ■ this moment here, and I must therefore re- 
pose from this letter." 



LETTER CCCXV. 

TO MR. MURRAV. 

"Venice, .Ian. 2, 1817. 
" Your letter has arrived. Pray, in publishing the Third 
Canto, have you omitted any passages ? 1 hope not ; and 
indeed wrote to you on my way over the Alps to prevent 
such an incident. Say in your next whether or not the 
whole of the Canto (jw sent to you) has been published, i 



LETTERS, 1617. 



103 



wrote to you again the other day (t'rice, I think,) and shall 
be ojad to hear of the reception of those letters. 

a To-day is the 2d of January. On this day three years 
ago the Corsair's publication is dated, [ think, in my letter 
to Moore. On this day too years I married ('Whom the 
Lord loveth he chasteneth, 1 — I shaVt forget the day in a 
hurry.) and it is odd enough that I this day received a 
leUerfromyou announcing the publication ofChilde Harold, 
&c. &c. on the day of die date of the ' Corsair ;' and I also 
received one from my sister, written on the IOJi of Decem- 
ber, my daughter's birth-day (and relative chiefly to my 
daughter,) and arriving on the day of the date of my mar- 
riage, this present 2d of January, the month of my birth,— 
and various other astrologous matters, which I have no 
time to enumerate. 

u By-the-way, you might as well write to Hentsch, my 
Geneva banker, and inquire whether the two packets con- 
signed to his care were or were not delivered to Mr. St. 
Aubyn, or if they are still in his keeping. One contains 
papers, letters, and all the original MS.* of your Thiid 
Canto, as first conceived ; and the other some bones from 
the field of Morat. Many thanks for your news, and the 
good spirits in which your letter is written. 

u Venice and I agree very well ; but I do not know that 
I have any thing new to say except of the last new opera, 
which I sent in my late letter. The Carnival is commenc- 
ing, and there is a good deal of fun here and then 
besides business ; for all the world are making up their 
intrigues for the season, changing, or going on upon a re- 
newed lease. I am very well off with Marianna, who is 
not at all a person to tire me ; firstly, because I do not 
lire of a woman personally^ but because they are generally 
bores in their disposition ; and, secondly, because she is 
amiable, and has a tact which is not always the portion of 
the fair creation ; and, thirdly, she is very pretty ; and, 
fourthly, — but there is no occasion for farther specification. 
* * * So far we have gone on very well; 
as to the future, I never anticipate, — carpe diem — the past 
at least is one's own, which is one reason for making sure 
of the present. So much for my proper liaison. 

"The general state of morals here is much the same as 
in the DogeS time : a woman is virtuous (according to 
the code) who limits herself to her- husband and one lover ; 
those who have two, three, or more, are a little wild ; but 
it is only those who are indiscriminately diffuse, and form 
& low connexion, such as the Princess of Wales with her 
courier (who, by-the-way, is made a knight of Malta,) 
who are considered as overstepping the modesty of mar- 
riage. In Venice, the nobility have a trick of marrying with 
dancers and singers; and, truth to say, the women of 
their own order are by no means handsome ; but the gene- 
ral race, the women of I he second and other orders, the 
trine "1 the merchants, and proprietors, and untitled gen- 
try, are mostly beC sangue, and it is with these that the 
more amatory connexions are usually formed. There are 
also instances of stupendous constancy. I knew a woman 
of fifty who never had but one lover, who dying early, she 
became devout, renouncing all but her husband. She 
piques herself, as may be presumed, upon this miraculous 
fidelity, talking of it occasionally with a species of mis- 
placed morality, which is rather amusing. There is no 
convincing a woman here that she is in the smallest degree 
deviating (run the rule of right or the fitness of things in 
having an amoroso. The greatsin seems to be in concealing 
it, or having more than one, that is, unless such an exten- 
sion of the prerogative is understood and approved of by 
the prior claimant. In my case, I do not know that I had 
any predecessor, and am pretty sure that there is no par- 
ticipator ; and am inclined to think, from the youth of the 
party, and from the frank, undisguised way in which every 
body avows every thing in tliis part of the world, when 
there is any thing to avow, as well as from some other 



circumstances, such as {he marriage being recent, Stc. &c. 
&c, that this is the premier pas. Jt does not much signify. 

* In another sheet, I send you some sheets of a grammar, 
English and Armenian, for the use of the Armenians, of 
which I promoted, and indeed induced, the publication. 
(It cost me but a thousand francs — French livres.) I still 
pursue my lessons m the language without any rapid pro- 
gress, but advancing a little daily. Padre Paschal, with 
some little help from me, as translator of his Italian into 
English, is also proceeding in a MS. Grammar for the 
Efngtah acquisition of Armenian, which will be printed also 
when finished. 

"We want to know if there are any Armenian types 
and letter-press in England, at Oxford, Cambridge, or else 
where ? You know, I suppose, that, many years ago, tho 
two Whistons published in England an original text of a 
history of Armenia, with their own Latin translation? Do 
those types still exist ? and where ? Pray inquire among 
your learned acquaintance. 

"When this Grammar (I mean the one now printing) 
is done, will you have any objection to take forty or fifty 
copies, which will not cost in all above five or ten guineas, 
and try the curiosity of the learned with a sale of them v 
Say yes or no, as you like. I can assure you that they 
have some very curious books and MSS., chiefly transla- 
tions from Greek originals now lost. They are, besides, 
a much-respected and learned community, and the study 
of their language was taken up with great ardour by some 
literary Frenchmen in Buonaparte's time. 

"I have not done a stitch of poetry since I left Switzer- 
land, and have not at present the estro upon me. The 
truth is, that you are afraid of having a Fourth Canto be- 
fore September, and of another copyright, but I have at 
present no thoughts of resuming that poem, nor of begin- 
ning any other. If I write, I think of trying prose, but I 
dread introducing living people, or applications which might 
be made to living people. Perhaps one day or other I may 
attempt some work of fancy in prose descriptive of Italian 
manners and of human passions; but at present I am pre- 
occupied. As for poesy, mine is the dream of the sleeping 
passions; when they are awake, I cannot speak their lan- 
guage, only in their somnambulism, and just now they are 
not dormant. 

"If Mr. Gifford wants carte blanche as to the Siege of 
Corinth, he has it, and may do as he likes with it. 

M I sent you a letter contradictory of the Cheapside man 
(who invented the story you speak of) the other day. My 
best respects to Mr. GifTord, and such of my friends aa 
you may see at your house. I wish you all prosperity 
and new year's granulation, and am, 

K Yours, &c" 



• See Child* EUrold, Cauio Third, Slami 63, and aott. 



LETTER CCCXVT. 



TO SIR. MOORE. 



"Venice, Jan. 28, 1317. 
a Your letter of the 8th is before me. The remedy {be 
your plethora is simple — abstinence. I was obliged to have 
recourse to the like some years ago. I mean in point of diet, 
and, with the exception of some convivial weeks and days 
(it might he months now and then,) have kept to Pytha- 
goras ever since. For all this, let me hear that you are 
better. You must not indulge in ' filthy beer,' nor in porter, 
nor eat suppers — the last are the devil to those who swal- 
low dinner. 

***** ^ 

I am truly sorry to hear of your father's misf -rune- 
cruel at any time, but doubly cruelin advanced life. However, 
you will, at least, have the satisfaction of doing yo ir part 
by him, and, depend upon it, it will not be in vain. Fortune, 
to be sure, is a female, but not such a b — h as the rest 
(always excepting your wife and my sister from such 
sweeping terms ;) for she generally has some justice in the 
long run. I have no spite against her though, br*ween 



T04 



LETTERS, I81T. 



her and Nemesis, I hnve hadsome lore gauntl eta to run— 
i. hi then 1 have done mv best to deserve no better. But 
[., you, she is a good deal in arrear, and she will come 

round— mind if she do n't: j have vigour of life, of 

independence, of latent, spirit, and character, all with you. 
What vou can do for yourself, ym have done and "ill do; 
an I surely there arc some others in the world who would 
no) lie sorry to be "f use, if you would allow them to be 
useful, or at least attempt it, 

• I think of being in England in the spring. If there is 
a row, by th sceptre of King Ludd, but I 'II he one , and 
,1 there is none, and only a continuance of • tin- meek 
piping time of ponce,' I will take a cottage a hundred yards 
to the south of your abode, and become your neighbour; 
an. I we will compose such canticles, and hold such dia- 
logues, as shall Le the terror of the Bmet, (including die 

newspaper of that name,) and the wonder, and honour, and 

praise of the Morning Chronicle and posterity. 

• I rejoice to hear of your forthcoming m February — 
though 1 tremble tor the magnificence winch you attribute 
to the new Childe Harold. 1 am glad you like it ; it is a 
fine, indistinct piece of poetical desolation, ami my favour- 
ne. I was halt' mad during the time of its composition, 
between metaphysics, mountains, bikes, love unextillguish- 
able, thoughts unutterable, and the nightmare of my own 
delinquencies. I should, many a good day, have blown my 
brains out, hut for the recollection that it would have given 
pie i ore to my mother-in-law; and, even tlien, if I could 
have been certain to hru.nl her, and IliiiLT the shattered 
scalp of mv sinciput tend occiput ill her frightful face — but 
I won't dwell upon these trilling family matters. 

• Venice is in the ra/ro of her Carnival, and I have been 
up these last two nights at the nd. at., and the opera, and 
all that kind of thing. Now fir an adventure. A few 

i iys ago a gi ndolier brought me a billet without a sub- 
. notion, intimating a wish on the part of the writer to 

meet me either in gondola, or at the island of rs.iu l.a/aro. 
or at a third rendezvous indicated in the note. 'I know 
the country's disposition well,' — in Venice 'they do let 
heaver, see those tricks they dare not show,' &c, &c. ; so, 
for all response, I said that neither of the three places 
suited me; but that I would either beat home at ten at 
nwllt alone, or be at the ridotto at midnight, where the 
writer might meet me masked. At ten o'clock I was at 
home and alone, (Mananna was gc ne with her husband to 
a conversazione,) when the door uf my apartment opened, 
and in walked a well-looking and (for an Italian) Mmda 
girl of about nineteen, who informed me that she was mar- 
ried to the brother of my amoroso, and wished to have some 
conversation with me. I made a decent reply, and we 
had some talk in Italian and Romaic, (her mother being a 
Greek of Corfu;) when, In! in a very few minutes in 
inarches, to my very great astonishment, Mananna S + * 
in propria persona, and, afler making a most polite curtsey 
to her sister-in-law and to me, without a single word, seizes 
her said sister-in-law Dy the hair, and bestows upon her 
some sixteen slaps, winch would have made your ear ach 
only to hear their ecdo. 1 need not describe the screaming 
which ensued. The luckless visiter took flight I seized 
Mananna, who, after several vain efforts U get away in 
pursuit of tie- enemy, fairly went into fits in my arms; and, 
ui spite of reasoning, eau de Cologne, vinegar, half a pint 
of water, and God knows what other wutci besides, con- 
tinued so nil past midnight. 

« After damning my servants for letting people in without 
apprizing me, I found that Marianna in the morning had 
seen her sister-in-law's gondolier on the stairs; and, stis- 
proiing that his apparition boded her no good, had either 
returned other own accord, or been followed by her maids 

or some other spy of her people to the conversazi me,fi 

when-o she returned to perpetrate this piece of pugilism. 
I had seen tils before, and also some small scenery of the 
same genus in and out of our island ; but this was nol all. 
After about an hour, in comes— who ' why, Sign or S ♦ *, 



her lord and husband, and finds me with his wife fainting 
upon a sofa, ami 



handkerchiefs, salts, smelling bntUt — anoTthe 
lady as pah- as ashes, without sen-e or motion. Hi- first 
question was, 'What is all this .'' The lad) could no 

.,, | did. I told him the explanation was tie- easiest 

thing in the' world; but in the an lime, h would be as 

welllorccovei his witi -at leastherscn es. 1 Ins came 
about in do.- lime of iu piration and respiration. 

" Vou need not he alarmed— jealousy is not the Order of 

the day in Venice, and daggers an- oui of fashion, while 
duels, on love mailers, are unknown— at least, with the 
husbands. But, for all this.it was an awkward affair; and 
though he must have known that I made love to .Mananna, 
v ,.i | believe le- was not, till dial evening, aware of the 
extent to "Inch it had gone. It is very well known that 
almost all the married women have a lover; I"" it ' usual 
to keop up the fclnns, as in other nations. I didn 
lore, know what the devil to say. I could not out wi h the 
truth, out of regard to her, ami I did not choose n. lie I « 
my sake;— besides, the thing told itself, [thought the best 
way would be to let her explain it as she chose, (a woman 
being never at a loss — the Devil always sticks by tin in) — 
only determining to protect and carry her off, in cast at 
am ferocity on the pari of the Signor. 1 saw dial he was 
ipjite calm. She went to bed, and next day — low they 
settled it, I know not, but settle u they did. Well— then 
1 had to explain to Marialuu abouj this never to be sulli- 
ciently confounded sister-in-law ; which 1 did by swearing 
innocence, eternal constancy, &c. &c. * 

♦ * * * ** * * * * 

But the sister-in-law, very much discomposed with h, mg 
treated in such wise, has (not having her own aliauie 

before her eves,) told the affair to half Venice, and the 
■servants (who were sumo ed by the fight ami the faint- 
ing,) to the other half. Km here,nobodi minds such trifles, 
except to be amused bytliem. I don't know whetheryou 
will he so, hut 1 have scrawled a long leller out of Ihcso 
.n.i: K-e" 



fillie 



B BeljfiV< me ever, &C." 



1ETTER CCCXVH. 

Ttl'HR. MITHRAV. 

"Venice, Jan. 24, 1817. 
****** 

"I have le. -ii requested hv the Countess Albrizzi hero 
to present her wuh 'the Works:' and wish you therefore 
to send me a copv, that I may comply with her requisition. 
Von may include the last published, of which I have seen 
and know nothing, but from your letter of the 13th of 
December. 

"Mrs. Leigh tells me that most of her friends pr.-fcrihe 
first two Cantos. 1 do not know whether tins he the 
general opinion or not, (ii is rattan.-) but it is natural it 
should be so. I, however, think diln-nntK, which is na- 
tural also; hut who is right, or who is wrong, is of very 
Utile consequence, 

"Dr. Polidori, as I hear from him by letter from I'isa, is 
about to return to England, to go to the Brazils on a 
medical speculation wilhth.- Danish consul. As you are 
in the favour of the powers that he, could you not pet l.im 
some letters of r,-< mendalion from some of your go- 
vernment friends to some of the Portuguese settlers ! he 
understands Ins profession well, and has no want ..I eeni ral 
talents; lus faults are the faults of a pardonable vanity and 
ninth. Ilis remaining with ma was out of the question: I 
have enough to do to manage mv own scrapes; ami as 
precepts wilhout example are not die most gr.acis.ns hoftii- 
h.-s, 1 thought II heller to give him Ins fmce : hut I know 
no great harm of him, and some good, lie is clever and 
accomplished ; knows his profession, by all accounts, well; 

and is honourable in his dealings, and not at all malevolent. 
I think, widi luck, ho will turn out a useful member of 



LETTF. ns,18! T . 



106 



society, (from which he will lop the diseased memb< rs,) and 
the < Jollego of Physicians. IT you can be of any use to 
him, or know any one who can, pray be so, as he has h's 
fortune lo make. He has kept a medical journal under the 
eye of ffaecu, (the first surgeon on the continent) at Pisa: 
\ .,■ ca has corrected it, and it must contain some valuable 
hints or information nn the practice of this country. If you 
can aid him in publishing this also, by your influence with 
your brethren] do; I do not ask you to publish it yourseKj 
because that sort of request is too personal and embarrass- 
ing. He has also a tragedy, of which, having seen nothing 
I say DOthmg: but the very circumstance of his having 
made (heae efforts (if they are only efforts,) at onc-and- 
twenty, is m his favour, and proves lum to have good 
dispositions fir his own improvement. So it^ in the way 
of commendation or recommendation, you can aid his 
objects with your government friends, I wish you mould, 
1 should tlmik some of your Admiralty Board might be 
lik- r, to have it in their power." 



LETTER CCCXVIII. 

TO MR. 31CRRAY. 

" Venice, Feb. 15, 1817. 

■1 have received your two letters, but not the parcel vou 
mention. As the Waterloo spoils are arrived, I will make 
you a present of them, if you choose to accept of them ; 
pray do. 

"1 do not exactly understand from your letter what has 
been omitted, or what not, in the publication ; but I shall 
booty some day or other. I could not attribute any 
but a s<wtl motive to Mr. Gilford or yourself in such omis- 
sion ; but as our politics are so very opposite, we should 
probably differ as to the passages. However, if it is only 
a note or notes, or a line or so, it cannot signify. You say 
'a poem;'' what poem? Vou can tell me in your next. 

"Of Air. Uobhousa's quarrel with the Quarterly Review, 
I know very little except * **s article itself, which was 
certainly harsh enough: but I quite agree that it would 
have b<*i'n better not to answer — particularly after Mr. 
W. IV. WOO never more will trouble you, trouble you. I 
have been uneasy, because Mr. H. told me that his letter 
or preface was to be addressed to me. Now, he and I are 
friends of many years ; I have many obligations to him, and 
h? none tome, which have not been cancelled and more 
than repaid: but Mr. Gilford and I are friends also, and 
he has moreover been literally so, through thick and thin, 
m despite of difference of years, morals, habits, and even 
y>'iti-\; and therefore Ffeel in a very awkward situation 
between the two, Air. Gilford and my friend Hobhouse, and 
can only wish that they had no difference, or that such as 
they have were a'Tnrnmodrited. The Answer 1 have not 
seen, for — it is odd enough lor people so intimate — but Mr. 
Hobhouse and I are very sparing of our literary confi- 
dences. For example, the other lay he wished to have a 
MS. of the Thri Canto to read over to his brother, &c. 
which was reaped; — and I have never seen his journals, 
nor he mme — (I only kept the short one of the mountains 
f>r my sister) — nor do I think that hardly ever he or I saw 
any of the other's productions previous to their publication. 

"The article in the Edinburgh Review on Coleridge I 
have not seen; but whether I am. attacked in it or not, or 
hi any othet vt the same journal, I shall never think ill of 
Mr. Jeffrey on that account, nor forget that his conduct 
towards me has been certainly most handsome during the 
last four or more years. 

•I forgot to mention to you that a kind of poem in dia- 
logue* (in blank verse) or drama, from which 'The In- 
cantation' is an extract, begun last summer in Switzerland, 
is hm-hed; it is in three acts; but of a very wild, meta- 
physical, and inexplicable kind. Almost ail the persons — 



" .Manfred. 

14 



but two or three — are Spirits of the earth and air, or the 
waters; the scene is in the Alps; the hero a kind of ma* 
gician, vim is tormented by a species of remorse, the cause 
of which is left half unexplained. He wanders about 
invoking these Spirits, which appear to him, and are of no 
use ; he at last goes to the very abode of the Evil Principle, 
in propria persona, to evocate a ghost, which appears, and 
gives him an ambiguous and disagreeable answer; and in 
the thud act he is found by his attendants dying in a tower 
where he had studied his art. You may perceive by this 
outline that I have no great opinion of this piece of phan 
tasy ; but 1 have at least rendered it quite impossible for the 
Stage, for winch my intercourse with Drury-lane has given 
me the greatest contempt. 

a I have not eves copied it off, and feel too lazy at preseat 
to attempt the whole: but when 1 have, I will send it you, 
and you may either throw n into die rue or not." 



LETTER CCCXIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, Feb. 25, 1B1T. 

B I wrote to you the other day in answer to your letter; 
at present, I would trouble you with a commission, if you 
would be kind enough to undertake it. 

"You perhaps know Mr. Love, the jeweller, of Old 
Bond-street — In 1813, when in the intention of returning 
to Turkey, I purchased of him, and paid (argent comptani) 
about a dozen snuff-boxes, of more or less value, as presents 
for some of my Mussulman acquaintance. These I have 
now with me. The other day, having occasion to make 
an alteration in the lid of one (to place a portrait in it,) it 
lias turned out to be silva-giU instead of gold, for which 
last it was sold and paid for. This was discovered by the 
workman in trying it, before taking off the hinges and work- 
ing upon the lid. I have of course recalled and preserved 
the box in statu quo. What 1 wish you to do is, to see the 
said Air. Love, and inform him of this circumstance, add- 
ing, from me, that I will take care he shall not have done 
this with impunity. 

"If there is no remedy in law, there is at least the eqtut- 
able one of making known his guilt, — that is, his silver gili, 
and be d — d to him. 

"I shall carefully preserve all the purchases I made of 
liim on that occasion for my return, as the plague in Tur- 
key is a barrier to travelling there at present, or rather the 
endless quarantine which would be the consequence before 
one could land in coming back. Pray state the matter te 
him with due ferocity. 

"I sent you the other day some extracts from a kind of 
Drama which 1 had begun in Switzerland and finished 
here ; you will tell me if they are received. They were 
only in a letter. I have not yet had energy to ropy it out, 
or I would send you the whole in different covers. 

"The carnival closed this day last week. 

"Mr. Hobhouse is still at Rome, I believe. I am at 
preseut-a little unwell; — sitting up too late and some sub- 
sidiary dissipations have lowered my blood a good deai; 
but 1 have at present the quiet and temperance of Lent 
before me. " Believe me, &c* 

"P. S. Remember me to Mr. Gifford. — I have not re- 
ceive,! y () ur parcel or parcels. — Look into 'Moore's (Dr. 
Moore's) View of Italy' for me ; in one of the volumes you 
will find an account of the Doge Valicre (it ought to be 
K alien) and his conspiracy, or the motives of it. Get it 
transcribed for me, and send it in a letter to me soon. I 
want it, and cannot find so good an account of that business 
h-re ; though the veiled patriot, and the place where he was 
crowned, and afterward decapitated, still exist, and are 
skown. I have searched all their histories; but the policy 
of the old aristocracy made their writers silent on his mo- 
ti- -s, which were a private grievance against one of the 
\" ricians. 



108 



LETTERS, 1817. 



•1 mean to write a tragedy on the subject, which aj>- 
pears to me verv dramatic: an old man, jealous, an I con- 
•pinng against the state, of which he was the actually 
feigning chief. The last circumstance makes it the most 
reroarKable and only Tact of the kind in all history of all 
■auxins." 



LETTER CCCXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



■Venice, Feb. 28, 1817. 

4 You will, perhaps, complain as much uf the frequency 
«f my letters now, as you were wont to do of their rarity. 
I think this is the fourth within as many moons. I feel 
anxious to hear from you, even more than usual, because 
your last indicated that you were unwell. At present, I 
am on the invalid regimen myself. The Carnival — that is, 
the latter part of it — and sitting up late 0* nights, had knocked 
me up a little. But it is over, — and it is now Lent, with 
ail its abstinence and sacred music. 

" The mumming closed with a masked hall at the Fenice, 
where I went, as also to most of the ridoltas, &c.&c. ; and, 
though I did not dissipate much upon the whole, yet 1 find 
the sword wearing out the scabbard, 1 though I have but 
•ust turned the corner of twenty-nine. 

" So we '11 go no more a rcving 

So late into llie night, 
Though the heart be still an leving, 

Ami the moon be still as bright. 
For the sword outwears its sheath, 

Ami the soul wear* out the breust, 
And the heart must pause to breathe, 

Anil love itself have rest. 
Though the night whs rnmlc for Wing, 

Ami the day returns too soon, 
Tet we '11 go no more a m»ing 

By the light of the moon. 

I have lately had some news of litter«tow, as I heard the 
editor of the Monthly pronounce it once upon a time. I 
heard that W. W. has been publishing and responding to 
the attacks of the Quarterly, in the learned Perry's Chro- 
nicle. I read his poesies last autumn, and, among them, 
found an epitaph on his bull-dog, and another on mytdtf. 
But I beg leave to assure him (.like me astrologer Partridge) 
that I am not only alive now, but was alive also at the time 
ho wrote it. * * * * 

***** 

Hobhouse has (I hear, also) expectorated a letter against 
the Quarterly, addressed to me. I feel awkwardly situated 
between him and Gilford, both being my friends. 

"And this is your month of going to press — by the body 
of Diana! (a Venetian oath,) I feel as anxious — but not 
fearfu! for you — as if it were myself coming out in a work 
of humour, which would, you know, Ix 1 tin- antipodes of all 
my previous publications. I don't think you have any thing 
to dread but your own reputation. You must keep up to 
that. As you never showed me a line of your work, I do 
not even know your measure; but you must send me a 
copy by Murray forthwith, and then yon shall hearwhal 
I think. I dare say you are in a pucker. Of all authors, 
you are the only really modest one I ever met with, which 
would sound oddly enough to those who recollect your 
morals when you were young — that is, when you were 
extremely young — I don't mean to stigmatize you either 
with years or morality. 

"I believe I told you that the Edinburgh Review had 
attacked me, in an article on Coleridge (I have not seen 
it)— i Et tv, Jeffrey V — 'there is nothing but roguery in vil- 
lanous man. 1 — But 1 absolve him of all attacks, present and 
future; for I think he had already pushed hi < I m< nn in 
avy behoof to the utmost, and I shall always think well of 
him. I only wonder he did not begin before, as my domestic 
destruction was a fine opening for all the world, of wluch 
all, who could, did well to avail themselves. 



"If I live ten years longer] you will see, however, that it 
is not over with me — I do n't mean in literature, for thai is 
nothing; and it m;iv seem odd enough U> sav, 1 do not 
think it my vocation. Hut you will see that I shall do 
something or other — the times and fortune permitting— 
that " Like the cosmogony, or creation of (lie world, will puz- 
zle the philosophers of all ages'.' But I doubt whether my 
constitution will hold out. 1 have, at intervals, exorcised it 
most devilishly. 

"I have not yet fixed a time of return, but I tliink of the 
spring. 1 shall have been away a year in April next. You 
never mention Rogers, nor Hodgson, your clerical neigh- 
hour, who has lately got :i living near you. Has he also 
_m| a child vet .' — his desideratum when I saw him last. 
* * * * * * 

"Pray let me hear from you, at your time and leisure, 
believing me ever and truly and aflectionalaly, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXI. 

TO MK. MURRAY. 

« Venice, March 3s 1617 

B In acknowledging the arrival of the article from the 
'Quarterly,'* which 1 received two days agit, I cannot ex- 
press myself better than in the words ofnrj sister Augusta, 
who (speaking of it) says, that it is written in a spirit 'of 
the most feeling and kind nature.' It is. however, some- 
thing more : it seems to me (as far as the subject of it may 
be permitted to judge) to be very well written as a compo- 
sition, and I think will iIm th,- journal do discredit, because 
even those who condemn its partiality must praise its 
generosity. The temptations to take another and a less 
favourable view of the question have been so great and 
numerous, mat, what with public opinion, politics, &c. he 
must be a gallant as well as a good man, who has \ i 
in that place, and at this time, to write such an article even 
anonymously. Such things are, however, their own reward, 
and I even flatter myself that the writer, whoever he may 
be, (and I have no guess,) will not regret that the perusal 
of this has given me as much gratification as any compo- 
sition of that nature could ^vr, :uid more than anv ouVr 
has given] — and I have had a good many in my time of 
one kind or the other, li is not the mere praise, but there 
is a tact and a delican/ throughout, not only with regard to 
me, but to others, which, as it had not been observed elM- 
uAsre, I had till now doubted whether it could be observed 
a/i y where. 

"Perhaps some day or other you will know or tell me 
the writer's name. Be assured, had ihe article been a 
harsh one, I should not have asked it. 

M I have lately written to you frequently, with extracts, 
&c. which I hope you have received, or will receive, with 
or before this letter. — Ever since the conclusion of tho 
Carnival I have been unwell, (donol mention this, on any 
account, to Mrs. Leigh: for if I grow worse, she will know 
it too soon, and if I gel better, there is no occasion that 
! know n ;it all,) and have hardly stirred out of 

the house. Ib.wever, 1 do n't want a physx inn, and if I 

did, very luekilv thosi of Italy are the worst in the wonVL 

so that I should still have a chance. They have, I believe, 
one famous surgeon, Vacca, who lives at Pisa, who might 
be useful in case of dissection : — but he is some hundred 
miles off. My malady is a sort of lowish fever, originating 
from what my 'pastor and master," Jackson, would call 
'taking too much out of one's self.' However, I am better 
within this day or two. 

" I missed seeing the new Patriarch's procession to St 
Mark's the other day, (owing to my indisposition,) with 
six hundred and fifty priests in his rear — a ' goodly army. 
The admirable government of Vienna, in its edict from 



* in Article iii number 31 of this tttview, written, u Lord Byron after 
w*rd diKovcred, by Sir W»lt«- Scott. 



LETTERS, 1817. 



10? 



thence, authorizing his installation, prescribed, as part of 
the pageant, ' a coach and four horses.' To show how very 
'German to the matter this was, you have only to suppose 
our parliament cominar .in;* the Archbishop of Canterbury 
to proceed from Hyr* Park Corner to St. Paul's Cathe- 
dral in the Lord A.av'jr's bar:." 1 , or the Margate hoy. 
There is but St. Mark's Plare in all Venice broad enough 
for a carriage to move, and it is paved with large smooth 
flag stones, so that the chanot and horses of Elijah himself 
would be puzzled to manoeuvre upon it. Those of Pharaoh 
might do better ; for the canals, — and particularly the 
Grand Canal, are sufficiently capacious and extensive for 
his whole host. Of course, no coach could be attempted ; 
hilt the Veneiians who are very naive as well as arch, were 
much amused with the ordinance. 

1 The Armenian Grammar is published ; but my Arme- 
nian studies are suspended for the present till my head 
aches a little less. I sent you the oilier day, in two covers, 
the First Act of * Manfred,' a drama as mad as Nat. Lee's 
Kedlam tragedy, which was in 25 acts and some odd 
scenes: — mine is but in Three Acts. 

fi I find I have begun this letter at the wrong end : never 
Blind ; I must end it, then, at the right. 

6 Yours ever verv truly 

B andobligedly,&c. n 



LETTER CCCXX1I. 

TO UK. HURRAY. 

"Venice, March 9, 1817. 

•In remitting the Third Act* of the sort of dramatic 
poem of which you will by this time have received the first 
two, (at least I hope so,) which were sent within the last 
three weeks, I have little to observe, except that you must 
not publish it (if it ever is published) without giving me pre- 
vious notice. I have really and truly no notion whether it 
is good or bad ; and as this was not the case with the prin- 
cipal of mv former publications I am, therefore, inclined to 
rank it very humbly. You will submit it to Mr. Gilford, 
and to whomsoever you please besides. "With regard to 
the question of copyright, (if it ever comes to publication,) 
I do not know whether you would think three liundred 
guineas an over-estimate ; if you do, you may diminish it : 
I do not think it worth more ; so you may see I make some 
difference between it and the others. 

1 1 have received your two Reviews, (but not the ' Tales 
of Mv Landlord;') the Quarterly I acknowledged particu- 
larly to you, on its arrival, ten days ago. What you tell 
me of Perry petrifies me; it is a rank imposition. In or 
about February or March, 1S16, 1 was given to understand 
that Mr. Croker was not only a coadjutor in the attacks 
of the Courier in 1814, but the author of some lines tole- 
rably ferocious, then recently published in a morning paper. 
Upon this I wrote a reprisal. The whole of the lines I 
have forgotten, and even the purport of them I scarcely 
remember; for on your assuring me that he was not, &c. 
&c. I put them into the Jire before your face, and there 
never was but that one rough copy. Mr. Davies, the only 
person who ever heard them read, wanted a copy, which I 
refused. If, however, by some impoambUity^ which I cannot 
divine, the ghost of these rhymes should walk into the 
world, I never will deny what I have really written, but 
hold myself personally responsible for satisfaction, though I 
reserve to myself the right of disavowing all or any fabri- 
cations. To the previous fans you are a witness, and best 
know how far my recapitulation is correct; and I request 
(hat you will inform Mr. Perry from me, that I wonder he 
should permit such an abuse of my name in his paper; I 
say an souse, because my absence, al least, demands some 
respect, and my presence and positive sanction could alone 
justify him in such a proceeding, even were the lines mine ; 



* SW« Poemi, p. 470. 



and if false, there are no words for him. I repeat to you 
that the original was burnt before you on your as^urance^ 
and there never was a copy t nor even a verbal repetition, — 
very much to the discomfort of some zealous Whigs, who 
bored me for them (having heard it bruited by Mr. Davies 
that there were such matters) to no purpose ; for, havin» 
written them solely with the notion that Mr. Croker was 
the aggressor, and for my own and not party reprisals, I 
would not lend me to the zeal of any sect when I was made 
aware that he was not the writer of the offensive passages. 
You know, if there was such a thing, I would not deny it. 
I mentioned it openly at the time to vou, and you will 
remember why and where I destroyed it ; and no power 
nor wheedling on earth should have made, or could make 
me, (if 1 recollected them,) give a copy after that, unless I 
was well assured that Mr. Croker was really the author of 
that which you assured me he was not, 

K I intend for England this spring, where 1 have some 
affairs to adjust ; but the post hurries me. For this month 
past I have been unwell, but am getting better, and thinking 
of moving homewards towards May, without going to 
Rome, as the unhealthy season comes on soon, and I can 
return when I have settled the business I go upon, which 
need not be long. * * * * I should have thought the Assy- 
rian tales very succeedable. 

°I saw, in Mr. W. "W.'s poetry*, that he had written my 
epitaph; I would rather have written his. 

"The thing I have sent you, you will see at a glimpse, 
could never be attempted or thought of for the stage ; I 
much doubt it for publication even. It is too much in my 
old style ; but I composed it actually with a horror of the 
stage, and with a view to render the thought of it imprac- 
ticable, knowing the zeal of my friends that I should try 
that for which I have an invincible repugnance, viz. a re- 
presentation. 

"I certainly am a devil of a mannerist, and must leave 
off: but what could I do? Without exertion of some kind, 
I should have sunk under my imagination and reality. My 
best respects to Mr. Gifford, to Walter Scott, and to all 
friends. "Yours ever" 



LETTER CCCXXUI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Venice, Ma-ch 10, 1817. 

"I wrote again to you lately, but I hope you won't be 
sorry to have another epistle. I have been unwell this last 
month, witli a kind of slow and low fever, which fixes upon 
me at night, and goes off in the morning ; but, however, I 
am now better. In spring it is probable we may meet; at 
least I intend for England, where I have business, and 
hope to meet you in your restored health and additional 
laurels. 

'■Murray has sent me the Quarterly and the Edinburgh. 
When I tell you that Walter Scott is the author of the 
article in the former, you will agree with me that such an 
article is still more honourable to him than to myself. I 
am perfectly pleased with Jeffrey's also, which I wish you 
to tell him, With my remembrances — not that I suppose it 
is of any consequence to him, or ever could have been, 
whether I am pleased or not, — but simply in my private 
relation to him, as his well-wisher, and it may be one day 
as his acquaintance. I wish you would also add, — what 
you know, — that I was not, and, indeed, am not even nou^ 
the misanthropical and gloomy gentleman he takes me for» 
but a facetious companion, well to do with those with 
whom I am intimate, and as loquacious and laughing as if 
I were a much cleverer fellow. 

"I suppose now I shall never be able to shake off my 
sables in public imagination, more particularly since mi 
moral * * clove down my fame. However, nor that, noi 
more than that, has yet extinguished my spirit, which 
always uses with the rebound. 



10ft 



LETTERS, 1817. 



■ At Venice we are in Lent, and I have not lately moved 
out of doors, — my fevensliness requiring quiet, and — by 
way of being more quiet — here is the Signora Marianna 
tart come in and seated at mv elbow. 

"Have you seen * + *'s book of poesy ? and, if you have 
|een it, are you not delighted with it? And have you — I 
►eally cannot go jn. There is a pair of great black cy*s 
ooking over my shoulder, like the a*ngel 1'aning ove* St. 
Matthew's, in the old frontispieces to the Fvangr lists,- -so 
that I must turn and answer ihem insteafi <^" *ou 

*Z-er Jtc. n 



LETTER CCCXXI/" 



TO MR. MOORE. 



■Verio . March 25,1817. 

■ I have at last learned, in de^olt of your own writing, 
(or not writing — which shmilr 1 , t* '*e? fur 1 am not very 
clear as to the application of the "vurd default,) from Mur- 
ray, two particulars of (a/e belonging to) you; one, mat 
von are removing to Hor*' y, which is, I presume, to be 
nearer London; and the other, that your I'oem is an- 
nounced by the name o r L.alla Rookh. 1 am glad of it, — 
first, that we are to h' /e it at last, and next, I like a tough 
title myself— vitrei the Giaour and Cliilde Harold, which 
Choked half 'he Hiies at starting. Besides, it is the tail of 
Alcibiaues's do* — not tliat I suppose you want either dog 
>r tail. Ta'kmo of tml, I wish you had not called it a 
Persuin 7\>.' Say a 'Poem' or 'Romance, 1 but not 'Tale.' 
j ?jti v- ry sorry that I called some of my own things 
Tales, because I think that they are something better. 
Besides, we have had Arabian, and Hindoo, and Turkish, 
Hid Assyrian Tales. But afier all, this is frivolous in me ; 
foil won't, however, mind my nonsense. 

"Really and truly, I want you to make a great hit, if 
>nly out of self-love, because we happen to be old cronies; 
uid I have no doubt you will — I am sure you can. But 
ton are, I'll be sworn, in a devil of a pucker; and / am not 
II your elbow, and Rogers is. I envy him; which is not 
*air, because he does not envy any body. Mind you send 
o mu — that is, make Murray send — the moment you are 
iorth. 

' I have been very ill with a slow fever, which at last 
tooR -o *H'ing, and became as quick as need be. But, at 
length, alter a *vpek of half-delirium, burning skin, thirst, 
hot heaaach, horrible pu«atiou,and no-sleep, by me blessing 

of barley water, and refusing to see any physician, I reco- 
vered. It is an epidemic of the place, which is annual, and 
visits strangers. Here follow some versicles, which I jnade 
one sleepless night. 

•'I read ihe ' Chrialat>cl ;' 

Very well : 
I read l he ' Misaionary ;• 

Pretty— very : 
] tried at ' Iklerirn ;' 

Ahom ! 
I icail a »he*-t of ' Marg'ret of Anjau;* 

Can you 3 
1 lurn "d a page of ' • "• Waterloo ;* 

Pooli 1 Pooh t 
I looked at Wordsworth** milk win u ' Rylaiom* Doe ;• 

Hillot 
I road 'GlMhWTOa' loo, by * * * *, 

Godd— ul" 



M have not fire least idea where I am going, nor what 1 
am to do. I wished to have gone to Rome ; but at present 
it is pestilent with English, — a parcel of staring boobies, 
who go about gaping and wishing to be at once cheap and 
magnificent A man is a *Jxd who travels now m France 
or Italv, till mis tribe of «*rei< hes is swept home again. 
In two or three yean the hr' rush will be over, and the 
Comment will be roomy ana agreeable. 

a I stayed at Venice chiefly because it is not one of their 



Mens of thieves; 1 and here they but pause and pass. In 
Switzerland it was really noxious. Luckily, I was early 
and had <_'oi the prettiest place on all the Lake before they 

i were quickened into motion with the rest of reptiles. Bm 
thev crossed me every where. I met a family of children 
and old women hall" way up the Wengen Alp (by the 
Jimgfrau) upon mules, some of them too old and others too 

i young to be the least aware of what thev saw. 

"Bv-tlic-way, I think the Jungfrau, and all that nffOB 
of Alps, which I traversed in September — going to die 
very top of the Wengen, which i- not the highest, (the 

Jungfrau its. || i-. iiincce -iNc) hut the best point of view— 
much liner than Mont Blanc and Chamouni, or (he Sim- 
plon. I kept a journal of the whole for my sister Augusta, 
part of which she copied and let Murray see. 

"1 wrote a sort of mad Drama, lor the sake of intro 
ducing the Alpine scenery n description; and this I sent 
lately to .Murray. Almosl all theoVatm. pcrs. are spirits, 
ghosts, or magicians, and the scene is in the Alps and the 
other world ; so you may suppose what a bedlam tragedy 
it must be: make him show it you. 1 sent him all three 
acts piecemeal] by the post, and suppose they have arrived. 

"I have now written to you at least six Inters, or letter- 
ed, and all 1 have received in return is a note about the 
length you used to write from Bury-street to St. Jaraes's- 
street, when we used to dine with Rogers, and talk la.vlv 
and go to parties, and hear poor Sheridan now and then. 
Do you remember one night he was so tipsy that I was 
forced to put his cocked hat on for him, — for he could not, 
— and I let him down at Brookes's, much as he must since 
have been let down into his grave. Heigh ho! I wish I 
was drunk — but I have nothing but dus d— d i.arley water 
before me. 

"I am still in love. — which is a dreadful drawback in 
quilting a place, and 1 can't stay at Venice much longer. 
What I shall do on this point I do n't know. The girl 
means to go widi me, but I do not like this for her own 
sake. I have had so many conflicts in my own mind on 
this subject, that I am not at all sure they did not help me 
to the fever I mentioned above. I am certainly very much 
attached to her, and I have cause to be so, if you knew alL 
But she has a child ; and though, like all the 'children of 
the sun, 1 she consults nothing but passion, it is necessary I 
should think for both; and it is onlv the virtuous, like 
* * * *, who can atford to give up husband and child, and 
live happy ever after. 

1 The" Italian etlucs are rhe most singular ever met with. 
The perversion, not only of action, hut of reasoning is sin- 
gular in the women. It is not that they do not consider 
the thing itself as wrong and wry wrong but love (the 
acnlintait of love) is not merely an excuse for it, but makes 
it an actual tirh/c, provided it is disinterested, and not a 
caprice, and is confined to one object. 'J 'hey have awful 
notions of constancy ; for I have seen some ancient figures 
of eighty pointed out as amoroai of forty, fifty, and sixty 
years 1 Btanding. 1 can't sav I have ever seen a husband 
and wife so coupled. ' L Ever, &c. 

"P. S. Marianna, to whom I have just translated what 
I have written on our subject to you, says*— ' If you loved 
me thoroughly, you would not make so many fine reflections, 
which are only good forbirm i strtrpif — that is, ' to clean 
shoes withal,' — a Venetian proverb of appreciation, wliich 
is applicable to reasoning of all kinds." 



LETTER CCCXXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, March 25,1817. 
" Your letter and ** < 'osure are safe ; but ' English gen- 
tlemen' are very ra . at least in Venice. I doubt whether 
there are at present any save the consul and vice-consul, 
with neither of whom I have the slightest acquaintance. 
The moment 1 can pounce upon a witness, I will mikI ths 



LETTERS, 1817. 



109 



Iced properly si;med : but must he necessarily be genteel? 
\ ,.,. is „„t a place where the English are gregarious; 
rheir pigeon-houses are Florence, Naples, Home, iic. ; 
and to tell you the truth, this was one reason why I stayed 
here till the season of the purgation of Rome from these 
penole, which is infected with them at this time, should ar- 
rive'. Besides, I abhor the nation and die nation me ; it 15 
able for me to describe my own sensation on that 
po.nl, but it may suffice to say, thai, if I met with any of 
lie race in the beautiful parts of Switzerland, die most 
iistant glimpse or aspect of them poisoned the whole 
scene, and I do not choose to have the Pantheon, and St. 
Peter's, and the Capitol, spoiled for me loo. This feeling 
mav be probably owing to recent events ; but it does not 
ejdsl the less, and while it exists, I shall conceal it as Utile 
as anv other. 

" 1 have been seriously ill with a fever, but it is gone 
believe or suppose it was the indigenous fever of the place, 
which comes every year at this time, and of which the 
physicians change the name annually, to despatch the peo- 
ple' sooner. It is a kind of typhus, and kills occasionally. It 
was pretty smart, but nothing particular, and has left me 
some debility and a great appetite. There are a good 
many ill at present, I suppose of the same. 

- 1 feel sorry for Horner, if there was any thing in the 
world to mike him like it ■ and still more sorry for his 
Ri ads, as there was much 10 make them regret him. I 
bad not heard of his deadi till by your letter. 

■ Some weeks ago I wrote to you my acknowledgments 
of Walter S.'olt's article. Now I know it to be his, it can- 
not add to mv good opinion of him, but it adds to that of 
myself. He, 'and Gilford, and Moore are the only regulars 
1 ever knew who had nothins of the garrison about their 
manner: no nonsense, nor affectations, look you ! As for 
ton rest whom I have known, there was always more or 
ess of the author about them— the pen peeping from be- 
laud the ear, and the thumbs a little inky or so. 

" Lalla Rookh'— you must recollect that in the way of 
title, the ' Giaour' has never been pronounced to this day ; 
and bolh it and Childe Harold sounded very facetious to 
the hlue-botdes of wit and hnniuur about town, till they 
were taught and startled into a proper deportment; and 
therefore Lalla Rookh, which is very orthodox and oriental, 
is as good a tide as need be, if not be'ter. I could wish 
rather that he had not called it 'a Persian Tide; firstly, 
because we have had Turkish Tales, and Hindoo Tales, 
and Assyrian Tales already ; and lot is a word of which 
i; repents me to have nicknamed poesy. ' Fable' would 
l„- better; and, secondly, 'Persian Talc' reminds one of 
the lines of Pope on Ambrose Phillips; though no one can 
sav, to be sur=, that this tale has been 'turned fir half-a- 
crown ;' still ii is as well to avoid such clashing. 'Persian 
Story'— why not ?— or Romance.' I feel as anviuus it 
Moore as I could do for myself, for die soul ol me, and 1 
would not have him succeed otherwise Ulan splendidly, 
which I trust he will do. 

- With regard to the 'Witch Drama,' I sent all the three 
acts bv post, week after week, wuhin this last monlh. 
repeat thai I have nol an idea if ll is good or bad 
il must, on no account, be risked in publication; if good, it 
B at vour service. I value it at three hundred guineas, or 
Irs, if you like it. Perhaps, if published, die hes; way will 
l>e I., add it to your winter volume, and not publish sepa- 
rately. The price will show you I don't pi'pie myself upon 
it ; so speak tout. You may put it in die fire, if you like, and 
Unfe-d don't like. 

<• The Armenian Hi-mimar is published — that is, one; 
in? other is still in MS. My illness has prevented me 
from moving diis monlh past, and I have done nothing 
more with the Armenian. 

*( if liaian or rather Lombard manners, I could tell you ^ 
tittle or nothing: 1 went two or three times to the governor's Moor*, 
ronversazioue" (and if you «o .nice, you are free t« go j ll J v ' 1 *! 
Vways,) at which, an 1 only saw very jJain women, a 



formal circle, in short, a Wont sort of rout, I did not go agam 
1 went to Academie and to Madame Aibrrzzi's, where I 
saw pretty much the same diing, with the addition of soma 

literati, who are the same blue," by , all the world over. 

I fell in love die first week with Madame * *, and I have 
continued so ever since, because she is very pretty and 
pleasuig, and talks Venetian, which amuses nic, and is 
naive. 1 have seen all their spectacles and sights; but I 
do not know any thing yen- worUiy of observation, except 
that the women kiss better than those of any other nation, 
w luch is notorious, and attributed to the worship of images, 
and the early habit of osculation induced thereby. 

"Very truly, &c. 
"P. S. Pray send die red tooth-powder by a safe hand. 
and speedily. 



1 



» To hook (he render, v °Ui J° h " Murray, 

Have uuhhshtd ' Anjou's MargaTel,' 
Which won'i be sold ofl in a hurry, 

(At least, ii hits nol ( em as yel l) 
And [hen, sliil fur ther lo bewilder 'em, 
Without remorse you set up ' IMeiim ;* 

So miud yon do n't get into debt, 
Because as how, if von should fn.l. 
These books would be bul baddish bail. 

■' And mind yon do not lei escai* 

TbfM el,, n.rt to Morning Yo* or Terry, 
Which would be fry lre:icherous— voy. 
And eel me mln such a scrape ! 
For, firstly, I should huTC to sally, 
All in my linle boat, i;jhhi a Galley ;J 
And, should I chance to slny the Assyrian wight, 
Ban next to combat with the female knight, 
And, | rick'd lo death, expire upon her needle— 
A sort of end which I should lake indeed ill I 

"You may show these matters to Moore an J the select 
but not to the profane; and tell Moore, that I wonder he 
do n't write to one now and then." 



[ 
If bad, 



LETTER CCCXXVI. 

TO MK. MOORE. 

■Venice, March 31, 1817. 
"You will begin to think my epistolary offerings (to 
whatever altar you please to devote them) rather prodigal. 
But until you answer I shall nol abate, because you deserve 
no better. 1 know you are well, because 1 hear of your 
voyaging to London and the environs, which I rejoice lo 
learn, because your note alarmed me by the purgation at _ 
phlebotomy therein prognosticated. I also hear of vour 
being in the press; all w Inch, niethinks, mighl have furrjtLcd 
you with subject matter for a middle-sized letter, consider- 
ing that I am in foreign parts, and lhat the last mondi's 
advertisements and obituary would be absulute news to me 
from vour Tramontane country. 

• 1 told you, in my last, 1 have had a smart fever. There 
is an epidemic in the place; but I suspect, from the symp- 
toms, thai mine was a fever of my own, and had nothing 
in common with the low, nilgai typhus, which is at this 
moment decimating Venice, and winch has half-unpeopled 
Milan, if the accounts be true. This malady has sorely 
discomfited my serving men, who want sadly lo be gone 
away, and get me lo remove. But, besides my natural 
perversity, 1 was seasoned in Turkey, by the continual 
w hispers of die plague, acainst apprehensions of contagion 
Besides which, apprehension would not prevent il: and 
Ihen I am sUll in love, and 'forty thousand' fevers should 
not make me stir before mv muiute, while under the in- 
fluence of lhat paramount delirium. Seriously speaking. 



in ihisiiis'.nncr,, which U 

I] ii s*' ,v, "e. » 

nC .i! the wntf fe h 'riii»'ic« 



ful'ow the sum 

f) ,|t. . iv I t-rn eO't" 

1 Ml ■ o-d.e) Kjiiln.llK B'UlKir M l lid tin.. 



■ ('-I -end the ChrMab-l." *ej 
I hi. letlcn to in -,eli.— Moori. 



no 



LETTERS, 1817. 



there is a malady rife in the city — a dangerous one, they 
Bay. However, nunc did Dot appear so, though it was not 
pleasant. 

"This is passion-week — and twilight — and all the world 
are at vespers. They have an eternal churching] as in all 
Catholic countries, but are not so bigoted as they seemed 
to be in Spain. 

■ 1 do n't know whether to be glad or sorry that you are 
leaving Mayfield. Had 1 ever been at Newstead during 
your siay there, (except during the winter of 1813-14, when 
the roads were impracticable,) we should have been within 
had, and I should like to have made a giro uf the Peak with 
you. I know that country well, having been all over it 
when a boy. Was you ever in Dovedale? I can assure 
you there are things in Derbyshire as noble as Greece or 
Switzerland. But you had always a lingering after Lon- 
don, and I don't wonder at it. I liked it as well as any 
body, myself) now and then. 

u Will you remember me to Rogers? whom I presume 
t" be flourishing, and whom I regard as our poetical papa, 
"ion are his lawful son, and I the illegitimate. Has he 
begun yet upon Sheridan'? If you see our republican 
friend, Leigh Hunt, pray present my remembrances. I 
saw about nine months ago that he was in a row (like my 
friend Hobhouse,) with the Quarterly Reviewers. For my 
part I never could understand these quarrels of authors with 
critics and with one another. 'For God's sake, gentlemen, 
what do they mean T 

"What think you of your countryman, Matunn? I take 
some credit to myself fur having done my best to bring out 
Bertram; but I must say my colleagues were quite as 
ready and willing. Waller Scott, however, was theirs/ 
who mentioned him, which he did to me, with great com- 
mendation, in 1815; and it is to this casually, and two or 
three other accidents, that this very clever fellow owed his 
first and well-merited public success. What a chance is 
fame! 

"Did I tell you that I have translated two Epistles? — a 
correspondence between St. I 'aid and the Corinthians, not 
to be found in our version, but the Armenian — but which 
seems to me very orthodox, and I have done it into scrip- 
tural prose English.* "Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXVIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, April 2, 1917. 

* [ sent you the whole of the Drama at three several times, 
act by act, in separate covers. I hope that you have, or 
will receive, some or the whole of it. 

"So Love has a conscience.! By Diana! I shall make 
him take back the box, though it were Pandora's. The 
discovery of its intrinsic silver occurred on sending it to 
have the lid adapted to admit Marianna's portrait. Of 
course 1 had the box remitted in statu quo, and had the 
picture set in another, which suits it (the picture) very 
well. The defaulting box is not touched, hardly, and was 
not in the man's hands above an hour. 

" I am aware of what you say of Otway; and am a very 
great admirer of his, — all except of that maudlin b— h of 
chaste lewdness and blubbering curiosity, Belvidern, whom 
I utterly despise, abhor, and detest. But the story of 
Marino Faliem is different, and, I think, so much finer, that 
I wish Otway had taken it instead: the head conspiring 
against the body for refusal of redress fir a real injury, — 
jealousy, — treason, — with the more fixed and inveterate 
passions (mixed with policy,) of an old or elderly man — 
the Devil himself could not have a finer subject, and he is 
your only tragic dramatist. ***** 

"There is still, in the Doge's palace, the black veil 
painted over Falioro's picture, and the staircase wherein 

•See |>.399. t See Letter 316, W Mr. Murray. 



he was brat crowned Doge, and subsequently decapitated* 
This was the thing thai most struck my imagination in 
Venice— more than the Rialto, which I visited for the sake 
of Shy lock; and more, too, than Schiller's 'Armenian? a 

novel which took a great hold of me when a boy. It is 
also called the '(J host Seer,' and I never walked down St 
Mark's by moonlight without thinking of it, and 'at nm* 
o'clock he died!' — But I hate things aUJictwn; and there 
fore the Mercfamt and Qthdto have do great sssociationi 
to me: but Pierre has. There should always be soma 
f iiindatMii of fact for the most airy fabric, and pure inven- 
tion is but the talent of a bar. 

"Maturin's tragedy. — By your account of him last year 
to me, he seemed a bit of a coxcomb, personally. Pour 
fellow] to be sure, he had had a long seasoning of adversity 
which is not so hard to bear as t'other thing. I hope thai 
this won't throw him back into the Slough of I taenond. 1 

*You talk of 'marriage: 1 — ever since my own funeral, 
the word makes me giddy, and throws me into a cold sweat. 
Pray, don't repeat it. 

" You should close with Madame de Stael. This will 
be her best work, and permanently historical ; it is 
father, the Revolution, and Buonaparte, &c. Bonstetten 
told me in Switzerland it was very great. I have not seen 
it myself, but the author often. She was very kind to mo 
at Copet. ***** 

"There have been two articles in the Venice papers, 
one a Review of Glcnarvon * * * *, and the other a Re- 
view of Chikle Harold, in which it proclaims me the most 
rebellious and contumacious admirer of Buonaparte now 
surviving in Europe. Both these articles are translations 
fiom the Literary Gazette of German Jena. 

****** 

"Tell me that Walter Scott is better. I would not have 
him ill fur the world. I suppose it was by sympathy that 
I had my fever at the same lime. 

"I joy in the success of your Quarterly, but I must stir 
stick by the Edinburgh; Jeffrey has done so by me, I must 
say, through every thing, and this is more than I deserved 
from him. — I have more than once acknowledged to you 
by letter the 'Article' (and articles;) say that you have 
received the said letters, as I do not otherwise know what 
letters arrive. — Both Reviews came, but nothing more 
M.'s play and the extract not yet come. 

****** 

"Write to say whether my Magician has arrived, with 
all his scenes, spells, &c. " Yours ever, &c. 

"It is useless to send to the Fareign-tiffiee : nothing 
arrives to me by that conveyance. I suppose some zealous 
clerk thinks it a tory duty to prevent it." 



LETTER CCCXXVHL 

TO Mn. ROGERS. 

"Venice, April 4, 1817. 

"It is a considerable time since I wrote to vou last, and 
I hardly know why I should trouble you now, except that 1 
think you will not be sorry to hear from me now and then 
You and I were never correspondents, but always some 
thing better, which is, very good friends. 

"I saw your friend Sharp in Switzerland, or rather in 
the German toruory, (which is and is not Switzerland,) 

and he gave Hol.l m- and me a very good route for th* 

Bernese Alps ; however, we took another from a German 
and went by Clarens, the Dent dc Jamau to .Mont bo von 
and through Simmentbal to Thoun, and soon to Lauter- 
brounn; except that from thence to the Grindelwald 
instead of round about, WO went right over the Wengcr. 
Alps' very summit, and being close under the Jungfrau 
saw it, its glaciers, and heard the avalanches in all their 
glory, having famous weather there/or. We of course went 



* Sm Childe Htrold, Canto 1, 3ian:a 19. 



LETTERS, 



1817. 



Ill 



from the Grindehvald over the Sheidech to Bnentz and its 
lake; past the Reichenbach and all that mountain road, 
which reminded me of Albania, and ,/Eiolia, and Greece, 
except that the people here were more civilized and ras- 
cally. I did not think so very much of Chamouni (except 
the source i if the Arveron, to which we went up to the teeth 
v.f the ice, so as to look into and touch the cavity, against 
the warning of the guides, only one of whom would go with 
\is so close,). as of the Jungfrau, and the Pissevache, and 
Simplon, which are quite out of all mortal competition. 

"I was at Milan about a monn, and saw Monti and 
some other living curiosities, and thence on to Verona, 
where I did not forget your story of the assassination during 
your sojourn there, and brought away with me some frag- 
ments of Juliet's tomb, and a lively recollection of the am- 
phitheatre. The Countess Goetz (the governor's wife 
hi re,) told me that there is still a ruined castle of the 
Montecchi between Verona and Vicenza. I have been 
at Venice since November, but shall proceed to Rome 
shortly. For rav deeds here, are they not written in my 
letters to the unreplying Thomas Moore? to him I refer 
you: he has received them all, and not answered one. 

" Will you remember me to Lord and Lady Holland? 
I have to thank the firmer for a book which I have not yet 
received, but expect to reperuse with great pleasure on my 
return, viz. the 2nd edition of Lope de Vega. I have 
heard of Moore's forthcoming poem: he cannot wish him- 
self more success than I wish and augur for him. I hav 
also heard great things of ' Tales of my Landlord, but I 
have not yet received them; by all accounts they beat even 
"Waver lev, &c. and are by the same author. Maturin's 
second tragedy has, it seems, failed, for which I should 
think any body would be sorry. My health was very 
victorious till within the last month, when I had a fever. 
Tin-re is a typhus in these parts, but I do n't think it was 
that. However, I got well without a physician or drugs 

" I forgot to tell you that, last autumn, I furnished Lewis 
with ' bread and salt' for some days at Diodati, in reward for 
which (besides his conversation,) he translated 'Goethe's 
Faust' to me by word of mouth, and I set him by the ears 
with Madame de Stael about the slave trade. I am 
indebted for many and kind courtesies to our Lady of 
Copet, and I now love her as much as I always did her 
works, of which I was and am a great admirer. "When 
are you to begin with Sheridan? what are you doing, and 
how do you do? "Ever very truly, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY- 

■ Venice, April 9, 1817. 

■ Your letters of the 18th and 20th are arrived. In my 
own I have given you the rise, progress, decline, and fall 
of my recent malady. It is gone to the devil: I won't pav 
him so bad a compliment as to say it came from him: — he 
is too much of a gentleman. It was nothing but a slow 
fever, which quickened its pace towards the end of its 
journey. I had been bored with it some weeks — with 
nocturnal burnings and morning perspirations; but I am 
quite well again, which I attribute to having had neither 
n dtcine nor doctor therefor. 

"In a fow days I set off for Rome: such is my purpose. 
I shall change it very often before Monday next, but do 
you continue to direct and address to Venice, as heretofore. 
If I go, letters will be forwarded: I say '7/7 because I 
never know what I shall do till it is done; and as I mean 
most firmly to set out for Rome, it is not unlikely I may find 
myself at St. Petersburg. 

"You tell me to ' take care of myself;' — faith, and I will. 
I won't be posthumous yet, if I can help it. Notwith- 
standing, only think what a 'Life and Adventures,' while I 
am in full scandal, would be worth, together with the 
membra' of my writing-desk, the sixteen beginnings of 
poems never to be finished ! Do you think I would not 



have shot mvself last year, had I not luckily recollected 
that Mrs. Charlmont, and Lady Noel, and all the old 
women in England would have been delighted; — besides 
the agreeable 'Lunacy' of the 'Crowner's Quest,' and the 
regrets of two or three or half a dozen? ***** 
Be assured that I vxndrt live for two reasons, or more ; — 
there are one or two people whom I have to put out of the 
world, and as many into it, before I can 'depart in peace ;' 
if I do so before, I have not fulfilled my mission. Besides, 
when I turn thirty, I will turn devout; I feel a great voca- 
tion that way in Catholic churches, and when I hear the 
organ. 

" So * * is writing again ! Is there no bedlam in Scot- 
land? nor thumb-screw? nor gag? nor handcuff? I went 
upon my knees to him almost some years ago, to prevent 
him from publishing a political pamphlet, which would have 
given him a livelier idea of ' Habeas Corpus 1 than the world 
will derive from his present production upon that suspended 
subject, which will doubtless be followed by the suspension 
of other of his majesty's subjects. 

H I condole with Drurv-lane and rejoice with * *, — that 
is, in a modest way, — on the tragical end of the new 
tragedy. 

* You and Leigh Hunt have quarrelled then, it seems? 
* * * * i introduce him and his poem to you, in the 
hope that (malgre politics,) the union would be beneficial 
to both, and the end is eternal enmity; and yet I did (his 
with the best intentions: I introduce + * *, and * * * rvna 
away with your money: my friend Hobhouse quarrels, too, 
with the Quarterly: and (except the last,) I am the inno- 
cent Istmhus {damn the word! I can't spell it, though I 
have crossed that of Corinth a dozen times,) of these 
enmities. 

"I will tell you something about Chillon. — A Mr. De 
Due, ninety years old, a Swiss, had it read to him, and is 
pleased with it, — so mv sister writes. He said that he was 
with Rousseau at ChiUon, and that the description is per- 
fectly correct. But this is not all : I recollected something 
of the name and find the following passage in 'The Con- 
fessions,' vol. 3, page 247, liv. 8. 

fc 'De tous ces amusemens celui qui me plOt davantage 
fut une promenade autour du Lac, que je fis en bateau 
avec De Due pere, sa bru, ses deux JjIs, et ma Thert'se. 
Nous mimes sept jours a cette tournee par le plus beau 
temps du monde. J'en gardai le vif souvenir des sites qui 
m'avoient frappe a l'autre extremite du Lac, et dont je fis 
la description, quelques annees apres, dans la Nouvelle 
Heloisc.' 

"This nonagenarian, De Luc, must be one of the 'deux 
fils.' He is in England — infirm, but still in faculty. It is 
odd that he should have lived so long, and not wanting in 
oddness, that he should have made this voyage with Jean 
Jacques, and afterward, at such an interval, read a poem 
by an Englishman (who had made precisely the same 
circumnavigation,) upon the same scenery. 

"As for 'Manfred,' it is of no use sending proofs; nothing 
of that kind comes. I sent the whole at different times. 
The two first Acts are the best; the third so so; but I was 
blown with the first and second heats. You must call it a 
'Poem,' for it is no Drama, and I do not choose to have it 
called by so * * a name — a ' Poem in Dialogue, 1 or Pan- 
tomime, if you will ; any tiling but a green-room synonyrae; 
and this is your motto— 

' There ore more things in heaven and enrth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt ol in your philosophy.' 

* Yours ever, &c 
ft My love and thanks to Mr. Ginord." 



LETTER CCCXXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 



•Venice, April 11, 1817. 
" I shall continue to write to you while the fit is on mo, 
bv way of penance upon you for viur former cen* plaint* 



112 



LETTERS, 1*17. 



of Ion g silence. I dare sav you would blush, if you could, 
for not answering. Next week I set out for Rome. Having 
seeiiCopsianh!! iple, I should like to look at t'other fellow. 
Besulm I want to see the Poland shall take care to tell 
him that I vote for the I !athoUcs and no Veto. 

I sha'o't go to Naples, It b but the second best sea- 
view, and I have seen the first and third, viz. — Constan- 
tinople and Lisbon (by-the-way, the Last is but o nver- 
piew ; however, they reckou it af er Slaiuboul and Naples, 
and before Genoa,) and Vesuvius is silent, and I ban 
08 sod by Etna. So I shall e'en return to Venice in July; 
and if .ou wrilej I pray you address lo Venice which is 
my head, or rather my fteart-quarters. 

" My late physician, Dr. Polidori, is here, on his way to 
England, with the (.resent Lord Guilford and the widow 
officiate earl. Doctor Polidori has, just now, no more 
patients, because las patients are no mure. He had lately 

three, whoare IIOW all dead — one embalmed. Horner and 
a child of Thomas Hope's are interred at Pisa and Home. 
Lord Guilford died of an inllammation of the bowels; so 
they took ihem out, and sent them (on account of their 
discrepancies,) separately from the carcass, to England. 
Conceive a man going one way and his intestines another, 
and his immortal soul a third! — was there ever such a dis- 
tribution? One certainly has a soul; but how it came to 
allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can 
imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I'll have a bit 
of a tustle before I let it get in again to that or any other. 

■ And so poor dear Mr. Maturing second tragedy has 
been neglected by the discerning public. * * will be d — d 
glad of this, and d — d without being glad, if ever his own 
plays come upon 'any stage.' 

"I wrote to Rogers the other day, with a message for 
you. I hope that he flourishes. He is the Tilhonus of 
poetry — immortal already. You and I must wait for it. 

C I hear nothing — know nothing. You may easily sup- 
pose that the English do n't seek me, and I avoid them. 
To be sure, there are but a few or none here, save pas- 
sengers. Florence and Naples are their Margate and 
Ramsgate, and much the same sort of company too, by all 
accounts, which hurts us among the Italians. 

" I want to hear of Lalla Rookh — are you out ? Death 
and fiends! why don't you tell me where you are, what 
you are, and how you are ? I shall go to Bologna by 
Ferrara, instead of Mantua; because I would rather see 
the cell where they caged Tasso, and where he became 
mad and * *, than his own MSS. at Modena, or the 
Mantuan birthplace of that harmonious plagiary and mis- 
erable tiatterer, whose cursed hexameters were drilled into 
me at Harrow. I saw Verona and Vicenzaon my way 
h e — Padua too. 

I go alone — but a/our, because T mean to return here. I 
only want to see Rome. I have not the least curiosity ar**"* 
ice, though I must see it f )r the sake of the Venus, 
etc. otc. ; and I wish also lo see die Fall of Terni. 1 think 
to return to Vumee by Ravenna and Rimini of both of 
which 1 mean to take notes (or Leigh Hun', who wiD be 
glad to bear of the scenery of Ins Poem. There was a 
Jevil of S review of him in the Quarterly, a year ago, which 
be answered. All answers art imprudent; hut, to be 
jure, poetical flesh and blood must have the last word — 
that's certain. I thought, and think, very highly of his 
Poem, but I warned him of the row his favourite antique 
phraseology would bring him into. 

* You have taken a house at Hornsey ; I had much rather 
you had taken one in the A pennies. If you think of 
joining out f >r a summer, or so, tell me, that I may be upon 
.ho hover for you. " Ever, fee." 



LETTER CCCXXXI. 
to MR. M\>aa\y. 

« Venice, April 14, 1817. 
'Iv the favour of Dr. Polidori, who is IjBTP «i his way 



to England, with the present Lord Guilford (the late sari 
having gone to England, by another road, accompanied bt 
his bowel in a irate coffer,) I rcn to you, 
to Mrs. Leigh, tun mmiabtret; but previous!) you will b*w 
the goodness to desire Mr. Love (as a peace-offering be 

tweefi him and me) to set them in plain gold, with in- UTOB 
complete, and ' Puiu'ed hv Prcpiani. — Venice, 1617,' on 
the back. 1 wish also that you would desire Holmes lo 
make a copy of escfl — that is, both — for mvseUJ an 
you will retain the said copies nil my return. One was 
done while 1 was very unwell; the other in my health, 
which mav account for their dissimilitude. I trust that they 
will reach their destination in safety. 

" I recommend the doctor to your good offices with your 
governrrJeni friends; and if von can be of any use to him 
in a literary point ofview, praj be SO, 

■ To-day, or rather yesterday, for it is past midnight, I 
have been up to the battlements of the highest tower in 
Venire, and seen it and its view, in all the glory of a cleat 
Ttahan sky. 1 also went over the Manfruii Palace famous 
For its pictures. Among them, 1 1 1. re is a portrait of Ariostn 
hv 7'inan, surpassing all mv anticipation of the power uf 
painting or human expression: *' *s the poetry of portrait, 
and the portrait of poetry. Ttcre was also one of some 
learned lady, centuries old, whose name 1 forget, but whose 
features must always he remembered, I never saw greater 
beauty, or sweetness, or wisdom; — it is the kind of face to 
go mad for, because it cannot walk out of its frame. There 
is .ilso a famous dead Christ and live Apostles, for which 
Buonaparte offered in vain five thousand lotus ; and of 
which, though it is a capo d'opera of Titian, as I am no 
connoisseur, I say little, and thought less, except of one 
figure in it. There are ten thousand others, and some 
very fine Giorgiones among them, &C &c. There is an 
original Laura and Petrarch, very hideous both. Petrarch 
has not only the dress, hut the features and air of an old 
woman, and Laura looks by no means like a young one, 
or a pretty one. What struck me most in the general 
collection was the extreme resemblance of the style of the 
female faces in the mass of pictures, so many centuries or 
generations old, to those you see and meet every (lav 
among the existing Italians. The queen <*f Cyprus and 
Giorgione's wife,* particularly the latter, are Venetians us 
it were of yesterday; the same eyes and expression, and, 
to my mind, there is none finer. 

u You must recollect, however, that I know nothing of 
pointing; and that I detest it, unless it reminds me of 
something 1 have seen, or think it possible to see, for which 
reason I spit upon and abhor all the saints and subjects of 
one half the impostures I see in the churches and palaces , 
and when in Flanders, 1 never was so disgusted in my lite, 
as with Rubens and his eternal wives aid infernal glare of 
coiours, as they appeared to me; and in Spam I did uof 
think much ofMurtlo and Velasquez. Depend upon it, «>f 

all the arts, it is the most artificial and unnatural, and that by 
wtuch the nonsense of mankind is most imposed u|>on. 1 
never yet saw the picture or the Statue which came a league 
within my conception or expectation ; hut I have seen many 
mountains, and seas, and rivers, and views, and two or three 
women, who went as far beyond i', — besides some horses ■ 
and a lion (at Veli Pach&s) in the Morea; and a tiger 
at supper in Exeter 'Change. 

u When you write, ron'inue to address to me at Venice, 
Where do you suppose the books you sent ineare? At 
Turin! This comes of the Foreign Qfftce^ which is foreign 
enough, God knows, for any good it can be of to me, or any 
one else, and be d— -d to it, to its last clerk and first char- 
latan, Castlereagh. 

" This makes my hundredth letter at least. 

» Yours, &c.» 



' Sec Pq'i'O, StnoM Ifeh. 



LETTERS, 1811 



113 



LETTER CCCXXX1I. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

a Venice, April 14, 1S17. 

"The present proofs* (of the whole) begins only at the 
17th page; but as I had correciedand sent back the First 
Act, it does n'ti signify. 

"The Third Act is certainly d d bad, and, like the 

Archbishop of Grenada's homily (which savoured of the 
palsy,) has the dregs of my fever, during which it was 
Written. It must on no account he published in its present 
stale. I will try ani reform it, or re-write it altogether; 
but the impulse is gone, and 1 have no chance of makuig 
any thing out of it. I would not have it published as it is 
on any account. The speech of Manfred to the Sun is 
die only part of this act 1 thought good myself; the rest is 
certainly as bad as bad can be, and I wunder what the 
devil possessed me. 

* I am vrrv glad indeed that you sent me Mr. GifTord's 

without daiuction. Do you suppose me such a 

j< not to he very much obliged to him? or that in 

fact I was no', and am not, convinced and convicted in my 

noc of this same overt act of nonsense? 

" I shall try at it again: in the mean time lay it upon the 

shelf (the whole Drama, I mean:) but prav correct your 

copies of the First and Second Ad from the original MS. 

■ i am not coming to England; but going to Rome in a 
few days. I return to Venice in June; so, pray, address 
ail letters, &c. to me here, as usual, that is, to Venice. Dr. 

i this day left Uiis city with Lord Guilford f »r Eng- 
land. He is charged with some books to your care (from 
ind two miniatures also to the same address, bot/i for 
my sister. 

* Recollect not to publish, upon pain of I know not what, 
until I have tried again at the Third Act. I am not sure 
that I shall? try, and still less that I shall succeed, if 1 do ; 
but I am very sure, that (as it is, it is unfit for publication 
or perusal ; and unless I can make it out to my own satis- 
fr taan, I won't have any part published. 

■ 1 write in haste, and afier having lately written very 
often. u Yours, &c." 



other gallery (lha! is, in the Pitti Palace gallery:) the 
Parcae of Michael Angela, a picture; and the Antinous, 
the Alexander, and one or two not very decent groups in 
marble; the Genius of Death, a sleeping figure, &c.&c. 

" I also ft ent to the Medici chapel — fine frippery in great 
slabs of various expensive stones, to commemorate fifty 
rotten and forgotten carcasses. It is unfinished and will 
remain so. 

" The church of' Santa Croce 1 contains much illustrious 
tH>thing. The tomb-,* of Machiavclli, Michael Angelo,Gali 
ic«i Galilei, and Alfieri, make it the Westminster Abbey of 
Italy. I did not admin' out/ ofUiese tombs — beyond their 
contents. That of Alfieri is heavy, and all of them seem 
to me overloaded. What is necessary but a bust and 
name ? and perhaps a date ? the last for the unchronologi- 
cal, of whom I am one. But all your allegory and eulogy 
is infernal, and worse than the long wigs of English num- 
skulls upon Roman bodies in the statuary of the reigns of 
Charles II., William, ami Anne. 

" When you write, write to Venice, as usual ; I mean to 
return there in a fortnight. I shall not be England for a 
long time. This any moon 1 met Lord and Lady Jersey, 
and saw- them for some lime: all well ; children grown and 
healthy; she very pretty, but sunburnt; he very sick of 
travelling; bound for Paris. There are not many English 
on die move, and those who are, mostly homewards. I 
shall not return till business makes me, being much belter 
where I am in health, &c. &c. 

"For the sake of my personal comfort, I pray you send 
me immediately to Venice — mind, Venice — viz. J Voltes'* 
tooth-ponder, wc/, a quantity; calcined magnesia, of the 
best quality, a quantity ; and all this by safe, sure, and 
speedy means ; and, by the Lord ! do it. 

B I have done nothing at Manfred's Third Act. You 
must wait ; 1 '11 have at it in a week or two, or so. 

u Yours ever, &c * 



LETTER CCCXXXiV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



LETTER CCCXXXI1I. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

■FoUngo, April 26,1817. 

■ I wrote to you the other day from Florence, inclosing 
a MS. entitled ' The Lament of Tasso.' It was written in i 
consequence of my having been lately at Ferrara. In the ! 
las) section of this MS. hut one (that b, die penultimate,) | 
I think that I have omitted a line in the copy sent you from 
Florence, viz. after the line — 

" And woo compassion to a blighted Dime, 
insert, 

*• Sealing ihe wnU-nce which my foes proclaim. 

The context will show you the sense, which is not clear in 
this quotation. Remember, I write this in the supposition 
■ We received my Florentine packet. 
"At Florence I remained but a day, having a hurry for 
Rome, to which I am thus far advanced. However, I 
went to the two galleries, from which one returns drunk 
with beauty. The Venus is more for admiration than love : 
but there are sculpture and painting, which for the first 
time at all gave me an idea of what people mean by their 
aant, and what Mr. Brahain calls * entusimusy 1 (i. e. en- 
thusiasm,) about those two m>jst artificial of the arts. 
What struck me most were, the mistress of Raphael, a 
portrait ; dw mistress of Titian, a portrait; a Venus of 
Titian in (he Medici gallery — the Venus; Canova's Venus 
also, in the other gallery: Titian's mistress is ai o in the 



"Rome, May 5, 1817. 

[ By this post (or next at farthest) 1 send you in two 
other covers, the new Tlurd Act of 'Manfred.' 1 have re- 
written the greater part, and returned what is not altered 
in the proof xou sent me. The Abhot is become a good 
man, and die Spirits are brought in at the death. You 
will find, I think, some good poetry in this new act, here 
and there ; and if so, print it, without sending me farther 
proofs, under Mr. Giffortts correction, if he will have the 
goodness to overlook it. Address all answers to Venice) 
as usual ; I mean to return there in 'zn days. 

"'The Lament ofTasso, 1 which I sent from Florence, 
has, 1 tni«', arrived: I look upon it as a 'these be good 
rhymes,' as Pope's papa said to him when he was a boy. 
For the (tw— it and the Drama — you will disburse to me 
(tia. Kinnaird) six hundred guineas. You will perhaps 
be surprised that I set the same price upon this as upon 
the Drama ; but, besides that I look upon it as good, I 
won't take less than three hundred guineas for any thing. 
The two together will make you a larger publication than 
the ' Siege 1 and ' Parisina ;' so you may think yourself let 
off very easy: that is to say, if these poems are good for 
anv thing, which 1 hope and believe. 

K I have been some days in Rome the Wonderful. I am 
seeing sights, and have done nothing else, except the new 
Third Act for you. I have this morning seen a live Popo 
and a dead Cardinal: Pius VII. has been burying Cardi- 
nal Bracchi, whose body I saw in state at the Chiesa 
Nuova. Rome has delighted me beyond every thing 
since Athens and Constantinople. But 1 shall not remain 
long this visit. Address to Venice. 

"Ever, &c 



• Of Manfred. 
15 



' Bm Childe Harold, Caalo 3, Slanta 5i. 



114 



LETTERS, 1817. 



"P. S. I have got my saddle-horses hen-, and have 
ridden, arid am riding, all about die country." 



LETTER CCCXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Rome, May 9,1817. 
" Address all answers to Venice ; for there 1 shall re- 
turn m fifteen days, God willing. 

" I sent you from Florence ' The Lament of Tasso,' and 
from Rome the Third Ad of Manfred, both of which, I 
trust, will duly arrive. The terms of these two I mentioned 
in my last, and will repeat in this : it is three hundred for 
each, or sir hundred guineas for the two — that is, if you 
like, and they are good for any thing. 

"At last one of the parcels is arrived. In the notes to 
Childe Harold therejs a blunder of yours or mine : you talk 
of arrival at .S'(. Gi'ngo, and immediately after, add — 'on 
the height is the Chateau of Clarens.'* This is sad work: 
Clarcns is on the other side of the Lake, and it is quite im- 
possible that 1 should have so bungled. Look at the MS. ; 
and, at any rate, rectify. 

" The ' Tales of my Landlord' I have read with great 
pleasure, and perfectly understand now why my sister and 
aunt are so very positive in the very erroneous persuasion 
that they must have been written by me. If you knew me 
as well as they do, you would have fallen, perhaps, into the 
same mistake. Some day or other, I will explain to you 
w l vl — when I have time ; at present it does not much mat- 
ter ; but you must have thought this blunder of theirs very 
odd, and so did I, till 1 had read the book.— Croker's letter 
to you is a very great compliment ; I shall return it to you 
in my next. 

" I perceive you are publishing a life of Raffael d'Urbino : 
It may perhaps interest you to ..ear that a set of German 
artists here allow their hair to grow, and trim it into his 
fashion, thereby drinking the cummin ofthe disciples of the 
old philosopher; if they WOb.d CUI their hair, convert it into 
brushes, and paint like him, it would bo more ' German to 
the matter.' 

" I'll tell you a story : tho other day, a man here— 
an English— mistaking "the statues of Charlemagne and 
Constantine, which are. equestrian, for those of Peter and 
Paul, asked another which was Paul of these same horse- 
men?— to which the reply was— 'I thought, sir, diat St. 
Paul had never got on horseback since his accvlenl T 

"I'll tell you anodier: Henry Fox, writing to some one 
from Naples the other day, after an illness, adds—' and I 
am so changed diat my olikst creditors would hardly know 
me.' 

" I am delighted with Rome— as I would be with a band- 
box, that is, it is a fine thing to see, finer than Greece ; but 
I nave not been here long enough to affect it as a residence, 
and I must go back to Lombardy, because I am wretched 
at being an ay from Mariaima. I have been riding my 
Baddle-horses every day, and been to Albano, its Lakes, 
and to the top of the Alton Mount, and i" Frescati,Aricia, 
fee, fee. with an &c. &c. &c. about the city, and m the 
city:for all which— vide Guidebook. As a whole, ancient 
and modem, it beats Greece, Constantinople, everything 
—at least that I have ever seen. But I can't describe, 
because my first impressions are always strong and con- 
fused, and my memory selects and reduces them to order, 
like distance in die landscape, and blends them better, 
although they may bo less distinct. There must be a 
sense or two more than we have, us mortals ; for * * * 
* * where there is much to be grasped wo are always at 
a loss, and yet feel that we ought to have a higher and 
more extended comprehension. 

" I have had a letter from Moore, who is in some alarm 
about his Poem. I do n't soo why. 



" I have had another from my poor dear Augusta, whe 
is in a sad fuss about my late illness ; do, pray, tell her, (the 
truth,) thai I am Inner than ever, and in importunate 
health, growing (if not grown) large and ruddy, am 
gralulated by impertinent persons on my robustious appear- 
ance, when I ought to be pale and interesting. 

"You tell me that George Byron has got a son, ana 
Augusta says, a daughter; which is it?— it is D 
matter: the I'.ither is a good man, an excellent officer, and 
has married a very nice little woman, who will bring him 
more babes than income: honbeit she had a handsome 
dowry, and is a very charming girl ;— but he may as well 
get a ship. 

"I have no thoughts of coming among you yet awhile, so 
that I can fight off business. If 1 could but make a tole- 
rable sale ofNewstead, fherewould be no occasion fir my 
return; and I can assure you very sincerely, thai I am 
much happier (or.at least, have been so,) out of your island 
than in it. •Yoursever. 

P. S. There are few English here, hut several of my 
acquaintance; among others, the Marquis of Lansdowne, 

ithwhom I dine to-morrow. I met the Jerseys on the 
ruiil ;il l-'nllL'iio — all well. 

"Oh — I forgot — the Italians have printed Chillon, &c. a 
piracy, — a pretty little edition, prettier than yours — and 
published, as I (bund to my great astonishment on arn\ ing 
here ; and what is odd, is, that die English is quite correctly 
printed. Why they did it, or who did it, I know not ; but 
so it is;— I suppose, fur the English people. I will send 
you a copy." 



LETTER CCCXXXV1. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

11 Rome, May 12,1817. 
" I have received your letter here, where I have taken a 
cruise lately; but I shall return back to Venice in a few 
days, so that if you write again, address there, as usual. I 

am not for retiir g to England so soon as you imagine; 

and by no means at all as a residence. If you cross the 
Alps in your projected expedition, you will find me some- 
where ui Lombardy, and very glad to see you. I inly :»r 
me a word or two beforehand, for I would really dit erge 

some leagues to meet you. 

"Of Rome I say nothing ; it is quite indescribable, and 
the Guidebook ls as good as any oilier. 1 dined yesterday 
with Lord Lansdowne, who is on his return. But there 
arc few English here at present: the winter is lAstr time 
I have been on horseback most of the day, all days since 
my arrival, and have taken it as 1 did Constantinople. But 
Rome is the elder sister, and the liner. I went some days 
ago to the top of the Alban Mount, which Ls superb. As 
for die Coliseum, I'anibeon, si. I'm ,\ the Vatican, Pala- 
tine, &c. &c— as I said, vide Guidebook. They are quite 
inconceivable, and must be seen. The ApoJIo Belridere is 
the inn-'' "I I ,ady Adelaide Forbes— 1 think I never saw 
such a likeness. 

"I have seen the Pope alive, and a cardinal dead, — both 
of whom lo iked very well indeed. The latter was ill state 
in the Chiesa No-na, previous to his interment. 

" Your poetical alarms are groundless; go on and pros- 
per. Here is Ilobhouse just come in, and my horses at dio 
door, so that I must mount and lake the field in the Campus 
Marlins, which, by-llu-way, is all built over by modern 
Rome. u Yours very and ever, &c. 

" P. S. Hobhouse presents his remembrances, and is 
eager, with all the world, for your new Poem." 



» Suk« eoractaj. 



LETTER CCCXXXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•Venice, May 30, 1817. 
• 1 returned from Rome two days ago, and have received 



LETTERS, 1817. 



115 



your letter; but no sign not tidings of the parcel sent 
through Sir C. Stuart, winch you mention. After an in- 
terval of months, a packet of 'Tales,' &c. found me at 
Rome ; but this is all, and may be ail that ever will find me. 
The post seems to be the only sure conveyance and tliat 
onh/ fur letters. From Florence I sent you a poem on 
Tasso, and from Rome the new Third Act of 'Manfred, 1 
and by Or. Polidon two portraits for my sister. I left 
Rome and made a rapid journey home. You will continue 
to direct here as usual. Mr. Hobhouseis gone to Naples: 
I should have run down there too for a week, but for the 
quantity of English whom I heard of there. I prefer hating 
them at a distance ; unless an earthquake, or a good real 
eruption of Vesuvius^ were ensured to reconcile me to their 
vicinity. 

******* 

"The day before I left Rome I saw three robbers guil- 
lotined. The ceremony — including the masoned priests ; 
tin* half-naked executioners; the bandaged criminals; the 
black Christ and his banner, the scaffold; the soldiery; the 
slow procession, and the quick rattle and heavy fait of the 
axe; the splash of the blood, and the ghastliness of the 
exposed heads — is altogether more impressive than the 
vulgar and ungentlemanly dirty " new drop,' and dog-like 
agony of infliction upon tne sufferers of the English sen- 
tence. Two of these men behaved calmly enough, but the 
first of the three died with great terror and reluctance, 
What was very horrible, he would not lie down; then liis 
neck was too large for the aperture, and the priest was 
obliged to drown his exclamations by still louder exhorta- 
tions. The head was off before the eye could trace tht 
blow ; but from an attempt to draw back the head, notwith- 
standing it was held forward by the hair, the first head was 
cut off close to the ears: the other two were taken off more 
cleanly. It is better than tlie oriental way, and (I should 
think) than the axe of our ancestors. The pain seems 
little, and yet tne effect to the spectator, and the preparation 
to the criminal, is very striking and chilling. The first 
turned me quite hot and thirsty, and made me shake so 
that I could hardly hold the opera glass; (I was close, hut 
was determined to see, as one should see every thing, once 
with attention ;) the second and third, (which shows how 
dreadfully soon things grow indifferent,) I am ashamed to 
say, had no effect on me as a horror, though I would have 
saved them if I could. - "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, June 4, 1817. 
*I have received the proofs of the 'Lament of Tasso, 1 
which makes me hope that you have also received die 
ttii rrii«d Third Act of Manfred, from Rome, which I sent 
soon after mv arrival there. My date will apprize you of 
my return borne within these few days. For me, I have 
received none of vour packets, except, after long delay, the 
'Tales of mv Landlord,' which I before acknowledged. I 
do not at all understand the why nots, but so it is;; — no 
Manuel, no letters, no tooth-powder, no extract from 
M • nrfa Italy roncerning Marino Faliero, no nothing — 
as a man hallooed out at one of Burdetfs elections, after a 
long ululatus of 'No Bastille! No governorities ! No — ' 
God knows who or what ; — but his ne plus ultra was ' No 
nothing!' — and my receipts of your packages amount to 
about his meanmg, I want the extract from JMoures Italy 
vrv much, and the tooth-powder, and the magf.es<a; I 
do n't care so much about the poetry, 't the tetters, or Mr. 
MaturuVs by-Jasns tragedy. Most of the tilings sent by 
the post have rome — I mean proofs and letters; therefore, 
■end me Marino Faliero by the post, in a letter. 

" 1 was delighted with Rome, and was on horseback all 
round it many hours daily, besides in it the rest of mv time, 
bothering over its marvels. I excursed and skirred the 



country round to Alba, Tivoli, Frescari, Licenza,&c. &c; 
besides I visited twice the Fall of Terni, which beats every 
thing.* On my way back, close to the temple by its banks, 
I got some famous trout out of the river CUtumnus — the 
prettiest little stream in all poesy, near the first post from 
Foligno and Spoletlo.f — I did not stay at Florence, being 
anxious to get home to Venice, and having already seen 
the galleries and other sights. 1 left my commendatory 
letters the evening before I went ; so I saw nobody. 

" To-day, Pindemonte, the celebrated poet of Verona, 
called on me; he is a little, thin man, with acute and* 
pleasing features; his address good and gentle; his appear- 
ance altogether very philosophical; his age about sixty, or 
more. He is one of their best going. I gave him Forsyth^ 
as he speaks, or reads rather, a little English, and will find 
there a favourable account of himself. He inquired after 
his old Cruscan friends, Parsons, Greathead, Mrs. Piozzi, 
and Merry, all of whom he had known in his youth. I 
gave him as had an account of Uiem as I could, answering 
as the false 'Solomon Lob' does to 'Totterton 1 id the farce, 
1 all gone dead,' and damned by a satire more than twenty* 
years ago ; that the name of their extinguisher was Gilford ; 
that they were but a sad set of scribes after all, and no 
great thuigs in any odier way. He seemed, as was natura., 
very much pleased with this account of his old acquaint- 
ances, and went away greatly gratified with tha* and Mr. 
Forsyth's sententious paragraph of applause in his own 
(Pindemonte's) favour. After having been a little liber- 
tine in his youth, he is grown devout, and lakes prayers, 
and talks to himself, to keep off* the Devil; but for all that, 
he is a very nice little old gentlwman. 

" I am sorry to hear of your row with Hunt ; but suppose 
him to be exasperated by the Quarterly and your refusal 
to deal; and when one is angry and edits a paper, 1 should 
think the temptation too strong for literary nature, which is 
not always human. I can't conceive in what, and tor 
what, he abuses you : what have you done? you are not an 
author, nor a politician, nor a public character; I know no 
scrape you have tumbled into. I am the more sorry for 
this because I introduced you to Hunt, and because 1 
believe him to be a good man ; but till I know the particu- 
lars, I can give no opinion. 

"Let me know about Lalla Rookh, which must be out 
by this time. 

'•I restore the proofs, but the punctuation should be 
Directed. 1 feel too lazy to have at it myself; so beg and 
pray Mr. Gifibttj fir me. — Address to Venice. In a few 
days I go to mv villegziatura, in a casino near the Brentn, 
a few miles only on the mainland. I have determined ou 
another year, and many years of residence, if I can com- 
pass them. Mananna is with me, hardly recovered of the 
fiver, which has been attacking all Italy last winter. I am 
afraid she is a little hectic; but I hope the best. 

"Ever, &c. 
P. S. Towaltzen has done a bust of me at Rome for 
Mr. Hobhouse, which is reckoned very good. He is their 
best after Canova, and by some preferred 10 him. 

1 have had a letter from Mr. Hodgsor. He is very 
happy, has got a living, hut not a child: if he nad stuck to a 
curacy, babes would have come of course, because he 
could not have maintained them. 

"Remember me to all friends, &c. &c. 

"An Austrian officer, the other day, being in love with a 
Venetian, was ordered, with his regiment, into Hungary. 
Distracted between love and duty, he purchased a deadly 
drug, which] dividing with his mistress, both swallowed. 
The ensuing pains were terrific, but the pills were purga- 
tive, and not poisonous, by the contrivance of the unsenti- 
mental apothecary ; so that so much suicide was all thrown 
away. You may conceive the previous confusion and the 
final laughter; but the intention was good on all sides." 



• Child.- Ttfti^ld, Canio IV. stnnms 10 lo 72, nnd n 
t Cliii'-ic II*rold, Canto IV. tunu 66, nad note. 



110 



LETTERS, ISI7. 



LETTER CCCXXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, June 8, 1817. 
"The present letter will be delivered to you by two 
Armenian friars, on their way, by England, to Madras. 

They Will also COnrey some copies of the Grammar, which 
I tliml; \ hi .i_n ill tu take. If you can be of any use to 
them, either among your naval or East Indian acquaint- 
ances, I hope you will so tar oblige me, as ihcy and their 
order have been remarkably attentive and friendly towards 
ni'- since my arrival ai Venice. Their names are Father 
Sukias Somalian and Father Sarkis Thcodorosian. They 
speak Italian, and probably French, or a tittle English. 
Repeating earnestly my recommendatory request, believe 
me very truly yours, "Byron. 

"Perhaps you can help them lo their passage, or give 
or :jei them letters for India. 11 



other dav, we are exactly one of Goldoni's comedies, (La 
Vedova Scaltra,) where a Spaniard, English, and KrencI*- 
man are introduced : but we are ail very good neighbours^ 
X * Dedans, &.c. &c. &c. 

w I am just getting on horseback for my eveninc ride, and 
a visit to a physician, who has an agreeable family, of a 
wife and four unmarried daughters, all under eighteen, who 
are friends of Signora S * *, and enemies to nobody. 
'I here are, and are to be, besides, converBazionea and 1 
know not what, at a Countess Lnbbiafe and I know not 
whom. The weather is mild ; the thermometer 110 in the 
nun this day, and 60 odd in the shade. 

" Yours. &r *N' 



LETTER CCCXL. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•La Mini, near Venice, Tune 14, 1S17. 

■ I write to you from the banks of the Brenta,a few miles 
from Venice, where I have colonized for six monUis tu 
come. Address, as usual, to Venice, 

"Three months af.er date, (17th March,) — like the un- 
negotiable bill Jespondingiy received by the reluctant tailor, 
— your despatch has arrived, containing the extract from 
Moore's Italy and Mr. Maturin's bankrupt tragedy.* It 
is the absurd work of a cl.-ver man. I think it might have 
dime tipim tli'' sta^e if he had made Manuel (!>v some 
trickery, in a mask or visor,) fight Ins own battle instead of 
employing Molineuxashis champion; and, after the defeal 
of Torrismond, have made him span- the son of his enemy, 
by some revulsion of feeling, DOl incompatible with a cha- 
racter of extravagant and distempered emotions. But as 
it is, what with the Justi/.a, and the ridiculous conduct of 
tie- whole dram. pen, (for they are all as mad as Manuel, 
who surely must have had more interest with a corrupt 
bench than a distant relation and heir presumptive, some- 
what suspect of homicide,) I do not wonder at its failure. 
As a play, it is impracticable ; as a poem, no great things. 
Who was the 'Greek that grappled with glory naked !' the 
Olympic wrestlers? or Alexander the Great, when he ran 
stark round the tumb oft 'other fellow? or the Spartan who 
was lined by the Ephori f»r fighting without his armour? 
or who? And as to 'flaying off life like a garment,' helas! 

thai a in Tom Thumb — see king Arthur's soliloquy: 

* Life *■ R mere ru», nol worth n pruice'i wearing ; 
1 Ml caul ilofl".' 

And the stage-directions — 'Staggers amon? the bodies;' 
ihe slain are too numerous, as well as the blackamoor 
knights-penitent being one too many: and Do Zelos is such 
a shabby Monmouth-street villain, witlt.nn any redeeming 
quality — St up mv vitals! Maturin seems to be declining 
into Nat. Lee. But let him try again ; he has talent, but 
not much taste. I 'gin to fear, or to hope, that Sotheby 
after a!! i- to !"■ the jEschylus of the age, unless Mr. Shiel 

be really worthy his success. The more I see of the staye, 
the less I would wish to have any thing to do with it ; as a 
proof of which, 1 hope yon have received the Third Act of 
Manfred, which will at least prove that I wish to steer very 
clear of the possibility of being put into scenery. I sent it 
from Rome. 

a I returned the proofof Tasso, I*v-the-wav, have vou 
n \ ■■ t received a translation of St. Paul, which I sent you, 

not lor publication, before I went to Koine? 

" I am at present on the Brenta. ( Opposite is a Spanish 
marquis, ninety years old ; next his casino is a Prench- 
nian's,— besides the natives; so that, as somebody said the 



* Minnie!. 



LETTER CCCXLI. 

TO MR, MURRAY. 

"La Mira, near Venice, June 17, 1817. 

"II pvps me great pleasure to hear of MooreY 
and the more so tliat I never doubted thai ii would be 
complete. Whatever good yoo can t- H me of him and hia 
poem will be most acceptable: 1 feel very anxious indeed 
to receive it. I hope that he is as happy in Ins fame and 
reward as I wish him to be ; for 1 know no one who de- 
serves both more — if any so much. 

"Now to business; ****** j sav unto you, 
verily, it is not so; or, as the foreigner said t" the 
after asking him to bring a glass of water, tu which the 
man answered, ' 1 will, sir,' — ' You u-ill! — CI— d d — n, — I 
sav, vou mushP And f will submit this to the decision <>t 
any person or persons t" be appointed by both, on a i'm 
examination of the circumstances ol this as compared with 
the preceding publications. So. there ^s 1<t yon. There 
is always some row or other previously to all our pubti a- 
bons: it should seem that, on approximating, we can never 
quite gel over die natural antipathy of author and book- 
seller, and that more particularly die ferine nature of the 
latter must break iorih. 

v You are out about the Third Canto: I have not done, 
nor designed, a line of oonrinuation to thai poem. 1 was 
too abort a time at Home f>r it, and have no thought of 
recommencing. * * * 

B I cannot well explain to you by letter what I conceive 
to be the origin ofMrs. Leigh's notion about 'Tales of Mv 
Landlord ;' but it is some points of the characters of Sir B. 
Manley and Burley, jus well as one or two of the jocular 
portions, on which ii is Riunded, probably a 

* If you have received Dr. I'ohdoru as well as a parrel 
of books, and yon can be of use to him, he so. I never was 

much more disgusted with any human production than 

with the eternal nonsense, and traeasseries, and emptiness, 

and ill humour, and vanit) of thai young person; but be has 

some talefll, and is a man d honour, and has dispositions 
of amendment, in which he has been aided by a little sub- 

sequent experience, and may turn out well. Therefore, 
use your government interest for him, for he is improved 
ami improvable. k Yours, iic." 



LETTER CCCXLIL 



Til MR. MURRAY. 



"La Mira, near Venice, June 18, 1817. 
"Efifeosed is a letter to Dr. Holland from Pindemonte. 

Not knowing die doctor's address, I am desired to inquire 
and perhaps, being a literary man, you will know or dis- 
cover his haunt near some [Mipulous churchyard. I have 
written to you a scolding letter — I behove, upon a misap- 
prehended passage in your letter — but nevermind: it will 
do for next time, and von anil surely deserve it. Talking 

of doctors reminds me once more to recommend to \.>n one 

who will not recommend himself, — the Doctor Polidon. 

If you can help him tu a publisher, do- or, if you have any 



LETTERS, 1817. 



117 



nek relation, I would advise his advice: all the patients he 
had in Italy are dead — Mr. * T 's son. Mr. Horner, and 
Lord Guildford, whom lie embowelled with great success at 
Pisa. * * * * 

" Remember me to Moore, whom I congratulate. How 
is Rogers? and what is become of Campbell and all 
t 'other follows of the Druid order? I got Maturm's Bed- 
lam at last, but no other parcel ; 1 am in fits fi>r the tooth- 
powder, and the magnesia. I want some <-f Eurkitts Sofia 
powders. Will you tell Mr. Kiimaird that I have written 
bun two letters on pressing business, (about Newstead, 
&C.1 i" which I humbly solicit his attendance. I am just 
returned from z gallop along the banks of the Brcn'a — 
line, sunset. * Yours, " B." 



LETTER CCCXLIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



ft La Mira, near Venice, July I, 1817. 

■Since my former letter, I have been working up my 
impressions into a Fourth Canto of Childe Harold, of winch 
1 have roughened off" about rather belter than thirty 
stanzas, and mean to go on; and probably to make this 
Fytte 1 die concluding one of die poem, so that you may 
propose against the autumn to draw out the conscription 
f >r 1S18. You must provide moneys, as this new resump- 
tion bodefl voii certain disbursements. Somewhere about 
the end of September or October I propose to be under 
way, (i- 6. in the press;) but I have no idea yet of the 
probable length or calibre of the Canto, or what it will be 
good for; but I mean to be as mercenary as possible, an 
example (I do not mean of any individual in particular, and 
lead of all any person or persons of our mutual acquaint- 
ance,) which 1 should have followed in mv youth, and 1 
might still have been a prosperous gentleman. 

"No tooth-powder, no letters, no recent tidings of vou. 

"Mr. Lewis is at Venice, and I am going up to stay a 
week with him there — as il is one of his enthusiasms also 
to like the city. 

" I »nxxl in Yenke on the ' Bridge of Sighs,' 4c. &c. 

u The ( Bridge of Sighs' (i. e. Pome de'i Sospiri.) is that 
wlm-li divides, or rather joins, the palace of the Doge to the 
prison of the state. It has two passages: the criminal 
went by the one to judgment, and returned by the other to 
death, being Strangled in a chamber adjoining, where there 
was a mechanical process for the purpose. 

u This is the tirst sianza of our new Canto: and now for 
a line of the second : 

" In Wp.ice, Tasso's echoes are no more, 
And ulr-iii rows the songlcss gondolier, 
Her palace*, 4c. &C. 

■You know that formerly the gondoliers sung always, 
and Tassofa Gienisalemme was their ballad. Venice is 
built on seventy-two islands, 

14 There! there's a brick of your new Babel! and now, 
sirrah ! what say you to the sample ? ■ Yours, &c. 

"P. S. I shall write again by-and-by."* 



of the like name a good deal in debt, pray dig him up, and 
tell him lhat 'a pound of his fair flesh' or the ducats are 
required, and thai 'if you deny them, tie upon your law!* 

"I hear nothing more from you about Mcore's poem, 
Roger?, or other literary- phenomena ; but to-morrow, being 
post-day, will bring perhaps some tidings. I write to vou 
with people talking Venetian all about, so that you must 
not expect this letter to be all English. 

u The other dav, I had a squabble on the highway as 
follows : 1 was riding pretty quickly from Dolo home about 
eight in the evening, when I passed a party of people ma 
hired carriage, one of whom, poking his head out of the 
window, began bawling to me in an inarticulate but insolent 
manner. I wheeled my horse round, and overtaking, 
stopped the coach, and said", ' Signor, have you any com- 
mands for me ?' He replied, impudently as to manner, 
' No.' I then asked him what \k meant by that unseemly 
noise, to the discomfiture of the passers-by. He replied 
by some piece of impertinence, to which 1 answered by 
giving him a violent slap in the face. I then dismounted, 
(for this passed at the window, I being on horseback siil',) 
and opening the door, desired him to walk out, or I would 
give him another. But the first had setlled him except as 
to words, of which he poured forth a profusion in blasphe- 
mies, swearing that he would so to the police and avouch 
a battery sans provoca'ion. I said he lied, and was a * *, 
and, if he did not hold his tongue, should be dragged out 
and beaten anew. He then held his tongue. I of course 
told him my name and residence, and defied him to the 
death, if he were a gentleman, or not a gentleman, and 
had the inclination to be genteel in the way of combat. 
He went to the police, but there having been bystanders 
in the road, — particularly a soldier who had seen the 
business, — as well as my servant, notwithstanding the 
oaihs of the coachman and five insides besides the plain- 
tiff*, and a good deal of paving on all sides, his complaint 
was dismissed, he having been the aggressor ; — and I was 
subsequently informed that, had I not given him a blow, 
he might have been had into durance. 

"Soset down this, — 'that in Aleppo once 1 1 'beat a Ve- 
netian ;' but I assure you that he deserved if, for I am a 
quiet man, like Candide, though with somewhat of his for 
tune in being forced to forego my natural meekness every 
now and then. 

"Yours, &c. "B. u 



LETTER CCCXLV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



LETTER CCCXLIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" La Mira. near Venice, July 8, 1817. 
"If vou can convey (he enclosed letter to its address, or 
discover the person to whom it is directed, you will confer 
a favour upon the Venetian creditor of a deceased English- 
man. This epistle is a dun to his executor, for house-rent 
The name of the insolvent defunct is, or was, Porter Valter, 
according to the account of die plainti!^ which I rather 
suspect ought to be Waller Porter, according to our mode 

of collocation. If you are acquainted with any dead man 



"Venice, July 9,1817. 

K I have got the sketch and extracts from Lalla Rookh 
— which I humblv suspect will knock up * *, and show 
oung gentlemen that something more than having been 
across a camel's hump is necessary to write a good oriental 
tale. The plan, as well as the extracts 1 have seen, please 
ine very much indeed, and I feel impatient for the whole. 

■With regard to the critique on l Manfred,' vou have 
been in such a devil of a hurry that you have only sent me 
die half: it breaks off" at page 294. Send me the rest ; 
and also page -70, where there is 'an account of ihe su|»- 
posed origin of this dreadful story,' — in which, bv-the-way, 
whatever it mav be, the conjecturer is out, and knows no- 
ihing of the matter. 1 had a better origin than he can 
devise or divine, for the soul of him. 

a You say nothing of Manfred's luck in the world ; and 
1 care not. He is one of the best of my misbegotten, say 
what they will. 

■1 got at last an extract, but no parrfis. They will come, 
I suppose, some time or other. I am come up to Venice 
for a dav or two to bathe, and am just going to take a 
swim in the Adriatic; so, good evening — the post waits. 
" Yours. &c "B. 



118 



LETTERS, 1817. 



• P. S. Pr.iy, was Manfred's speech to 1/ie Sun still turn !' Port « be, 1 su|)|X)sc— the only port he ever solicit 
retained in Ac! Third? I hope so: it was doe of (he best i or found, since I kure nim." 

in the thing and belter than the Colosseum. Ihave'douej 

ftfiy-sLx of Canto Fourth, Clutdc Harold ; so down with i 

your ducats." LETTER CCCXLVIl. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" La Mira, near Venice, July 15, 1817. 



LETTER CCCXLV1. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"La Mira, Venice, July 10, 1817. 

■Murray, die Mokanua of booksellers, has contrived to 
send me extracts from Lalla Rookh by die post. They 
are taken from some magazine, an. 1 contain a short outline 
and quotations from the first two Poems. 1 am very much 
delighted with what is before me, and very thirsty for the 
rest. You have caught the colours as if you had been in 
the rainbow, and die tone of die East is perfectly preserv- 
ed: so that * * * ami its author must be somewhat in 
the back -ground, and learn that it requires something more 
than to have been upon the haunch of a dromedary to com- 
pose a good oriental story. 1 am glad you have changed 
the title fr 'Persian Tale.' * 

" I suspect you have written a devilish fine composition, 
and 1 rejoice in it from my heart ; because ' the Douglas 
and the Percy both together arc confident against a world 
in arms.' I hope you won't be affronted at my looking on 
us as ' birds of a feather ;' though on whatever subject you 
had written, 1 should have been very happy in your success 

"There is a simile of an orange tree's 'flowers and 
fruits,' which 1 should have liked better, if I did not believ 
ll to he a reflection on 

****** 

"Do you remember Thurlow's poem to Sam, *' IVIten 
Rogers ;' and that d — d supper of RanclinVs ibat ought to 
have been a dinner? 'Ah, Master Shallow, we havt 
neard the chimes at midnight.' — But 

" My !>oal is on the ihore, Act 

" This should have been written fifteen moons ago— th 
first stanza was. I am just come out from an hour's swim 
in the Adriatic ; and 1 write to you with a black-eyed 
Venetian girl before me, reading Boccacio. * 

" Last week I had a row on the road (I came up to 
Venice from my casino, a few miles on the Paduan road, 
this blessed day, to bathe) with a fellow in a carriage, who 
was impudent to my horse. 1 gave him a swinging bo* on 
the ear, wliich sent him to the police, who dismissed his 
complaint, and said, that if I had not thumped him, they 
would have trounced him fur being impertinent. Witnesses 
had seen the transaction. He first shouted, in an unseemly 
way, to frighten my palfrey. I wheeled round, rode up to 
the window, and asked him what he meant, lie grinned, 
and said some foolerv, which produced him an immediate 
slap in the face, to bis utter discomfiture. Much blasphemy 

ensued, and some menace, which I slopped bydisi inting 

and opening the carriage-door, and intimating an intention 
of mending the road with his immediate remains, ll he did 
not hold lus tongue. He held it. 

•The fellow went sneaklnglv In the police ; but a soldier, 
who had seen the matter, and thought me n^lit, went and 
counter-oathed him ; so that he had to retire — and cheap 
too : — I wish I had hit him harder. 

"Monk Lewis is here — 'how pleasant!'} lie is a very 
good fellow, and very much yours. So is Sam — so is 
every body — and, among the number, 

" Yours ever, ■ B. 

"P. S. What think you of Manfred? * * * 

"If ever you see* * *, ask him what he means by 
telling me, 'Oh, my friend, inueni portum? — What 'por- 



■I have finished (thai is, written— the file comes after- 
ward) ninetv and eight stanzas of the Fourth Canto, which 
I mean to be the concluding one. Ii "ill probably be about 
the same length as the Third, being already of the dimen- 
sions of the first or second Cantos. I look upon pans of 
it as vcrv good, that is, if the three former are good, but 
this we shall see ; and at any rate, good or not, it is rather 
a different stvlc from the last — less metaphysical — which, 
at any rate, will be a variety. I sent you die shaft of the 
column as a specimen the other day, i. e. the first stanza. 
So vou may be dunking of its arrival towards autumn, 
whose winds will not be the only ones to be raised, if so In 
as howOuil it is ready by dial Hue-. 

■I I. nt Lewis, who is at Venice (in or on the Canal- 
aceio, the Grand I 'anal,) your extracts from Lalla Rookh 
and Manuel, and, out of contradiction, it may be, he likes the 
last, and is not much taken with the first, of these perform- 
ances. Of Manuel 1 think, with the exception of a few 
capers, it is as heavy a nightmare as was ever Bestrode bj 
indigestion. 

"Of the extracts I can but judge as extracts, and I prefer 
the 'Pen' to the 'Silver Veil.' He seems not so much at 
home in his versification of die 'Silver Veil,' and a hide 
embarrassed with bis horrors; but the conception of Ulc 
character of the impostor is fine, and the plan of gr-:, 
for Ins genius,— and I doubt not that, as a whole, it will ba 
verv Arabesque and beaulilul. 

" Your laic cpislle is not the most abundant in inf >rma- 
tion, and has not vet been succeeded by any other ; so that 
I know nothing of your own concerns, or of any concerns, 
and as I never bear from any body but yourself who 
does not tell me something as disagree able as possible, I 
should not be sorry to hear from you: and as it is not very 
probable,— if I can, by any device or possible arrangement 
wnli regard to my personal affairs, so arrange it, — Uiat 1 
shall return soon, or reside ever in England, all that you 
tell me will be all I shall know or inquire after, as to our 
beloved realm of Grub-street, and the black brethren and 
blue sisterhood of that extensive suburb of Babylon. Have 
you had no new babe of literature sprung up to replace the 
dead, the distant, tlie tired, and the retired ? no prose, no 
verse, no noOung /" 



* 9c* Po*in», p. e78. tSee Poem., p.48t. 

t An kUimwo tench as often occurs Ll these Iclleis) lo ail ifiectloU will, 
which he he>t occ emiiieit. 



LETTER CCCXLVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•Venice, July 20, 1817. 
" I write to give you notice that I have completed tho 
fourth uduttmuac Canto of ChiMe Harold. It consists 

of 126 stanzas, and is consequently die longest of die four. 
It is yet to be copied and polished; and the notes are lo 
conic, of which it wall require more than die third Canto, as 
it necessarily treats more of works of art than of nature. 
It shall be sent towards autumn v— and now for our barter. 
What do you bid .' eh 1 you shall have samples, an' it so 
plea c sou: but I wish to know what I am to expect (as 
the saving is) in these bard times, when poetry does not 
let for hall us value. If you aie disposed to do what Mrs. 
Winifred Jenkins calls 'the handsome dung,' I may perhaps 
throw you some odd matters to the lot,— translations, or 
slight originals; there is no saving what may be on the 
anvil between this and the booking season. Recollect that 
it is the last Canto, and completes the work ; whether as 
good as die others, I cannot judge, in course— least of all 
as vut, but it shall bo as hide worse as I can help. I may 



LF.TT KRS, 1S!T. 



119 



erhaps, give some little gossip in the notes as to the pre- 
ent stale of Italian literati and literature, being acquainted 
with some of their capi — men as well as books; — but this 
depends upon my humour at the time. So, now, pro- 
nounce; 1 say nothing. 

" Whin you have got the whole^our Cantos, I think yon 
might venture on an edition of the whole poem in quarto, 
with spare copies of the last two for the purchasers of the 
old edition of the first two. There is a hint for you, 
worthy of the Row; and now, perpend — pronounce. 

* I have not received a word from you of the fate of 
Manfred' or 'Tasso,' which seems to me odd, whedicr 
they have failed or succeeded. 

" As this is a scrawl of business, and I have lately writ- 
ten at length and often on other subjects, I will only add 
Uui I am, &c. ! ' 



LETTER CCCXLIX. 

TO MH. MURRAY. 

a La Mira, near Venice, Aug. 7, 1817. 

• Your letter of the 18th, and, what will please you, as it 
.lid me, the parcel sent by the good-natured aid and abet- 
ment of Mr. Croker, are arrived. — Messrs. Lewis and 
use are here: the former in the same house, the 
latter a few hundred yards distant, 

" You say nothing of Manfred, from which its failure may 
be inferred; but 1 think it odd you should not say so at 
once. I know nothing, and hear absolutely nothing, of any 
body or any thing in England ; and there are no English 
papers, so that all you say will be news — of any person, 
or thing, or tilings. I am at present very anxious about 
New-stead, and sorry that Kinnaird is leaving England at 
this minute, diough I do not tell him so, and would rather 
he should have his pleasure, although it may not in Uiis 
instance tend to my profit. 

"If I understand rightly, you have paid into Morland's 
1500 pounds : as Uic agreement in the paper is two thou- 
sand guineas, there will remain therefore sir hundred 
pounds, and not five hundred, the odd hundred being the 
extra to make up the specie. Six hundred and thirty 
pounds will bring it to the like for Manfred and Tasso, 
making a total of twelve hundred and thirty, I believe, fur 
I am not a good calculator. I do not wish to press you, 
but 1 tell you fairly that it will be a convenience to me to 
have it paid as soon as it can be made convenient to your- 
self. 

"The new and last Canto is 130 stanzas in length; and 
may be made more or less. I have fixed no price, even in 
idea, and have no notion of what it may be good fir. 
There are no metaphysics in it ; at least, I think not. Mr. 
Hobhouse has promised me a copy of Tasso's Will, for 
nob 8 ; and I have some curious things to say about Fer- 
rara, and Panama's story, and perhaps a farthing candle's 
worth of Imht upon the present state of Italian Literature. 
I shall hardly be ready by October; but that don't matter. 
I have afi to copy and correct, and the notes to write. 

u I do not know whether Scott will like it; but I have 
called htm the ' Ariosto of the North* in my text.* Ij he 
should not, nay so in time. 

"Lewis, Hobhouse, and I went the other day to the cir- 
cumcision of a sucking Shylock, I have seen three men's 
heads and a child's foreskin cutoff in Italy. The cere- 
are very moving, but too long for detail in this 
weather. 

"An Italian translation of 'Glenarvon'came lately to be 
printed at Venice. The censor (Sr. Petrotini) refused to 
sanction the publication till he had seen me on the subject. 
I told him that I did not recognise the slightest relation 
between that book and myself; but that, whatever opinions 
might be upon that subject, / would never prevent or oppose 



the publication of any book, in any language, on my own 
private account; and desired liim (against his inclination) 
to permit the poor translator to publish his labours. It if 
going forward in consequence. You may say this, witi 
my compliments, to the author. M Yours." 



LETTER CCCL. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, Aug. 12, 1817. 

1 have been very sorry to hear of the death of Madame 
de Stael, not only because she had been very kind to me at 
Copet, but because now I can never requite her. In a 
general point of view, she will leave a great gap in society 
and literature. 

" With regard to death, I doubt that we have any right 
to pity the dead for their own sakes. 

" The copies of Manfred and Tasso are arrived, thanks 
to Mr. Croker*s cover. You have destroyed the whole 
effect and moral of the poem by omitting the last line of 
Manfred's speaking ; and why this was done, I know not. 
Why you persist in saying nothing of the thing itself I am 
equally at a loss to conjecture. If it is for fear of telling 
me something disagreeable, you are wrong ; because 
sooner or later I must know it, and I am not so new; nor 
so raw, nor so inexperienced, as not to be able to bear, not 
the mere paltry, petty disappointments of authorship, I ut 
things more serious, — at least, I hope so, and that what you 
may tliink irritability is merely mechanical, and only acts 
like galvanism on a dead body, or the muscular motion 
which survives sensation. 

" If it is that you are out of humour, because I wrote to 
you a sharp letter, recollect that it was partly from a mis- 
conception of your letter, and partly because you did a 
thing you had no right to do without consulting me. 

B I have, however, heard good of Manfred from two other 
quarters, and from men who would not be scrupulous in 
saying what they thought, or what was said ; and so 
'good-morrow to you, good Master Lieutenant.' 

"I wrote to you twice about the 4th Canto, which you 
will answer at your pleasure. Mr. Hobhouse and I have 
come up for a day to the city ; Mr. Lew is is gone to Eng- 
land ; and I am * Yours " 



LETTER CCCLI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"La Mira, near Venice, Aug. 21, 1817. 

tl I take you at your word about Mr. Hanson, and will 
feel obliged if you will go to him, and request Mr. Davies 
also to visit him by my desire, and repeat thai I trust that 
neither Mr. Ivinnaird's absence nor mine will prevent his 
taking all proper steps to accelerate and promote the sale 
of Newstead and Rochdale, upon which the whole of my 
future personal comfort depends. It is impossible for me 
to express how much any delays upon these points would 
inconvenience me ; and I do not know a greater obligation 
that can be conferred upon me than the pressing these 
things upon Hanson, and making him act according to my 
wishes. I wish you would speak out, at least to me, and 
tell me what you allude to by your cold way of mentioning 
him. All mysteries at such a distance are not merely 
tormenting but mischievous, and may be prejudicial to my 
interests; so pray expound, that I may consult with Mr. 
Kinnaird when he arrives ; and remember that I prefer the 
most disagreeable certainties to liints and inuendoes. The 
devil take every body ; I never can get any person to be 
explicit about any tiling or any body, and my whole life is 
passed in conjectures of what people mean: you all talk 
in the style of Caroline Lamb's novels. 

u It Is not Mr. St. John, but Mr. St. Aubyn. son of 3> 
John St. Aubyn. Polidm knows him, and introduced h 



120 



LETTERS, 1817. 



to me. He is of Oxford, and has got my parcel. The 
doctor will f'-rrui him out, or ought. The parcel contains 
many letters, some of Madame dc SiacTs, and otb / peo- 
ple's, besides MS3., &<■. By , if I find the genu* man, 

and he don't tind die parcel, I will say something he won't 
like to hear. 

" You want a ' civil and delicate declension' for the me- 
dical tragedy / Take ii — 

' Dear Doctor, I have rent your ploy, 
Which is " good one In Its way ; 
Purges the eye* and move* the howcls, 
And dreiiclie* ha no kerchieft [ike m*eli 
W.tli tears, lhati in * Bui -.fgurf, 
Afford hysterical reiki 
To sbauer'd nerve* and quicken *d pulses. 
Which your caiastr iphe con* dses, 

" I [ike vinir moral and machinery ; 
Four plot) loo, has Mil h Kope for scenery I 
Your dialogue IS a|)1 Slid small , 
The play's coiicocuon full of art ; 
Your Iwra rare*, your heroine cries, 
All siah, nud every body dies. 
In ihort, your tragedy would be 
The very thing to be ir and sec : 
And lor a piece of uublicai ion , 
If I decline on Ulis occasion, 
It is not that I am not sensible 
To menu in themselves osteuaiMe, 
Bui — mid I grieve to speak il — plavs 
Are drugs — mere drug*, sir — no» - -a-days. 
I hud a heavy loss by ' Manuel,'— 
Too lucky if it prove not annual,— 
And Sotheby, with hi* ' Orestes,' 
(Which, by-ihe-by, the author's best is,) 
lias lain so very lotlg on hand 
That 1 despair of all demand. 
1 've advertised, but see my honks, 
Or only watch my shopman's lonke ;— 
Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber, 
My buck-shun glut, my shelves encumber. 

" There 's Byrou, too, whu once did better, 
Has sent mc, folded in a teller, 
A sort of— it "a no more a drama 
Than Damley, Ivan, or Kehania ; 
So alter'd since last year his pen i*, 
I think lie '• lost his wils at Venice. 



In short, sir, what with one and t' other, 
I dare noi Venture on another. 
I writs in h.i-i,.' ; excuse each blunder ; 
The coaches ihrough the street so thunder 1 
My room '» so lull — we 've Gilford hero 
Reading M.S., with Hookham Krere 
Pronouncing on Uie nouns and panicles 
Of SOIIU Of our forthcoming Articles. 

" The Quarterly — Ah, sir, if yon 
Had but the genius to review I— 
A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
Or if you only would but tell id a 

Short, compass what bin, to resume : 

As 1 was saying, elr, the room — 

The room 's so full of wils and bards, 

Cr abbes, Campbells, < rokere, Fnifts, and Wards, 

And others, ueilher bards uor wits ,— 

My humble tenement admit* 

All persons in the dress of gent., 

FrOM Mr. Hammond to Dog I •• nt. 

" A party dines with ine lu-day, 
Allclcvei men, who make thuir way; 
They 're at this moment in discussion 
On poor De Siafil's late dissolution. 
Her bunk, they say, WAS In advance— 
Fray Heaveu, she tell Lite truth of France I 



" Thus nm our lime and tongue* away.— 
But, to return, sir. la your play : 
Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal, 
duets 'twere acted by O'Neill. 
My hands so full, my head ao Nun/, 
I 'in almost dead, and always di/.iy ; 
And so. with endless truih and hurry, 
I ». ,ii Doctor, 1 am yours, 

" JOHN MURRAY. 

*P. S. I've done the fourth and last Canto, which 
tjnouuLs to 133 stanzas. I desire you to name a price ; 
if you do u't, / will ; so I advise you in time. 

« Yours, &c 

• There will be a good many notes." 



LETTER CCCLTI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Sept. 4, 1817. 
Your letter of the 15th ha? conveyed with its contents 
the impress of a seal, to w hich the ; Saracen^ Head' is 

;t seraph, .ami the ' Bill and Mouth 1 a delicate ileV*C6. 1 

knew tha: calumny had sufficiently blackened me m -itar 

lays, but not thai it bad given the features as weU ta c - 

plexiun of a negro. Poor Augusta is not less, but rather 
rnop', shocked than ntvsi lf^ and say-, ' people seem io have 
losi their recollection strangely 1 when they engraved such 

blackainoor. 1 Pray don 1 ! seal (at least to me) with such 
,t caricature of the human numskull altogether; and if you 
don'l break the seal-cutters head, ai least crack his libel 
(or likeness, if it should be a tikeuess) of mine. 

".Mr. ECnuaird is not yet arrived, hut expected' He has 
lost by the way all the tooth-ponder, as a letter from &pa 
informs me. 

11 By Mr. Rose I received safely, though tardily, magno- 
sia and tooth-powder, and * * * * . Whj do you 
semi mc such trash — worse than trash, the Sublime of 
Mediocrity? Thanks for LaOa, however, which is good; 
and thanks for die Edinburgh and Quarterly, both very 
amusing and well-written. Pans in 1815, Sec. — good. 
Modern Greece — omul for nothing; wrilienby some as 
who has never been there, and not being able to manage the 
Spenser stanza, has invented a thing of its own, consisting 
o( two elegiac stanzas, a heroic Inn-, and an Alexandrine, 
twisted on a string. Besides, why 1 modern/ You may 

say modern Grrekx, but surely Greece itself IS rather inure 
ancient than ever it was. — Now f >r business. 

"You offer 1500 guineas for the new Canto; 1 won't 
take it. 1 ask two thousand five hundred guineas for it, 
which you will either give or not, as you think prouer. It 
concludes the poem, and consists of 14-1 stanzas. The 
notes are numerous, and chiefly written by Mr. Hobhouse, 
whose researches have been uidefatigable, and who, I will 
venture to say, has more real knowledge of Rome and its 
environs than anv Bngfishntan who has been there since 
Gibbon. By-thc-wav, to prevent any mistakes, I think it 
necessary to state the fact that he, Mr. llobhonse, | ias no 
interest whatever in the price or profit to be derived from 
the copyright of either poem or notes directly or indirectly ; 
so thai you are not to suppose that it is by, for, or through 
him, that I require more for this Canto than the preceding. 
— No : but if Mr. Eustace was to have had two thousand 
for a Poem on Education ; if Mr. Moore is Io have three 
thousand for Lalla, &c. ; if Mr. Campbell is to have three 
thousand tor his prose on poetry — I do n't mean to dispa- 
rage these gentlemen in their labours — but I ask theaJbfi - 
said price for mine. You will tell me thai their productions 
are considerably longer: very true, and when they shorten 
thi'tu, I will lengthen mine, and ask less. You shall submit 

the MS. to Mr. Gifrord, and any other two gentlemen to 
in- named by you (Mr. Frere, or .Mr. ( *roker,or whomever 

you please, except such fellows as your * * s and * * s,) 
and if they pronounce Ihis Canto to be inferior as a whole 
to the preceding 1 will not appeal from their award, but 
burn the manuscript, and leave things as they ire. 

B Yours very truly. 

" P. S. In answer to a former letter, I sent you a short 
statement of what I though) the state of our present copy- 
right account, Viz. six hundred pounds still (or latelv) due 
On I'lnlde Harold, and six hundred glimaos, Maufreil and 
TasSOj making a total of twelve hundred and thirty pounds. 
If we agree about the new poem, 1 shall take ihe liberty to 
reserve the choice of the manner in which it should bepul>- 
lishud, viz. a ijuar'o, curtes." + * * * 



* Ilj Mrs. Bcmsnt. 



LETTERS, 1817. 



lil 1 



LETTER CCCLIII. 

TO MR. HOI'PNER. 

w LaMira,Sept. 12, If 17. 

* I set out yesterday morning With the in'enUon of paying 
mv respects, and availing myself of your permissmr to 
walk over the premises.* On arriving at Padua, 1 found 
thai the march of the Austrian troops had engrossed so 
many horses, thai those 1 could procure were hardly able 

o crawl; and their weakness, together with the prospect 
of fading none at all at the post-house of Mouselice, and 
consequently either not arriving that day at Este, or so 
to be unable to return home the same evening, in- 
duced me to turn aside in a second visit to Arqua, instead 
of proceeding onwards; and even thus I hardly gut back 
in time. 

* Next week I shall be obliged to be in Venice to meet 
Lord Kinnaird and his brother, who are expected in a few 
d;ivs. And ibis interruption, together with that occasioned 
bv the continued march of the Austrian-; fir the next few 
days, will not allow me to fix anv precise period lor avail- 
in.; myself of your kindness, though 1 should wish to take 

lies! opportunity. Perhaps, if absent, you will have 
riii' ■_! i rtliK->s i,, permit one of ymr servants to show me 
the grounds and house, or as much of either as may be 
convenient; at any rate, I shall take the first occasion 
possible to go over, and regret very much that I was 
on yesterday prevented. 

"I have the honour to be your obliged, &c." 



LETTER CCCLIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Sept. 15, 1817. 

* 1 enclose a sheet for correction, if ever you get to an- 
other edition. You will observe that the blunder in printing 
makes it appear as if the Chateau was over St. Gingo, 
instead of being on the opposite shore of the Lake, over 
Ciarens. So, separate the paragraphs, otherwise my 
topography will seem as inaccurate as your typography 
on this occasion. 

" The other day I wrote to convey my proposition with 
regard to the fourth and concluding Canto. I have gone 
river and extended it to one hundred and fifty stanzas, 
which is almost as long as the first two were originally, 
and longer by itself than any of the smaller poems except 
the ' Corsair.' Mr. Hobhouse has made some very valu- 
able and accurate notes, of considerable length, and you 
may be sure that I will do for the text all dial I can to 
finish with decency. I look upon Childe Harold as my 
best; and as I begun, I think of concluding with it. But 
I make no resolutions on that head, as I broke my former 
intention with regard to the ' Corsair.' However, I fear 
that I shall never do better ; and yet, not being thirty years 
of age, for some moons to come, one ought to be progres- 
sive, as far as intellect goes, fi>r many a good year. But I 
have had a devilish deal of tear and wear of mind and 
body in my time, besides having published too often and 
much already. God grant me some judgment to do what 
may be most fitting in that and every thing else, fur I doubt 
mv own exceedingly. 

"I have read ' Lalla Rookh,' but not with sufficient at- 
tention vet, for I ride about, and lounge, and ponder, and 
— two or three other things; so that my reading is very 
desultory, and not so attentive as it used to be. I am very 
glad to hear of its popularity, for Moore is a very noble 
Irllow in all respects, and will enjoy it without any of the 
bad feelings which success — good or evil — sonr times en- 
ganders in the men of rhyme. Of the Poem itself, I will 
tell you my opinion when I have mastered it: I say of the 



* A country -ho use on the Engines!) hilU, near E«te, which Mr. Hopp 
n^r, *ho «>i then the EngUra eoMiil-efuera] al Venice. I «\ for iome 
lime oecnyied, and which Lord Byron afterward rented ofhuu, uuin«»er 
resided ia it. _ _ 



Poem, for I do n\ like the prose at all, at all : and in tli« 
meantime, the 'Fire-worshippers 1 is Lite best, and tho 

Veiled Prophet' die worst, of the volume. 
"With regard to poetry in general,* I am convinced 
the more I think of ii, that he and all of us — Scott, Sou- 
they, Wordsworth, Moore, Campbell, I, — are all in the 
wrong, one as much as another ; that we are upon a wrong 
revolutionary poetical sys'em, or systems, not worth a 
damn in itself, and frjm which none but Rogers and Crabbe 
are free; and that the present and next generations will 
finally be of this opinion. 1 am the more confirmed in 
this by having lately gone over some of our classics, par- 
ticularly Pope, whom I tried in this way : — If took Moore's 
poems and my own and some others, and went over them 

ide by side with Pope's, and I was really astonished (I 
ought not to have been so) and mortified at the ineffable 
distance m point of sense, learning, effect, and even imagi- 
nation, passion, and invention, between the little Queen 
Anne's man, and us of the Lower Empire. Depend upon 
it, it is all Horace then, and Claudian now among us; and 
if I had to begin again, L would mould myself accordingly. 
Crabbe 's the man, but he has got a coarse and impracti- 
cable subject, and Rogers is retired upon half-pay, and 
has done enough, unless he were to do as he did formerly. 1 * 



LETTER CCCLV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



•Sept. 17, 1817 



* Mr. Hobhouse purposes being in England in Novem- 
ber; he will bring the Fourth Canto with him, notes and 
all : the text contains one hundred and fifty stanzas, which 
is long for that measure. 

"With regard to the ' Ariosto of The North'f surely their 
themes, chivalry, war, and love, were as like as can be ; 
and as to the compliment, if you knew what the Italians 
think of Ariosto, you would not hesitate about that. But 
as to their ' measures,' you forget that Ariosto's is an oc- 
tave stanza, and Scott's any thing but a stanza. If you 
think Scott will dislike it, say so, and I will expunge. I do 
not call him the ' Scotch Ariosto,' which would be sad pro- 
vincial eulogy, but the ' Ariosto of the JVurfA,' meaning of 
all countries that are not the South. 

***** 

a As I have recently troubled you rather frequently, I 
will conclude, repeating that I am 

" Yours ever. &.c." 



LETTER CCCLVI. 



TO .MR. MURRAY. 



"Oct. 12, 1817. 

8 Mr. Kinnaird and his brother, Lord Kinnaird, have 
been here, and are now gone again. All your missives 
came, except the tooth-powder, of which I request farther 
supplies, at all convenient opportunities; as also of mag- 
nesia and soda-powders, both great luxuries here, and 
neither to be had good, or indeed hardly at all, of the 
natives. 

****** 

" In Coleridge's Life I perceive an attack upon tJie then 
Committee of D. L. Theatre for acting Bertram, and an 
attack upon Maturin's Bertram for being acted. Con- 
sidering all things, this is not very grateful nor graceful 



• On this paragraph, in the MS. copy of the ahoTe letler, I find the 
following not*. In the handwriting nf Mr. tiiffinl : " There ii more good 
■ense, nnd feeling, ami judgment in ihiipntingc, than in anj other I ore' 
read, nr lord Byron wrotr."— Moort. 

t See lettrn for How Lei and Blackwood. 

J See Letter 346. 



122 



LETTERS, 1P17. 



on ilif ■ pan of the worthy autobfographer ; and I would 
answer, if I had tint obliged him. Putting my own pains 
to forward the news of Coleridge out of the qui I 

know that there was every disposition, on the part of the 
Sub-Committee, to bring forward any production of his, 

wen- it feasible. The play he ottered, inmiji poetical, did 
not appdftT at all practicable, anil Bertram Hid ; — ami 
hence ihis long Uradc, which is the last chapter of Ins 
vagabond life. 

"As f>r Bertram, Matnrin may defend his own be- 
gotten, if he likes it well enough; I leave the Irish clergy- 
man and the new orator Henley to battle it out between 
them, satisfied to have done the best I could for both. I 
may say this to you, who know it. 

****** 

* Mr. Coleridge may console himself with the fervour, — 
the almost religious fervour of his and Wordsworth's dis- 
ciples, as he calls it. U he means that as any pro>>f uf 
their merits, I will find him as much 'fervour' in behalf of 
Richard 1 if it hers ami Joanna S nidirofe as ever gathered 
over bis pages or round his fireside. * * * 

" Mj answer to your proposition about the Fourth Canto 
you will have received, and I await yours; — perhaps we 
may not agree. I have since written a Poem* (of 84 
octave stanzas,) humorous, in or after the excellent manner 
of Mr. Whistlecraft (whom I take to be Frere,) on a 
Venetian anecdote which amused me: — but till I have 
your answer, I can say nothing more about it. 

"Mr. Hobhouse Hoes not return to England in Novem- 
ber, as he intended, but will winter here; and as he is to 
convey the poem, or poems, — for there may perhaps be more 
than the two mentioned (which, by-the-wav, I shall not 
perhaps include in the same publication or agreement) — 
1 shall not be able to publish so soon as expected ; but I 
suppose there is no harm in the delay. 

" 1 have signed and sent your former eopyrigltis by Mr. 
Kinnaird, but not the receipt, because the money is not yet 
paid. Mr. Kinnaird has a power of attorney to sign for 
me, and will, when necessary. 

"Many thanks for the Edinburgh Review, which is very 
kind about Manfred, and defends its originality, which I 
did not know that any body had attacked. 1 never read, 
and do not know that I ever saw the ' Faustus of Marlow,' 
and had, and have, no dramatic works bv me in English, 
except the recent things you sent me; but I heard Mr. 
Lewis translate verbally some scenes of Goethe's Faust 
(which were, some good and some bad) last summer — 
which is all I know of the history of that magical person- 
age; and as to the germs of Manfred, they may be found 
in the Journal whirh I sent to Mrs, Leigh (part of which 
you saw) when I went over iirsi the Dent de Jaraan, and 
then the VVcngen or Wengeherg Alp and Sheideck, add 
made the giro of the Jungfrau, Shreckhorn. &c &c. 
shortly before I left Switzerland. 1 have the whole scene 
of Manfred before me as if it was but yesterday, and could 
point it out, spot by spot, torrent and all. 

"Of the Prometheus of JEschylns 1 was passionately 
fond as a boy (it was one of the Greek plays we read 
thrice a year at Harrow;) indeed that and the 'Medea* 
were the only ones, except the 'Seven before Thebes, 
which ever much pleased me. As to the 'Faustus oi 
Marlow,' I never read, never saw, nor heard of it — at least, 
thought of it, except that I think Mr. Giffbrd mentioned, 
in a note of his which you sent me, something about the 
catastrophe ; but not as having any thing 1o do with mine, 
which may or may not resemble it, fur any thing 1 know. 

"The Prometheus, if not exactly in my plan, has always 
been so much in mv head, that I can easily conceive its 
influence over all or anv thing that I have written; — but I 
deny Marlow and Ids progeny, and beg that you will do 
the same. 



" If you can -end me the paper tn question,* which the 
ii Ui-vicw mentions, oV The Review in the 
magazine you say was written by Wilson? it had all the air 
of being a poet&,and was a very good one. The Kdmburgh 
Review 1 take to be Jeffreys own by its friendliness. 1 
wonder they though! it worth while to do so, so soon after 
the former; but it was eviden'lj with a ginnl motive. 

U I saw Hoppner the other day, whose count ry-hu use at 
Bate I have taken for two years, [f you come out next 
summer, let me know in time. Love toGiflord. 

u Yours ever truly. 

"Oalibe, Mnteulm, Hamilton, ond Chutilrcy, 

Arc uil partaken of my poolry. 

These two lines are omitted in your letter to the doctor 
after — 

" All ctercr n.cn who mnke their way." 



LETTER CCCLVII. 



TO MR. Wl'HKAV. 



" Venice, Oct. 23, 1817. 

" Your two letters are bef ire me, and our bargain is so 
far concluded. How sorry I am to hear that Gilford is 
unwell ! Pray tell me he is belter ; I hope it is nothing but 
o>ld. As you say his Illness originates in cold, I trust it 
will get no farther. 

"Mr. Whistlecraft has no greater admirer than myself: 
I have written a story in 89 stanzas, in imitation of him, 
called Beppo (the short name for Giuseppe, that is, the 
Joe of the Italian Joseph,) which I shall throw you into the 
balance of the Fourth Canto, to help you round to your 
money ; but you perhaps had better publish it anonymously: 
but this we will see to by-and-by. 

■In the Notes to Canto Fourth, Mr. Hobhouse has 
pointed Out several errors of Gibbon. You may depend 
upon H.'s research and accuracy. You may print it in 
what shape you please. 

"With regard to a future large Edition, you may prim 
all, or any tiling, except 'English Hards, 1 to the republica- 
tion of which at no time will I consent. I would not reprint 
them on any consideration. I do n't think them good for 
much, even in point of poetry; and as to other things, you 
are to recollect that I save up the publication on account 
rjf the HoBandfj and I do not think thai any time or cir- 
cumstances can neutralize the suppression. Add to w hich, 
that, after being on terms with almost all the bards and 
critics of the day, it would be savage at any time, but worst 
of all nmOj to revive this foolish Lampoon. 



"The review of Manfred came very safely, and I am 
much pleased with it. It is odd that they should say (thai 
is, somebody in a magazine whom the Edinburgh contro- 
vert^) that it was taken from Marlows Faust, which I 
never read nor saw. An Ameriean, who came the other 
day from Germany, told Mr. Hobhouse that Manfred was 
taken from Goethe's Faust. The devil may take both the 
Faustinesjl rerman and English — 1 have taken neither. 

"Will you send to ffonson, and say that he has not 
written since 9ih September ? — at least 1 have had no letter 
since, to my great surprise. 

* Will you desue Messrs. Morland to send out whatever 
additional sums have or may he paid in credit immediately, 
and always, to their Venice correspondents? Ft is two 
months ag'> that they sent me out an additional credit for 
one thousand pounds. 1 was very glad of it, but I do n't 
know how the devil it came ; for I can only make out 500 



• A |<or*r in ihe Edinburgh Magazine, in which II »•■• lugeeiletl Uinl 
the general CODttpttoa of M.iuTred, nnd much of whnt i« ptc-11. nlin ih< 
manner of iti execution, hail been borrowed fruin "The Tragical Mi •tor* 
ol Dr. Fr.hi...," of Marlow. 

t 3«e I .'..., i J u. 



L ETTERS, 1917. 



123 



of Hanson's payment, and I had thought the other 500 
came from you; but it did not, it seems, as, by yours of the 
7'li instant, you have only just paid die 1230/. balance. 

"Mr. Kinnaird is on his way heme with the assignments, 
I can fix no time for the arrival of Canto Fourth, which 
depends on the journey of Mr. Hobhouse home; and I do 
not think that this will be immediate. 

" Yours, hi great haste and very truly, "B. 

"P. S. Morlands have not yet written to my bankers 
apprising the payment of your balances: pray desire them 

t.i tie Sit. 

"Ask them about the previous thousand — of which I 
know 600 came from Hanson's — and make out the Other 
500 — that is, whence it came.' 1 



LETTER CCCLVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, Nov. 15, 1817. 

".Mr. Kinnaird has^robably returned to England by this 
time, and will have conveyed to you any tidings you mav 
wish lo have of us and ours. I have come back to Venice 
for the winter. Mr. Hobhouse will probably set oil' in 
December, but what day or week, I know not. He is my 
opposite neighbour at present. 

"I wrote yesterday in some perplexity, and no very good 
humour to Mr. Kinnaird, to inform me about Newstead 
and the Hansons, of which and whom I hear nothing since 
his departure from this place, except in a few unintelligible 
words from an unintelligible woman. 

B I am as sorry to hear of Dr. Polidori's accident as one 
can be (or a person for whom one has a dislike, and some- 
thing of contempt. When he gets well, tell me, and how 
he gets on in die sick line. Poor fellow ! how came he to 
fix there? 

" I ft ar the (Iociof'b skill nt Norwich 
Will hardly sail the doctor's purriitge. 

Methought he was going to die Brazils, to give the Portu- 
guese physic (of which they are fond to desperation,) wiih 
the Danish consul. 

****** 

* Your new Canto has expanded to one hundred and 
si\tv-seven stanzas. It will be long, you see; and as for 
the notes by Hobhouse, I suspect they will be of die heroic 
size. You must keep Mr. * * in good humour, for he is 
devilish touchy yet about your Review and all which it 
inherits, including the editor, the Admiralty, and its book- 
Beller. 1 used to think that / was a good deal of an author 
in amour proprc and noli metangere; but these prose fellows 
are worst, after all, about tneir little comforts. 

B Do vou remember my mentioning, some months a^o, 
the Marquis Moncada — a Spaniard of distinction and 
fourscore rears, my summer neighbour at La Mira? Well, 
about six weeks ago, he fell in love with a Venetian girl 
of family, and no fortune or character; took her into his 
mansion; quarrelled with all his former friends forgiving 
htm advice (excepl me who gave him none,) and installed 
her present concubine and future wife and mistress of him- 
self and furniture. At the end of a month, in which she 
demeaned herself as ill as possible, he found out a cor- 
respondence between her and some former keeper, and 
after nearly strangling, turned her out of the house, to the 
great scandal of the keeping part of the town, and with a 
prodigious eclat, which lias occupied all the canals and 
coffee-houses in Venice, He said she wanted to poison 
him; and she says — God knows what; but between them 
they have made a great deal of noise. I know a little of 
both the parties: Moncada seemed a very sensible o!d man. 
a character which he has not quite kept up on this occa- 
sion; and the woman is rather showy than pretty. For 
the nonour of religion, she was bred in a conven', and for 
the credit of Great Britain, taught b v an Englishwoman. 

* Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Dec. 3, 1S17. 

; A Venetian lady, learned and somewhat stricken in 
years, having, in her intervals of love and devotion, taken 
upon her to translate the Letters and write the Life of 
Lady Mary Worllcy Montague, — to which undertaking 
there are two obstacles, firstly, ignorance of English, ami, 
secondly, a total dearth of information on the subject of her 
projected biography, — has applied to me for facts or falsi- 
ties upon this promising project. Lady Montague lived 
the last twenty or more years of her life in or near Venice, 
I believe ; but here they know nothing, and remember 
nothing, for die story of to-day is succeeded by the scandal 
of to-morrow; and the wit, and beauty, and gallantry, 

hich might render your countrywoman notorious in her 
own country, must have been )iere no great distinction — 
because the first is in no request, and the two latter are 
common to all women, or at least the last of them. If you 
can therefore tell me any thing, or get any thing told, of 
Lady Wortley Montague, I shall take it as a favour, and 
will transfer and translate it to the 'Dama' in question. 
And I pray you besides to send me, by some quick and 
safe voyager, the edition of her Letters, and the stupid Life* 
by Dr. Dallawaif, published by her proud and foolish family 

" The death of the Princess Charlotte has been a shock 
even here, and must have been an earthquake at home.* 
The Couriers list of some three hundred heirs to the crown 
(including the house of Wirtemberg, with that * * *, 
P- , of disreputable memory, whom I remember seeing 
at various balls during the visit of the Muscovites, &c. in 
1814,) must be very consolatory to all true lieges, as well 
as foreigners, except Signor Travis, a rich Jew merchant 
of this city, who complains grievously of the length of 
British mourning, which has countermanded all the silks 
which he was on die point of transmitting, for a year to 
come. The death of this poor girl is melancholy in ewry 
respect, dying at twenty or so, in childbed — of a boy too, ;: 
present princess and future queen, and just as she began tu 
be happy, and to enjoy herself and the hopes which she 
inspired. ******* 

6 1 think, as far as I can recollect, she is the first ro^al 
defunct in childbed upon record in our history. I feel sorry 
in every respect — fur the loss of a female reign, and a 
woman hitherto harmless; and all the lost rejoicings, and 
addresses, and drunkenness, and disbursements of John 
Bull on the occasion. ****** 

"The Prince will marry again, after divorcing his wife, 
and Mr. Southey will write an elegy now, and an ode then; 
the Quarterly will have an article against the press, and 
the Edinburgh an article, iudf and htdf, about reform and 
right of divorce ; * * * * the British will give you Dr. 
Chalmers's funeral sermon much commended, with a placo 
in the stars fur deceased royalty ; and the Morning Post 
will have already yelled forth its 'syllables of dolour.' 
'Wo, wo, Nealliny !— the young Nealliny !' 

"It is some time since I have heard from you: are you 
in bad humour? I suppose so. I have been so myselfj 
and it is your turn now, and by-and-by mine will come 
round again. "Yours truly, "B. 

"P. S. Countess Atbrizzi, come back from Paris, has 
brought me a medal of himself a present from Der.on to 
rue, and a likeness of Mr. Rogers (belonging to her,) bv 
Denon also." 



LETTER CCCLX. 

TO MR. HOfPNER. 

"Venice, Dec. 15, 1817. 

"I should have thanked you before, for your favour a 
few davs ago, bad I not been in the intention of paying my 



' Bus ClitUlw Harold, Cuuio i. ii&ilzil 177 



124 



LETTERS, 1819. 



respects, personally, tins evening from which I am deterred 
by the recollection that you will probably be at the Count 
Goesss this evening, which has made mo postpone my 
intrusion. 

M I think your Elegy a remarkably good one, not only as 
a composition but both the politics and poetry contain a 
far greater portion of truth arid generosity than belongs to 
Llie times, or to the professors of these opposite pursuits, 
whicli usually agree only in one point, as extremes meet. 
I do not know whether you wished me to retain the copy, 
but I shall retain it till you tell me otherwise, and am very 
much obliged by the perusal. 

"My own sentiments on Venice, &c. such as they are, 
I had already thrown into verse last summer, in the Fourth 
Canto of Cbilde Harold, now in preparation for the press; 
and I think much more highly of (hem for being in coin- 
cidence with yours. "BeLeve me yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•Venice, Jan. a 1818. 

" My dear Mr. Murray, 
Y i"< v- in o i u hum l burr* 

To ael i.i(i this ultimate Canto; 
But (if they don't rub mi,) 
You 'Usee Mr. Hothouse 

Will bring it safe in hi* poi Imanteu*. 

2. 

'* For Ui? Journal you hint of, 
A* ready to print off, 

N " doubt you do right to ottuttad !i ; 
But na yd I hare » . ■: A 

TbedtvtiabHof 

Our ' li^O" ,' — whea copied, I '11 acm! It. 



Then you 'to • • * '» Tour, — 
No great thinps, to be aure, — 

You could hardly begin with a leai work ; 
For tht pempoua rancallioo 
Whodc t'l apeak Italian 

Nor French, must li*« actibbled hy gueaa-worh. 



'•Yon enn nwke any ton up 
Wilh ' Bpane*) 1 and his gosaip, 

A work which must surtly succeed J 
Then ftueen Mary's Epi*lle-cruft, 
With the new ' Fytie" of ' Whiatlrcraft,' 

Musi in. »li I" i-jjI'- uurchuse and rend. 

8. 

" Then you 're General Gordon, 
Who girded hisswurd on, 

To serve with a MuscuTite mailer, 
Ami lid|i him to [mlish 
A niiiion so owlish, 

They llioughl shaving their beards a disaster. 

9. 

1 Fur Ihe man, ' poor and shrtted," 
With a/bom you *d conclude 

A compact without more delay, 
Perhaps some audi pen r» 
Still exlunt in Venice; 
But nit, in- air, to mention your pay." 



LETTER CCCLXII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Jan. 19,1818. 
"I send vou the storyf in three other separate covers. 
It won't do f >r vour Journal, being full of political allusions. 
Print alone, without name; alter nothing ; get a scholar to 
se<- that the Italian phrases are correctly published (your 
printing, by-the-way, always makes me ill with its eternal 



blunders, which are incessant,) and God speed you. Hen- 
house left Venice a fortnight a^o savuig iwo days. I has e 
heard nothing of or from him. 

" Yours, &c. 
"He has the whole of the MSS. ; so put up prayers in 
your back shop, or in the printers 'Chapel." 1 



LETTER CCCLXI1I. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venire, Jan. 27,1818. 

"IVly father — that is, my Armenian father. Padre Pas- 
quali — in the name of all the other fathers of our Convent, 
sends you the enclosed, greeting. 

" Inasmuch as it has pleased the translators of the long- 
lost and lately-found portions of the text of EuMDHJf I 
[nit t">rth the enclosed prospectus, of whu h I Bend sit 
copies, vou are hereby briplored to obtain subscribers in 
the two Universities, and ;mnm; the learned, uihI Uie un- 
learned, who would unlearn their ignorance. — This thty 
(the Convent) request, J request] and do you request. 

h l semi you Beppo stum- weeks agone. You must pub- 
lish it alone; it has politics and ferocity, and won't do for 
your isthmus of a Journal. 

"Mr. Hobhouse, if die Alps have not broken his neck, 
is, or ought to be, swimming with my commentaries and 
his own coat of mail m Ins teeth and right hand, in a cork 
jacket, between Calais and Dover. 

"It is the height of the Carnival, and I am in the extreme 
and agonies of a new intrigue with I don't exactly know 
whom or what, except that she is insatiate of love, and 
won't take money, and has light hair and blue eyas, which 
are not common here, and that 1 met her at the Masque, 
and that when her mask is off, 1 am as wise as ever. I 
shall make what I can of die remainder of my youth." * 



LETTER CCCLXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

u Venice. Feb. 2, 1818. 

"Your letter of Dec. 8, arrived but this day, by some 
delay, common but inexplicable. Your domestic calamity 
is very grievous, and 1 feel with you as much as 1 dare feel 
at all. Throughout life, your loss must be mv loss, and 
your gain my gain ; and, though my heart may ebb, there 
will alwavs he a drop fir you among die dre«.s.* 

"I know how to feel with you, because (selfishness being 
always the substratum of our damnable clav) I am quire 
wrapt up in my own children. Besides my little legiti* 
mate, I have made unto myself an lAegitanate since (lo 
say nothing of one before. )f and I look forward to one of 
these as Ihe pillar of my old age, supposing that 1 ever 
reach — which I hope I never shall — that desolating period. 
I have a great love for my little Ada, though perhaps she 
may torture me, like ***** 
* * * * 

"Your offered address will he as acceptable as vou can 
wish. I do n't much care what the wretches of the world 
think of me — all thai 's past But I care a good deal what 
you think of me, and so, say what you like. You foots thai 
I am not sullen; and, as to being sara^e, such thing-; depend 
on circumstances. However, as to bein<» in good humour 
in vour society, there is no great merit in that, •ecsmn it 
would he an effort, or an insanity, to be otherwise. 

u I do n't know what Murray may have been saying or 
quoting. I called Crabbe and Sam the fathers of presenl 
Poesy; and said, that 1 thought — except them — all of l us 
ymdti were on a wrong tack. But I never said that we 
did not sail well. Our fame will be hurt by admiration arid 
imitation. "When I say our, I mean ail (Lakecs included,) 



1 Vide jour letter." \ Beppu 



u> Bdr.Moorcp. 184. 



I Sec Ptonu * Wfc 



i 



LETTERS, 1618. 



125 



except the po>ts«-ripl of the Atigustans. The next gene- 
ration (from the quantity and facility of imitation) will 
ttiinbk: and bre?k their necks ori' our Pegasus, who runs 
awav with us ; but we keep the scuUUe, because we broke 
the rascal and can ride. But though easy to mount, he 
is the devil to guide; and the next fellows must go back to 
the riding-school and the manege, and learn to ride the 
'great horse.' 

"Talking of horses, by-the-way, I have transported my 
own, four in number, to the Lido (beach, in English,) a 
Strip of some ten miles along die Adriatic, a mile or two 
from the city; so that I not only get a row in my gondola, 
but a spanking gallop of some miles daily along a firm and 
■olitarv beach, from the fortress to Mulainoeco. the which 
contributes considerably to my health and spirits. 

" I have hardlv had a wink of sleep diis week past. We 
are in the ag«nies of the Carnival's last days, and 1 must 
be up all night again, as well as to-morrow. I have had 
some curious masking adventures this Carnival, but, as they 
are not yet over, 1 shall not say on. I will work the mine 
of my youth to the last veins of the ore, and then — good 
night. I have lived, and am content. 

"Hobhouse went away before the Carnival began, so 
that he had little or no fun. Besides, it requires some 
time to be thoroughgoing with the Venetians; but of all 
this anon, in some other letter. * * * 

***** 

I must dress for the evening. There is an opera and 
ridotta, and I know not what, besides balls; and bo, ever 
and ever yours, " B. 

" P. S. I send this without revision, so excuse errors. I 
delight in die fame and fortune of Lalla, and again congratu- 
late you on your well-merited success." 



LETTER CCCLXV. 



TO MR. MURRAV, 



"Venice, Feb. 20, 1818. 

*I have to thank Mr. Croker for the arrival, and you 
for the contents, of the parcel which came last week, much 
quicker than any before, owing to Mr. Croker's kind at- 
tention and the official exterior of the bags ; and all safe 
except much friction among the magnesia, of which only 
two bottles came entire; but it is all very well, and 1 am 
exceedingly obliged to you. 

" The books I have read, or rather am reading. Pray, 
who may be the Sexagenarian, whose gossip is very amus- 
ing? Many of his sketches I recognize, particularly Gif- 
fbrd, Macintosh, Drummond, Dutens, H. Walpole, Airs. 
Inehbaid. Uoie, &.c. with the SeotLs, Loughborough, and 
most of the divines and lawyers, besides a few shorter hints 
of auuiors, and a few lines about a certain i 7iubte autlwr^ 
characterized as malignant and sceptical, according to the 
good old story, l as it was in the beginning, is now, but not 
always shall be :' do you know such a person, Master Mur- 
ray? eh? — And pray, of the booksellers, which he you/ 
the dry, the dirty, the honest, the opulent, the finical, the 
splendid, or the coxcomb bookseller ? Stap my vitals, but 
the author grows scurrilous in his grand climacteric. 

" I remember to have seen Porson at Cambridge, in the 
hall of our CoHegej, and in private parties, but not frequently ; 
and I never cin recollect him except as drunk or brutal, 
and generally both : I mean in an evening, for in the hall, 
he dined at the Dean's table, and I at the Vicemaster's, 
*o that 1 was not n»?ar him; and he then and there ap- 
peared sober in his demeanour, nor did I ever hear of ex- 
cess or outrage on his part in public,— commons, college, 
or chapel ; but I have seen him in a private party of under- 
graduates, many of them freshmen and strangers, take up 
a [raker to one of them, and heard him use language as 

blackguard as his action. I have seen Sheridan drunk, 
too, with all the world: but his intojDcarion was that of 
Bacchus, and PuMuris dial ot Siituius* Of ail the disgust- 



ing brutes, sulky, abusive, and intolerable, Porson was the 
most bestial, as far as the few limes that I saw him went, 
which were only at William Bankes's (die Nubian dis- 
coverer's) rooms. I saw him once go away in a rage\ 
because nobody knew the name of the 'Cobbler of Messi- 
na, 1 insulting their ignorance with the most vulgar terms 
of reprobation. He was tolerated in this state among the 
young men for his talents, as the Turks think a madman 
inspired, and bear with him. He used to recite or radier 
vomit pages of all languages, and could hiccup Greek like 
a Helot ; and certainly Sparta never shocked her children 
with a grosser exhibition than this man's intoxication. 

* I j>erceive, in Uie book you sent me, a long account of 
him, which is very savage. I cannot judge, as I never 
saw him sober, except in hall or combination-room ; and 
then I was never near enough to hear, and hardly to see 
him. Of his drunken deportment, 1 can be sure, because 
I saw it. 

B With the Reviews, I have been much entertained. It 
requires to be as far from England as I am to relish a 
periodical paper properly: it is like soda-water in an 
Italian summer. But what cruel work you make with 
Lady Morgan ! You should recollect that she is a woman ; 
though to be sure, they are now and then very provoking ; 
still, as authoresses they can do no great harm ; and 1 think 
it is a pity so much good invective should have been laid 
out upon her, when there is such a tine field of us, Jacobin 
gentlemen, for you to work upon. It is, perhaps, as bitter 
a critique as ever was written, and enough to make sad 
work for Dr. Morgan, both as husband and apothecary ;— 
unless she should say, as Pope did of some attack upon 
him, ' That it is as good for her as a dose o( hartsliorn* 

" I heard from Moore lately, and was sorry to be 
made aware of his domestic loss. Thus it is — 'medio de 
fonte leporum' — in the acme of his fame and his happiness 
comes a drawback as usual. 

****** 

"Mr. Hoppner, whom I saw this morning, has been 
made the father of a very fine boy.* — Mother and child 
doing very well indeed. By this time Hobhouse should 
be with you, and also certain packets, letters, &c. of mine, 
sent since his departure. I am not at all well in health 
within this last eight days. My remembrances to Gilford 
and all friends. " Yours, &c. a B. 

" P. S. In the course of a month or two, Hanson will 
have probably to send ofTa clerk with conveyances to sign 
(Newstead being sold in November last for ninety-four 
thousand live hundred pounds,) in which case I supplicate 
supplies of articles as usual, for which, desire Mr. Km- 
naird to settle from funds in their bank, and deduct from 
my account with him. 

"P. S. To-morrow night I am going to see { Otello,' an 
opera from our 'Othello,' and one of Rossini's best, it is 
said. It will be curious to see in Venice the Venetian 
story itself rcpresen'ed, besides to discover what they will 
make of Shakspeare in music." 



LETTER CCCLXVI. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

■Venice, Feb. 28, 1818. 
B MV dear sir, 
"Our friend, it Conte M-, threw me into a cold sweat 
last night, by telling me of a menaced version of Manfrea 



* On the birth of this child, who was chmtem-H John William RiT.ro, 
Lord Byrou mote the fboi foll.iwine line., which are iii no other Rapes! 
remarkable thau th..t they were thought worthy sfbeinf metrically imua 
lale.l into no lew U>an ten diP"-renl Inogungps ; namely, I. re**, Latin, 
Italian, Aulno in the Venetian dialect.) UerOMD, FltQia, tywiilb, Illy 
riau, Hebrew, Armenian, and Samarium : — 

" His father's seme, his mother's grace 

In htm, I nope, u 111 slwayi fit to ; 
With (still lo keep liim In e.o,-l cose.) 
The health and appetite of Riuo." 
The ori«innl line*, with the rllfiVn nl rerflnn* uhnre menUonttl, »«» 
BiIqIw] in a iniall volume, tu the !fsiauuu > of P*dua — AJuvre. 



126 



I. ETTERS, 1918. 



(in Venetian, I hope, to complete the thing,) by Rome 
Italian, who had sent it to you fir correction, which ii the 
reason why I take the liberty of troubling you on the suIh 
ject. Ifvou have any means of communication with the 
man. would you permit me to convey to him the otfer of 
anv price he may obtain, or think to obtain, for his project, 
provided he will throw his translation into the tin-, and 
uromise not to undertake anv other of that or any other of 
my things: I will send him his money immediately on thus 
condition. 

"As 1 did not write to the Italians, nor for the Italians, 
nor of the Italians (except tnapoemnoJ vet published, 
where 1 have said all the good I know or do not know of 
them, and none of the harm,) I confess I wish that they 
would let me alone, and not drag me into their arena as 
one of the gladiators, in a silly contest which I neither 
understand nor have ever interfered with, having kept cleat 
of all their literary parties, both here and at Milan, ami 
elsewhere. — I came into Italy to feel the climate and be 
quiet, if possible. Mossi's translation I would have pre- 
vented if I had known it, or could have done so; and I (rust 
that I shall yet be in time to stop this new gentleman) of 
whom 1 heard yesterday for the first time. He will only 
hurt himself, and do no good to his party, for in party the 
whole thing originates. Our modes of thinking and writing 
are so unutterably different, that I can conceive no greater 
absurdity than attempting to make any approach between 
the English and Italian poetry of the present day. I like 
the people very much, and their literature very much, but 
1 am not the least ambitious of being the subject of their 
discussions literary and personal, (which appear to be 
pretty much the same thing, as is the case in most coun- 
tries;) and if you can aid me in impeding this publication, 

you will add to much kindness already received from you 
by yours, "Ever and trulv, 

"Bykon. 
ft P. S. How is the son, and mamma? Well, I dare say.' 1 



LETTER CCCLXVII. 



TO MR. ROGERS. 



"Venice, March 3, ISIS. 

*I have not, as you say, 'taken to wife the Adriatic.' I 
heard of Moore's loss from himself in a letter which was 
dt-layed upon the road three months. I was sincerely 
sorry for it, but in such cases what are words? 

■ The villa you speak of is one at Este, which Mr. Hopn> 
ner (Consul-general here,) has transferred to me. I have 
taken it for two years as a place of Villeggiatura. The 
situation is very beautiful indeed, among the Eugancan 
bills, and the house very fair. The vines are luxuriant to 
a great degree, and all the fruits of the earth abundant. It 
is close to the old castle of the Estes, or Guelphs, and 
within a few miles of Arqua, which I have visited twice, 
and hope to visit often. 

"Last summer (except an excursion to Rome,) I passed 
upon the Hrenta. In Venice I winter, transporting my 
horses to the Lido, bordering the Adriatic, (where the Curl 
is,) so that I get a gallop of some miles daily along the strip 
of beach which reaches to Malamocco, when ui health; 
but within these few weeks I have been unwell. At pre- 
sent I am getting better. The Carnival was short, but a 
good one. X don't go out much, except during the time 
of masks ; but there are ono or two conversazioni, where I 
go regularly, just to keep up the system; as I hud letters 
to tli eir givers ; and they are particular on such points; and 
now and then, though very rarely, to the Governor's. 

"It is a very good place fir women. I like the dialect 
and their manner very much. There is a naiveti about 
them which is very wimmw, and the romance of the place 
is a mighty adjunct; the hci sangue is not, however, now 
among Uie dame or higher order-;; but all under i/uzzioU, 
or kerchiefs, (u while kind of veil which die lo,\er order* 



wear upon their heads;) — the t-csta zendale, or old national 
female costume, is no more. The env, however, is decay- 
ing daily, and docs not gain in population. However, I 
prefer it to any other in Italy; and here have I pitched my 
^tari; and here do I purpose to reside for the remainder of 
my life, unless event , connected with business not to be 
transacted out of England compel me to return fbr that 
purpose; otherwise I have lew regrets, and ik> desarei to 
visit it again lor its own sake. I shall probably be obliged 
to do so, to sign papers for my affairs and a proxy fin the 

Whi and to see Mr. YYaite, for 1 can't find a a 1 

dentist here, and every two or three years one ought to 
consult one. About seeing my children, 1 must take my 
chance. One I shall have sent here; and I shall bt 
happy to see the legitimate one when I iod pleases, which 
he perhaps will some day or other. As for my mathe- 
matical wife, 1 am as well without her. 

" > our acciituit of V'uir visit to Fonihill is very striking-* 
could you beg of /am for me a copy in MS. of the remaining 
1\dcs/* I think I deserve them, as a strenuous and public 
admirer of the first one. I will return it when read, and 
make no ill use of the copy, if granted. Murray would 
send me out any thing safely. If ever I return to England) 
I should like very much to seethe author, with his per- 
mission. In the mean time, you could not oblige me m ire 
than by obtaining inc the perusal 1 request, in French or 
English, — all's one for that, though I prefer Italian tc 
either. I have a French copy of Vathek, which I bought 
at Lausanne. I can read French Willi i.'reat pleasure and 
facility, though I neither speak nor write it. Now Italian 
I can speak with some fluency, and write sufficiently for 
my purposes, but I do n't like their intxkrn prose at ail ; it 
is very heavy, and so different from Machiavelli. 

"They say Francis is Junius; — 1 think it looks like It. 

I remember meeting him at Earl Grey's at dinner. Has 
not he lately married a young woman; and was not he 
.Madame T alley rand's eouaoere tiervente in India years ago? 

" I read my death in the papers, winch was not true. I 
see they are marrying the remaining singleness of the royal 
family. They have brought out Fazio with great and 
deserved success at Covent-gardcn ; that \s a good sign. I 
tried, during the directory, to have it done at Ihury-lane, 
but was overruled. If you think of coming into Uiis country, 
you will let me know perhaps beforehand. I suppose 
Moore won't move. Rose is here. I saw him the oilier 
night at Madame Albrizzis ; he talks of returning in May 
My love to the Hollands. "Ever, &c. 

W P. S. They have been crucifying Othello into an Open, 
(Otvlin, by Rossini;) the music good, but lugubrious; bu* 
as for the words, all the real scenes with [ago cut out, and 
the greatest nonsense instead; the handkerchief turned 
into a billet-thux, and the first singer would not black his 
face, for some exquisite reasons assigned in the preface. 
Singing, dresses, and music, very good. 11 



LETTER CCCLXVIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Venice, March 16.1818. 

* MV DEAR TOM, 

"Since my last, which I hope that you have received, I 
have had a letter from our friend Samuel. f He talks of 

Italy this summer — won't you come with him? I don't 
know whether you would Me our Italian way of life or not 



They are an odd people. The other day I was telling 
a girl, 'you must not come to-morrow, because Marguerita 
is coming at such a time,' — (they are both about five feet 
ten niches high, with great black eyes and fine fingers— fit 
to breed gladiators from — and I bad some difficulty to 



* A cwiiinuatiun of Vulhek, by Mr. B.cki'rd 






LETTERS, 1818. 



127 



prevent a baitle upon a rencontre once before,) — 'unless 
you promise t" h<- friends, and' — (be answer v># an inter 
motion, by a declaration of war against the other, whirl: 
she said would he a 'Guerre di Candia. 1 Is it not odd, 
that the lower order of Venetians should slill allude pro- 
verbially i" that famous contest, so glorious and so fatal to 
the Republic.' 

"Thev have sinjnilar expressions like all the Italians. 
For example, ' Viseere' — as we would say, 'my love,' or 
'my heart, 1 as an expression of tenderness. Also, 'I would 
CO for vou in the midst of a hundred knives.'' — ^Mnzza hen* 
ive attachment] — bterallv, l I wish you well even to 
killing.' Then they say, (instead of our way, 'do you think 
I would do you so much harm P) 'do you think I woulJ 
assassinate you in such a manner ?' — ' Tempo per/ide] bad 
weather; 'Strade perfidej bad roads — with a thousand 
other allusions and metaphors, taken from the state o< 
society and habits in the middle ages. 

B I am not so sure about mazza, whether it don't mecn 
T7i/issa, i.e. a great deal, a ma&«, instead of the interpretation 
I have given it. But of the other phrases I am sure. 

"Three o'uY clock — I must 'to bed, to bed, to bed,' as 
mother Siddons (that tragical friend of the mathematical 
wife) says, * * * * * * 

****** 

"Have you ever seen — I fbr^et what or whom — no 
matter. They tell me Lady Melbourne is very unwell. 
I shall be so sorry. She was mv greatest friend, of the 
feminine genders — when I say 'friend,' I mean not mistress, 
for that 's the antipodes. Tell me all about you and every 
body — how Sam is — how you like your neighbours, the 
Marquis and Marchesa, &c. &.c. "Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



French,) two moons ago. Have you had the letter? — I 
shall send you another: — you must not neglect my Arme- 
nians. Tooth-powder, magnesia, tinciure of myrrh, tooth- 
brushes, diachylon piaster, Peruvian bark, are my personal 
demands. 

" S'lrahan, Tonson, Lin tot of the timet, 
Patron and publisher ol rhymes, 
For Ihee ihe bard up Ptnriua climbs, 
MyMunay. 

" To thee, with hope and terror dumb, 
The ..■■Hedged MS. author* tome ; 
Thou prir.Ust all — and seilesi some— 
My Murray. 

" Ujwii thy tahle'a baize so green 
The last new Quarterly is seen : 
But where a thy new Magazine, 
' My Murray? 

" A1on» thy iprucesl book-shelves shine 
The works thou deemcot most divine— 
The ' Art of Cookery, 1 and mine, 
My Murray. 

"Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, 
And Sermons U> ihj mill bring grist ; 
And then thou hast the ' Navy List,' 
My Murray. 

*' And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
Without the ' Board of Longitude,' 
Although this narrow paper would, 
My Murray !" 



LETTER CCCLXXI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, March 25, 181 S. 

"I have your letter, with the account af'Beppo,' tor 
which I sent you four new stanzas a fortnight ago, in case 
you print, or reprint. 

******** 

"Croker's is a good guess ; but the style is not English, 
it is Italian; — Serni is the original of all. Whisdecraft 
was my immediate model; Rose's ' Animali' I never saw 
till a few days ago, — they are excellent. But (as I said 
above,) Berni is the father of that kind of writing which 1 
think suits our language, too, very well ; — we shall see by 
the experiment. If it does, I shall send you a volume in a 
year or two, for I know the Italian way of life well, and in 
time may know it yet better; and as for the verse and the 
passion^ I have them still in tolerable vigour. 

" If you think tha. it will do you and the work, or works, 
any good, you may put my name to it ; but Jirst crmmttt Ulc 
knmvins ones. It will, at any rate, show them that I can 
write cheerfully, and repel the charge of monotony and 
mannerism. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, April 11, 1818. 
■ Will you semi me by letter, packet, or parcel, half a 
dozen of the coloured prints from Holmes's miniature, (the 
latter done shortly before I left your country, and the prints 
about a year ago ;) I shall be obliged to you, as some pe. pie 
here have asked me for the like. It is a picture uf my 
upright self", done for Scrope B. Danes, Esq. 

****** 

" Why have you not sent me an answer, and lists of 
Fuh*cribers to the translation of the Armenian Eusthtus? 
of which I sent you pruned copies of the prospectus (in 



"Venice, April 12, 1818. 

"This letter will be delivered by Signor Gioe. Bata. 
Missiaglia, proprietor of the Apollo library, and the prin- 
cipal publisher and bookseller now in Venice. He sets 
out for London with a view to business and correspondence 
with the English booksellers: and it is in the hope that it 
may be for your mutual advantage that I furnish him with 
this letter of introduction to you. If you can be of use to 
him, either by recommendation to others, or by any per- 
sonal attention on your own part, you will oblige him, and 
gratify me. You may also perhaps both be able to derive 
advantage, or establish some mode of literary communica- 
tion, pleasing to the public, and beneficial to one another. 

"At any rate, be civil to him for my sake, as well as for 
the honour and glory of publishers and authors now and to 
onme for evermore. 

" With him I also consign a great number of MS. letters 
written in English, French, and Italian, by various English 
established in Italy during the last century : — tie names 
of the writers, Lord Hervey, Lady M. W. Montague, (hers 
are but few — some billets-doux in French to Algarotti, and 
one letter in English, Italian, and all sorts of jargon, to the 
same,) Gray, the poet, (one letter,) IVIason, (two or three,) 
Garrick, Lord Chatham, David Hume, and many of less 
note, — all addressed to Count Algarotti. Out of these, I 
think, with discretion, an amusing miscellaneous volume of 
letters might be extracted, provided some good editor were 
deposed to undertake the selection, and preface, and a few 
notes, &c. 

"The proprietor of these is a friend of mine, Dr. Aglietix^ 
— a great name in Italy, — and if you are disposed to pub- 
lish, it will be for his benefit, suul it is to and for him that 
you will name a price, if you take upon you the work. I 
would edit it myself, but am too far orT, and too lazy to 
undertake it ; but I wish that it could be done. The letters 
of Lord Hervey, in Mr. Rose's opinion and mine, are 
L'ood; and the sfiort French love-letters certainly are Lady 
M.W.Montague's — the French not good, but the senti- 
ments beautiful. Gray's letter good; and Mason's tolera- 
ble. The whole correspondence must be well weeded; but 
tins bans done, a small and pretty popular volume might 
be made of it. — There are many ministers' leu ore— Gray 



12S 



LETTERS, 1818. 



the ambassador at Naples, Horace Mann, and others of 
the same kind of animal. 

"I thought of a preface di fending Lord Hervey againsl 
Popefa attack, bui Pope — juoad Popej the poet — against 
all the world, in the unjustifiable attempts begun by War- 
ten, and carried on at this day by the new school of critics 
and scribblers, who think themselves poets because tbc f do 
not write like Pope. I have no patience with such cursed 
humbug and had taste ; your whole generation are not 
worth a Canto of the Rape of the Lock, or the Essay on 
Mm, nr the J_)nnciad, or ' any thin;; thai La his.' — But it is 
three in the matin, and I must go to bed. 

* Yours alwav, $ic. n 



LETTER CCCLXXIL 

TO MR. MURRAV. 

"Venice, April 17, 1818. 

* A few davs ago, I wrote to you a letter requesting you 
to desire Hanson to desire his messrnger to come on from 
Geneva to Venice, because I won't go from Venice to 
Geneva; and if this is nut done, the messenger may be 
damnej, with hun who mis-sent him. Pray reiterate my 
request. 

H With the proofs returned, 1 sent two additional stanzas 
for Canto Fourth : did they arrive ? 

u Your monthly reviewer has made a mistake: Cavalicrc 
alone is well enough ; * Cavalier 1 serventc 1 has always the e 
mute in conversation, and omitted in writing; so that it is 
not for the sake of metre ; and pray let Griffiths know this, 
with my compliments. I humblv conjecture that I know 
as much of Italian society and language as any of his peo- 
ple ; but to make assurance doubly sure, I asked, at (he 
Countess Benzona's, last night, the question of more than 
one person in tfwt/fice; and of these 'eavarfieri semnti' (in 
the plural, recollect,) I found that they all accorded m pro- 
nouncing for 'cavalier serventc' in the sinqutar number. I 
wish Mr. * * * * (or whoever Griffith's scribbler mav he) 
would not talk of what he do n't understand. Such fellows 
are not fit to be intrusted with Italian, even in a quotation. 
* * * * * * 

"Did you receive two additional stanzas, to be inserted 
towards the close of Canto Fourth? Respond, that (if 
not) they may be sent. 

"Tell Mr. * + and Mr. Hanson, that they may as well 
expect Geneva to come to me, as that [ should go to Ge- 
neva. The messenger may go or return, as he pleases ; I 
won't stir: and I look upon if as a piece of singular absurdity 
in those who know me, imagining that I should — not to say 
malice, in attempting unnecessary torture. If, on the occa- 
sion, my interests should suffer, it is tficir neglect that is to 
blame ; and they may all be d d together 



* It is ten o'clock, and tamo to dress. 



" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXXUL 

TO MR. MURRAY. % 

"April 23, 1818. 

*The time is past in which I could feel for the dead, — 
or I should feel for the death of Lady Melbourne, the best, 
and kindest, and ablest female I ever knew, old or young, 
But ' I have supped full of horrors;' and events of this kind 
have only a kind of numbness worse than pain, like a vio- 
lent blow on the elbow or the head. There is une link less 
between England and myself 

"Now to business. I presented you with Beppo, as 
part of the contract for Canto Fourth,— considering the 
price you are to pay for the same, and intending to eke 
you out in case of public caprice or my own poetical failure. 
If you choose to suppress it entirely, at Mr. * * * *'s sug- 



gestion, you may do as yon please. But recoiled it i* not 

to be published in a garbled or mutilated state. 1 reserve 

to in, friends and myseifthe right of correcting (hi 

— if ihe publication continue, it is to continue m its pn sent 

form. 

****** 

"As Mr. * * savs that he did noi write this letter, &c. 
I am n ad} to believe him; but. for the firmness of mj for- 
mer persuasion) I refer to Mr. + * * *, who can inform 
you how sincerely 1 erred on inn point. Hi tuu B 

note — or, at least, had it, for I gave it to lum with m\ verbal 
comments thereupon. As to 'Beppo, 1 1 will not alter or 
suppress a svllable Eur any man's pleasure hut mv own. 

"You may tell them una; and add, that nothing but force 
ornecessi'v shall stir me one step towards the places to 
which they would wring me. 

****** 

■If your literary matters prosper, lei me know. If 
' Beppo' pleases, you shall have more ui a v< V or iwo in 

the same mood. And SO) 'Good morrow to you, good 
Master Lieutenant, 1 u Sours, Hie." 



LETTER CCCLXXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Palazzo Mocenigo, Canal Grande, 
"Venice, June 1, 1818. 

"Your letter is almost the only news, as yet, of Canto 
4th, and it has by no means settled its fato, — at least, does 
not tell me how the 'Pocshie 1 has been received by me 
public. But I suspect, no great things, — firstly, from Mur- 
ray's ' horrid stillness ;' secondly] from what you say about 
the stanzas running into each other,* which I take not to 
be your*, but a notion you have binned with amoiii' die 
Blues. The fact is, that the terza rimaofthe Italians, 
which always run* on and in, may have led me into expe- 
riments, and carelessness into conceit— or conceit into care- 
lessness— -in either of which events failure will he probable 
and my fair woman, ' superrte,' end in a fish ; so that Childe 
Harold will he like the mermaid, my family crest, with the 
Fourth Canto for a tail thereunto. I won't quarrel with 
the public, however, for the 'Bulgars 1 are generally right; 
and if I miss now, I may hit another lime: — and so 'the 
gods give us joy.' 

u You like Beppo; that's right. + + * * j have 

not hail the Fudges yet, hut live m hopes. I need DO) say 

that your successes are mine. By-lhe-wav, Lytha White 

is here, and has just borrowed mv copy of 'Lalla Rookli. 

* + * * + * 

"Hunt's letter is probably the exact piece of vulgar cot- 
conihry you might expect from Ins situation. He is a good 
man, null some po< tual i-lt-mrnts in his chaos ; but spnilod 
by the Christ-Church Hospital and a Sunday newspaper, 
— to say nothing of the Surry Jail, which conceited him 
into a martvr. But he is a good man. When I saw 
' Rimini' in MSS , I told lum that I deemed it good poetry 
at bottom, disfigured only by a Hrangf Style. His answer 
was, that his style «as a system, or upon xy*tnn y or some 
Such cant ; anl, when I man talks of svstem, his case is 
hopeless: so I said no more to him, and very little to any 

OIH- f'U<:\ 

"He believes his trash of vulgar phrases tortured into 
compound barbarisms to be r>UI English ; and wo may say 
of it as Aim.vell says of Captain ( rtbbetfa regiment, when 
the ('apt am calls it an 'old corps,' — ' the oldest in Europe 
ifl may judge by your uniform. 1 He sent out his ' Foliage 
by Percy Shelley, and, of all the ineffable Centaurs that 
were aver begotten by Self-love upon a Night man 1 , 1 think 
this monstrous Sagittary the most prodigious. Jh (Leigh 
H.)is an honest Charlatan, who has persuaded himself 



* Mr. Moore hud «ui<t,ln hla Idler to him, that ihi* prnrtice of carrvU^ 
one "Inii'-u tale ■iiolhi-r, «ui '* ioinetliiiig like taking mi IturM* ftuolhti 
• i iije without baiting/' 



LETTERS,- 



isia 



129 



-atoa belief of bis own impostures, and talks Punch in pure 
ami licity of heart, taking himself (as poor Fitzgerald said 
of ktmsvif in the Morning Post) fur Vote* in both senses, 
or nonsenses, of the word. Did you look at the transla- 
tions of his own which he prefers to Pope and Cowper, and 
says SO? — Hid you read his skimble-skamble about * * 
being at tlie head of his own profession in the eyes of those 
who followed it-' I thought that poetry was an art, or an 
o/fn-We, and Dot a profession; — hut be it one, is that + * * 
* * * at the hmd of your profession in yew eyes? I'll 
be cursed if he is of mine, or ever snail be. He is the only 
une of us (but of us he is not) whose coronation I would 
oppose, Let them lake Scott, Campbell, Crabbe, or you 
or me, or any of the living, and throne him; — but not this 
new Jacob Bchmen, this * * * * 

* * whose pride might have kept 

turn true, even had his principles turned as perverted as his 
■M-tajunJ poetry. 

* But Leigh Hunt is a good man, and a good father — 
see his Odes to all the Masters Hunt ; — a good husband — 
set his Sonnet to Mrs. Hunt, — a good friend — see his 
Epistles lo different people ; — and a great coxcomb, and a 
'. i -. v vulgar person in every tlnng about him. But that 's 
BOt his tiiult, but of circumstances. 



*I do not know any good model for a life of Sheridan 
but that of Savage. Recollect, however, tliat the life of 
such a man may be made far more amusing than if he had 
been a Wiibcrforee ; — and this without offending the living, 
or insulting the dead. The Whigs aJHise him; however, 
he never left them, and such blunderers deserve neither 
creuil nor compassion. As for his creditors, — remember, 
Sheridan uei'er hat! a shilling, and was thrown, with great 
powers and passions, iuto the thick of the workLandjjlaced 
upon the pinnacle of success, with no other external means 



i" support him in his elevation. Did Fox ; 



pay 



his 



debts .' — or did Sheridan take a subscription ? Was the 
Duke of Norfolk's drunkenness more excusable than his? 
Were his intrigues more notorious than those of all his 
contemporaries/ and is his memory to be blasted, and 
theirs respected ? Do n't let yourself he led away by 
clamour, but compare him with the coalitioner Fox, and 
the pensioner Burke, as a man of principle, and with ten 
hundred thousand in personal views, and with none in 
talent, for he beat them all out and out. Without means, 
without connexion, without character (which might be false 
V first, and made bun mad afterward from desperation,) he 
beat them all, in all he ever attempted. But alas, poor 
Auman nature! Good night — or, rather, morning. It is 
four, and the dawn gleams over the Grand Canal, and un- 
shadows the Rialto. I must to bed ; up all night — but, as 
George Philpot says, ' it's life, though, damme, it's lib- !' 
c Ever yours, " B. 

* Excuse errors — no time fir revision. The post goes 
out at noon, and I sha' n't be up then. I will write again 
soon about your plan for a publication. 8 



LETTER CCCLXXV. 

TO + * * * + 

■Since you desire the story of Margarita Cogni, you 
shall be told it, though it may be lengthy. 

"Her face is the fine Venetian cast of the old time; her 
figure, though perhaps too tall, is not less tine — and taken 
altogether in the national dress. 

" In the summer of 1817, * * * * and myself were saun- 
tering on horseback along the Bren'a on<- evening, when, 
among a group of peasants, we remarked two girls as tiie 
prettiest we had seen for some time. About this period 
there had been great distress in the country, and I had a 
"ittle relieved some of the people. Generosity makes a 
{real figure at very little cost in Venetian livres, and mino 
17 



had probably been exaggerated as an Englishman's. 
Whether they remarked us looking at them or no, I know 
not: but one of them called out to me in Venetian, 'Why 
do not you, who relieve others, think of us also ?' I turned 
round and answered her — 'Oara, tu sei troppo bella e 
gio^ane per aver' bisogna del' soccorso mio,' She an 
swered,' If you saw my hut and my food, vou would no* 
say so.' All this passed half jestingly, and I saw no more 
of her for some days. 

"A few evenings afier, we met with these two girls 
again, and they addressed us more seriously, assuring us 
of the truth of their statement. They were cousins; Mar- 
garita married, the other single. As I doubted still of the 
circumstances, I took the business in a different light, and 
made an appointment with them for tlie next evening. 
******* 
* . * In short, in a few evenings we arranged our 
affairs, and for a long space of time she was the only one 
who preserved over me an ascendancy which was often 
disputed, and never impaired. 

"The reasons for this were, firstly, her person; — very 
dark, tall, the Venetian face, very fine black eyes. She 
was two-and-twenty years old, * * * 

*>■**. She was besides a thorough Vene- 
tian in her dialect, in her thoughts, in her countenance, in 
every thing, with all their nalvet and pantaloon humour. 
Besides, she could neither read nor write, and could not 
plague me with letters, — except twice that she paid six- 
pence to a public scribe, under the piazza, to make a letter 
for her, upon some occasion when I was ill and could not 
see her. In other respects, she was somewhat fierce and 
' prepotent e.' that is overbearing, and used to walk in when- 
ever it suited her, with no very great regard to time, place, 
nor persons ; and if she found any women in her way, she 
knocked them down. 

u When I first knew her, I was in 'relatione' (liaison) 
with la Signora * *, who was silly enough one evening at 
Dolo, accompanied by some of her female friends, to threaten 
her; for the gossips of the Vilh'ggiatura had already found 
out, by the neighing of my horse one evening, that I used to 
'ride late in the night' to meet the Foniarina. Margarita 
threw back her veil (fazzioto,) and replied in very explicit 
Venetian: l You are not his wife : /am not his wife: you 
are his Donna, and / am his Donna: your husband is a 
6ecco, and mine is another. For the rest, what right have 
you to reproach me ? If he prefers me to you, is it my 
fault ? If you wish to secure him, tie him to your petticoat- 
string. But do not think to speak to me without a reply, 
because you happen to be richer than I am.' Having de- 
livered this pretty piece of eloquence (which I translate 
as it was translated to me by a bystander,) she went on, 
her way, leaving a numerous audience, with Madame + * 
to ponder at her leisure on the dialogue between them. 

" When I came to Venice for the winter she followed ; 
and as she f iund herself out to be a favourite, she came to 
me pretty often. But she had inordinate self-love, and was 
not tolerant of other women. At the 'Cavalchina,' the 
masked ball on the last night of the Carnival, where aU the 
world goes, she snatched off the mask of Madame C'on- 
tarini, a lady noble by birth, and decent in conduct, for no 
other reason but because she happened to be leaning on 
my arm. You may suppose what a cursed noise this made , 
but this is only one of her pranks. 

a At last she quarrelled with her husband, and one even 
ing ran away to my house. I told her this would not do 
she said she would lie in the street, but not go back to him , 
that he beat her, (the gentle ogress !) spent her money, and 
scandalously neglected her. As it was midnight, I let her 
stay, and next day there was no moving her at all. Her 
husband came roaring and crying, and entreating her to 
come back — not she ! He then applied lo the police, and 
they applied to me : I told them and ht.r husband to take 
her; I did not want her; she had come, and I could not 
fling hor out of the window ; but they mi^ht conduct her 



130 



L BTTEB8, 1819. 



tlif igh thai or the door if they chose it. She went before 
the cutnmissary, but was obliged lo return with that ' becco 
eltieo,' as slie called the poor man, who had a phthisic. In 
a fen days she rai) awt/ pgain. After a precious piece 
of work, she fixed herself in my house, really and truly 
without my consent; but, owing to my indoli n< e, and no) 
being able to keep my countenance — for if I began in a 
rag( , she always finished by making me laugh with some 
\ enetian pantaloonery or another; and die gipsy knew* 
t'ns well enough, asweQ a- her other powers of persuasion, 
and exerted them with the usual tact and success of all 
■he-things ;— high and low, they are all alike H>r that. 

'Madame Bcnzoni aho took her under tier protection, 
and then her head turned. She was always in extremes, 
either crying or laughing, and so fierce when angered, thai 
she was the terror of men, women, and children — for she 
had the strength of an Amazon, with the temper of Medea. 
She was a tine animal, but quite untameahle. / was the 
only person that could at all keep her in any order, ami 
when she saw me really angry (which they till me is a 
savagt Bight,) she subsided. But she had a thousand 
I oieries. In her faz/.iolo, the dress of the lower orders, 
she looked beautiful; but, alas! she longed for a hat and 
feathers; and all I could say or do (and I said much) 
could n"t prevent this travestie. I put the first into the 
lire ; but I got tired of burning them before she did of buy- 
ing them, so that she made herself a figure — for they did 
not at all become her. 

"Then she would have her gowns with a tail — like a 
lady, forsooth ; nothing would serve her but M'abita eolla 
ceuo,' or cua (that is the Venetian for ( !a cola, 1 the tail or 
tram,) and as her cursed pronunciation of die word made 
me laugh, there was an end of all controversy, and she 
dragged this diabolical tail after her every where. 

" In the mean time, she beat the women and stopped mv 
Inters. I found her one day pondering over one. She 
used to try to find out by their shape whether they wire 
f ii in line or no; and she used 10 lament her ignorance, and 
actually studied her alphabet, on purpose (as she declared) 

to open all letters addressed to me, and read their contents. 

" I must not omit to do justice to her housekeeping quali- 
ties. After she came into my house as ' donna di governo, 1 
the expenses were reduced to less than half, and every 
body did their duty better — the apartments were kepi 
in order, and every thing and every body else, except 
herself. 

tt That she had a sufficient regard for me in her wild 
way, I bad many reasons to believe. I will mention one. 
In the autumn, one dav going to the Lido with my gon- 
doliers, we were overtaken by a heavy squall, ami the 
gondola put in peril — hats blown away, boat (Wing, oar 
lost, tumbling sea, thunder, rain in torrents, night coining, 
and wind unceasing. On our return, after a tight struggle, 
[ found her on the open steps of the MoCenigO palace, mi 
'he Grand Canal, with her great black eyas (lashing 
through her tears, and tin- long dark hair, which was 
streaming, drenched with rain, over her brows and breast. 

She was perfectly exposed to the storm; and the wind 

blowing her hair and dress about her dun tall figure, and 

the lightning flashing around her, and the waves- rolling at 
her feet, made her look like Medea alighted from her 
chariot, or the Sibyl of the tempest that was rolling around 
her, the only living tiling within hail at that moment excopl 
ourselves. On seeing me sale, she did not wait to greet 
me, as might have been expected, bul calling out to me — 
Ah ! can' dolla Madonna, xe csto il tempo por andar' af 
Lido?' (Ah! dog of the Virgin, is this a time logo to 
Lido?) ran into the house, and solaced herself with BCOld- 
mg the boatmen for not foreseeing the 'temporale.' I am 
told by the servants that sh»* had only been prevented from 
mining in a boa! to look ;dicr me, by the refusal of all the 
gondoliers of the canal to put out uito the harbour in such 
a moment ; and that then she sat down on the steps in all 
the thickest of the squall, and would neither be removed 
nor comforted. Her joy at seeing me agair iras mode- 



rates mixed with ferocity, and gave me the idea of a Ugres* 
over her recovered cults. 

'But her reign drew near a close. She became quite 
ungovernable some months after, and a concurrence of 
complaints, some true, and many false — 'a favourite has 
no friends' — determined me to nart with her. 1 ti 
quietly that she must return home, (she had acquired a 
sufficient provision for herself and mother &c. in my 
service,) an 1 she refused to quit the house. I was firm, 
and she went threatening knives and revenge. 1 told het 
that I had seen knives drawn before her time, and lbs it 
she chose to begin, there was a knife, and fork also, at hej 
service on the table, and that intimidation would not do 
Tin- next daw while I was at dinner, she walked in, (having 
broken open a glass door that led from the hall below to 

the staircase, by way « «f~ j rologue,) ami advancing straight 

up to the table, snatched the knife from my hand, cutting 
me slightly in the thumb in the operation. Whether she 
meant to use this against herself or me, 1 know not— 
probably against neither — hut Fletcher seized her by the 
arms, and disarmed her. I then called my boatmen, and 
desired them to gel the gi ndola ready, and conduct net to 
Uit own bouse again, seeing carefully that she did 
no mischief by the way. She seemed quite quiet, and 
walked down stairs. I resumed my dinner. 

" We heard a great noise, and went out, and met them 
on the staircase] carrying her up stairs. She had thrown 
herseET into the canal. That she intended to destroy 
hermit, I do not believe: but when we consider the feu 
women and men who can *t swim have of deep or even ni 
shallow water, (and the Venetians in particular, though 
they live on the waves.) and that it was also night, and 
dark, and very cold, il show* that she had a devilish spirit 
ol some sort within her. They had got her out without 
much difficulty or damage, excepting the salt water she 

had swallowed, and tin- welling she had undl 

"I foresaw her intention to refii herself and sent fir a 
surgeon, inquiring how many hours it would require to 
restore her from her agitation; and he named the lime. I 
then said, 'I give you that time, and more if you require it ; 
but at the expiration of this prescribed period, if «/« does 
not leave the house, / will.' 

"All my people were consternated. They had alwavs 
been frightened at her, and were now paralyzed: they 
wanted me to apply to the police, to guard myself, &c. &c. 
like a pack of snivelling servile boobies, as they were. I 
did nothing of the kind, thinking that I might as well end 
that way as another; besides, I had been used to savage 
women, and knew their ways. 

"I had her sent home quietly after her recovery, and 
never saw her since, except twice at the opera, at a distant o 
among the audience. She made many attempts to return, 
but no more violent ones. — And this is the story of Mar- 
garita Cogn, as far as it relates to me. 

"I forgot to mention that she was very devout, and woul 1 

cross herself if she heard the prayer tune Strike. * + 

****** 

"She was quick in reply; as, for instance — One day 
when she had made me very angry with heating somebody 
or other, I called her a cow, (a cow, in Italian, is a sad 
affront.) I called her ' VaccaJ She turned round, curt- 
sied, and answer i d, ' Vae.a run, Velenza,' (i. e. eeeellenza.) 

1 Your cow, please your Excellency.' In short, she was, as 
I said before, a very fine animal, of considerable beauty 
and energy, with many good and several amusing qualities, 
hut wild as a witch and tierce as a demon. She used to 
boast publicly of her ascendency over me, contrasting it 
with that of other women, and assigning for it sundry 
reasons, * * +. True it was, that they all tried to get her 
away, and no one succeeded till her own absurdity helped 
them. 

"I omitted to tell you her answer, when I reproarhed her 
for snatching Madame Contarmi's mask at the Cavaichina. 
I represented to her that she was a lady of high birth, 'una 
Dama,' &c. She answered, 'Se ella e dama mi (to) son 



LETTE RS, 1818. 



131 



Vciuziana;'— 'if she is a lady, I am a Venetian.' This 
would have been line a hundred years ago, the pride of the 
nation rising up against the pride of aristocracy:* but, alas! 
Venice, and her people, and her nobles, are alike returning 
fast to the ocean; and where there is no independence, 
there can be no real self-respect, I believe that I mistook 
or misstated one of her phrases in my letter; it should 
have been — 'Can' della Madonna, cosa vus 1 tu ? esto non 
e tempo per andar 5 a Lido . ?,n 



LETTER CCCLXXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venire, June 18,1818. 

•Business and the utter and inexplicable silence of all 
mv correspondents renders me impatient and troublesome. 
I wrote to Mr. Hanson for a balance which is (or ought to 
bi-) in his hands; — no answer. I expected the messenger 
with the Newsiead papers two months ago, and instead of 
niin, I received a requisition to proceed to Geneva, which 
(from * *, who knows my wishes and opinions about 
approaching England) could only be irony or insult. 

"I must, therefore, trouble ynu to pay into my bankers 
immediately whatever sum or sums you can make it con- 
venient to do on our agreement; otherwise, I shall be put 
to the severest and most immediate inconvenience ; and 
this at a time when, by every rational prospect and calcu- 
lation, I oiight to be in Uie receipt of considerable sums. 
Prav do not neglect this; you have no idea to what incon- 
venience you will otherwise put inc. * * had some absurd 
notion about the disposal of this money in annuity, (or God 
knows what,) which I merely listened to when he was 
here to avoid squabbles and sermons; but I have occasion 
for the principal, and had never any serious idea of 
appropriating it otherwise than to answer my personal 
expenses. Hobhouse's wish is, if possible, to force me 
back to England : he will not succeed ; and if he did, I 
would not stay. I hate the country, and like tins; and all 
foolish opposition, of course, merely adds to the feeling. 
Your silence makes me doubt the success of Canto Fourth. 
If it has failed, 1 will make such deduction as you think 
proper and fair from the original agreement ; but I could 
wish whatever is to be paid were remitted to me, witlioul 
delay, through the usual channel, hv course of post. 

"When I tell you that I have not heard a word from 
England since very early in May, I have made the eulo- 
gium of my friends, or the persons who call themselves so, 
since I have written so often and in the greatest anxiety. 
Thank God, the longer I am absent, the less cause I see 
for regretting die country or its living contents. 

"I am yours, &c. 

'P. S. Tell Mr. * * * that * * * * 

* * * * * * * 

and that I will never forgive him, (or any body,) the atrocity 
of their late silence at a time when I wished particularly 
to hear, for every reason, from my friends." 



and expedite him, as I have nearly a hundred thousand 
pounds depending upon the completion of the sale and tho 
signature of the papers. 

"The draft on you is drawn up by Siri and Willhalm. 
I hope that the form is correct. 1 signed it two or three 
days ago, desiring them to forward it to Messrs. Morland 
and Ransom. 

" Your projected editions for November had better be 
postponed, as I have some things in project, or preparation, 
that may be of use to you, though not very important in 
themselves. I have completed an Ode on Venice,* and 
have two Stories, one serious and one ludicrous, (a la 
Beppo,) not yet finished, and in no hurry to be so. 

" You talk of the letter to Hobhouse being much admired, 
and speak of prose. | I think of writing (for your full 
edition) some Memoirs of my life, to prefix to them, upon 
the same model (though far enough, I fear, from reaching 
it,) of Gilford, Hum- , &c. ; and this without any intention 
of making disclosures, or remarks upon living people, which 
would bo unpleasant to them : but I think it might be done, 
and well done. However, this is to be considered. I have 
materials in plenty, but the greater part of them could not 
be used by me, nor for these hundred years to come. 
However, there is enough without these, and merely as a 
literary man, to make a preface for such an edition as you 
meditate. But this is by-the-way: I have not made up my 
mind. 

"I enclose you a note on the subject of 'ParisinaJl which 
Hobhouse can dress for you. It is an extract of particu- 
lars from a history oi'Fcrrara. 

" I trust you have been attentive to Missiaglia, for the 
English have the character of neglecting die Italians at 
present, which 1 hope you will redeem. 

u Yours in haste, " B." 



LETTER CCCLXXVII. 

TO MR. MTJRRAV. 

"Venice, July 10, 1818. 

M have received your letter and the credit from Mor- 
lunds, &c. tor whom I have also drawn upon you at sixty 
davs' sight for the remainder, according to your proposition 

w l am still waiting in Wince, m expectancy of the arrival 
of Hanson's clerk. What can detain him, I do not know 
but I trust that Mr. Hobhouse and Mr. Kmnaird, when 
their political fit is abated, will take the trouble to inquire 



LETTER CCCLXXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, July 17, 1818. 

I suppose that Aglietti will take whatever you offer, but 
till his return from Vienna I can make him no proposal ; 
nor, indeed, have you aothonzed me to do so. The three 
French notes are by Lady Mary; also another half- 
Engli:>h-Freneh-Italian. They are very pretty and pas- 
sionate; it is a pity that a piece of one of them is lost. 
Algarotti seems to have treated her ill; but she was much 
■his senior, and all women are used ill — or say so, whether 
tbey are or not. 

***** 

"I shall be glad of your books and powders. I am still 
in waiting for Hanson's clerk, but luckily not at Geneva. 
All my good friends wrote to me to hasten there to nieet 
him, but not one had the good sense, or the good nature, to 
write afterward to tell me that it would be time and a 
journey thrown awav, as he could not set off" for some 
months after the period appointed. If I had taken the 
journey on the general suggestion, I never would have 
spoken again to one of you as long as I existed. I have 
written to request Mr. Kinnaird, when the foam of his 
politics is wiped away, to extract a positive answer from 
that * * * *, and not to keep me in a state of suspense 
upon the subject. 1 hope that Kinnaird, who has my 
power of attorney, keeps a look-out upon the gentleman, 
which is the more necessary, as I have a great dislike to 
the idea of coming over to look afier him myself. 

u I have several tilings begun, verse and prose, but none 
in much forwardness. I have written some six or seven 
sheets of a Life, which I mean to continue, and send you 
when finished. It may perhaps serve for your projected 
editions. If you would ull mo exactly (for I know nothing 



• Child* Harold, C«nlo IV. lUaza 13: - 
• iuTKf the row." 



1 Siiibi lilce a Ma* 



• See pntje '204. The two Stories were Mazeppo»ud L ' 

t DeilimLiun of the 4th C'ftiuo ofChilde Harold. 
J B*c Ru-Ubit, Mom 3d. 



132 



letters, me. 



and have no correspondents, except on business) the state 
of the re c eption of our late publications, and the feeling 
upon them, without consulting any delicacies, (I am too 
reasoned to require them,) I should know how and in what 
manner to proceed. 1 should not like to give them too 
much, winch may probably have been the case already; 
but, as I tell you, I know nothing. 

a I once wrote from the fulness of my mind and the love 
of fame, (not as an eric/, but as a means, to obtain that 
nfluence over men's minds which is power in itself and in 
its consemiences,) and now from habit and from avarice; 
so that the effect may probably be as different as the 
inspiration. I have the same facility and indeed necessity, 
of composition, to avoid idleness, (though idleness in a hot 
country is a pleasure,) but a much greater indifference to 
what is to become of it, after it has served my immediate 
purpose. However, I should on no account hhe to 
but I won't »o on, like the archbishop of Granada, as I am 
v.rv sure that you dread the fate of Gil Bias, ami with 
good reason. "Yours, &c. 

a P. S. I have written some very savage letters to Mr. 
HobhoUSO] Kinnaiid, to you, and to Hanson, because the 
silence of so long a time made me tear off mv remaining 
nigs of patience. I have seen one or two latr. English 
publications which are no great things, except Rob Roy. 
1 shall be glad of Whisdecraft." 



LETTER CCCLXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Aug. 26,1818. 
•You may go on with your edition, without calculating 
on (lie Memoir, which 1 shall not publish at present. It is 
nearly finished, but will be too long ; and there are so many 
things, which, out of regard to the living, cannot be men- 
tioned, that I have written with too much detail of that 
which interested me least; so that my autobiographical 
Essay would resemble the tragedy of Hamlet at tin- 
country theatre, recited ' with the part of Hamlet left 
out by particular desire.' I shall keep it among mv 
papers; it will be a kind oT"guide-post in case of deatii, 
and prevent some of the lies which would otherwise be 
told, and destroy some which have been told already. 

"The Tales also are in an unfinished state, and I can 
fix no lime for their completion : they are also not in the 
best manner. You must not, therefore, calculate upon 
anv thing in time fir this edition. The memoir is already 
nbove forty-four sheets of very large, long paper, and will 
be about tifiy or sixty ; but I wish logo on leisurely; and 
when finished, although it might do a good deal for vnua! 
tin- time, I am not sure that it would serve anv good pur- 
pose in the end either, as it is full of many passions and 
prejudices, of which ifhaa been impossible for me to keep 
clear : — I have not the patience. 

'• Kn'losc'l is a list of books which Dr. Aglietti would 
be glad to receive by way of price for his MS. letters, if 
you are disposed to purchase at the rate of fifty pounds 
sterling. These he will be glad to have as part, and the 
rest / will ^-ive him in money, and you may carry it to 
1 1 II- account of books, &C. which i> in ballance against me 
deducting it accordingly. So that the letters arc vours, if 
you like them, at any rate; and he and I are going t 
hunt for more Lady Montague letters, which he thinks of 
rinding. I write in haste. Thanks for the article, and 
behove me, * Yours, &c." 



easily found ; I forget the number, but am probably the 
only Demon in Venice who don't know it. There is no 
comparison between him and anv of the other medicaJ 
people here. I regret very much to hear of your indispo- 
sition, and shall do myself the honour of waiting upon you 
the moment I am up. I write this in bed, and have only 
just received the letter and note. I beg you to believe 
that nothing but tl>e extreme lateness of my hours could 
have prevented me from replying muiu-diatery, or coining 
in person. I have not been called a minute. — I have the 
honour tube, very truly, 

"Your most obedient servant, 

'BrmoH.' 



LETTER CCCLXXXI. 



TO MH. MOftllE. 



LETTER CCCLXXX. 

TO CAPT. BASIL HALL. 

"Venice, Aug. SL 1818. 

" PEAR SIR, 

"Or. Aglietti is the best physician, not only in Venice, 
but in Italy: his residence is on the Grand Canal mi 1 



'Venice, Sept. 19,1818. 

"An English newspaper here would be a prodigy, and 
an opposition one a mons'er; and, except some extracts 
from extracts in the vile, garbled Paris gazettes, nothing 
of the kind reaches the Veneto-Lombard public, who are 
perhaps the most oppressed in Europe. My correspond- 
ences with England are mostly on business, and chiefly 
with my Solicitor, Mr. Hanson, who has no very exalted 
notion, or extensive conception, of an author's attributes : 
for he once took up an Edinburgh Review, and, looking at 
it a minute, said to me, *So, I see you have got into tin 
magazine,' — which is tlie only sentence I ever heard him 
utter upon literary matters, or the men thereof 

"My first news of your Irish apotheosis has, conse- 
quently, been from yourself. But, as it will not be forgotten 
in a hurry, either by your friends or your enemies, I hope 
to have it more in detail from some of the former, and, in 
the mean time, I wish you joy with all my heart. Such a 
moment must have been a good deal better than West- 
minster- Abbey, — besides being an assurance of that one 
day (many years hence, I trust) into the bargain. 

" I am sorry to perceive, however, by the close of vonr 
letter, that even you have not escaped the ' surjut amari" 
&c. and that your damned deputy has been gathering sach 
'dew from the still vert Bermoothes* — or rather vtxatiuus. 
Prav, give me some items of the affair, as you say it is a 
serious one; and. if it grows more so, you should make a 
trip over here for a few months, to see how things turn 
out. I suppose you are a violent admirer of England by 
your staying so long in it. For my own part, I have passed 
between the age of onc-and-twenty and thirty, half the in- 
tervement years out of it without regretting any thing, ex- 
cept that I ever returned to it at all, and the gloomy pros- 
pect before me of business and parentage obliging uie, one 
dav, to return again, — at least, tor the transaction of affairs, 
the signing of papers, and inspecting of children. 

U I have here my naiural daughter, by name Allegra, — a 
pretty little girl enough, and reckoned like papa. Her 
mamma is English, — but it is a long storv, and — there's an 
end. She is about twenty months old; * * * 

"I have finished the First Canto, (a long one, of about 
180 octaves,) of a poem in the -l vie and manner of 'Beppo, 
encouraged by the go*n! success of the same. It is called 
'Don Juan,' and is meant to be a little (jiiietly facetious 
upon every thing. But I douht whether it is not — at least, 
as far as it has yet gone — too free for these very modest 
days. However, I shall try the experiment^ anonymously, 
and if it do n't take, it will be discontinued. It is dedicated 
to Southey in good, simple, savage verse, upon the * * * * s 
politics,* and the way he got them. But the bore of 
copying it out is intolerable ; and if I had an amanuensis he 
would be of no use, as my writing is so difficult to decipher. 

" My poem '• Epic, nnd is meant to he 

Divided U. twelve book>, ench book containing. 



Wdlcudni to S<ut!iey wn lupprcuvd. 



LETTERS, l&IO. 



133 



Willi Uffe iitirt war, n I.cavy pitcal wa— 

A list ofahi|.n. mi.i . H.U.M., .mil Lmg» reigiiiur— 
New character*, &c. &e. 

The above are two stanzas, which I send you as a brick 
of mv Babel, and by which you can judge of the texture of 
Ihe structure. 

" In writing ihe life of Sheridan, never mind the angry 
iea of ihe humbug Whigs. Recollect that he was an 
h-rhman and a clever fellow, and that we have had some 
very pleasant da\s with him. Do n't forget that he was at 
school at Harrow, where, m my time, we used to show his 
name— R. B. Sheridan, 17G5 — as an honour to the walls. 
Remember ****** 

******* 
Depend upon it that there were worse folks going, of that 
gang, than ever Sheridan was. 

"What did Parr mean by 'haughtiness and coldness?' 
I listened to him with admiring ignorance, and respectful 
silence. What more could a talker for fame have ? — they 
don't like to be answered. It was at Payne Knight's I 
met him, where he gave me more Greek than I could carry 
away. But I certainly meant to (and did) treat him with 
the most respectful deference. 

W I wish you good night with a Venetian benediction, 
1 Benedetto te, e la terra che ti fara !' — ' May you be blessed, 
and the earth which you will make' — is it not pretty ? You 
would think it still prettier if you had heard it, as I did two 
hours ago, from the Ups of a Venetian girl, with large black 
eyes, a face like Faustina's, and the figure of a Juno — tall 
and energetic as a Pythoness, with eyes flashing, and her 
dark hair streaming in the moonlight — one of those women 
who mav be made any thing. I am sure if I put a poniard 
into the hand of this one, she would plunge it where I told 
her, — and into me, if I offended her. I like this kind of 
animal, and am sure that I should have preferred Medea 
to anv woman that ever breathed. You may, perhaps, 
wonder that I do n't in that case 
******* 

F could have forgiven the dagger or the bowl, any thing, but 
the deliberate desolation piled upon me, when I stood alone 
upon my hearth, with my household gods shivered around 
me.* * * ' * * * 

Do vou suppose I have forgotten or forgiven it? It has 
comparatively swallowed up in me every other feeling, and 
I am only a spectator upon earth, till a tenfold opportunity 
offers. It may come yet. There are others more to be 
blamed than * * *, and it is on these that my 
•■.yes are fixed unceasingly. 11 



B I have written the first Canto (180 octave stanzas) of 
a poem* in the style of Beppo,and have Mazeppa to finish 
besides. 

ft In referring to the mistake in stanza 132, I take the 
opportunity to desire that in future, in all parts of my 
writings referring to religion, you will be more careful, and 
not forget that it is possible that in addressing the Deity a 
blunder may become a blasphemy ; and I do not choose to 
suffer such infamous perversions of my words or of my 
intentions. 

"1 saw the Canto by accident." 



LETTER CCCLXXXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Jan. 20, 1819. 

****** 
"The opinions which I have asked of Mr. Hobhouse 
and others were with regard to the poetical merit, and not 
as to what they mav think due to the cant of the day, which 
still reads the Bath Guide, Little's Poems, Prior, and 
Chaucer, to say nothing of Fielding and Smollet. If 
published, publish entire, with the above-mentioned ex- 
ceptions; or you may publish anonymously, or not at all. 
In the latter event, print 50 on my account, for private 
distribution. "Yours, &c. 

"I have written to Messrs. Kinnaird and Hobhouse, to 
desire that they will not erase more than I have stated. 
"The Second Canto of Don Juan is finished in 206 



LETTER CCCLXXXII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Sept. 24, 1818. 
■In the one hundred and thirty-second stanza of Canto 
4Ui, the stanza runs in the manuscript 

" Ami lluiu, who never ypt oflmnun wrnng 
Ltd t'u unhaUiKcii scale, grtal Ntincsis t 

and not l hutj which is nonsense, as what losing a scale 
means, I know not; but leaving an unbalanced scale, or a 
Male unbalanced, is intelligible.^ Correct this, I pray, — not 
f»r the public, or the po-try, but I do not choose to have 
blunders made in addressing any of the deities so seriously 
as this is addrt sed, "Yours, &c. 

"P. S. In tli: translation from the Spanish, alter 

" In increasing squadrons flew, 

lo— 

" To ■ mighlT •qi-adron prew. 

■What does- 'thy waters wast'd them 1 mean (in the 
Canto?) Tfici is not me.\ Con tilt the MS. always. 



* Drtn Juan. CantO I. 36.— Marin<> Fali.ro, Art 3. Sc«ir 1 
t Com!il«l In tins eOiUc*. ; Tlds |*Mtfl rciaajun u 



LETTER CCCLXXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Jan. 25, 1819. 

"You will dome the favour to print privately (tor privat* 
distribution) fifty copies of 'Don Juan.' The list of the 
men to whom I wish it to be presented, I will send here- 
after. The other two poems had best be added to the 
collective edition: I do not approve of their being published 
separately. Print Don Juan entire, omitting, of course, the 
lines on Castlereagh, as I am not on the spot to meet him. 
I have a Second Canto readv, which will be sent by-and- 
by. By this post, I have written to Mr. Hobhouse, 
addressed to your care. "Yours, &c. 

"P. S. I have acquiesced in the request and repre- 
sentation ; and having done so, it is idle to detail my 
arguments in favour of my own self-love and 'Poeshie^ 
but I protest. If the poem has poetry, it would stand; if 
not, fall; the rest is 'leather and prunella,' and has nevei 
yet affected any human production 'pro or con.' Du'ness 
is the only annihilator in such cases. As to the cant of 
ihe dav, I despise it, as 1 have ever done all its other finical 
fashions, which become you as paint became the ancient 
Britons. If you admit this prudery, you must omit half 
Ariosto, La Fontaine, Shakspcare, Beaumont, Fletcher 
Massinger, Ford, all the Charles Second writers ;f in short, 
something of most who have written before Pope and are 
worth reading, and much of Pope himself. Read him — 
most of you dorit — but do — and I will forgive you; though 
the inevitable consequence would be that you would burn 
all I have ever written, and all your other wretched 
Clandians of the day (except Scott and Crabhe v into the 
bargain. I wrong Claudian, who was a poet uy naming 
him with such fellows; but he was the 'ulnmus Roman- 
orum, 1 the tail of the comet, and these person? are the tail 
of an old gown cut into a waistcoat for lackey; but being 
both tailsy I have compared the one with tfi- o'he- though 
very unlike, like all similes. J I write in a ua*sion nod a 

• Don Juan, On«i IV. rt»nsr IS 

T S>* Dou Ju.-ti CuO.V. llama t9. 

j See Levwi* to P-*v'«» aM rW-wtyd. 



134 



LETTER!?, 1810. 



sirocco, and I was up till six this morning at the Carnival ; 
but I protest, as 1 did in my former letter." 



LETTER CCCLXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Feb. 1, 1819. 
■After one of the concluding stanzas of the First Canto 
of 'Don Juan, 1 which ends with (I forget the Dumber] — 
" To h»«(, 

. . . when the original ib duftt, 
A book, ■» (1 — d bad picture, and wumi- buat,* 

insert the following stanza:— 

" What arc tdf lioj*« of man, &C. 

■I have written to you several letters, some with addi- 
tions, and some Upon the subject of the poem itself, which 
my cursed puritanical committee have protested against 
publishing But we will circumvent them on that point 
I hare not yet begun to copy out the Second Canto, which 
is finished, from natural laziness, and the discouragement 
of the milk nod water they have thrown upon the First. 
I say all this to them as to yon, that is, tor you to say to 
them, tor I will have nothing underhand. If they hud told 
me the poetry was bad, 1 would have acquiesced; but they 
say the contrary, and then talk to me about morality — the 
first tune 1 ever heard the word from any body who was 
not a rascal that used it for a purpose. 1 maintain that it 
is the most moral of poems; but if people won't discover 
the moral, that is their fault, not mine. I have already 
written to beg thai in any case you will print Jljiy lor 
private distribution. I will send you die list of persons to 
whom it is to be sent afterward. 

1 Within this last fortnight 1 have been rather indisposed 
with a rebellion of stomach, winch would retain nothing, 
(liver, I suppose,) and an inability, or fantasy, not to be 
able to eat of any thin;,- with relish but a kind of Adriatic 
fish called 'scampi,' which happens to be the most indi- 
gestible of marine viands. However, within these last two 
days, I am better, and very truly yours." 



LETTER CCCLXXXVL 

TO MK. MURRAY. 

■Venice, April 6, 1819. 
"The Second Canto of Don Juan was sent, on Saturday 
last, by post, in four packets, two of four, and two of three 
sheets each, containing in all two hundred and seventeen 
stanzas, octave measure. Hut 1 will permit no curtail- 
ments, except tints.- mentioned about Castlereagh and * 
*****. You sha'n't make cantieUt 
of my cantos. The poem will please, if it is lively; if it is 
stupid, it will fail: but I will have none of your damned 
cutting and slashing. If you please, you may publish 
anonymiusty ; it rill, perhaps, be better; but 1 will battle 
my way against mem all, bke a porcupine. 

■So you and Air. Foscolo, &C want me to undertake 
what you call a 'great work?' an Epic Poem, 1 suppose, 
or some such pyramid. I'll try no such thing; 1 hate 
tasks. And then 'seven or eight years!' God send us all 
well this day three months, let alone years. If one's years 
can't be better employed than in sweating poesy, a man 
had be't.-r be B ditcher. And works, too!— ifl Child) 
Harold nothing? You have bo many l divitu? poems, is it 
nothing U have written a human one? without any of your 
worn-out machinery. Why, man, I could have spun the 
thoughts of the Four Cantos ofthat poem into twenty, had 
I wanted to book-make, and its passion into as many 
modern tiugedies. Since you want Eerujn, you shall have 
enough of Juan, for I'll make Fifty Canlos.f 



"Ami Foscolo, too! Why does he not do something 
more than the Letters of Otis, and a tragedy, and pam- 
phlets? He has got»d fifteen years more at tut «fwiffmnd 
than I have: what lias be done all that time? — prpvi 
genius, doubtless, but not fixed its fame, nor done his 
utmost 

■ i '•<■- ides, I me. in to write my best work in hah 
it will lake me tune years more thoroughly to master Hie 
language; and then if my fancy exists, and I exist too, I 
will try what I can do really. As to ihe estimation of the 
English which you tall; of, let them calculate what it is 
worth, before they insult me with theil insolent conde- 
scension. 

"I have not written for their pleasure. If they are 
pleased, it is that they chose to be so; 1 have never flat- 
tered their opinions, nor their pride; nor will I. Neither 
will I make 'Ladies 1 hooks 1 'al dilettar le famine e la 
pit ■he.'* I have written from I he fulness of mj mind, from 
passion, from impulse, from many motives, but not for their 
' sweet voices.' 

"I know the precise worth of popular applause, for few 
scribblers have had more of it ; and if I chose to swerve 
into their paths. I could retain it, or resume it. But I 
neither love ye, nor fear ye; ami though I buy with ye and 
sell with ye, I will neither eat with ye, drink with ye, noi 

pray with ye. They made me, without my search, a 
I <■< ee of popular idol- they, without reason or judgment, 
beyond the caprice of their goinl pleasure, threw down Hie 
image from its pedestal; it was not broken with the fall, 
and they would, it seems, again replace it, — but they shall 
not. 

" You ask about my health: about the beginning of the 
year I was in a state of greal exhaustion, attended by such 

debility of stomach that nothing remained Upon it ; ami I 
was obliged to reform my 'way of life, 1 which was conductr 
big me from the 'yellow leaf to the ground, with all 
deliberate 1 speed. I am better in health and moral , and 
very much yours, &c. 

B P.S. I have read Hodgson's 'Friends.' * + * * 
He is right in defending Pope against the bastard pelicans 
of the poetical winter day, who add insult to their parricide 
by sucking the blood of the parent of English real poetry- 
poetry without fault — and then spurning the bosom which 
fed diem." 



LETTER CCCLXXXVII. 

TO THE EDITOR OF GALIGNAm's MESSENGER. 

"Venice, April 27, 1819. 

"sir, 
M In various numbers of your journal, I have seen men- 
tioned a work entitled ' the Vampire,' with the addition of 
my name as thai of the author. I am not the author, and 
never heard ofthe work in question until now. In amors 
recent paper I perceive a formal annunciation of 'the 
Vampire,' with the addition of an account of my 'residence 

in the Island of Mitylene, 1 an island which 1 have occa- 
sionally sailed by in the course of travelling some years 

ago through the Levant — and where 1 should have no 
objection to reside, but wh:re I have never vet resided. 

Neither of these performances arc mine, and I presume 

that it is neither unjust nor ungracious to request thai you 
will favour me by contradicting the advertisement to which 
I allude. If the book is clever, it would be base to deprive 
the real writer, whoever he may be, of his honours; ami if 
stupid, I desire the responsibility of nobody's dulncss but 
tin own. You will excuse the trouble 1 give you, tho 
imputation is of no great importance, and as long as it was 
confined to surmises and reports, t should have received 
it, as 1 have received many others, in silence. But thif 



' In the printed veraiou " a wretched picluro." 
* See Duu Juan, tamo XII. hiuii So. 



>r« ' »t'll.«t 



LETTERS, 1819 



133 



formality of a public advertisem»nt.ofabook I never wrote, 
and a residence where I never resided, is a little too much ; 
particularly .us I have no notion of the contents of the one, 
nor the incidents of the other. I have besides, a personal 
dislike to ' Vampires,' and the little acquaintance I have 
with them would by no means induce me lo divulge their 
You did me a much less injury by your para- 
graphs about * mv devotion' and ' abandonment of society 
for the sake of religion.' which appeared in vour Messenger 
during last Lent, all of which are not founded on fact, bin 
e I do not contradict them, because they are merely 
personal, whereas the others in some degree concern the 
reader. You will oblige me by complying with my request 
of contradiction — I assure you that I know nothing o( the 
work or works in question, and have the honour to be (as 
the correspondents to Magazines say) 'your constant 
reader/ and vary " Obt. humble servt. 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCCLXXXVHI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Venice, Mav 15, 1819. 

* * + * * " * 

11 1 have got your extract, and the ' Vampire.'* I need 
not sav it i= not mine. There is a rule to go by: you are 
my publisher, (till we quarrel,) and what is not published 
by you is not written by me. 

■¥ * * * * * 

" Next week I set out for Romagna — at least in ail 
probability. You had better go on with the publications, 
without waiting to hear farther, for I have other things in 
my head. ' Mazeppa' and the 'Ode' separate? — what 
think you 1 Juan anonymous, without the Dedication ; for 
I won't be shabby, and attack Southey under cloud of 
night. " Yours, &c." 



In another letter on the subject of the Vampire, are 
the following particulars. 

LETTER CCCLXXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" The story of Shelley's agitation is true.f I can't tell 
what seized him for he don't want courage. He was once 
with me in a gale of wind, in a small boat, right under the 
rocks between Meillerie and St. Gingo. We were five in 
the boat — a servant, two boatmen, and ourselves. The 
*ail was mismanaged, and the boat was filling fast. He 
can't swim. I stripped off my coat, made him strip off 
his, an i take hold of an oar, telling him that I thought 
(being myself an expert swimmer) I could save him, if he 
would not struggle when I took hold of him — unless we 
got smashed against the rocks, which were high and sharp. 
with an awkward surf on them at that minute. We were 
then about a hundred yards from shore, and the boa' in 
peril. He answered me. with the greatest coolness. ' thai 
no notion of being saved, and that 1 would have 
enough to do to save myseff t and begged not to trouble me. 1 
Luckily, the boat righted, and, bailing, we got round a point 



• B* Doctor Pultdort, 

tl "-t. »» glnn in ih» P--..1V- tr, ihr "Vim;,irf." btu follow*:— 
" ti appear*, loot one evening Lord R. Mr. P. R. Shelter. I 
*.it thr •.-< > ml-,! i ,., nflrr til vine permed ■, German work 

tiBiitMimgorta.besui relai , when hi* lordahlp 

bnvlnt recited the beginning of Chrietebel, iKe puhlbhed, the whole 

ijok Htelronci h rid of Mr Shetlej i d, tha he mddenl? started up. 

Hot [he room, Thephyaictm end Lord Brron followed, ami 

discovered him Ifiiiioe against a rnxntel-ptere. with cold drops of per- 

I lownhisfare. After having e<*er> him „.,., 
refr*ih htm. upon inquiring into the rame of hie alarm, they found Ihm 
h.* wild Imagination having pictured to him the boeom of one of r »i ledtei 
with cfri, (whteh w«« reported of a lady In the neighbourhood when he 
Jeed.) ha wu oblijpad to leave the room la order lo deatrov the im- 
nreutoa.'* 



into St. Gingo where the inhabitants came down and 
embraced the boatmen on their escape, the wind having 
been high enough to tear up some huge trees from the 
Alps above us, as we saw next day. 

"And yet the same Shelley, who was as cool as it was 
possible to be in such circumstances, (of which I am no 
judge myself as the chance of swimming naturally gives 
self-possession when near shore,) certainly had the fit of 
fantasy which Polidori describes, though not exactly as ht 
describes it. 

" The story of the agreement to write the ghost-books 
is true ; but the ladies are not sisters. * * * * 
******** ** 

Mary Godwin (now Mrs. Shelley) wrote Frankenstein, 
which vou have reviewed, thinking it Shelley's. Mi thinks 
it is a wonderful book for a girl of nineteen, no* nineteen 
indeed, at that time. I enclose you the beginningof mine,* 
bv which you will see how far it resembles Mr. Colburn 1 3 
publication. If you choose to publish it, you may , stating 
why, and with such explanatory proem as you please. I 
never went on wi'h it. as you will perceive by the date. 
I began it in an old account-book of Miss Milbanke's, 
which I kept because it contained the word ' Household,' 
written bv her twice on the inside blank page of the co- 
vers, being the only two scraps I have in the world in her 
writing, except her name to the Deed of Separation. Her 
letters I sent back, except those of the quarrelling corre- 
spondence, and those, being documents, are placed in the 
hands of a third person, with copies of several of my 
own ; so that I have no kind of memorial whatever of 
her, but these two words, — and her actions. I have torn 
the leaves containing the part of the Tale out of the 
book, and enclose them with this sheet. 

* * * * * * 

"What do you mean? First you seem hurt by mv 
letter, and then, in vour next, you talk of its ' power,' 
and so forth. 'This is a d — d blind s f ory, Jack; but 
never mind, go on.' You may be sure I said nothing on 
purpose to plague vou, but if you will put me ' in aphrensy, 
I will never call you Jack again.' I remember nothing 
of the epistle at present. 

" "What do you mean by Polidori's .D'on/ ? Why, I defy 
him to say any thing about me but he is welcome. I have 
nothing to reproach me with on his score, and I am much 
mistaken if that is not his own opinion. But why publish 
the name of the two girls ? and in such a manner? — what 
a blundering piece of exculpation ! He asked Pictet, &c. 
to dinner, and of course was left to entertain them, I went 
into society solely to present him, (as I told him.) that he 
mi^ht return into good company if he chose; it was the 
best thing for his youth and circumstances ; for myself, I 
had done with society, and, having presented him, with- 
drew to my own ' way of life.' It is true that I returned 
without entering Lady DaJrymple Hamilton's, because 1 
saw it full. It is true that Mrs. Hervey (she writes novels) 
fainted at mv entrance into Copet, and then came back 
again. On her fainting, the Duchesse de Broglie ex 
claimed, ' This i« too much at sixty-Jive vears of age !' — ] 
never gave ' the English* an opportunity of avoiding me 
but I trust that if ever I do, they will seize it. With re- 
gard to Mazeppa and the Ode, you may join or separate 
them, as you please, from the two Cantos. 

11 Don't suppose I want to put you out of humour. I 
have a great respect for your pood and gentlemanly quali- 
ties, and return your personal friendship towards me ; and 
although I think you a little spoiled hv ' villainous com- 
pany,' — wits, persons of honour about town, authors, and 
fashionables, together with vour ' I am just going to call at 
Carlton House, are you walking that way V — I sav, not- 
withstanding ( pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the musi- 
cal glasses,' vou deserve and possess the esteem of those 
whose esteem is worth having, and of none more (how- 
ever useless it may be) than yours very truly, &c. 

• See I'fe'ueut, page 278. 



136 



LETTERS, 1819. 



" P. S. Make my respects to Mr. Gifford. I am per- 
fectly aware thai ' Don Juan' nius' set us all by the ears, 
but thai is my concern, and mv beginning. There will 
be the " Edinburgh,' and all, too, against it, so thai, like 

' Rob Roy,' I shall have my hands full." 



LETTER CCCXC. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, May 25, 1819 
" I have received no proofs by the last post, and shall 
probably have quitted Venice before the arrival of ihe 
next. There wanted a few stanzas to the termination of 
Canto First in the last proof: the next will, I presume, 
contain them and the wh »le or a portion of Canto Second: 
but it will be idle to wait for farther answers from me, as I 
have directed that my letters wail for my return, (perhaps 
in a month, and probably so;) therefore do not wait (or 
farther advice from me. You may as well talk to the wind, 
and better — for ft will at least convey your accents a little 
farther than they would othenn iso have gone ; whereas / 
shall le- iiher echo noracquiesce vp pour 'exquisite reasons. 1 
You may omit the note of reference to Henhouse's travels, 
in Canto Second, and you will put as motto to the whole — 

' Difficile est [»roi>iie curmminin dicere.' — Horace. 

" A few davs ago I sen! you all I know of Polidori's 
Vampire. He may do, say, or write what he pleases, but 
I wish he would not attribute tome his own compositions. 
[f he has any thing of mine in his possession, the manu- 
script will put it beyond controversy; but I scarcely think 
that any one who knows me would believe the thing in 
the Magazine to be mine, even if they saw it in my own 
hyeroglyphics. 

" 1 write to you in the agonies of nxiror.ro, which annihi- 
lates me ; and I have hern fool enough to do (bur things 
since dinner, which areas well omitted in very hot weather 
lslly, + * * + ; 2dly, to play at billiards from 10 'o 12, 
under the influence of lighted lamps, that doubled the heat: 
3dly, to go afterward into a red-hot conversazione of the 
Countess Benzoni's;and 4 hly, to begin this letter at three 
in the morning: but being begun, it must be finished. 
" Ever very truly and affectionately yours, 

"B. 

" P. S. I petition for tooth-brushes, powder, magnesia, 
Macassaroil, (or Russia.) (Ziesashes, arid Sir Nl. Wrax- 
alPs Memoirs of his Own Times. I want, besides, a bull- 
dog, a terrier, and two Newfoundland dogs; and I want 
(is it Buck's ?) a life of IHrhard JW, advertised by Long- 
man, fong } ton^ long ago ; I asked for it at least three years 
since. See Longman's advertisements." 



LETTER CCCXCI. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



u A journey in an Italian June is a conscription ; and 
if I was not the most constant of men, 1 should now be 
swimming from the Lido, instead of smoking in the dust 
of Padua. Should there be letters from England, let 
them wait mv return. And do look at mv house and (not 
lauds, but) waters, and scold ; — and deal out the moneys 
to Edgecombe* with an air of reluctance and a shake of 
the head — and put queer questions to him — and turn up 
your nose when he answers. 

" Make my respects to the Consuless — and to the 
Chevalier — and to Scotin — and to all the counts and 
countesses of our acquaintance. 
" And believe me ever 

" Your disconsolate and affectionate, &c." 



* A clerk of the English Coiliulate, whom lie at lliii lime t mplgj wJ tw 
wuLi-olbia&ccouuii. 



LETTER CCCXCn. 

TO MR. HOPP.VER. 

" Bologna, June 6, 1819. 
" I am at length joined to Bologna, where I am settled 
like a sausage, and shall be broiled like one if this weathef 
continues, Will you thank Mengaldoon "iv part firthe 
Ferrara acquaintance, which was a very agreeable one, 
I staved two days al Ferrara. and was mnt i pleased with 
die i nun' Evlosti, end the lutlc the shortness of the time 

permute, I me In see nl" j is family. L wen' to hl^ r n 1 . • . - 

sazione, which is very far superior to anv thing of the kind 
at Venice — the women almost all young — several pretty 
— and the men courteous and cleanly- The lady of the 
mansion, who is young, lately married, and with child, 
appeared very prettv bv candlelight. (I dio not see her by 
day-) pleasing in her manners, and TOT) lady-like, or 
thorough-bred, as we call it in England, — e kind of thing 
which reminds one of a racer, an antelope, or an Italian 
greyhound. She seems very fbnd of her husband, who is 
amiable and accomplished : he has been in England two 
or three times, and is young. Tie- sister, a C 

somebody — I forget what — (they an* both Mallei by birth, 
and Veronese of course) — is a lalv of more display j she 
sings and plays divinely ; but I thought she was ad — d 
long time about it. H'=r likeness to Madame Flahaut 
(Miss Mercer that was) is something quite extraordinary. 

u I had but a bird's-eye view of these p« ople, and shall 
not probably see them again ; but I am very much obliged 
to Mengaldo for letting me see them at all. Whenever I 
meet with any thing agreeable in this world, it surprises 
me so much, and pleases me so much, (when my passions 
are not interested one way or the other.) that I go on 
wondering for a week to come. ( feel, too, in great ad- 
miration of the Cardinal Legate's red Stockings. 

" I found, too, such a pretty epitaph in the Certosa 
cemetery, or rather two: one was 

1 Martini Luigi 

linj.'lora yjee ;' 

the other, 

• Lucretin Picinl 

Implora eternn quit'le.* 

That was all ; but it appears to me that these two and 
three words comprise and compress all that can be said on 
the subject, — and then, in Italian, they are absolute music. 
They contain doubt, hope, and humility ; nothing can be 
more pathetic than the * implora' and the modesty of the 
request ; — they have had enough of life— they want nothing 
but rest — they implore it, and ' eternaquiete.' It is like a 
Greek inscription in some good old heathen ' City of the 
Dead.' Pray, if I am shovelled into the Lido churchyard 
in your time, let me have the ' implora pace,' and nothing 
else, for my epitaph. I never met with any, ancient or 
modern, that pleased me a tenth part so much. 

" In about a day or two after you receive this letter, I wil 
thank you to desire Edgecombe to prepare for mv return. 
[ shall [jo back to Venice before I village on the Brenta. 
I shall stay but a few days in Bologna. I am just going 
out lo see sights, but shall not present my introductory 
letters fir a day or two, till 1 have run over again the place 
and pictures ; nor perhaps at all. if I rind that I have books 
and sights enough to do without the inhabitants. After 
that, I shall return to Venice, where you may expect me 
about the eleventh, or perhaps sooner. Pray make my 
thanks acceptable to Mengaldo ; my respects to the 
Consuless, ami to Mr. Scott. 

u I hope my daughter is well. 

" Ever yours, and truly. 

" P. S. F went pver the Ariosto MS. &c. &c. again at 
Ferrara, with the castle, and cell, and house, &c. &c. 

" One of the Ferrarese asked me if I i>new ' Lord By 
ron.' an acquaintance of his now at Naples. I told him 
'iVo." which was true both ways; for I knew not an 
impostor, and, in the other, no one knot"s himself. He 



LETTERS, 1819. 



IS? 

believe the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed, 
could I suppose that any of my friends wotld be baso 
enough to convey my carcass bark lo your soJ. — I would 
not even feed your worms, if I could help it. 

"So, as Shakspcare says of MowLrav, the banished 
Duke. of Norfolk, who died at Venice, (sec Richard tUi.) 
iliat he, after righting 

' Aeainst Mark P^eann, Turks, and Saraceui, 

And toi]*d with worinofwmr, retired himself 

To Ttnly, and there, at Venice, gave 

His t<]Jy lo thai I't'.tsrw: country's earth, 

Ai»1 ins pure soul unto hi<s i-ajiLdui, < lirist, 

Cuder whose colours he tiad fought so long ' 

" Bcf re I lefi Venice, I had returned to you your late, 
and Mr. Hobhouse's, sheets of Juan. Don't wait for 
farther answers from me, but address yours to Venice, as 
usual. 1 know nothing of my own movements; i may 
return there in a few days, or not (br some time. All this 
depends on circumstances. I lefl Mr. Hoppner very welL 
My daughter Allegra was well too, and is growing pretty; 
her hair is growing darker, and her eyes are blue. Her 
temper and her ways, Mr. Hoppner savs,are like mine, as 
well as her features: she will make, in that case, a ma- 
nageable young ladv. 

s I have never heard any thing of Ada, the little Eiectra 
of my Mycenre. * * * *. But there will 

come a day of reckoning, even if I should not live to see it. 
I have at least seen Roinilly* shivered, who was one of 
nay assassins. When that mun was doing his worst to 
uproot my whole family, tree, branch, and blossoms— when, 
after taking my retainer, he went over to them — when he 
was bringing; desolation on my hearth, and destruction on 
my household godsf — did he think that, in less than three 
years, a natural event — a severe, domestic, but an expected 
and common calamity — would lay his carcass in a cross- 
road, or stamp his name in a Verdict of Lunacy ! Did he 
(who in his sexagenary * * *) reflect or consider wViat 
my feelings must have been, when wife, anu child, and 
sister, and name, and fame, and country, were to be my 
sacrifice on hi-; legal altar — and this at a moment when my 
health was declining, my fortune embarrassed, and mv 
mind had been shaken by many kinds of disappointment — 
while I was yet young, and might have reformed what 
might be wrong in my conduct, and retrieved what was 
perplexing in my affairs ! But he is in his grave, and * 
* * *. What a long letter I have scribbled! 

u Yours, &c. 
u P. S. Here, as in Greece, they strew flowers on the 
tombs. I saw a quantity of rose-leaves, and entire roses, 
scattered over the graves at Ferrara. It has the most 
pleasing effect you can imagine.'' 



■tared when told that I was * the real Simon Pure.' — 
Another asked me if I had not translated 'Tasso. 1 You 
see what Ftnr is! how accurate ! how boundless! I do n't 
know now others feel, but I am always the lighter and the 
Eh tier looked Otl when I have got rid of mine; it sits on me 
Ii L .e armour on the Lord Mayor's champion; and 1 got rid 
of all the husk of literature, and the attendant babble, by 
answering, thai I had not translated Tasso, but a name- 
sake had ; and by the blessing of Heaven, I looked so Utile 
Sive a poet, that every body believed me." 



LETTER CCCXCIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Bologna, June 7, 1819. 
■Tell Mr. Hobhonse that I wrote to him a few days ago 
from Ferrara. It will therefore be idle in hint or you to 
wail for any farther answers or returns of proofs from 
Venice, a> I have directed that no English letters be sent 
at er roe. The publication can be proceeded in without, 
and I am already sick (if your remarks, to which I think 
u-»t the least attention ought to be paid. 

* Tell Mr. Hobhouse, that since 1 wrote to him, I had 
V nfled myself of my Ferrara letter^, and found the societv 
much younger and better there than at Venice. I am 
very much pleased with the little the shortness of mv stav 
permitted me to see of the Gonfaloniere Count Mosti, and 
his family and friends in general. 

k I have been picture-ga7ing this morning at the famous 
r n;hino and Gi'ido, both of which arc superlative. I 
afterward went to the beautiful cemeterv of Bologna, 
beyond the walls, and found v besides the superb burial- 
ground, an original ofa Custode, who reminded one of the 
grave-digger in Hamlet. He has a collection of capuchins' 
skulls, labelled on the forehead, and taking down one of 
lhem, said, ' This was Brother Desiderio Berro, who died 
at forty — oneof my best friends. I begged his head of his 
en after his decease, and they gave it me. I put it 
in lime, and then boiled it. Here it is, teeth and ail. in 
excellent preservation. He was the merriest, cleverest 
fellow I ever knew. Wherever he went he brought joy; 
and whenever any one was melancholy, the sight of him 
was enough to make him cheerful again. He walked 
actively, you might have taken him for a dancer — he joked 
— he laughed — oh ! he was such a Frate as I never saw 
before, nor ever shall again !' 

"He told me that he had himself planted all the cypresses 
in the cemetery; that he had the greatest attachment to 
thern and to his dead people; that since 1801 they had 
buried fifty-three thousand persons. In showing some 
older niDiiuments, there was that ofa Roman girl of twenty, 
with a bust by Bernini. She was a princess Barlorini, 
dead two centuries ago: he said, that on opening her 
grave, they, had fijund her hair complete, and ' as yellow as 
fjoid. 1 Some of the epitaph* at Ferrara pleased me more 
lan the more splendid monuments at Bologna ; for in- 
stance — 

' Martini Luig] 

Imjtlora pace;' 

* Lucreiin Pu'iiii 

tlll|'loia eitrna qniele.* 

fan anv thing be more full of pathos? Thos>* few words 
say all that can be said or sought; the dead had had 
enough of life; all they wanted was rest, and this thev 
implore! There is all the helplessness ami humble hope, 
and liathlike prayer, that can arise from the grave — 
uuplora pace. 1 I hope whoever may survive me, and 
shall see me put in the foreigners' buryirig-ground at the 
Lido, within the fortress by the Adriatic, will see those two 
words, and no more, put over me. I trust the} wun't think 
ot • pickling, and bringing me home to Clod or Blunderbuss 
Hall.' I am sure my bones would not rest in ui English 
grave, ot my clay mix v. uh the earth of thai country. 1 

18 



LETTER CCCXCIV. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

"Ravenna, June 20, 1819. 
****** 

I wrote to you from Padua, and from Bologna, and 
since from Ravenna. I find my situation very agreeable, 
but want my horses very much, there being good ridiig in 
the environs. I can fix no time for my return to Venice — 
it may be soon or late— or not at all— it all depends on the 
Donna,| whom I fuund very seriously in bed with a cuugh 
and spitting of blood, &c. all of which has subsided. * 
********* *^ 

I f nind all the people here firmly persuaded that she w ould 
never recover; — they were mistaken, however. 

"My letters were useful as far as I employed them, and 
I like both the place and people, though I do n't trouble t'te 
latter more than lean help. Sfie manages very wolf — 



• Sir PUmuel Ronully. He committed ■m'dda. 
1 See LiUir 378. J The Ccuuleu Gaiooioli. 



138 



LETTERS, 1819. 



* * * * * but if I come away wKh a 
stiletto in my gizzard some fine afternoon, I shall not be 
astoni shedi I can't make tuut out at all — he visits me 
frequendv, and takes me out (like Whittinglon, Uie LorJ 
Mayor) in a coacli and air horses. The fuel appears to 
be, that he is completely govenud by her — for lhai matter, 
so am I. The people here don't know what to make of 
us, as he had the character of jealousv with liII Ins wives — 
lliis is the third. He is the richest of the Ravennese, by 
their own account, but is not popular among them. 
****** 
****** 
Now do, pray, send off Augustine, and carriage and cattle, 
to Bologna, without fail or delay, or I shall lose my re- 
maining shred of senses. Don't forget this. -My coming, 
going, and every thing depend upon her entirely, just as 
Mrs. Hoppner (to whom 1 remit my reverences) said in 
the true spirit of female prophecy. 
"You are but a shabby fellow not to have written before. 
"And I am truly yours, kc." 



LETTER CCCXCV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, June 29, 1619. 

"The letters have been forwarded from Venice, but 1 
trust that you will not have wailed lor farther alterations — 
I will make none. You ask me to spare Romilly — ask the 
worms. His dust can surfer nothing from the truth being 
spoken — and if it cvulrt, how did he behave to me? You 
may talk to the wind, which will carry the sound — and to 
the caves, which will echo you — but not to me, on the sub- 
ject of a * * * who wronged mo — whether dead or 
alive. 

"I have no time to return you the proofs — publish with- 
out them. 1 am glad you diink Uie poesy good; and as to 
1 thinking of the ell'ect,' think you of the sale, and leave me 
to pluck Ute porcupines who may point their quills at you. 

"I have been here (at Ravenna) these four week-, 
having left Venice a month ago; — 1 came to see my 
'Arnica, 1 the Countess Guiccioli, who has been, and still 
continues, very unwell. * * * * 

* * * * * * * 

She is only twenty years old, but not of a strong constitu- 
tion. ********* 
She has a perpetual cough, and an intermittent fever, but 
bears up most gallantly in every sense of the word. Her 
husband (this is his third wife) is die richest noble of 
Ravenna, and almost of Rornagna; he is also not die 
youngest, being upwards of threescore, but in good pre- 
servation. All this will appear strange to you, who do not 
understand the meridian morality, nor our way of life in 
such respects, and I cannot at present expound the differ- 
ence ;— but you would find it much the same in these parts. 
At Faenza there is Lord * * * * with an opera girl; and 
at the inn in the same town is a Neapolitan Prince, who 
serves die wife of the Gonfaloniere of that city. I am on 
duty here — so you see 'Cosi fan tnUi e tuUe.' 

"I have my horses here, saddle as well as carriage, and 
ride or drive every day in the forest, the jpmeto, the scene 
of Boccaccio's novel, and Dryden's fable of Honuria, &c. 
&c. ; and I see my Dama every day ****** ; 
but I feel seriously uneasy about her health, which seems 
very precarious. In losing her, I should lose a being who 
has run great risks 00 my account, and whom I have 
every reason to love; — but I must not think this possible. 
I do not know what 1 should do if she died, but I ought to 
blow my brains out — and I hope that I should. Her hus- 
band is a very polite personage, but I wish be would not 
earry me out ui his coach and six, like Whit Ling ton and 
ins cat. 

"You ask me if I mean to continue Don Juan, &c. 
How should I know? What encouragement do you give 



me, ail of you, with your nonsensical prudery? — publish 
uie two Cantos, and then you will see. I desired Mr 
Kinnaird to speak to you on a little matter of business 
either be has not spoken, or you have not answered. Yoi 
are a pretty pair, but 1 will be even with you both. J 
perceive that Mr. Hobhouse has been challenged by 
Major Cartw right. — Is the Major 'so cunning of fence''' 
— why did not they fight I — they ought. 

* Yours, &c.* 



LETTER CCCXCVL 



TO MR.HOrPNER. 



"Ravenna, July 2, 1819. 

"Thanks fir your letter and for Madame's. I will an- 
swer it directly. Will you recollect whether I (fid Dot 
consign to you one or two receipts of Madame Moceni«o's 
fur hi -use-rent — (I am not sure of this, but think I did — if 
not, they will be in my drawer-) — and will vnu dean Mr. 
Domlle* to have the goodness to see if Edgecombe has 
recdpl* to all payments hitherto made by him on my ac- 
count, and that diere are no dchts at Venice? On your 
answer, 1 shall send order of farther remittance to carry 
on my household expenses, as my present return to Venice 
is very problematical ; and it may happen — but I can say 
nothing positive — every thing with me being indecisive and 
undecided, except the disgust which Venice excites when 
fairly compared with any other city in this part of Italy 
When I say Venice, I mean the Venetians — the eiiy itself 
is superb as its history — but the people are what I never 
thought them till they taught me to think so. 

"The best way will be to leave Allegra with Antonio's 
spouse till I can decide something about her and myself— 
but I thought that you would have had an answer from 

Mrs. V r.f — You have had bore enough with me and 

mine already. 

"I greatly fear that the Guiccioli is going into a con- 
sumption, to which her constitution tends. Thus it ts 
with every tiling and even,- body for whom I feel any thin" 
like a real attachment; — 'War, death, or discord, dulh 
lay siege to them.' 1 never even could keep alive a dog 
that 1 liked or that liked me. Her symptoms are ..an- 
nate cough of Uie lungs, and occasional fever, &c. &c. 
and there are latent causes of an eruption in the skin, 
which she foolishly repelled into the system two years 
ago; but I have made them send her case to Asjjetti: 
and have begged him to come — if only for a day or two— 
to consult upon her state. * * + 

** **** * * 

** **** * * 

If it would not bore Mr. Domlle, I wish he would keep 
an eye on Edgecombe and on my other ragamuffins. I 
might have more to say, but I ant absorbed about La 
Gm. and her illness. 1 cannot tell you the effect n )>a9 
upon me. 

tt The horses came, &c. &c. and I have been galloping 
through die pine forest daily. 

" Believe me, &c. 

"P. S. My benediclion on Mrs. Hoppner, a pleasant 
journey among the Bernese tyrants, and safe return. You 
ought to bring back a Platonic Bernese for my n formation. 
If any thing happens to my present Arnica, I have done 
with the passion for ever — it is my last love. As to liber- 
tmism, I have sickened myself of that, as was natural in 
Uie way I went on, and I have at least derived that advan- 
tage from vice, to love in the better sense of the word. 
This will be my last adventure! — I can hope no more to 
Inspire attachment, and I trust never again to feel it." 



• The Viee-Conml of Mr. Hopi-ner. 

t An F.»(1mIi lady, whn jTOioitd taking clinrn of iH<*nu 

; See iuiluict,i>age iS7. 



LETTERS, 1819. 



139 



LETTER CCCXCVII. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

■ Ravenna, August I, 1819. 
* [Address your answer to Venice, however.] 

"Don't be alarmed. You will see me defend myself 
gayly— that is, if 1 happen to be in spirits ; and by spirits, 
I dorfl mean your meaning of the word, but the spirit of a 
bull-dog when pinched, or a bull when pinned ; it is th^n 
that they make best sport ; and as my sensations under 
nn attack are probably a happy compound of the united 
energies of these amiable animals, you may perhaps see 
what Marra.ll calls 'rare sport,' and some good tossing 
and goring, in the course of the controversy. But I must 
be in the right cue first, and T doubt t am almost too far 
off to be in a sufficient fury for the purpose. And then I 
have effeminated and enervated myself with love and the 
summer in these last two months. 

K I wrote to Mr. Hobhouse the other day, and foretold 
that Juan would either fall entirely or succeed completely ; 
there will be no medium. Appearances are not favour- 
able ; but as you write the day after publication, it can 
hardly be decided what opinion will predominate. You 
seem in a fright, and doubtless with cause. Come what 
may, I never will flatter the million's canting in any shape. 
Circumstances may or mav not have placed me at times 
in a situation to lead the public opinion, but the public 
opinion never led, nor ever shall lead, me. I will not sit 
am a degraded throne ; so pray put Messrs. * * or * *, 
or Tom Moore, or * * * upon it ; they will all of them 
be transported with their coronation. 

****** 

"P. S. The Countess Guiccioli is much better than she 
was. I sent vou, before leaving Venice, the real original 
sketch which gave* rise to the ' Vampire,' &c. Did you 
gel it?* 



LETTER CCCXCVIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, August 9, 1819. 
****** 

* Talking of blunders reminds me of Ireland — Ireland 
of Moore. What is this I see in Galignani about ' Ber- 
muda — agent — deputy — appeal — attachment, 1 &c. ? What 
is the matter ? Is it anv thing in which his friends can be 
of use to him ? Pray inform me. 

a Of Don Juan I hear nothing farther from you ; * * *, 
but the papers don't seem so fierce as the letter you sent 
me seemed to anticipate, by their extracts at least in 
lanis Messenger. I never saw such a set of fel- 
lows as you are ! And then the pains taken to exculpate 
the modest publisher — he remonstrated, forsooth! I will 
write a preface that iltall exculpate you and * * *, &c. 
completely on that point ; but, at thp same time, I will cut 
you up like gourds. You have no more soul than the 
Cmim de Cavlus (who assured his friends, on his death- 
bed, that he had none, and that he must know better than 
they whether he had one or no,) and no more blood than 
a water-melon! And I see there hath been asterisks, and 
what Perry used to call'domned cutting and s!a.s!ung' — 
but, never mind. 

■ I write in haste. To-morrow I set off for Bologna. 
I write to you with thunder, lightning, &c. and all the 
winds of heaven whistling through my hair, and the racket 
of preparation to boot. 'My mistress dear, who hath fed 
my heart upon smiles and wine 1 for the last two months, 
set off with her husband for Bologna this morning, and it 
seems that I follow him at three to-morrow morning. I 
cannot tell how our romance will end, but it hath gone on 
hitherto most erotically. Such perils and escapes ! Juan's 



are as child's play in comparison. The fools think that 
all mv poeshie is always allusive to my own adventures : I 
have had at one time or another better and more* extra- 
ordinary and perilous and pleasant than these, every day 
nf the week, if I might tell them ; but that must never be, 
"I hope Mrs. M. has accouched. 

"Yours ever." 



LETTER CCCXCIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Bologna, August 12, 1819. 

H I do not know how far I may be able to reply to your 
letter, for I am not very well to-day. Last night I went 
to the representation of Alfieri's Mirra, the last two acts 
of which threw me into convulsions. I do not mean by 
that word a lady's hysterics, but the agony of reluctant 
tears, and the choking shudder, which I do not often under- 
go for fiction. This is but the second lime for any thing 
under reality: the first was on seeing Kean's Sir Giles 
Overreach. The worst was, that the ' Dama,' in whoso 
box I was, went off in the same way, I really believe more 
from fright than any other sympathy — at least with the 
players: but she has been ill and I have been ill, and we 
are all languid and pathetic this morning, with great 
expenditure of sal volatile. But, to return to your letter 
of the 23d of July. 

"You are right, Gilford is right, Crabbe is right, Hob- 
house is right — you are all right, and I am all wrong ; but 
do, pray, let me have that pleasure. Cut me up root and 
branch ; quarter me in the Quarterly ; send round my 
' disjecti membra jweta^, 1 like those of the Levite's con- 
cubine ; make me if you will a spectacle to men and 
angels ; but do n't ask me to alter, for I won't : — I am 
obstinate and lazy — and there 's the truth. 

But, nevertheless, I will answer your friend Perrv, who 
objects to the quick succession of fun and gravity, as if in 
that case the gravity did not (in intention, at least) heighten 
the fun. His metaphor is, that 'we are never scorched 
and drenched at the same time.' Blessings on his expe- 
rience ! Ask him these questions bout 'scorching and 
drenching.' Did he never play at cricket, or walk a mile 
in hot weather? Did he never spill a dish of tea over 
himself in handing the cup to his charmer, to the great 
shame of his nankeen breeches? Did he never swim in 
the sea at noonday with the sun in his eyes and on his 
head, which all the foam of ocean could not cool? Did 
he never draw his foot out of too hot water, d — ning his 
eyes and his valet's ? * * * * 

Was he ever in a Turkish bath — that marble paradise of 
sherbet and * * ? Was he ever in a cauldron of boiling 
oil, like SL John? or in the sulphureous waves of h — I? 
(where he ought to be for his 'scorching and drenching 
at the same tune.') Did he never tumble into a river or 
lake, fishing, and sit in his wot clothes in the boat, or on 
the bank afterward, 'scorched and drenched,' like a true 
sportsman? 'Oh fur breath to utter V — but make him my 
Compliments; he is a clever fellow for all that — a very 
clever fellow. 

" You ask me for the plan of Donny Johnny: I have no 
plan ; I had no plan ; but I had or have materials ; though 
il~ lil;- 1 Tony Lumpkin, ' I am to be snubbed so when I am 
in spirits,' the poem will be naught, and the poet turn 
serious again. If it do n't take, I will leave it off where it 
is, with all due respect to the public; but if continued, it 
must be in my own way. You might as well made 
Hamlet (or Diggory) ' act mad' in a strait waistcoat as 
trammel mv buffoonery, if I am to be a buffoon : their 
gestures and my thoughts would only be pitiably absurd 
and ludicrously constrained. Why, man, the soul of such 
writing is its license ; at least the liberty of that license, if 

* Don JtlUj Canto XIV. Sunza 101. 



140 



LETTERS, 1819. 



one likes — -not that one should abuse it. It is like Trial 
by Jury ami Peerage and the Habeas Coqms — a very 
fine tiling, but chiefly in the reversiim ; because no one 
wishes U) be tried for the mere pleasure of proving his 
possession of the privilege. 

" Rut a truce with these reflections. You arc too 
earnest and eager about a work never intended to be 
serious. Do vou suppose that I could have any intention 
but to gig'jle and make giggle?— a playful satire, with U 
Hale poetry as could be helped, was whal I meant. And 
as to the indecency, do prav, read in Bosvrell whal Jokn- 
jrm, the sullen moralist, savs of Prim and Paulo Purgante. 

u Will vou get a favour done for me? You can, by 
your government friends, Croker, Canning, or my old 

id Mellow Peel, and I can't Here it is. Will you 

ask tin in to appoint [without salary or emolument) a noble 
Italian (whom 1 will name afterward] consul or vice- 
consul for Ravenna? He is a man of very large pro- 
perty — noble too; but lie wishes u, have a British protec- 
tion in case of changes. Ravenna is near the sea. He 
wants no emolument whatever. That his office might be 
useful, I know; as I lately sent off from Ravenna to 
Trieste a poor devil of an English sailor, who had re- 
mained there sick, sorry, and permyless (having been set 

ashore in 181-4,) from the want of any accredited a<'eni 

able or willing to help him homewards. Will you get 
this done ? If you do, I will then send his name and 
condition, subject of course to rejection, if rwt approved 
when known. 

" 1 know that in the Levant you make consuls and vice- 
consuls, perpetually, of foreigners. This man is a patri- 
cian, and has twelve thousand a year. His motive is a 
British protection in case of new invasions. Don't you 
think Croker would do it for us? To be sure, mv interest 
is rare I ! but perhaps a brother wil in the Tory Line might 
do a good turn at the request of SO harmless and long 
absent a Whig, particularly as there is no solan/ or 
burthen of any sort to be annexed to the office. 

"I can assure vou, I should look upon it as a great 
o' ligation; but, alas! that very circumstance may, very 
probablv, operate to the contrary — indeed, it ought ; but 1 
have, at least, been an honest and an open enemy. Among 
your many splendid government connexions, could not 
you, think you, get our Bibulus made a Consul ? or make 
me one. that I may make him my Vice, Vou ina\ bo 
assured that, in case of accidents in Italy, he would be do 
fed!, adjunct — as you would think, if you knew his patri- 
mony. 

■ What is all this about Tom Moore? but why do I 
ask? since the state of my own atlairs would not permit me 
to be of use to him, though they are greatly improved since 
1816, and may, with some more tuck and a tittle prudence, 
become quite dear. It seems bis claimants are Amvican 
merchants? TViere goes Neman I Moore abused Ame- 
rica. It is always thus in die long run : — Time, (he 
Avenger. Vou have seen every trampler down, in turn, 
from Buonaparte to the simplest individuals. Vou saw 
how some were avenged even upon mv insignificance, and 
how in turn * * * paid for his atrocity. It is an odd 
world ; but the watch has its mainspring, after all. 

"So the Prince has been repealing Lord Kdward Fitz- 
gerald's forfeiture ? Eeco un aonsflb -' 

" To bn the father t.fUjt- IkUltrlen, ftc* 

• There, you dogs '■ there l B sonnet for you : you won't 
have such as that in a hurry from Mr. Fitzgerald. You 
may publish it with my name, an ye wool. He deserves 
all praise, bad and good ; it was a very noble piece of 
principality. Would you like an epigram — a translation? 

" If hr ailrrr, i»r for gold, 
You could melt ieo thousand i>lmpk* 
Into half ■ doxen illmplw, 

Then your face- we might bcfootd, 

Looking liuuhlle** much mirr »nu«lr, 
YtKvu tfien 't would boil d uglf. 

* See Rums, p. IS*. 



"This was written on some Frenchwoman, by RuJ- 
hieres, I believe. " Yours. 1 * 



LETTER CCCC. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Bologna, August 23, 1819. 
"I send you a letter to Roberts, signed ' Wunley C!ut> 
terbuck,'* wliich you may publish in whal form von please, 
in answer to his article. I have had many proofs oi mens 
absurdity, but he beats all m folly. Why, the wolf in 
sheep's clothing has tumbled into the very trap! Well 
strip him. The letter is written in great haste, and amid 
■ thousand vexations. Your letter only came yesterday 
so that there is no time to polish: the port goes out 
to-morrow. The date is * Little Pidlington.' Let • • - ■ 

correct the press; he knows and can read the handwrit 

ing. Continue to Keep the ORom/movJ about 'Juan;' it 
helps us to fighl againsl overwhelming numbers. I ha\e 
a thousand distractions at present , so excuse haste, and 
wonder I can act or write at all. Auswv-r by poet, as 
usual. * You 

■ P. S. If I hail had time, and been quieter and nearer, 
1 would have cut him to hash ; but as it L-. you can jud^e 
for yourselves." 



LETTER CCCCI. 

TO THE COUNTESS GU1CCIOI.A. 

[Written in the last page of her copy of Madame De 
Staffs "Comma." 1 ] 
■My dearest Teresa, — I have read litis book in vonr 
garden ; — my love, you were absent, or else I could not have 
read it. It is a favourite buok of yours, and the writer 
was a friend of muie. You will Dot understand llie.-e. 
English words, and Othen will not understand them, — 
which is the reason 1 have not scrawled them in Italian. 

But you will recognise the handwriting of him who pas- 
sionately loved you, and you will divine (hat, over a hook 
which was yourSj he could only think of love. In that 
word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours — 
Amm mio — is comprised mv existence here and here- 
after. 1 feel 1 exist here, and I fear that I shall exist 
hereafter, — to what purpose you will decide ; my destiny 
rests with you, and you are a woman, eighteen years of 
age, and two out of a convent. I wish that you had stayi 1 
there, with all mv heart, — or, at least, thai I had never met 
you in your married slate. 

■ But all this is too late. I love you, and you love me, 
— at least, you sau so> and art as if you did so, winch la>t 
is a great consolation in ail events. Bui J more than 

|,,\r voi i, and i;iniiol n,i -e [o love you. 

"Think of I" ie. BOmetimeS] when die Alps and the ocean 
divide us, — hut they never will, unless you u i 

"B* ROM. 

"Bologna, August '^o, 1S19." 



LETTER CCCCII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



* Bologna, August 24, 1819. 
"I wrote to you by last post, enclosing a buffooning let- 
ter for publication, addressed to the bufibon Roberts, who 
has thought proper to tie a canister to his own tail. It 
was written oil-hand, and in Ute midst of circumstances 
not very favourable to facetiousness, so thai there may 
perhaps, be more bitterness than enough for that sort of 
small acid punch : — \ou will tell me. 



LETTERS, 1819. 



Ml 



"Keep the anonymous, in any case: it helps what fun 
there may be. B u it' the matter grows serious about 
Dm Juan, and von feel y>urxrtf in a scrape, or me either, 
own ''id f am the authjr. I will never sfuink ; and if you 
do, I can always answer vou in the question of Guatuno- 
zin to his minister — each being on his own coals.* 

u I wish that I had been in belter spirits ; but I am on! 
of sorts, out of nerves, and now and then (I begin to fear) 
out of mv senses. All this Italy has done for me, and 
Bel England. 1 defy all you, and your climate to boot, to 
make me mad. But if ever I do really become a bedla- 
mite, and wear a strait waistcoat, let me be brought back 
anions you; your people will then be proper company. 

u I assure vou what I here sav and feel has nothing to 
do with England, either in a literary or personal point of 
viex*. AH my present pleasures or plagues are as Italian 
as the opera. And afler all, they are but trifles; for ail 
this arises from my ' DamaV being in the country for 
thrne days, (at Capo-liume.) But as I could never li' 
but for one human being at a time, (and. I assure you, thai 
one has never been myself, as you may know by the con- 
sequences, for the se{ftsti are successful in life,) I feel alone 
anJ unhappy. 

" I have sent f< >r my daughter from Venice, and I rid 
daily, and walk in a garden, under a purple canopy of 
grapes, and sit by a fountain, and talk with the gardener 
of his tools, which seem greater than Adam's, and with 
his wife, and with his son's wife, who is the youngest of 
[he partv, and, I think, talks best of the three. Then I 
revisited the Campo Santo, and my old friend, the sexton, 
has two— but one the prettiest daughter imaginable ; and 
I amuse myself with contrasting her beautiful and inno- 
cent face of fifteen, with the skulls with which he has 
peopled several cells, and particularly with that of one skull 
dated 1766, which was once covered (the tradition goes) 
bv the most lovely features of Bologna — noble and rich. 
When I look at these, and at this girl — when I think of 
what they viere, and what she must be — why, then, my 
dear Murray, I won't shock you by saying what I think. 
It is liitte matter what becomes of us ' bearded men,' but 
I d i n't like the notion of a beautiful woman's lasting less 
than a beautiful tret* — than her own picture — her own 
shadow, winch won't change so to the sun as her face 
to the mirror. — I must leave off, for mv head aches con- 
sunv-dlv. I have never heen quite well since the night 
of the represcniauon of Alfieri's Mirra, a fortnight ago. 

"Yours ever." 



LETTER CCCCIIT. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" B -lngna, August 29, 1819. 
* I have been in a rage these two days, and am still 
bilious therefrom. You shall hear. A captain of dra- 
goons, * +, Hanoverian by birth, in the Papal troops at 
present, whom I had obliged by a loan when nobody 
wouid lend him a paul, recommended a horse to me, on 
Bale bv a Lieutenant * *, an officer who unites the sale 
<<f rattle to the purchase of men. I bought it. The 
next dav, on shoeing the horse, we discovered the thrush, 
— the animal bein^ warranted sound. I sent to reclaim 
the contract and the money. The lieutenant desired to 
ppeak with nv- in person. I consented. He came. It was 
his own particdar request. He began a story. I asked 
him if he wool 1 return the money. He said no — but he 
would exchan.e. He asked an exorbitant price for his 
other horses. I told him that he was a thief. He 
said he was an qfHcer and a rmn of honour, and pulled 
out a Parmesan passport signed by General Count Neif- 
perg I answered, that a* he was an officer, 1 would treat 
him as such; and that as to his being a gentleman, he 



" Aot I unw ny ■•inj .*i i l«l <A IDM '" — Stc R.'jh f«.w». 



might prove it by returning the money: as for his Parme- 
san passport, I should have valued it more if it had been a 
Parmesan cheese. He answered in high terms, and said 
thai if it were m the morntri^ (it was about eight o'clock in 
'lie evening) he would have saiisfadion. 1 then lost my 
temper: 'As for that, 1 I replied, 'you shall have it 
directly, — it will be mulval satisfaction, 1 can assure you. 
You are a thief, and, as you say, an officer ; my pist< Is 
are in the next room loaded; take one of the candles, 
examine, and make your choice of weapons. 1 He replied 
thai pistols were Knstish weapons; he always fought wiih. 
the srnrd. t told him that I was able to accommodate 
him, having three regimental swords in a drawer near us; 
and he might take the longest, and put himself on guard. 

"AH this passed in presence of a third person. He 
then said JVb, but to-morrow morning he would give mo 
the meeting at any tune or place. I answered that it 
was not usual to appoint meetings in the presence of 
witnesses, and that we had best speak man to man, and 
appoint lime and instruments. But as the man present 
was leaving the room, the Lieutenant Y *, before he could 
shut the door after him, ran out, roaring ' help and mur- 
der 1 most lustily, and fell into a sort of hysteric in the arms 
of about fifty people, who all saw that I had no weapon 
of any sort or kind about me, and followed him, asking 
him what the devil was the matter with him. Nothing 
would do: he ran away without his hat, and went to bed, 
ill of the fright. He then tried his complaint at the 
police, which dismissed it as frivolous. He is, I believe 
gone away, or going. 

* The horse was warranted, but, I believe, so worded 
that the villain will not be obliged to refund, according to 
law. He endeavoured to raise up an indictment of assault 
and battery, but as it was in a public inn. in a frequented 
street, there were too many witnesses to the contrary : 
and, as a military man, he has not cut a martial figure, 
even in the opinion of the priests. He ran off in such a 
hurry that he left his hat, and never missed it till he got 
to his hostel or inn. The facts are as I tell vou, I can 
assure you. He began by ' coming Captain Grand over 
me,' or I should never have thought of trying his 'cunning 
in fence.' But what could I do? He talked of 'honour, 
and satisfaction, and his commission ;' he produced a mili- 
tary passport ; there are severe punishments for regular 
duels on the continent, and trifling ones fir lencontrcs, so 
that it is best to fight it out directly ; he had robbed, and 
then wanted to insult me; — what could I do? My 
patience was gone, and the weapons at hand, fair and 
equal. Besides, it was just after dinner, when my diges- 
tion was bad, and 1 don't like to be disturbed. His 
friend * * is at Forli ; we shall meet on my way hack to 
Ravenna. The Hanoverian seems the greater rogue of 
the two ; and if my valour does not ooze away hke 
Acres's — 'Odds flints and triggers! 1 if it should be a 
rainy morning, and my stomach in disorder, there may be 
something f >r the obituary. 

"Now, prav, 'Sir Lucius, do not you look upon me as 
a very ill-used gentleman? 1 I send my Lieutenant to 
match IUr. Hobhouses Ivlajor Cartwright: and so 'good 
morrow to you, good master Lieutenant.' With regard 
to other tilings, I will write soon, but I have been quarrelling 
and fooling till I can scribble no more." 



LETTER CCCCIV 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



«October22, 1819. 
w 1 am glad to hear of your return, but I do not know 
how to congratulate you — unless you think differently ol 
Venice from what I think now, and you thought always. 
I am, besides, about to renew your troubles by requesting 
you to be judge between Mr. Edgecombe and myself 
in a small matter of imputed peculation and irregular. 



112 



LETTERS, 1819. 



accounts on the part of that phoenix of secretaries. As I 
knew that you had not parted friends, at the Buna time 
that / refused for my own pari any judgment hut yours, 1 
offered him his choice of any person) the least scoundrel 
native to be found in Venice, as his own umpire; but 
he expressed himself so convinced «>f your impartiality, 
thai he declined any but you. This is in his favour.— 
The paper wiihin will explain to you the default in his 
accounts; Vou will hear his explanation, and deride, if 
it so please you. I shall not appeal from the decision. 

"As he complained that liis salary was insufficient, I 

determined to have Ins accounts examined, and the en- 
closed was the result. — It is all in black and white with 

documents, and I have despatched Fletcher to explain 
(or rather to perplex) the matter. 

" I have had much civility and kindness from Mr. Dor- 
ville during your journey, and I thank him accordingly. 

"Your letter reached rnc at your departure,* and dis- 
pleased me very much: — not that it might not be true in 
.(> statement and kind in its intention, hut you have lived 
lot en iugh to Know how useless all such representations 
ever are and must he in cases where the passions are 
concerned. To reason with men in such a situation is 
like reasoning with a drunkard in bis cups — the only 
answer you will get from lum is that he is sober, and you 
are drunk. 

" Upon that subject we will (if you like) be silent. 
You might only say what would distress me without 
answering any purpose whatever; and 1 have too many 
obligations to you to answer vou in the same style. So 
that vou should recoiled that you have also that advan- 
tage over me. I hope to see you soon. 

"1 suppose you know that they said at Venice, that I 
was arrested at Bologna as a Carbonaro — a story about 
as true as their usual conversation. Moore has been 
here — I lodged him in my house at Venice, and went to 
see him daily ; but I could not at that time quit I. a Mira 
entirely. You and I were not verv far from meeting in 
Switzerland, With my best respects to Mrs. Hoppner, 

believe me ever and truly, Sic. 

■ I J . S, Allegra is here in good health and spirits — I 
shall keep her with me till I go to England, which will 
perhaps be in the spring. It has just occurred to me that 
you may not perhaps like to undertake the office of judge 

between Mr. Kdgecombe and your humble servant. — Of 

course, as Mr. Listen (the comedian, not the ambassador) 
says, ' it u all hoptional? but I have no other resource. I 
do not wish to lit id him a rascal, if it can be avoided, and 
would rather think him guilty of carelessness than cheat- 
ing. The case is this — can I, or not, give him a character 
for honesty? — It is not my intention to continue bun in 
inv service." 



LETTER CCCCV. 



TO MR. HOPPHER. 



"October 36, 1819. 
■You need not have made any excuses about the let- 
ter ; 1 never said but that you might, could, should, or 
would have reason. 1 merely described my own state of 
inaptitude to listen to it at that time, and m those circum- 
si.in.es. Besides, you did not speak from jour own 
authority — but from what you said you had heard. Now 
my blood Boils to hear an Italian speaking ill of another 
Italian, because, though they lie in particular, thev sp< ok 



• Mr. Hoppner, before hl« departure from Venice for Switzerland, 
had written h letter lo Lord Byron, entreating him "to leave Ravenna, 
while vei he nod a whole oliiti, and urging him Dot t« n*k ihe Mifety ol n 
person he appeared no ftneorely atU< MM to— M well n» hi* own— lor the 

i of a momentary paulon, which could only tie * tource o( 

i. .iii partte*." fnthenme letter .Mr. Hoppnar Informed lum 
of mim reporU be h*d heard Lately at Venice, which. Uiough jraaajhly, 
he utd, unrounded, bad much [ncreeeed liia anxiety wipMting the coo. 
•t.j'KiiLti ui ike connexion formed by him.— Moure. 



truth n general by speaking ill at all — and although j-ey 
know that they are trying and wishing to lie, they do not 
BUCOeed, merely because they can say nothing so bad of 
each other, that it may not, and must not be true from tho 
atrocity of their long-debased national character. 

" W ith regard to Kdgecombe, you will perceive a most 
DTegalar, extravagant account, without proper documents 
to support it. He demanded an increase of salary, which 
made me suspect him; he supported an outrageous extra* 
ragance of expenditure, and did not like the duraissioo of 
the cook: he never complained of him — as in duty bound 
— at the time of liis robberies. I can only say, that die 
house expense is now under urn-half of what it then was, 
as he himself admits. lie charged for a comb eJgA&HH 
francs, — the real price wsetgfU. lie charged a passage 
from Kusina for a person named lambclli, who paid it 
herself, as she will prove, it' necessary. He fancies, or 
asserts himself^ the viciim of a domestic complol against 
him; — accounts are accounts — prices are prices; — let 
lum make out a fair detail. / am not prejudiced against 
him — on the contrary, I supported him against tin com- 
plaintB of bis wife, and of ins former master, at ■ lime 
when 1 could have crushed him like an earwig, and if he 
is a scoundrel, he is tbe greatest of scoundrels, an un- 
grateful one. The truth is, probably, that be thought 1 
was having Venice, and determined to make the moat of 
it. At present he keeps bringing in account after oooount, 
though he had always money in hand — as I believe jWU 
know my system was never to allow longer than a wi I tkH 
bills to run. Pray read him this letter — I desire nothing 
to be concealed against which he may defend himself. 

"Pray how is your little boy? and how are you — I 
shall be up in Venice very soon, and we will be bili ius 
together. I hate the place and all that it inherits. 

■ Yours, kcT 



LETTER CCCCVI. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



"October 28 J 819. 
+ + ****** 

"I have to thank you for your letter, and your com 
pliment to Don Juan. I said nothing to you about it, 
understanding that it is a sore subject with the moral 
reader, and has been the cause of a great row ; hut I am 
glad you like it. I will say nothing about the ahipwret It, 
except that 1 hope you think it is as nautical and technical 
as verse could admit in the octave measure. 

"The poem has not sold well, so Murray says — 'but the 
best |odges, &c. sav, &c.' so says that worthy man. I have 
never seen it in |wint. The Third Canto is in advance 
about one hundred stanzas; but the failure of the fin) two. 
has weakened my estro, and it will neither be so good as 
the former two, nor completed, unless I get a little more 
risrnliiato iii its behalf.* I understand the outcry was 
beyond every thing. — Pretty cant for people who read 
Tom Jones, and Roderick Random, and the Bath Guide 
and AriostQ) and Dryden, and Pope — to say nothing of 
Tattle's Poems. Of course I refer to the inorulUu of these 
works, and not lo any prelansion of mine to compete with 
them in am thing but decency. 1 hope yours is the Pans 
edition, and that you did not pay the London price. I 
have seen neither except in the newspapers, 

"Pray nuke my respects to Mrs. H. and take care of 
your little boy. AH my household have the fever and 

■ , except Fletcher, Allegra, and mysm, (as we used to 

say in iS'ottinghamshire,) and the horses, and Mutz, and 
Morelto. In the beginning of November, perhaps sooner 
L expect to have the pleasure of toeing you. To-day I 
got drenched by a thunder-storm, and my horse and groom 
too, and his horsa all bemired up to the middle in a cross*- 



LETTERS, 1819. 



143 



road. It was summer, al noon, and at five we were 

bewinlered; but the lightning was sent perhaps to let us 
know that the summer was not yet over. It is queer 
weather for the 27th of October. 

"Yours. &c." 



LETTER CCCCVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, October 29, 1S19. 
■Yours of the 15th came yesterday. I am sorry that 
you do not mention a large letter addressed to your care 
for Lady Byron, from me, at Bologna, two months ago. 
Pray tell me was this letter received and forwarded? 

■ You say nothing uf the vice-consulate for the Ravenna 
patrician, from which it is to be inferred that the thing will 
not be done. 

"I had written about a hundred stanzas of a Third 
Canto to Don Juan, but the reception of the first two is 
no encouragement to you nor me to proceed. 

"I had also written about six hundred lines of a poem, 
the Vision (or Prophecy) of Dante, the subject a view of 
Italy in the ages down to the present — supposing Dante 
to speak in his own person, previous to his death, and 
embracing all topics in the way of prophecy, like Lyco- 
phron's Cassandra; but this and the other are both al a 
stand-still for the present. 

" I gave Moore, who is gone to Rome, my life in MS. 
in 78 folio sheets, brought down to 1816. But this' I put 
into his hands for his care, as he has some other MSS. <>t 
mine — a Journal kept in 1814, &c. Neither are for pub- 
lication during my life, but when I am cold, you may do 
what you please. In the mean time, if you like to read 
them you may, and show them to any body you like — I 
care not. 

" The Life is Memoranda, and not Confessions. I have 
left out all my loves, (except in a general way,) and manv 
other of the most important things, (because I must not 
compromise other people,) so that it is like the play of 
Hamlet — ( The part of Hamlet omitted by particular 
desire.' But you will find many opinions, and some fun, 
with a detailed account of my marriage and its conse- 
quences, as true as a party concerned can make such 
account, for I suppose we are all prejudiced. 

* I have never read over this Life since it was written, 
so that I know not exactly what it may repeat or contain. 
Moore and I passed some merry days together. * 

* * * * * * * 

■ I probably must return for business, or in my way to 
America. Pray, did you get a letter for Hobhouse, u l.o 
will have told you the contents ? I understand that the 
Venezuelan commissioners had orders to treat with emi- 
grants ; now I want to go there. I should not make a bad 
South American planter, and I should take my natural 
daughter, Allegra, with me, and settle. I wrote, at length, 
to Hobhouse, to get information from Perry, who, 1 BUp> 
pose, is the best topographer and trumpeter of the new 
republicans. Pray write. "Yours, ever. 

"P. S. Moore and I did nothing but laugh. He will 
\ell you of 'my whereabouts, 1 and all my proceedings at 
Jlis present; they are as usual. You should not let those 
fellows publish false ' Don Jvians ;' but do not put my name, 
because I mean to cut Roberts up like a gourd in the pre- 
face, if I continue the poem.'' 



LETTER CCCCVIH. 



TO MR. HOPPNKR. 



"October 29, 1819. 
"The Ferrara story is of a piece with all the rest of 
the Venetian manufacture,* — you may judge : 1 oulv 



changed horses there since I wrote to you, after my visit 
in June last. Convent} and 'carry offl quotha! and 
1 gitV I should like to know ivhv has been carried ulf, 
except poor dear me. I have been more ravished myself 
than any body since the Trojan war; but as to thj 
arrest, and its causes, one is as true as the other, and 
I can account for the invention of neither. I suppose it 
is some confusion of the tale of the Fornaretta and of Me. 
Guiccioli, and half a dozen more; but it is useless to 
unravel the web, when one has only to brush it away. I 
shall settle with Master E., who looks very blue at your 
in-decision, and swears that he is the best aridimetician in 
Europe; and s.o I think also, for he makes out two and 
two to be five. 

* You may see me next week. I have a horse or two 
more, (five in all,) and I shall repossess myself of Lido 
and I will rise earlier, and we will go and shake our livers 
over the beach, as heretofore, if you like — and we will 
make the Adriatic roar again with uur hatred of that now 
empty oyster-shell, without its pearl, the city of Venice. 

" Murray sent me a letter yesterday : the impostors 
have published two new Tldrd Cantos of Don Juan:— 
the devil take the impudence of some blackguard book* 
seller or other there/or.' Perhaps I did not make myself 
understood ; he told me the sale had been great, 1200 out 
of 1500 quarto, I believe, (which is nothing, after, selling 
13,000 of the Corsair in one day ;) but that the { best 
judges,' &c. had said it was very fine, and clever, and par- 
ticularly good English, and poetry, and all those consola- 
tory things, which are not, however, worth a single copy 
to a bookseller : and as to the author, of course I am in a 
d — ned passion at the bad taste of the times, and swear 
there is nothing like posterity, who, of course, must know 
more of the matter than their grandfathers. There has 
been an eleventh commandment to the women not to read 
it, and what is still more extraordinary, they seem not to 
have broken it. But that can be of little import to them, 
poor things, for the reading or non-reading a book will 
never * * * * * * 

"Count G. comes to Venice next week, and I am re- 
quested to consign his wife to him, which shall be done * 
* * What you say of the long even- 

ings at the Mira, or Venice, reminds me of what Curran 
said to Moore: — 'So I hear you have married a pretty 
woman, and a very good creature, too — an excellent crea- 
ture. Pray — urn! — how do you pass your evenings?* It 
is a devil of a question that, and perhaps as easy to 
answer with a wife as with a mistress. 

8 JT you go to Milan, pray leave at least a Vice-Consul 
— the only vice that will ever be wanting at Venice. 
D'Orville is a good fellow. But you shall go to England 
in the spring with me, and plant Mrs. Hoppner at Berne 
with her relations for a few months. I wish you had been 
here (at Venice, I mean, not the Mira) when Moore was 
here — we were very merry and tipsy. He hated Venice 
by-the-way, and swore it was a sad place . 

"So Madame Albrizzi's death is in danger — poor wo- 
man ! * * * * * * 
Moore told me that at Geneva they had made a devil of 
a story of the Fornaretta : — * Young lady seduced ! — sub- 
sequent abandonment! — leap into (he Grand Canal!* — 
and her being in the ' hospital of fous in consequence ? I 
should like to know who was nearest being made '/on,' 

and be d d to them! Don't you think me in the 

interesting character of a very ill-used gentleman? I 
hope your little boy is well. Allegrina is flourishing like 
a pomegranate blossom. "Yours, ice" 



LETTER CCCCIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, November 8, 1819. 
"Mr. Hoppner has lent me a copy uf ' Don Juan, 1 Paris 



144 



LETTERS, 1819. 



edition, which he tells roe is read in Switzerland by clergy- 
men and ladies, with couiiderable approbation. In the 
Second Canto, you roust alter the 40th stanza to 

" 'T wa» twilight, and the »unlfM day sent down 

O.er the VBftcM «■!«■, likr (I «t] 

v\ i if withdrawn would buldiacloM Ibi frown 

Oi DIM whoM h»le it inask'il bill M) Uull , 

Ttnn to their liopcleM eyei Uie night wa» »l<own, 

.And crimly darkled o'er their facti |m!c 
And the din dsfslaw deep; iwel»*d«y«had Pear 
Been UM.ll unuli.tr, aid now Lentil ruklll.' 

"[ have been ill these eij»ht Hays with a tertian fever, 
caughl i.i ihe country on horseback in a thunder-storm. 
Yesterday I had the fourth atlack: the two last were very 
smart, the first day as well as the last being preceded by 
vomiting. It is the fever of ihe place and the season, 
t feel weakened, but not unwell, in the intervals, except 
headache and lassiufde. 

"Count Guicciob has arrived in Venice, and has pre- 
sented his spouse (who had preceded him two months f >r 
her health and (he prescriptions of Dr. Agfietti) with a 
paper of condiu ins, regulations of boors, and conduct, and 
morals, &c. &c.&e. which he insists on her accepting, 
and she persists in refusing. I am expressly, it should 
seem, excluded hy this treaty, as an indispensable pre- 
liminary; so that they are in high dissension, and what 
the result may be, I know not, particularly as they are 
consulting friends. 

"To-night, as Countess Guiccioli observed me pnrini' 
over 'Don Juan,' she stumbled hy mere chance on the 
137th stanza of the First Canto, and asked me what it 
meant I told her, 'Nothing — hut "your husband is 
coming." ' As I said this in Italian with some emphasis, 
she started up in a fnght, and said, ' Oft, my God,U he 
coming? thinking it was hr men, who either was or might 
to have been at the theatre. You may suppose we 
laughed when she found out the mistake. You will be 
amused, as I was ; — it happened not three hours ago. 

"I wrote to you last week, but have added nothing to 
the Third Canto since my fever, nor to 'The Prophecy 
of Dame' Of the former there are about a hundred 
octaves done ; of the latter about five hundred lines — per- 
haps more. Moore saw the Third Juan, as far as it then 
went. I do not know if my fever will let me go on with 
either, and the tertian lasts, they say, a good while. I had 
it in Malta on my way home, and the malaria fever in 
t fa ece the year before that. The Venetian is not very 
fierce, but I was delirious one of the nights with it, for 
an hour or two, and, on my senses coming hack, bund 
Fletcher sobbing on one side of the bed, and I, a Contessa 
Guiccioli weeping on the other; so that I had no want of 
attendance. I have not yet taken any physician, hecaus 
though I think they may relieve in chronic disorders, such 
as gout and the like, &c. Sir. &c. (though they can't cure 
them) — just as surgeons are necessary to set bones and 
tend wounds — yet I think fevers quite out of their reach, 
and remediable only by diet and nature. 

a I don't like the laste of bark, but I suppose thai 1 must 
take it soon. 

"Tell Rose that somebody at Milan (an Atetrian, Mr. 
Hoppncr savs) is answering his book. William Bankes 
is in quarantine at Trieste. I have not lately heard from 
yon. Excuse this paper: it is long paper shortened for 
the occasion. What folly is this of < 'arlile's trial ? why 
et him have the honours of a martyr ? it will only advert 
Use the books in question. 

* Tours, &c. 
"P. S. As I tell you that the Guiccioli busmen is on 
the eve of exploding in one way or the other, I will just 
ndd, that without attempting to influence the decision of 
the Contessa, a good deal depends upon it. If she and 
her husband make it up, you will perhaps s,.«. m e in Eng- 
land sooner than you expect. If not, I shall retire with 

* Corrected n tin* etKUon. 



her to France or America, change my name, and toad a 
quiet provincial life. All ihia may seem odd, but I have 
got ihe poor girl into a scrape; and as n< iiher hi 
nor her rank, nor her connexions by birth or nmi 

re uifenor to mv own, I am in honour bond to support 
her through. Besides, she is a very pretty woman — ask 
IVloore — and not yet one-anoVtwenty a 

■ If she gets over this, and 1 gel over ni tertian, I "ill 

perhaps look in at Albemarle-otreet, some -t these days, 
ni pitsaont to Bolivar. 



LETTER CCCCX. 

TO MB. BANKES. 

"Venice, November 20, 1819. 

H A tertian ague which has troubled me for some lime, 
and the indispositbn of my daughter, have prevented me 
from replying before to your welcome letter. I have not 
been ignoram of your progress nor Of your discoveries, 
and I trust that yoti are no worse in health from your 
labours. You may rely upon noting every body in Eng- 
land eager to reap the fruits of them; and as you have 
done more than other nun, 1 hope you will not limit your- 
self to Shying less than may do justice to the talents and 
tune vou have bestowed on your perilous researches. 
The first sentence of mv letter "iU have explained to you 
why I cannot join vou at Trieste. I was on the point of 
setting out for England, (before 1 knew of your arrival,) 
when my child's illness has made her and me dependent 
on a. Venetian Proto-Medieo. 

H It is now seven years since you and I met ; — which 
time you have employed better for others, and more 
honourably fur yourself! than I have done. 

"In England you will find considerable chanscs, public 
and private, — vou will see some of our old college con- 
temporaries turned into lords of ihe treasury, admiralty 
and ihe like, — others become reformers and orator-, — 
many settled in life as H is called, — and others settled in 
death; among the latter (by-the-way, not our fellow-col- 
legians,) Sheridan, Curran. Lady Melbourne, Monk 
Lewis, Frederick Douglas, fee. &c. fee.; but vou wiB 
still find Mr. * * living and all bis fauuy, as also * 



"Sho 



ild vou come up this way. and I am still hero, 
vou need not be assured how glad I shall be to see vou \ 
I long to hear some part, from you, of that which I expect 
in no long time to see. A* length you have had better 
fortune than any Traveller of equal enterprise, (except 
Humboldt,) hi returning safe; and af'ei the fate of the 
BrowneSjOnd the Parkes, and the Burckharrlts, it is hardly 
less surprise than sati- faction to get you back again. 
"Believe Hie ever 

B and very affectionately vours, 

■Byron. 1 



LETTER CCCCXI. 

TO MB. Mt'KHAV. 

"Venice, Dee. 4, 1819. 
"You may do as vou please, but you are about a hops- 
.ess experiment.* Eldon will decide againsi you, were u 
only that mv name is ui the record. Vou will also rt. oi- 
led that if the publication is pronounced against, on "V 
grounds you mention, as infttccnt ant I Nuxphrmtms, that / 
loso all right in my daughter's gvonaonsfttp and oducation, 
in short, all paternal aumorily, and every thing concerning 
her, except * 



* Mr HffurfrnvnadeomMiiccdi MihHatnm London i* okiHlrr. for 
m lii(rlM«srawil U h»« euyynslit, In (mljUl.u.g » postwl edition r.( Doo 



LETTERS, 1810. 



1-15 



It was so decided in She lley's case, because he had writ- 
ten Q,ueen Mab, &c. &c. However you can ask the. 
lawyers, and do as you like: I do not inhibit you trying 
the question; I merely slate one of the consequences to 
me. With regard io the copyright, it is hard thai you 
should pay for a nonentity. I will therefore refund it, 
which I can very well do. not having spent it, nor began 
npon it ; and so we will be quite on that score. It lies at 
my banker's. 

" I tf lite Chancellor's law I am no judge ; but take up 
Tom Jones, and read his Mrs. Waters and Molly Sea- 
grim; 01 Priorii Elans Carvel and Paulo Purganti \ Smol- 
lett's Roderick Random, the chapter of Lord StrutweD, 
and manv others; Peregrine Pickle, the scene of the 
Beggar Girl; Johnson's ijmdon, for coarse expressions; 
fir instance, the words ' * *,' and * * * ;' Anstey's Bath 
Guide, the 'Hearken, Lady Betty, hearken;' — take up, 
in short, Pope, Prior, Cougreve, Drvden, Fielding Smol- 
lett, and let the Counsel select passages, and what be- 
comes of their copyright, if his Wat Tyler decision is to 
pass into a precedent? 4 I have nothing more to say; 
you must judge for yourselves. 

c I wrote to you some time a°,o. I have had a tertian 
ague; mv daughter Allesra has been ill also, and I have 
been almost obliged to run away with a married woman; 
but with some difficulty, and many internal struggles, I 
reconciled the Lady with her lord, and cured the fever of 
the child with bark, and my own with cold water. I think 
of setting out fir Kn«jland by the Tyrol in a few days, so 
that [ could wish you to direct your next letter to Calais. 
Excuse mv writing in great haste and late in the mom- 
ins, or night, whichever you please to call it. The Third 
Canto of 'Don Juan' is completed, in about two hundred 
stanzas; very decent, I believe, but do not know, and it 
is useless to discuss until it be ascertained, if it may or 
may not be a property. 

"My present determination to quit Itatv was unlocked 
for; but I have explained the reasons in letters to my 
sister and Douglas Kinnaird, a week or two ago. My 
progress will depend upon the snows of the Tyrol, and 
he health of my child, who is at present quite recovered; 
-but I hope to get on well, and am 

" Yours every and truly. 

ft P. S. Many thanks for your letters, to which you are 
not to consider this as an answer, but as an acknowled 
roent." 



LETTER CCCCXII. 

TO TltE COUNTESS GUtCCIOLI. 

c You are, and ever will be, my first thought. But 
at this moment, I am in a state most dreadful, not know- 
ing which way to decide ; — on the one hand, fearing that 
I should compromise you for ever, by my return to R 
venna and die consequences of such a step, and, on the 
other, dreading that I shall lose both you and myself, and 
all that I have ever known or tasted of happiness, by never 
seeing vou more. I pray of you, I implore you to be 
enmforted, and to believe that I cannot cease to love you 
but with my rife." * * * + " I go to 

save you, and leave a country insupportable to me with- 
out you. Your letters to F * * and myself do wrong 
to my motives — but you will yet see your injustice. It is 
not enough that I mu^f leave you — from motives of which 
ere long you will be convinced — it is not enough that I 
must fly from Italv, with a heart deeply wounded, after 
having passed all my days in solitude since your depar- 
ture, sick both in body and mind — but I must also have to 
endure vour reproaches without answering and without 
deserving them. Farewell! — in that one word is com- 
prised the death of ray happiness." 



LETTER CCCCXHI. 

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

up * * * W) -|i already have told vou, with hrr obocus- 
tomed stihiimilify thai Love has gained the victory. I could 
not summon Up resolution enough to leave the country 
where you are, without, at least, once more seeing you. 
On ifourxtif, perhaps, it will depend, whether 1 ever again 
shall leave vou. Of the rest we shall speak when we 
meet. You ought, by this time, to know which is most 
eon lucive 'o your welfare, my presence or my absence. 
For mvself, I am a citizen of the world — all countries are 
alike io me. You have ever been, since our first acquaint- 
ance, tfu sole otyect of my thoughts. Mv opinion was, that 
the be^l course I could adopt, both for your peace and 
thai of all yout family, would have been to depart and go 
far,/ar awav from you ; — since to have been near and not 
approach vou would have been, for me, impossible. You 
have however decided that I am to rcjurn to Ravenna. I 
shall accordingly return — and shall do — and 6eall that you 
wish. I cannot say more." 



LETTER CCCCXIV. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



"MY DEAR HOPPXER, 

"Parting are but bitter work at best, so that I shall not 
venture on a second with you. Pray make my respects to 
Airs. Hoppner, and assure her of my unalterable rever- 
ence for the singular goodness of her disposition, which is 
not without its reward even in this world — for those who 
are no great believers in human virtues would discover 
enough in her to give them a better opinion of their fellow- 
creatures, and — what is still more difficult — of themselves, 
as being of the same species, however inferior in approach* 
its nobler models. Make, too, what excuses you can 
for my omission of the ceremony of leave-taking. If we 
all meet again, I will make my humblest apology : if not, 
recollect that 1 wished you all well : and, if you can, for- 
get that 1 have given you a great ileal of trouble. 

" Tours, &c. Sac " 



LETTER CCCCXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



• See Letter bttl. 
13 



"Venice, December 10, 1919. 

a Since I last wrote, I have changed my mind, and shall 
not come to England. The more I contemplate, the more 
I dislike the place and the prospect. You may therefore 
address to me as usual /irr<?, though I mean to go to 
another city. I have finished the Third Canto of Don 
Juan, but the things I have read and heard discourage all 
farther publication — at least for the present. You may 
trv the copy question, but you'll lose it: the cry is up, 
and cant is up. I should have no objection to return the 
price of the copvright, and have written to Mr. Kinnaird 
by this post on the subject. Talk with him. 

" I have not the patience, nor do I feel interest enough 
in the question, to contend with the fellows in their own 
slang; but I perceive Mr. Blackwood's Magazine and 
one or two others of your missives have been hyperbolical 
in their praise, and diabolical in their abuse. I like and 
admire Wilson, and he should not have indulged himself 
in such outrageous license.* It is overdone and defeats 
itself. What would he say to the grossness without pas- 
sion and the misanthropy without feeling of Gulliver's 



• This ianneof the many mistakes into which his distance fn,nthric«ie 
of Uteran operation! led him. The gentleman to whom the hratilt 
article Id the Murine w here attributed, has Dever, either then or 
■lace, milled upon Ihe rabjftct of ihr noble poet'e character or geniua, 
without gi*i'ip, *enl to a feebug of admiration aa emliuaxulic u it la 
■Iwhji JoquebU} md rfoweTfuliyexi.roaaed.— Moor* 



146 



LKTTERS, 1820. 



Travels'.' — When he talks of lady Byron's business, he 
talks of what he knows nothing about; and you may tell 
him that no one ran more desire a public investigation of 
that affair than I do. 

"1 sent home bv Moore {fur Moore only, who has my 
journal also) my Memoir written up to 1816, and I cave hi.m 
[e iv<- to show it to whom he pU aaed, but not /" publish, no 
nv account. You mavread it, and you may let Wilson 
read it, if he likes — Dot for his public opinion, but his 
private; for I like the man, and can v«rv little about bis 
magazine. And 1 could wish Lady B. herself to read 
it. that she mav have it in her power to mark any thing 
mistaken or mis-stated ; as it may probably appear after 
my extinction, and it would he but fair she should see it, 
—that is to say, herself willing. 

"Perhaps I may take a journey to you in the spring; 
but I have been ill and am indolent and indecisive, because 
few things interest me. These fellows first abused me 
for being gloomy, and now they are wroth that I am, or 
attempted to be, facetious. I have got such a cold and 
headach that I can hardly see what I scrawl ; — the win- 
ten here are as sharp as needles, Some time ago J 
wrote to you rather fully about my Italian affairs ; at pre- 
sent I can say no more except that you shall hear farther 
by-and-by. 

"Your Blackwood accuses me of treating women 
harshly : it may be so, but I have been their martyr ; my 
whole life has been jacrifieed to them and by them. I 
mean to leave Venice in a few days, hut you will address 
your letters here as usual. When I fix elsewhere, you 
■hall know." 



season itself is sc little complimentary with snow and 
ram that I wait for sunshine." 



LETTER CCCCXVII. 



TO MK. MOOKE. 



'January 2, 1820 



K MV DEAR MOORE, 



" ' To-day it ti my wsddtag-day, 
Alhl nil Ibt folk* would sure 

If wile ■houlddlnc m FXmomon, 
and 1 ifaould dlnri nl Wan. 1 



Or thus,— 



LETTER CCCCXV1. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



"Ravenna, December 31, 1819. 

•1 have been here this week, and was obliged to put on 
my armour and go the night after my arrival to the Mar- 
quis Cavalli's, where there were between two and three 
hundred of the best company I have seen in Italy,— 
more beauty, more youth, and more diamonds among the 
women than have been seen these fifty years in the Sea- 
Sodom.* — I never saw such a difference between two 
places of the same latitude (or platitude, it is all one,) — 
music, dancing, and play, all in the same saSe. The G.'s 
object appeared to be to parade her foreign lover as 
much as possible, and, faith, if she seemed to glorv in the 
scandal, it was not for me to be ashamed of it. Nobody 
seemed surprised ; — all the women, on the contrary, were, 
as it were, delighted with th° excellent example. The 
vice-legate, and all the other vices, were as polite as could 
be; — and I, who had acted on the reserve, was fairly 
obliged to take the lady under my arm, and look as much 
like a cicisbeo as I could on so short a notice, — to say 
nothing of the embarrassment of a cocked hat and sword, 
much more formidable to me than ever it will be to the 
enemy. 

u I write in great haste — do you answer as hastily. I 
can understand nothing of all this ; but it seems as if 
the G. had been presumed to be planted) and was deter- 
mined to show that she was not, — plantation, in this 
hemisphere, being the greatest moral mi fortune. But 
this is mere conjecture, for I know nothing about it — 
except that every body are very kind to her, and not dis- 
courteous to me. Fathers, and all relations, quite agree- 
able. * Yours ever, 

"B. 

"P. S. Best respects to Mrs. H. 

"I would send the compliment* of the season; but the 



' Gehenna ef Ibe waiera ! thou Sea-Sod«m l M 

Afar in 9 Falnro. 



" Here '<» happy ««* year !bi" withreaaon, 

1 beg you '11 permit rot m iay — 
Wi»li tin- fimny retumi of the tendon, 

But ae feu aa you pleaae of the day. 

"My this present writing is to direct vou that, if tJm 
chooses, she may see the MS. Memoir in your possession. I 
wiSfl her t.. have fur play in all ease?, even though it will 
not be published till after my decease. For this purpose, K 
were but just that Lady B. should know what is there said 
of her and hers that she may have full power to remark on 
or re^jKind to any part or parts, as may seem fitting to 
herself. This is fair dealing I presume, in all events. 

"To change the subject, are you in England.' I send 
you an epitaph for Castlereagh. 

* * **** * * 

Another for Pitt — 

" With <tenlh rionm'd to imipple 

BenaftUi thin-old pkb, be 
\\ h ■ lied hi iha Chapel 
Kov Ilea iii ttic Abbey. 

* The gods seem to have made me poetical this day:— 

" in dining opToui bone*, Tom Paine, 
Will, i b welt: 

Yon viiit him on earth again, 
lie 'II mil van in ball. 

" Ton come to him on earth again. 
He II go wuh ynii to hell. 

"Pray let not these versieuli go forth with my name, 
except among the initiated, because my friend Hobhouse 
has foamed into ;> reformer, and I greatly fear, will sub- 
side into Newgate; since the Honourable House, accord- 
ing to Galignanis Reports of Parliamentary Debates, 
are menacing a prosecution to a pamphlet of his. I shall 
be very sorry to hear of any tiling but good for him, par- 
ticularly in these miserable squabbles; but these are the 
natural effects of taking a part in them. 

"For my own part, I hail a sad scene since you went. 
Count Gu. came for his wife, and none of those conse- 
quences which Scott prophesied ensued. There was no 
damages, a^ in England, and so Scott lost his wager. Bui 
there was a great scene, for she woyld not, at first, go 
back with him — at least, she did go back with him- but 
he insisied, reasonably enough, thai aJ communication 
should be broken off between her and me. So, rinding 
Italy very dull, and having a fever tertian, I packed up 
my valise and prepared to cross the Alps ; but my daugh- 
ter fell ill, and detained me,- 

"After her arrival at Ravenna, the Guiccioli fell ill 
again too ; and, at last her father (who had, all along, op- 
posed the liaison most violently till now) wrote to me to 
say that she was in such a state that he begged me to 
come and see her, — and tliat her husband had acquiesced 
in consequence of her relapse, and that he (her father) 
would guarantee all this, and that there would be no far- 
ther scenes in consequence between them, and that I 
should not be compromised in any way- I set out soon 
af er, and have been here ever since. I fo-jnd her a "ood 
deal altered, but getting better: — all ibis comes of reading 
Connna. 

R The Carnival ts about to begin, and I saw about two 



LETTERS, 1820. 



147 



or three hundred people a; the Marquis Cavalli's the other 
evening, with as much youth, beauty, and diamonds among 
the women, as ever averaged in the like number. My 
appearance in wailing on the Guiccioli was considered as 
a thing of course. The Marquis is her uncle, and natu- 
rally considered me as her relation. 

M The paper is out, and so is the letter. Pray write 
Address to Wiucc, whence the letters will be forwarded 
H Yours, &c. "B." 



LETTER CCCCXVIIL 

TO MR. HOPPIfER. 

Ravenna, January 20, 1820. 

B I have not decided any thing about remauung at Ra- 
venna. I may slay a day, a week, a year, all my life ; but 
all this depends upon what I can neither see nor foresee. 
I came because I was called, and will go the moment thai 
1 perceive what may render my departure proper. My 
attachment haa neither the blindness of the beginning, nor 
the microscopic accuracy of ths close to such liaisons ; 
but ' time and the hour' must decide upon what I do. I 
can as yet say nothing, because I hardly know any thing 
beyond what I have told you. 

"I wrote lo vou la^t post for my moveables, as there is 
no getting a lodging with a chair or table here reaJv ; and 
as t have already some things of the sort at Bologna which 
I had last summer there f <r my daughter, I have directed 
them to be moved ; and wish the like to be done with 
those of Venice, that I may ai least gel out of the ' Alber- 
go Imperiale,' which is imperial in all true sense of (he 
epithet. Butfini may be paid for his poison. I forgot 
to thank vou and Mrs. Hoppner for a whole treasure 
of toys for Allcgra before our departure ; it was very kind, 
and we are very gratefid. 

* Your account of the wedding of the Governor's party 
Ef wrv entertaining. If you do not understand the ron- 
fular exceptions, I do; and it i> right 'bat a man of ho- 
oour, and a woman of probity, should find it so, particu- 
larly in a place where there are not ' ten righteous. 1 As 
iiy — in England none are strictly noble but peers, 
not even peers 9 sons, though titled by courtesy ; nor knights 
of the carter, unless of the peerage, so i hat Castl< 
himself would hardly pass through a foreign herald's or- 
deal till the death of his father. 

"The snow is a fooJ deep here. There is a theatre, and 
opera, — the Barber of Seville. Balls be sin on Monday 
■est. Pav the porter for never looking after the gafe, anil 
*hip my chattels, and let me know, or let Castelli let me 
know, bow my lawsuits go on — but fee him only in pro- 
portion lo his success. Perhaps we may meet in the 
spring vet, if you are for England. I see Hobhouse has 
got into a scrape, which d<>es not please me ; he should 
not have gone so deep among those men, witlwut calculat- 
ing the consequences. I used to think myself the most 
imprudent of all among my friends and acquaintances, 
but almost begin to doubt il. 

K Yours &c." 



LETTUR CCCCXIX. 



TO MR. HOPPSER. 



"Ravenna, January 31, 1820. 

* Vou would hardly have been troubled with the remo- 
val of mv furniture, but there is none to be had nearer than 
Bologna, and I have been fain to have that of the rooms 
which I fitted up for my daughter there in the summer re- 
moved here. The expense will be at least as great of the 
land carriage, so that you see it was necessity, and not 
choice. Here they get even.' thing from Bologna, except 
some lighter articles from Forli or Faenza. 

■ If 0cott is returned, pray remember me to him. and 



plead laziness the whole and sole cause of my not reply- 
ing: — dreadful is the exertion of letter- writing. The 
Carnival here is less boisterous, but we have balls 
and a theatre. I earned Bankes lo both, and he carried 
away, I believe, a much more favourable impression of 
the society here than of thai of Venice — recollect that I 
speak of the native society only. 

" I am drilling very hard to learn how to double a shawl, 
and should succeed to admiration if I did not always dou- 
ble it the wrong side out ; and then I sometimes confuse 
and bring away two, so as to put all the Servenu" out, be- 
sides keeping their Smite hi die cold till even- body can 
get back their property. But it is a dreadfully moral 
place, for you must not look at any body's wife except 
your neighbour's, — if vou go to the next door but one, you 
are scolded, and presumed to be perfidious. And theD a 
relazione or an amicizia seems to be a regular affair of 
from five lo fifteen years, at which period, if there occur 
a widowhood, it finishes by a sposalizio ; and in the mean 
lime, it has so many rules of its own that it is not much 
better. A man actually becomes a piece of female pro 
perty, — they won't let their Servenu marry until there is 
a vacancy for themselves. I know two instances of this 
in one family here. 

* To-night there was a — * Lottery after the opera : it 
is an odd ceremony. Bankes and I took tickets of it, and 
buffooned together very merrily. He is gone to Firenze. 
Airs. J * * should have sent you my postscript ; there 
was no occasion to have bored you in person. I never 
interfere in any body's squabbles, — she may scratch your 
face herself. 

" The weather here has been dreadftd — snow several 
feet — a Jhtme broke down abridge, and flooded heaven 
knows how many eampi ; then rain came — and it is still 
thawing — so that my saddle-horses have a sinecure till 
the roads become more practicable. "Why did Lega give 
away the goat ? a blockhead — I must have him again. 

" Will you pay Missiaglia and the Buffo Buffini of the 
Gran Bre agna. I heard from Moore, who is at Paris; 
I had previously written lo him in London, but he has not 
yet got mv letter, apparently. 

"Believe me, &c" 



LETTER CCCCXX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, February 7, 1620 

* I have had no letter from you these two months : but 
since I came here in December, 1819, I sent you a letter 
for Moore, who is, God knows where — in Paris or London, 
I presume. I have copied and cut the Third Canto of Don 
Juan into two, because it was too long: ; and I tell you this 
beforehand, because in case of any reckoning between 
vou and me, these two are only to go for one, as this was 
the original firm, and, in fact, the two together are not 
longer than one of the first : so remember that I have not 
made this division to double upon you ; but merely to sup- 
press some tediousness in the aspect of the thing. I 
should have served you a pretty trick if I had sent you, 
for example, cantos of 50 stanzas each. 

" I am translating the First Canto of Pulci's Morgante 
Maggiore, and have half done it ; but these last days of 
the Carnival confuse and interrupt every thing. 

"I have not yet sent off the Cantos, and have some 
doubt whether they ought to be published, for they have 
not the spirit of the first. The outcry has not frightened 
but it has hurt me, and I have not written con amore this 
time. It is very decent, however, and as dull as ' the last 
new comedy.' 

* I think my translations of Pulci will make you stare. 



1 The word Here, being under ibe ie*l, ii illegible 



148 

It must be put by the original, stanza for stanza, and verse 
for verse ; ami you will see what was permitted in a Ca- 
tholic country and a bigoted age to a churchman, on the 
score of religion ; — and so tell those buffoons who accuse 
me of attacking the Liturgy. 

" 1 write in the greatest haste, it being 'he hour of the 
Corso, and I must go and buffoon with (he rest. My 
daughter Allcgra is just gone with the Countess G. in 
Count G.'s coach and sue, to join, the cavalcade, and 1 must 
follow with all the rest of the Ravenna world. Our eld 
Cardinal is dead, and ihe new one nol appointed yet ; but 
the masking goes on the same, the vice-legate being ■ 
good governor. We have had hideous frost and snow, hut 
all is mild again, u Yours, &c." 



LETTERS, 1820. 



LETTER CCCCXKI. 



TO MR. BAXKES. 



"Ravenna, February 19, 1820. 
« 1 have room for ybu in the bouse here, as I had in 
Venice, If you dunk tit to make use of it ; but do nol ex- 

p<-et tn find ili»- same t;.>r^*'..us suite of tapestried balls. 

Neither dangers nor tropical beats have ever prevented 

your penetrating wherever you had a mind to it, and why 
should the snow now '. — Italian snow — fie on it ! — so 
pray come. Tita's heart yearns for you, and mayhap 
for your silver broad pieces ; and your playfellow, the 
monkey, is alone and inconsolable. 

" I forget whether you admire or tolerate red hair, so 
thai I rather dread showing you all that 1 have about me 
and around me in this city. Come, nevertheless, — you 
can pay Dante a morning visit, and I will undertake that 
Theodore and Honoris will be most happy to see you in 
the forest bard by. vVeGoths, also, of Ravenna hope 
you will not despise our arch-Goth, Theodoric. I must 
leave it to these worthies to entertain you all the fore pah 
of the day, seeing that I have none at all myself— the 
lark, thai rouses me from my slumbers, being an afternoon 
bird. Bur, then, all your evenings, and as much as you 
can give me of your nights, will be mine. Ay ! and you 
will find me eating flesh, too, like yourself or any other 
cannibal, except it he upon Fridays. Then, there are 
more Cantos (and be *\—d to them) of what th< coup- 
(runs t. ,; | .t. Mr. Saunders, rails Grub-Street, m my 
drawer, which I have a lii'.ie scheme to commit to your 
lor England; only [ must first cut up (or cut 
down) two aforesaid * Jantosinto three, because I am grown 
base and mercenary, and it is an ill precedent to let my 
Mecsenas, Murray, gel too much for his money. I am 
busy, also, with Pulci — translating — servilely translating, 
Stanza lor stanza, and line for line — two octaves every 
night, - the same allowance as at Venice. 

■ Would you call at your banker's at Bologna, and ash 
him for some Letters Lying there for me, and burn them .' — 

or 1 will — so do not bum them, hut bring them, — and be- 
lieve me ever and very affectionately 

■ Yours, tt Byron. 

" P. s. I have a particular wish to hear from yourself 
something about Cyprus, so pray recollect all that you 
can.— Good night." 



LETTER CCCCXXII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, Feb. 21, 1820. 
"The hull-dogs will be very agreeable. 1 haw only 
those of this country, who, though good, have not the tena- 
city of tooth and stoicism in endurance of my canine fel- 
low-citizens : then pray send them by the readiest con- 



• BmOoiiJiiui, Cut^Iir.SunM 1 



veyance — perhaps best by sea. Mr. Kinnaird will dis- 
burse fir them, and deduct from the amount on your ap- 
plication or thai of Captain Tyler. 

M see the good old King is gone to his place. Om» 
can't help being sorry, (hough blindness, and age, and in- 
anity arc supposed to be drawbacks on human felicity ; 
but lain not at all sure that the latter at least might not 
render him happier than any ol'ln- suhjeet*. 

u I haw no thoughts oCcoming to the coronatmn, i 1 
I should tike to see it, and though I have a right U i 
puppet in it; but my division widi Lady Byron, which 
has drawn an eouinociial line between tne and mine in 
all other things, will operate in this also to prevent my 
being in the same procession. 

- I's Saturday's post 1 sent you f mr packets, contain- 
ing Cantos Third aitd Fourth. Recollect that these two 
cantos reckon only as one with you ami me, being in fact 

the third canto cut into two, because (found it loo long. 

Reme mbe r linajand da n't imagine that than could be any 
othi i in ol ivr. The whole is about £££ saigas, more a 
and a lyric of 96 tines, so that they are no longer than lh< 

first single CantOS : but the truth IS, that 1 made the first 
tOO long, and should have cut those down also had I 

thought better. Instead of saying In future lor so many 
cantos, say so many stanzas or pages : it was Jacob Ton- 
-oiTs way, and certainly tin- bust ; it prevents mistakes. 
I might have sent vou a do?rn cantos, of JO stanzas eacli, 
— those of ' The Minstrel' (Beattkrs) are do longer,-— 
and ruined you at once, if you do n't suffer as it is. But 
recollect that you are not piiimd duum to any thing you 
say in a letter, ami that, calculating even these two cantos 
as tutt only (which they wen and are to be reckoned,) 
you are not bound by your offer. Act as may seem fail 
to all parties. 

"I have finished mv translation of the First Canto of 
the 'Morgante Majrgiore' of Pulci, which I will transcribe 
and send. It IS the parent, DOt Onlj of Whtstk-crafl, but 
of all jocose Italian poetry. You must print it side by 
side with the original Italian, because I wish the reader 
to judge of the fidelity: it is stanza for stanza, and often 
line for line, if not word for word. 

"You ask me for a volume of manners, &c. on Italy. 
Perhaps I am in the case to know mure of then than 
most Englishmen, because I have lived among the na- 
tives, and in parts of the country where Englishmen 
never resided before (I speak of Romagna and this place 
particularly ;) but there are many reasons why I do not 
choose to treat in print on such a subject. I have lived 
in their houses and in the heart of their families, sometimes 
merely as ( amicodi casa, 1 and sometimes as'amicodi 
cuore' of the Dama, and in neither case do I feci invs-lf 
authorized in making a hook of them. Their moral is 
not your moral ; their life is not your life ; you »< oU not 
understand it ; it is not English, nor French, ikt German, 

which VOU would all understand. The conventual edu- 
cation, the cavalier servitude, the habits of thought and 
Irving arc so entirely different, and the difference becomes 
bo much more striking the more you live intimately with 

them, that I know not how to make you comprehend a 
people who arc at once temperate and profligate, serious 
in their characters and buffoons in their amusements, 
capable of impressions and passions, which are at once 
smlilm ;itid ihut/Ui (what you find in no other nation,) 
and who actually have no society (what we would ca£ 
so,) as vou m.tv see by their comedies; they have no 
real comedy, not even ba Goklom, and that is becauso 
they have no society to draw it from. 

"Their conversazioni are not society at all. They go 
to the theatre to talk, and into company to hold then 
tongues. The w»men sit in a circle, and the men gather 
into groupes, or they play at dreary faro, or ' lotto reate, 
for small sums. Their academic are concerts like oui 
own, with better music and more form. Their best things 
are thtt carnival balls, and masquerades, when every body 



LETTERS, 1820. 



149 



runs mad for six weeks. After their duuiers and suppers 
they make extempore verses and buffoon one another ; 
bui" it is in a butnour which you would not enter into, ye 
of the north. 

u In their houses it is better. I should know something 
of the mailer, having had a pretty general experience 
aroono their women, from the fisherman's wife up to the 
JSobiTDama, whom 1 serve. Their system has its rules, 
ami its fitnesses) and its decorums, so as to be reduced to 
a kind of discipline or game at hearts, which admits few 
di viations, unless you wish to lose it. They are ex- 
, tenacious, and jealous as furies, not permitting 
(hair low rs even to matry if they can help it, and keeping 
them always close to them in public as in private, when- 
ever they can. In short, they transfer marriage to adul- 
terv, and suite the not out of that commandment. The 
reason is, that they marry fur their parents, and love for 
themselves. They exact fidelity from a lover as a debt 
of honour, while they pay the husband as a tradesman, 
that is, not at all. You hear a person's character, male 
or female, canvassed, not as depending on then- conduct 
to their husbands or wives, but to their mistress or lover. 
If I wrote a quarto, I do n't know that I could do more 
than amplify what I have here noted. It is to be observed 
thai while they do all this, the greatest outward respect 
is to be paid to the husbands, not only by the ladies, but 
bv th<ir Serventi — particularly if the husband serves no 
on.- himself (which U not often the case, however ;) so 
that you would often suppose them relations — the Ser- 
vente making the figure of one adopted into the family. 
Sometimes the ladies run a little restive and elope, or 
divide, or make a scene ; but this is at starting, generally, 
when they know no better, or when -they fall in love with 
a foreigner, or some such anomaly, — and is always reck- 
oned unnecessary and extravagant. 

w You inquire after Dante's Prophecy : I have not done 
more than six hundred lines, but will vaticinate at leisure. 

u Of the bust I know nothing. No cameos or seals are 
to be cut here or e4sewhere that I know of, in any good 
style. Hobhouse should write himself to Thorwaldsen : 
the bust was made and paid for three years ago. 

tt Pray tell Mrs. Lei.'h to request Lady Byron to urge 
forward the transfer from the funis. I wrote to Lady 
Byron on business this post, addressed to the care of 
Mf. L>. Kinnaird." 



LETTER CCCCXXIV. 



TO MR. MUHBAV. 



LETTER CCCCXXII1. 

TO MR. BANKCS. 

"Ravenna, February 26, 1820. 

a Pulci and I are waiting for you with impatience ; but 
I suppose we must give way to the attraction of the Bo- 
losnese galleries for a time. I know nothing of pictures 
myself and care almost as little; but to me there are 
tune like die Venetian — above all, Giorgione. I remem- 
ber well his judgment of Solomon in the Mariscalchi 
in Bologna. The real mother is beautiful, exquisitely 
beautiful Buy her, by all means, if you can, and 
lake her home wilh you: put her in safety — for be as- 
sured there are troublous times brewing for Italy ; and 
as I never could keep out of a row in my life, it will 
be my fate, I dare say, to be over head and ears in it ; 
\.-tt no matter, these are the stronger reasons for coming 
bo aee me soon. 

u I have more of Scott's novels (for surely they are 
Scott's) since we met, and am more and more delighted. 
I think Uiat I even prefer them to his poetry, which (by- 
die- way) I redde for the first time in my life in your 
rooms in Trinity college. 

" There are some curious commentaries on Dante pre- 
served here, which you should see. Believe me ever, 
*aiUU"idly and most affectionately, 

B Yours, &c. 



" Ravenna, March 1. IS^O. 
B I sent you by last post die translation of the First 
Canto of die Morgante Maggiore, and wish you to ask 
Rose about the word 'sbergo,' i. e. ' usbergo,' which I 
have translated cuiruhs. I suspect dial it means liebntt 
also. Now, if so, which of die senses is best accordant 
with die text? I have adopted cuirass, but will he ame- 
nable to reasons. Uf the Datives, some say one, and 
some t' other ; but they are no great Tuscans in Ro- 
magna. However I will ask Sgricci (die famous impro- 
visator) to-morrow, who is a native of Arezzo. The 
Countess43uiccioIi, who is reckoned a very cultivated 
young ladv, and the dictionary, say cuirass. I have writ- 
ten cuirass, but helmet runs in my head nevertheless — and 
will rim in verse very well, whilk is the principal point. 
1 will ask the Sposa Spina Spinelli, too, die Florentine 
bride of Count Ciabnel Ruspuni,just imported lroi.i Flo 
rence, and get the sense out of somebody. 

U I have just been visiting the new Cardinal, who ar- 
rived the day before yesterday in his legation. He seems 
a good old gentleman, pious and simple, and not quite 
like his predecessor, who was a bonvivant, in the worldly 
sense of the words. 

u Enclosed is a letter which I received some time ago 
from Dallas. It will explain itself. I have not answered 
it. This comes of doing people good. At one time or 
another (including copyrights) this person has had about 
fourteen hundred pounds of my money, and he writes 
what he calls a posthumous work about me, and a scrubby 
letter accusing me of treating him ill, when 1 never did 
any such thing. It is true that I .left off letter- writing, 
as I have done with almost every body else ; but I can't 
see how diat was misusing him. 

u I look upon his epistle as die consequence of my not 
sending him another hundred pounds, which he wrote to 
me for about two years ago, and which I diought proper 
to withhold, he having had his share, methought, of what 
I could dispone upon others. 

K In your last you ask me after my articles of domestic 
wants: I believe they are as usual; the bull-dogs, mag- 
nesia, soda-powders, tooth-powders, brushes, and every 
thing of the kind which are here unattainable. You siill 
ask me to return to England ; alas ! to what purpose ? 
You do not know what you are requiring. Return I must, 
probably, some day or odier (if I live,) sooner or later ; 
but it will not be for pleasure, nor can it end in good. 
You inquire after my health and spirits in large letters: 
my health can't be very bad, for I cured myself of a sharp 
tertian ague, in three weeks, with cold water, which had 
held my stoutest gondolier for months, notwithstanding 
the bark of die apothecary, — a circumstance which 
surprised Dr. Aglietti, who said it was a proof of great 
stamina, particularly in so epidemic a season. I did it 
out of dislike to the taste of bark (which I can't bear,) 
and succeeded, contrary to the prophecies of every body 
by simply taking nothing at all. As to spirits, they are 
unequal, now high, now low, like other people's, I suppose, 
and depending upon circumsrances. 

" Pray send me W. Scott's new novels. What are 
their names and characters? I read some of his former 
ones, at least once a day, fur an hour or so. The last are 
i<m hurried : he forgets R aw rn wood's name and calls hun 
Edgar and then Norman ; and Girder, the cooper, is 
styled now Gilbert, and now John; and he don't make 
enough of Montrose; but Dalgetty is excellent, and so is 
Lucy Ashton, and die b — h her modier. What is Ivan- 
hoe? and what do you call his other? are there two? 
Pray make hun write at least two a year : I like no read- 
ing s.i well. 

u The editor of the Bologna Telegraph has sent me a 
paper with extracts from Mr. Mulock's (his name always 



LETTtns, 



150 



reminds meofMuley Moloch of Morocco) 'Altaian 
answered, 1 in which their i- et long eulogium ofmj poi .. 
ami <i great 'compatimento 1 f >r mv misery. " I never could 
un leratand ^^ hat they mean by accusing me of irreligion. 
However; they may have ii their own way. This gen- 
tleman seems to be my great admirer, so I take what l»* 
says in good part, as he evidently intends kitulness, to 
whii b l can 1 ! accuse myself of being invincible. 

" Yours, &c." 



lif-'U. 



LETTER CCCCXXV. 

TO MM. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, March 6, 1820. 
'Incase, in your country, you should not readily lay 
h ■' i "ii i In- Morgante Maggiore, I send you the original 
text of the Firsl < 'antoj to correspond with the translation 
which I sent you a few days ago. h i- from the Naples 
edition in quarto of 17%, — H-Uoi Florence, however, by 8 

ti irk ■•(' thf tntilr, wlih ll Vol l, as or t' the allied sove- 
reigns of the profession, will perfectly understand without 
any farther sptegazione. 

" It is strange that here nobody understands the real 
precise meaning of 'sbergo,' or ' usDe^go, , * an old Tuscan 

word, which I have rendered cuirass (hut am not sure it is 

not helmet.) I have asked at least twenty people, learned 
and ignorant, mule and female, including poets, and offi- 
cers civil and military. Thi dictionary says cuirass, but 
gives no authority; and a female friend of mine says 
positively euros*, which makes me doubt the fact still 
more than before, Ginguenl says, 1 bonnet defer,* with 
the usual superficial decision of a Frenchman, so that I 
can't believe him: and what between the dictionary, the 
Italian woman, and the Fnnchman, mere e no trusting 
to a word they say. The context too, which should de- 
cide, admits equally of either meaning as you will per- 
ceive. Ask Rose, Hobhouse, Merrvaie, and Foscolo, 
and vote with the majority. I s Frere a good Tuscan? 
if he he, bother him too. I have tried, you see, to be as 
accurate as I well could. This is my third or fourth 
letter, <>r packet^ within the Last twenty days." 



LETTER CCCCXXVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, March 14, 1820. 

"Enclosed is Dante's Prophecy — Vision — or what not. 
Where 1 have left more than one reading (which I have 
done often,) yon may adopt that winch GuTord, Frere, 
Rose, and Hobhouse, and others of your Utican Senate 
think the best, or least bad. The preface will explain all 
that is explicable. These are but the first four cantos: 
if approved, I will go on. 

"Pray mind in printing; and let some good Italian scho- 
lar correct the Italian quotations. 

"Four days ago I was overturned in an open carriage 
between the river and a steep bonk: — wheels dashed to 
pieces, slight hruis-s, narrow .-cape, and all that; but no 
harm done, though coachman, f mtman, horses, and vehi- 
cle were all mixed together (ike macaroni, ll was owino 

to had driving, a i I say ; but the coachman swears to a 
start on the part of die horses. We. went against a post 
■in the verge of b steep bank, and capsized. I usually go 

out of the town in a carriage, and meet the saddle horses 

at the bridge; it was in going there that we boggled; but 

1 got my ride, as usual, after die accident. They say here 
it was all owing to St. Antonio of Padua (serious, I as- 
sure you,)^-who docs thirteen miracles a day, — that worse 



* rjahergQ i« ot Vlouily Lhe lame u« tKiulierk.hnhergeon, Ac. a'\ frnn 

llir (it'iiiMN ', ,,'. '■■■'.-. .,.,,,.,; ,,Miie tieck . SteUruj'i iiurd. " ilcln 

«... inn. L,.,« . i *,,,,,! mail." 



• lid not come of it. I have no objection to this being his 
fourteenth m the four-and-twenty hours. He presides over 
overturns and all escapes therefrom, it seems; and ihey 
dedicate pictures, &c. to hitu, as the sailors once did to 
Neptune) after 'the high Roman fashion.' 

"Yours, in haste." 



LETTER CCCCXXVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



* Ravenna, March 20, 1820. 
"Last post I sent you, 'The Vision of Dante,' — first 
four cantos. Enclosed you will find, line for one, in And 
rhyme (terza nana,*) of which your British blackguard 
reader as yet understands nothing Fanny ofRimim. You 
know r| U ii she was bom here, and married] and slam, from 
Cary, Boyd, and such people. I have done it into i 
English, line for line, and rhyme tor rhyme, to try the pos- 
sibility. You bad best append it to the poems already sent 
by last throe posts. I shall not allow you to play thi 
you did last year, with the pro-e \ on /^/-scribed to Ma- 
zappa, which 1 sent to you not to be published, if not in a 
periodical paper, — and there you tacked it, without a word 
of explanation, tf this is published publish it with the ori- 
ginal, and together wuh the Pidci transla ion, or the And 
imitation, I suppose you have both by now, and die Juan 
long before. 



LETTER CCCCXXVIH. 

TO MR. MURRAV. 

" Ravenna, March 23, 1820. 

" I have received your letter of the 7th. Besides the 
lour packed you have already received, 1 have sent the 
Pulci a few days after, and since (a few days ago) the 
first four Cantos of Dante's Prophecy, (the best thing I ever 
wrote, if it be not unintrtligil>lt y ) and by last post a literal 
translation, word for word (versed like the original) of tho 
episode of Franceses of Rimini. I want to hear what 
you think of the new Juans, and the translations, and die 
Vision. They are all things that are, or ought to be, very 
different from one another. 

u If you choose to make a print from the Venetian, yon 
may; but she don't correspond at all lo the character you 
mean her to represent. On the contrary, the Contessa G, 
does (except that she is fair,) and is much prettier than 
the Fornarina ; but I have no picture of her except a mi- 
niature, which is very ill done; and, besides, it would not 
be proper, on any account whatever, to make such a use 
of it, even if you had a copy. 

" Recollect thai the two new Cantos only count with us 
far one. You may [iiit the Puiei and Dante together: per- 
haps thai were beet. So you have put your name to Juan 
after all your panic. You are a rare fellow. — I must now 
put myself in a passion to continue my prOBO. 

"I have canned write to ThorwaJdseQ. Pray be care- 
ful m sending mv daughter's picture — I mean, that it be 
not hurt in the carriage, for it is a journey rather long 
and jolting." 



LETTER CCCCXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

t "Ravenna, March 28, 1820. 
"Enclosed is a 'Scieed of Doctrine' for you, of which I 
ill trouble you to acknowledge the receipt by next post 

Mr. rJobhouse must have the correction of it fur the press. 

You may show it first to whom you please. 



* Ree Pnemi, p. 485. 

t Lauei luamwd to Mr. Rowtet, page 280. 



LKTTK US, 1820. 



151 



"I wish to know what became of my two Epistles from 
Si. Paul, (iranslaied from the Armenian three years ago 
and more,) and of the letter to Roberts of last auluinn, 
which you never have attended to? There are two pack- 
ets with this. 

* F. S. I have some thoughts of publishing the 'Hint-; 
from Horace,' written ten years ago — if Hobhouse ran 
rummage them out of my papers left at his father's, — with 
some omissions and alierauuiis previously to be made when 
1 see th* proofs. 11 



LETTER CCCCXXX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, March 29, 1820. 

■Herewith you will receive a note (enclosed) on Pope, 
which you will Bnd tally with a part of the text of last post. 
I have at last lost all patience with the atrocious cant and 
nonsense about Pope, with which our present * *s are 
overflowing, and am determined to make such head 
against it as an individual can, by prose c.r verse; and I 
will at least do it with good will. There is no bearing it 
any longer; and if it goes on, it will destroy what little 
go xi writing or taste remains among us. I hope there are 
still a few men of taste to second me; but if not, I'll battle 
n alone, convinced that it is in the best cause of English 
literature. 

"I have sent you so manv packets, verse and prose, 
lately, 'hat you wi'l be tired of the postage, if not of the pe- 
rusal. I want to aaswer some parts of your last letter, but 
I have not uine, for I must 'boot and sadd'e,* as my Cap- 
lain Craigengilt (an officer of the old Napoleon Iialian 
armv) is in waiting, and my groom and cattle to boot. 
" " You have given me a screed of metaphor and what 
n-'l about Pulc\ and manners, 'going without clothes, like 
Our Saxon ancestors.' Now, the Saxons did not go with- 
out dotiies; and, in the next place, they are not my an- 
Ce 'or-, nor yours either; for mine were Norman, and 
yours, I take it by your name, where God. And, in the 
next, I differ from you about the 'refinement' which has 
banished the comedies of Congreve. Are not the come- 
dies of Sheri'lan acted to the thinnest houses ? I know (as 
ex-commiited) that ' The School for Scandal' was the worst 
stock-piece upon record. I also know that Congreve gave 
up writing because Mrs. Centlivre's balderdash drove his 
comedies off. So it is not decency, but stupidity, that does 
all this ; for Sheridan is as decent a writer as need be, and 
eve no worse than Mrs. Centhvre, of whom Wilkes 
(the actor) said, 'not only her play would be damned, but 
she too.' He alluded to l A Bold Stroke for a Wife, 1 But 
last, and most to the purpose, Pulci is not an indecent 
wiriter — at least in his first Canto, as you will have per- 
ceived bv this time. 

" You talk of refinement : — are you all mare moral ? are 
you so moral ? No such thing. J know what the world 
is in England, by my own proper experience of the best 
of it — at least of the loftiest ; and I have described it 
everv where as it is to be found in all places. 

" But to return. I should like to see the proof* of mine 
answi-r, because there will be something to omit or to 
alter. But pray let it be carefully printed. When con- 
venient let me have an answer. " Yours." 



LETTER CCCCXXXI. 

TO MR. HOPP^ER. 

"Ravenna, March 31, 1820. 

***** 
• Ravenna continues much the same as I described it. 
Conversazioni all Lent, and much better ones than anv at 
Venice. There arc small games at hazard, that is, faro, 



where nobody can point more than a shilling or two ;— 
other card-tables, and as much talk and coffee as vou 
please. Every body does and says what they please ; 
and I do not recollect any disagreeable events, except 
being three times falsely accused of flirtation, and once 
being robbed of six sixpences by a nobleman of the city, a 
Count * * *, I did not suspect the illustrious delin- 
quent ; but the Coun;ess V * * * and the Marquis L + * * 
told me of ii directly, and also that it was a way he ha 1, 
of filching money when he saw it before him; but I did 
not ax him tor the cash, but contented myself with telling 
hnn Uiat if he did it again, I should anticipate the law. 

" There is to be a theatre in April, and a fair, and an 
opera, and another opera in June, besides the fine weather 
of nature's giving, and the rides in the Forest of Pine. 
With my best respects to Mrs. Hoppner, believe mo 
ever, &c. " Byron. 

u P. S. Could you give me an item of what books re- 
main at Venice ? I do rti want them, but want to know 
whether the few that are not here are there, and were not 
lost by the way. I hope and trust you have got all your 
wine safe, and that it is drinkable. Allegra is prettier, I 
think, but as obstinate as a mule, and as ravenous as a 
vulture : health good, to judge of r he complexion — temper 
tolerable, but for vanity and pertinacity. She thinks her- 
self liandsome and will do as she pleases." 



LETTER CCCCXXXII. 

TO MR. MURRAY/. 

"Ravenna, April 9. 1820. 
"In the name of all the devils in the printing-office, why 
do n't you write to acknowledge the receipt of the second, 
third, and fourth packets, viz. the Pulci translation and 
original, the Dantides, the Observations on, &c? You 
forget that you keep me in hot water till I know whether 
they are arrived, or if I must have the bore of recopying. 
***** 

"Have you gotten the cream of translations, Franeesca 
of Rimini, from the Inferno 7 Why, I have sent you a 
warehouse of trash within the last month, and you have 
no sort of fee ling about you: a pastry-cook would have 
had twice the gratitude, and thanked me at least for the 
quantity. 

" To make the letter heavier, I enclose you the Cardi- 
nal Legated (our Carnpehis) circular for his conversa- 
zione this evening. It is the anniversary of the Pope's 
(taro-tion, and all polite Christians, even of the Lutheran 
creed, must go and be civil. And there will be a circle, 
and a faro-table, (for shillings, thai is, they do n't allow 
high play,) and all the beauty, nobility, and sanctity of 
Ravenna present. The Cardinal himself is a very good- 
natured little fellow, bishop of Muda, and legate here, — a 
decent believer in all the doctrines of the church. He 
has kept his housekeeper these forty years * * * * , 
but is reckoned a pious man, and a moral liver. 

"I am not quite sure that I won't be among you this 
autumn, for I find that business do n't go on — what with 
trustees and lawyers — as it should do, ' with all delibe- 
rate speed. 1 They differ about investments in Ireland. 

" Between the devil antt deep sea, 
Betweou the lawyer anil trustee, 

I am puzzled ; and so much time is lost by mv not being 
upon the spot, what with answers, demur*, rejoinders, that 
it may be I must come and look to it ; for one savs do, 
and t' other do n't, so that I know not which way to turn : 
but perhaps they can manage without me. 

" Yours, &c. 
" P. S. I have begun a tragjedy on the subject of Ma- 
rino Faliero, the Doge of Venice ; hut you shaVt see it 
these six years, if vou don't acknowledge mv packets who 
more quickness and precision. Always write, if but a 



152 



LETTERS, 1820. 



tine, by return of post, when any thing arrives, which is 
no' * men letter. 

Address direct to Ravenna ; it saves a week's time, 
and much postage." 



LETTER CCCCXXXIII. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

R Ravenna, April 16, 1820. 
'Post after post arrives without bringing any acknow- 
ledgment from you of the different packets (excepting the 
first) which 1 have sen! within the last two uiontlis, all of 
which ought to be arrived long ere now; ami as they 
h ere announced in other letters, you ought at leusT to say 
whether they are come or not. Too are not expected to 
write frequent or long letters, as your time is much occu- 
pied ; but when parcels that have cost some pains hi ih< 
I omposidon, ami great trouble tn the copying are sent to 
you, I should at least be put out of suspense, by the im- 
mediate acknowledgment, per return of post, addressed 
directly to Ravenna. I am naturally — know tag what con- 
nnenlal pw& are — anxious to hear that they .ire arrived; 
especially as I louth the task of copying so much, that if 
there was a human being thai could copy my blotted 
MSS. he should have all they can ever bring for his 
trouble. All I desire is two lines, to say, such a day I 
received such a packet. There are at least six unac- 
knowledged. This is neither kind nor courteous. 

" I have, besides, another reason for desiring you to be 
speedy, which is, that there is that brewing in Italy 
which will speedily cut off all security of communication, 
and set all your Anglo-travellers flying in every direction, 
with their usual fortitude in foreign tumults. The Spa- 
nish ami French affairs have set the Italians in a ferment ; 
and no wonder: they have been too long trampled on 
Tins will make a sad scene for your exquisite traveller, 
but not for the resident, who naturally wishes a people t 
redress: itself. I shall, if permitted by the natives, remain 
to see what will come of it, and perhaps to lake a turn 
with them, like Dugald Dalgeity and his borae, in case of 
business; for I shall think it by far the most interesting 
Spectacle ami moment in existence, to see the Italians 
send (he barbarians of all nations back to their own dens. 
I have lived long enough among them to feel more for 
them as a nation than for any other people in existence. 
But they want union, and they want principle; and I 
doubt their success. However, they will try, probably, 
ami if they do, it will be a good cause. No Italian can 
hate an Austrian more than I do: unless it be the Eng- 
lish, the Austrians seem to mc the most obnoxious race 
under the sky. 

" But I doubt, if any thing be done, it won't be so qui- 
etly as in Spain. To be sure, revolutions are not to be 
made with rose-water, where there are foreigners as 
masters. 

* Write while you can; for it is but the toss up of a 
paul that there will not be a row that will somewhat re- 
tard the mail by-and-by. 

"Yours, fcc* 



LETTER COCCXXXIV. 

to mr. uopryfiR. 

"Ravenna, April 18, 1S20. 
"1 have caused write to Sin and Willhahn to send with 
Vincenza, in a boat, the camp-beds and swords left in 
Jieir care when I quitted Venice. There are also seve- 
ral pounds of JManwn's best powder in a japan case ; but 
unless I felt sure of getting it away from V. without 
seizure, I won't have it ventured. I can get it in here, b) 
means of an acquaintance in the customs, who has offered 



to get it ashore for me; but should like to be certiorated 
of its safely m leaving Venice. I would tioi bee u for its 
weight m gold — there is none such in Italy, as I take it 
to be. 

U I wrote to you a week or so ago, and hope you are in 
good plight and spirit*. Sir Humphry I tavy is here, and 
was last night at die Cardinal's. As I had been there 
iast Sundav, and yeetorda) was warm, I did not go, which 
I should have done, if 1 bad thought of meeting the man 
of chemistry. He called 'his morning and I snail go it 
search of him at Corso time. I believe to-day, being 
Mondav, there is no great conversaziooe, and only die 
family one ai the Marchess Cavallrs, where 1 go. as a 
rtlaiwn sometime*, so lhatj unless he stays a day or two 
we should hardly meet in pirblic. 

"The theatre is to open in May for the fair, if there is 
not a row in ail Italy by that time, — the Spanish Business 
has set them all a consiiiuiionmg, and what will be the 
end no one kbOWS — ii is also necessary thereunto to have 
a beginning. ■Youra,&c. 

"P. S. My benediction to Mrs. Hoppner. How ■? 
vour little boy ? Allegra is growing, and ha.- increased 
in good looks and obstinacy." 



LETTER CCCCXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, April 23, 1820. 

The proofs don't contain the tost stanzas of Cant* 
Second, but end abruptly with the 105th stanza. 

"I told you long ago thai die new Cantos 4 were not 
good, and I also toUl you a reason. Recollect, I do not 
oblige you to publish them; you mav suppress them, if 
you like, but I can alter nothing. I have erased die six 
stanzas about those two impostors, * * * * 

(which 1 suppose will give you great pleasure,) bur I can 

do no more. [ can neither recast, nor replace \ but I give. 

you leave to put it all into the tire, if you like, or not to 
publish, and I think that 's sufficient. 

l l told you that I wrote on with no good-will — ihat T 
had been, not frightened, but hurt by the outer.', and, be 
sides, that when I wrote last November, I was ill in body, 
and in very great distress of mind about some private 
things of my own; bin yon would have it: so I sent it lo 
you, and to make it lighter, cut it in two— but I can't piece 
it together again. I can't cobble : I must 'either make a 
spoon or spoil a horn,' — and there's an end; for there's 
no remeid: but I leave you free will to suppress the 
whole, if you like it. 

"About the Morgantc UfaggUm, liriint have a line 
omitted. It may circulate, or it may not; but all the 
criticism on earth shan't touch aline, unless it bebecause 
it is bcully translated. Now you say, and I say, and 
others say, that the translation is ;u"""l *"ie ; ■ uid so it 
shall go to press as it is. Pulci must answer for I 
irreligion: I answer lor the translation only. 

+ + **** 

"Pray let Mr. Hobhouse look to the Italian next lime 
in ihcproofn: mis time, while 1 am scribbling to you, they 
axe corrected by one who passes for tin- prettiest woman 
in Romania, and even the Marches, as far as Aticoua, 
be the other who she may. 

"I am glad you like my answer to your inquiries about 
Italian society. It is fit you should like mmtt!ung t and 
be d — d to you. 

"My love to Scott. I shall think higher of knighthood 
ever after tor his being dubbed. By-the-way, he is "ho 
Hrst poet irle.l for Iils talent in Britain: it has happened 
abroad before now ; but on the continent titles are univer- 
sal and worthless. Whydon'i you send me Ivanhoe and 
the Monastery ? I have never written to Sir Walter, for 



I.KTTERf", 1820. 



15:* 



I know he has a thousand things, and T a lho'.i=and nothings, 
to do ; hut I hope io see him at Abbotsford before very 
long, and I will sweat his claret lor him, though Italian 
abstemiousness 1ms made inv brain but a shilpil concern 
for a Scotch sitting 'inter pocula.' * I love Scott, and 
Moure, and all the better brethren ; but I hate and abhor 
thai puddle of water-worms Whom vou have taken into 
your troop. 

* Yours, &c. 

*P. S. You say that one-half is very good: you are 
inr mgi lor, if it were, it would he the finest poem in exist- 
ence. IV here is the poetry of winch one- W/" is good ? is 
is the JRnad? is il 3 film's/ is ii DrydaCt? is i! any 
one's except Pop* to ;i<>'l Goldsmith's, of which all is good ? 
and . et these last two are the poets your pond poets 
w-tiilri explode. But if one-half of (he two new Cantos be 
_ m your opinion, what the devil would vou have more? 
No — no, no poetry is gencitUi/ good — only by fits and 
starts— and you are lucky to gel a sparkle here and there. 
You might as well want a midnight all stars as rhyme all 
perfect 

8 We ar-- on the verge of a row here. Last night they 
have overwritten all the city walls with 'Up with the re- 
public!' and 'Death to the Pope! 1 &c &c. This would 
be nothing in London, where the walls are privileged. But 
here it is a different thing; they are not used to such 
fierce political inscriptions, and the |x>Hce is all on the 
alert, and the Cardinal glares pale through all lib purple. 

"April 24th, 1620, 8 o'clock, p. m. 

•The police have been, all noon and afrer, searching 
for the insenbers, but have caught none as yet. They 
musl have been all night about it, for the *Live republics 
— l>i-ath to Popes and Priests,' are innumerable, and 
plastered over all the palaces: ours has plenty. There is 
•Down with the Nobility,' too; they are down enough al- 
ready, for that matter. A very heavy rain and wind hav- 
ing come on, I did not go out and 'skirr the country ;' but 
I shall mount to-morrow, and take a canter among the 
peasantry, who are a savage, resolute race, always riding 
with guns in their hands. I wonder they do n't suspect 
the serenaders, for they play on the guitar here all night, 
as in Spain, to thtir mistresses. 

a Talking of politics, as Caleb Q, not cm says, pray look 
al the conclusion of my Ode on Waterloo, written in the year 
1815, and, comparing it with the Duke de Bern's cata- 
strophe in 18*20, tell me if I have not as good a right to the 
character of ' Vales? hi both senses of the word, as Fitz- 
gerald and Coleridge? 

* ( t imtmi lean will follow yet — ' 

and have not they ? 

* I can't pretend to foresee what will happen anion" vrni 
Englishers at this distance, but I va'icinate a row in I;alv ; 
in whilk case, I do n't kuow that 1 won't have a finder in i'. 
I dislike the Austrians, and think the Italians infamously 
oppressed; and if they begin, why, I will recommend 'thi- 
erection of a sconce upon Drumsnab,' like Dugald Dai- 
getty." 



LETTER CCCCXXXVr. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, May 8. 1820. 
■ From your not having written again, an intention which 
ronr letter of the 7th ultimo indicated, I have to presume 
dial the 'Prophecy of Dante' has not been found more 
worthy than its predecessors in the eyes of your illustrious 
synod. In "hat case, you will be in some perplexity; to 
end which, I repeat to you, that you are not to consider 
yourself as bound or pledged to publish any thing because 
it is rrun«, but aways U> act according to your own views, 
•r opuuMis, or uWe »»f your friends ; and to be sure that 



you will in no degree offend me by ' declining the article,' 
Io use a technical phrase. The prose observations on 
John Wilson's attack,* J do not intend for publication at 

this nine; and I send a Copy of verses to IVIr. Kinnaird, 
(ill --y were written last year on crossing the Po,) f which 
must ivA he published either. I mention this, because it 
is probable he may give you a copy. Pray recollect this, 
as they are mere verses of society, and written upon pri- 
vate feelings and passions. And, moreover, J can't con- 
sen; to any mutilations or omissions of Puici: the original 
has been ever free from such in Italy, the capital of Chris- 
tianity, and the translation may be so in England; though 
you will think it strange thai they should have allowed 
uch freedom fir many centuries to ihe Morgante, while 
the other day they confiscated the whole translation of the 
Fourth Canto of Childe Harold, and have persecuted 
Leoiu, the translator— so he writes me, and so I could 
nave told him, bad he consulted me before its publication. 
This shows how much more politics interest men in tlie-se 
parts than religion. Half a do/en invectives against tv- 
ranny confiscate Childe Harold in a month; and eight- 
and-twnty cantos of quizzing monks and knights, and 
church government, are let loose for centuries. I copy 
Leoni's account. 

"■ ' Non igrmrera forse che la mia versione del 4° Canto 
del Childe Harold fu coniiscata in ogni parte: ed io stesso 
ho dovuto soiFrir vessazioni altrettanto ridicole quanto illi- 
bcraii, ad arte che alcuni ver3i fossero esclusi dalla cen- 
sura. Ma siccome il divieto non fa d'ordmario che ac- 
cresccre la curiosila cosi quel carme sull'ItaJiae no-rcato 
piu ehe mai, e penso di farlo ristampare in Inghilterra 
senza nulla escludere. Sciagurata condizione di questa 
mia patna ! se patria si pub chiamare una terra cosl av- 
vilita dalla fort una, dagli uommi, da se medeahna. 1 

"Rose will translate this to you. Has he had his letter? 
I enclosed it to you months ago. 

"This intended piece of publication I slia.ll dissaudehim 
from, or he may chance to see the inside of St. Angelo's. 
The last senience of his letter is the common and pathetic 
sentiment of all his countrymen. 

"Sir Humphry Davy was here last fortnight, and I was 
in his company in the house of a very pretty Italian lady of 
rank, who, by way of displaying her loarning in presence 
of the great chemist, ihen describing his fourteenth ascen- 
sion "i Mount Vesuvius, asked 'if there was not a similar 
volcano in Ireland?* My only notion of an Irish volcano 
consisted of the lake of Killainey, wluch I naturally con- 
ceived her to mean : hut on second thoughts I divined that 
she alluded to Zealand and toHecfa — and so it proved, thoueh 
she BUStamad her volcanic topography for some time with 
ali the amiable pertinacity of 'the femirue.' She soon 
after turned to me, and asked me various questions about 
Sir Humphry's philosophy, and I explained as well as an 
oracle his skill in gasen safety lamps, and ungluing the 
Pompeian MSS. l But what do you call him?' said she. 
'A great chemist,' quoth I. 'What can he do?' repeated 
the lady. 'Almost any thing,' said I. 'Oh, then, mio 
caro, do pray beg him to give me something to dye my 
eyebrows black. I have tried a thousand tilings, and the 
colours all come off; and besides, they do n't grow : can't 
he invent something to make them grow?' All this with 
the greatest earnestness ; and what you will be surprised 
at, she is neither ignorant nor a fool, but really well edu- 
cated and clever. But they speak like children, when first 
out of their convents ; and, after all, this is better than an 
English blue-stocking. 

u 1 did not tell Sir Humphry of this last piece of philoso- 
phy, not knowing how he nught take it. Davy was much 
taken with Ravenna, and die primitive Italumism of die 
people, who are unused to foreigners ; but he only stayed a 
day. 

Send me Scott's novels and some news. 



* *"■ iHier to \.r f' H-f wl HUckwvWi M*«*due, t*<a 2W. 
t See ?.**ma, ,.. **_ 



154 



LETTERS, 1820. 



"P.S [have begun and advanced into the second act of 
a tragedy on the subject of the I logo's conspiracy, (i.e. the 
story of Marino Faliero ;) but my present footing is so 
little encouraging on such matters thai I begin to dunk I 
neve rad my talent out, and proceed in no great phan- 
tasy of finding a new vein. 

"P. S. I sometimes think (if die Italians do n't rise) 
of coming over to England in the autumn after ihe corona- 
tion, (at which I would not appear on account of my family 
schism,) I. nt as yet I ran decide nothing. The place 
must be ■ great deal changed since I left it,now more 
ilian four years a°o." 



LETTER CCCCXXXV11. 

TO MH. MURHAV. 

"Ravenna, May 20, IS. 1- ). 
"Murray, my dear, make nrj respects to Thomas 
Campbell,* and tell him from me, with faith and fricr.J- 

ship, three things thai he must right in In, | is: Firstly, 

he says Anstey^s Bath Guide characters are taken from 
Smollett. "r is impossible:- tho Guide n -aj published 
in 1 7r.fi, and Humphrey Clinker in 1771 — aVnaue, 'i is 
Smollett who has taken from Anstey. Secondly, he does 
n.it kmiw to whom Cowper alludes when he says tha- 
there was one who 'b'nli a church to God, and then blas- 

P he I his name:' ii was 'Deo erexit VoUotn,' lo whom 

thai maniacal Calvinist and coddled poel alludes. Third- 
ly, he mismiatea and spoils a passage from Shakspeare 
lo gild refined gold, to |,aint the lily,' &c. ; fur My he puts 
rose, and bedevils m more words than one the whole uuo- 

larJon. 

" Now, Tom is a fine fellow ; nut ne should be correct : 
for the first is an injustice, (lo Anstey,) the second an 
ignorance, and the third a blunder. T, II hue all this, and 
let him take it in good part; for I might have rammed ii 
into a review and rowed him — instead of which, I act like 
a Christian. "Yous, &c." 



" P. S. 1 have looked over the press, hut heaven knows 
how. Think what I have on hand, and the post going 
out to-morrow. I3 you remember the epitaph on Vol 
la ire ? 

IWuigiuvac. 
1 Uervll ithi i| ..ill , i, !.i 

world wbicll ha ipuil'cj.' 

The original is in Grimm and Diderot, &c. &c. &« 



LETTER CLCCXXX1X. 



TO MH. MOOHE. 



LETTER CCCCXXXVIII. 

TO MB. MUKHAV. 

" Ravenna, May 20, 1820. 

"F'irst and foremost, you must forward my letter to 
Moore dated 2,1 January, which I sa id you might open, 
but desired you lo forward. Now, you should really not 
forget these litde things, because Uiey do mischief among 
friends. You are an excellent man, a great man, and live 
among great men, but do pray recoUeet your absent C i. ids 
and authors. 

"In the first place, your packets; then a letter from 
Kinnaird, on the most urgent business; another from 
Moore, about a communication to Lady Byron of import- 
ance; a fourth from the ther of Allegra; and fifthly, al 

Ravenna, the Contessa G is on the bvbi f being divorced 
— But the Italian public are on our side, particularly the 
women, — and die men also, because they Bay thai h, had 
no business to take the business up non after a year of 
tolorauon. All her relations (who tire numerous, high 

in rank, and powerful) arc lor s ™ ;u .»..i hm lor his 

conduct. lam warned lo boon my guaru.as be is vervca- 
pablo of employing sicarii— this is Latin as well as Italian, 
so you can understand it ; but I have arms, and do n't mini I 
thorn, thinking that I could pepper his ragamuffins, if they 
do n't come unawares, and that if they do, one ma v as well 
end that way as another ; and it would besides servo «,, 
as an advertisement. 

' Man may -Bcnpp from ropr or gun, fte. 

But be who UUiriwonnoi, woman, woman, • V. 

• Yours." 



* Bat UonJua.i.Cauw V.NoUS, 



una, May 21, 1820 
. I wrote to you a fcni days i ... i bereisalsos lottet 
ol January last lor you al Murray's which will explain ... 
you why I am hew. Murray ought to have for 
•go- 1 end,,.,, you anepisde from ■ ■ 
woman of yours al Paris, which has moved mi . ■ 

Youwill have the ; m ■, porhaps, I mir, it 

truth ofhet story, and 1 will hi Ip hi i ss far as 1 can 

though u,,t in the useless waj she proposes. Her letter 
is ei ideally unstudied, and s,, natural, that the orthography 
is also in a stale of nature. J 

•Here b a poor creature, ill and solitary, who thinks 
as a last resource, of translating you or me' into French ' 
Was there ever such a notion .' li seems to me the con-' 
summanon ol despair. Pray impure, a.id let ,,„• km™ 
and, if you could draw a bill on me her, tor a fey, hundred 
francs, a. your banker's, 1 will duly honour it, - that is if 
she is not an impostor. Hum, let meknow.that I „ , .'., • 

wmethuig re ,| by my hanker Longhi, of Bologna, for 

1 have no correspondence, myself, al Paris; bm Tell her 

she must not translate j— if she .Iocs, it will be ih( 

.it ingratitude. " 

'T had a letter (not of the sat,,, kind, hut in French and 
flattery) from a Madame Sophie Gail, of Pans, who,,, 1 
take to he the spouse „r a Gallo-Greek of thai , ,,,. 
\\ ho is she .' and what is she ! and bow came she to take 
an interest „, my nostras or its author? If you know her 
teh her, with my compliments, thai, as I onlv nod French! 
I have not answered her letter ; bul would have done sou 
Italian, il I had not thought it would look like an' affects 
Hon I hay- just been scolding my monkey for tearii 

seal ol her letter, and spoiling a m ,ok hook,,,, winch I out 

r "~" lea ™' I ^ a civet-cal die oilier day, too- but it 
ran away after scratching my monkeys cheek, end I am 
in search ol it still. It was the fiercest beast 1 ever • an 
and like * * m the face and manner. 

"I have a world of things lo say; but as thev are not 
come to a denouement, I do n't care to begin their history 
till it is wound tip. After you went I had a fevet 
well again without bark, s.r Humphry Haw was here 
the other day, and liked Ravenna very much. Hewilltell 
you any the o you ma, wish lo know about then , 
your humble servitor. ' 

■Tour apprehon ions (arising from Scotvs) w. 
founded here arc „„ ,,,„„„,.,, ,„ „„ s ^ ^ 

will probably be a s, , araiion between uWashei • 

which o a principal one, by its i nexions, are ,erv much 

against hm, for the whol, of his conduct j-and fie is old 

:m,l " U '' "' «younganda« m, determine 

to sacrifice every thing to her affections. 1 have „, u .„ |„. r 

Ule best advice,™, lo stay with him,- pointing om , he 

itateofa separated woman, (for the priests wonVlet lovers 
Bveopenl] together, unless the husband sanctions «,) and 

making the most ex.jnisiie moral rcrlcetions.-but to no 
purpose. She says, '1 will Slav will, h„„,,fhe will let you ' 
remain with me. I, is bard that I should be the onlv wo- 
man m Romagna who is not to have her Amico ; but if 
not, I will not live with him; and as for the consequences, 
love, &o. &c. &c. _y ou know how females reason on But h 
1 eccaiioiu. 



LETTER S, 1S20. 



lr>5 



*}]•• says he has lei it go on, till he can do so no longer. 

Hut he wants her to stay, ami dismiss me ; for he does n'l 

like to pay ba« k her d >w 17 and to make an alimony. Her 

are rather for the separation, as they detest him, 

— indeed, wi does -very body. The populace and the 

for those who arein the wrong, 

vi*. ih" 1:1 1 . and herlover. I should have retreated, bul 

honour, and an erysipelas which has attacked her, prevenl 

me, — to say nothing of love, f»r I love her must entirely, 

:■■■■,, ,■■( > i-m i" P'T-ikilI':- ii-T to sacrific* every thin.' 

to a phrensy. ( 1 seehowit will end; she will be the six- 

M:-, Shu Heton.' 

■ My paper id inu-heJ. a:id so must this letter. 

« fours ev sr, B B. 

■ P. S. I re jret mat you have not completed the Italian 

Pray, how come von to be still in Pans ' 
M urray ha- four or live things of mine in hand — the new 
I > >u Juan, which his back-shop synod do n't admire ; — a 
translation of the first Canto ofPolc?s Morgante Maggiore, 
excellent ; — a short ditto from Dante, not so much approv- 
ed ; — the Prophecy <>f Dante, very grand and worthy, &c. 
c : — a furious prose answer to Blackwood's Obser- 
1 on Don Juan, with a savage Defence of Pope — 
likely to make a row. The opinions above I quote from 
Murray and Ins Utiean senate; — you will form your own, 
when vou see the things. 

■ You will have no great chance of seeing me, for I 

o mink 1 must finish in Italy. Bu f , if you come my 
way, you shall have a tureen of macaroni. Pray tell me 
about yourself and your intents. 

L - My trustees are going to lend Earl Blessington sixty 
thousand pounds (at six per cent.) on a Dublin mortgage. 
Only think of my becoming an Irish absentee |B 



LETTER CCCCXL. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



" Ravenna, May 25, 1800. 

"Au-rrman named Ruppsecht has sent me, heaven 

why, several Deutsche Gazettes, of all which ! 

an lei Stand neither word nor letter. I have sent you the 

: to Translate to me some remarks, 

which appear to be Go8tfte?* upon Manfred — and if I may 

. uhniratian [generally pin ah •rsonie- 

i. and the word l fu/poamdriachj are 

any mine bul favourable. I shall regret this, for I should 

en proud €G § die's good word ; but I shan't alter 

iiiv opinion of him, even though he should be savage, 

■Will you excuse this; trouble, and do me this favour ? 
— Never mind — soften nothing — I am literary proof— 
having had good and evil said in most modern languages 
"Believe me, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXLI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



c Ravenna, June 1820. 
"I hi 1 Parisian letter from W. W. whicl 

I prefer answering through you, if that worthy he still at 
Pans, and, as he -ays, an occasional visiter of yours. In 
N ivember last he wrote to me a wed-meaning letter, 
t'.r some reasons of his own, his belief that a re- 
union might be effected between Lady B. and myself. 
To this I answered as usual ; and he sent me a second 
tetter, repeating his notions, which letter I have never an- 
swered, having had a thousand other things to think of. 
He now writes as if he believed that he had offended me 
by touching on the topic ; and I wish you to assure him 
that I am not at all so, — but, on the contrary, obliged by 
his good-nature. At the same time acquaint him the 
thing it impossible. You know (Am, as well as I, — and 
there let 11 end. 



■ I In lieve that I showed you his epistle in autumn last. 
He asks me if 1 have heard of my ' laureate 1 at Pans,*— 
somebody who has written ' a most sanguinary Epl re* 
against me ; but whether in French, or Dutch, or on what 
score, I know not, and he don't say, — except that (for my 
an faction) he says it is the best thing in the fellow's 
olume. If there is any thing of the kind that I ought to 
know, vou will doubtless tell me. I suppose it to be some- 
thing of 'he usual sort; — he says, he do n't remember tha 
author's name. 

"I wrote to vou some ten days ago, and expect an an- 
swer at your leisure. 

"The separation business sua continues, and all the 
world are unplica'ed, including priests and cardinals. The 
public opinion is furious against Aim, because he ought to 
have cut the matter short at Jirst, and not waked twelve 
months to begin. He has been Drying at evidence, but ran 
gel none sufficient; for what would make fifty divorces in 
England won't do here — there must be the most decided 
proofs. * * * 

l lt is the first cause of the kind attempted in Ravenna 
for these two hundred years ; (or, though they often sepa- 
rate, they assign a dim rent motive. You know that the 
continental incontinent are more delicate than the En£ 
lish, and do n't like proclaiming their coronation ui a court, 
even when nobody doubs it. 

14 All her relations are furious against him. The father 
has challenged him — a superfluous valour, for he don't 
fight, though suspected of two assassinations — one of tl. 
famous Monzoni of Forli. Warning was given me not to 
take such long rides in the Pine Forest without being on 
mv guard ; so I take my stiletio and a pair of pistols in my 
pocket during mv daily rides. 

"I won't stir from this place till the matter is settled one 
way or the other. She is as femininely firm as possible ; 
and the opinion is so much against him, that the advocate* 
decline to undertake his cause, because they say that he 
is either a fool or a rogue— loo], if he did noi discover ihe 
liaison till now ; and rogue, if he did know it, and waited, 
for some bad end, to divulge it. In short, there has been 
nothing like it since the days of Guido di Polenta's iamily, 
in these parts. 

"If the man has me taken off, like Polonius, 'say he 
made a good end' — for a melodrame. The principal se- 
curity is, that he hai not the courage to spend twenty 
scudi — the average price of a clean-handed brayo— other- 
wise tin-re is no want of opportunity, for I ride about the 
woods every evening, with one servant, and sometimes an 
acquaintance, who latterly looks a little queer in solitary 
bits of bushes. 

B Good-by. — Write to yours ever, &c * 



LETTER CCCCXLH. 



Tr MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, June 7, 1820. 
"Enclosed is something which will interest vou, to 
wit, the opinion of the greatest man of Germany — per- 
haps of Europe — upon one of the great men of your adver 
usements (all 'famous hands,' as Jacob Tonson used to 
sav of his ragamuffins) — in short, a critique ofGoiAe's 
upon Manfred, There is the original, an English trans- 
lation, and an Italian one; keep them all in your archives, 
for the opinions of such a man as Goethe, whether favour 
able or not, are always interesting — and this is more so, as 
favourable. His Faust I never read, for I do n't know 
German ; but Matthew Monk Lewis, in 1816, at Coligny, 
translated most of it to me vwA voce, and I was naturally 
much struck with it ; but it was the Steinhach and tho 
Jungfrau, and something else, much more than Faustua, 

* M. I.tritkrlitLt. 



J 56 



letters, ma 



that made me write Manfred. The first scene, however, 
and that of Fauslus, are very similar Acknowledge this 
fetter. "Yours ever. 

* P. S. I have received Ivanhoe ; — good. Pray send me 
some tooth-powder and tincture of myrrh, by Wrife,&e. 

Ricciardelto should have been translated literally, or not at 
all. As to puffing tVhistUcrafl, il uun't do. I'll tell you 
why some day or other. Cornwall 's a poet, but spoiled by 
the detestable schools of the day. Mrs. Hemans is a 
poet also, but too stiltitied and apostrophw, — and quite 
wrong. Men died calmly before the Christian era, and 
since, without Christianity: witness the Romans, and. 
lately, Tbisuewood, Bandt, and Love] — nun who ought t-> 

hair hern unfiled dottm vil/t thnr crimes, tVtn >uui they &*■ 

Heved. Adeath-bed is a matter of nerves and constitu- 
tion, and not of religion. Voltaire was frightened, Frede- 
rick of Prussia noi : Christians the same, according to their 
strength rather than their creed. What does H * * H * * 
mean by K» stanza? which bj octave got drunk or gone 
mad. Ho ought to have his ears boxed with Thor^a ham- 
mer lor rhyming so fantastical ly." 



LETTER CCCCXLHI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, June 9, 1820. 
■GafiffnaTD has just sent me the Paris edition of your 
works, (which. 1 wrote to order,) and I am glad to see my 
old fii mds with a French face. I have been skimming and 
dipping, in and over [hem, like a swallow, and as pleased as 
one. 1 1 is the first time that IhartseentheMeloeucawithoui 
music; and, I don't know how, but 1 can't read in a 
music-book — the crotchets confound the words in my 
hi ad, though I recollect them perfectly when sung. Music 
a i . in-, memory through the ear, not tlvough the eye 
I m- an, thai her quavers perplex me upon paper, but they 
are a help when heard. And thus I was glad to see the 
words without their borrowed robes; — lo my mind they 
look none the worse for their nudity. 

"The biographer has mad.' a botch of your life — call- 
ing your father * a venerable old gentleman, 1 and prattling 
of 'Addison, 1 and 'dowager countesses. 1 If that damned 
fellow was to write my life, I would certainly take his. 
And then, at the Dublin dinner, you have 'made a speech," 
(do you recollect, at Douglas K.'s, * Sir, he ruadc me a 
speech?') too complimen:ary to the* living poets,' and 
somewhat rodolenf of universal praise. / am hut too 
well oil in it, but * * * * 

* * + * *. 

k You have not sent me any poetical or personal news 
of yourself Why do n't you complete an Italian Tour of 
the Fudgt s ? I have just been turning over Little, which 
I knew by heart in lSGtf, being then m my fifteenth sum- 
mer. Heigho! I believe all the mischief I have ever 
done, or sung has been owing to dial confounded book 
of yours. 

u lu my last I told you of a cargo of 'Poeahio, 1 which I 
had sen! to M. at his own impatient desire ; — -and, now 
he has got it, he don't like il, ami demurs. Perhaps he i^ 
right. I have no great opinion of any of my lasl ship- 
ment, except a translation from Pulci, which is word for 
word, and verse for verse. 

k I am in the Third Act of B Tragedy : hut whether it 

will be finished or not, I know not : 1 have, at this pre- 
sent, too many passions of my own on hand to do justice 
tu those of the dead. Besides the vexations mentioned 
iii my last, I have incurred a quarrel with the Pope's 
carabiniers, or gens-d'armetie, who have petitioned the 
Cardinal agaiitsl mv liveries, as resembling too nearly 
their own lousy uniform. They particularly object to 
the epaulettes, which all the world with us have upon 
gala (lavs. My liveries are of the colours confirming to my 
arms, and have been the family hue since the vear 1066 



U I have sent a trenchant reply, as you may Mipponfl 
and have given to understand thai, if any soldados of that 
respectable corps insult my servants, I will do likewise 
by their gallant commanders; and 1 have directed my 
ragamuffins, six in Dumber, who are tolerably savage, io 
defend themselves, in case of aggression \ and, on holy- 
iays antl gaudy days, 1 shall ami the whole set, including 
mvselti incase of accidents Of treachery. 1 used 10 play 
pretty well at the broadsword, once upon a time, at 
Angeloa; but I should like the pistol, our national buc- 
caneer weapon, better, thougfa I am out of practice at 

present However, I Can 'w ink and hold OUt mine iron ' 

It makes me think (the whole thing does) of Romeo and 
Juliet — 'now, Gregory, remember th> ■moaning blow.' 

"All these feuds, however, with the Cavalier for his 
wife, and the troopers for my lweries,are very tiresome 
to a quiet man, who does his best to please all the world, 
and longs for fellowship and good-will. Pray write. 

" I am yours, &.C.* 



LETTER CCCCXI.1V, 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Ravenna, July 13. 1820. 

"To remove or increase your Irish anxiety about my 
being'ma whisp, 1 * I answer your letter forthwith; pre- 
mising that, as Iama'iritf ofthc wisp/ I may chance to 
tlit out of it. But, first, a word on the Memoir ; — I have 
Do objection, nay, I would rather thai one correct copy 
was taken and deposited in honourable hands, in case of 
accidents happening to the original ; for you know that I 
have none, and have never even re-read, nor, indeed, read 
at all what is there written ; I only know that I wrote 
it with the fullest intemion to be 'faithful and true' in my 
narrative, but m>{ impartial— no, by the Lord! 1 can't pre- 
trial to be that, while I feel. Hut I wish to give every 
body concerned the opportunity to contradict or correct me. 

"I have no objection to any proper person seeing what 
is there written, — seeing U was written, like every thing 

else, for the purpose of being read, however much many 
writings may fail in arriving at that object. 

K With regard to 'the whisp,* the Pope has pronounced 
their separation. The decree came yesterday from Baby- 
lon, — it was she and h a- friends who demanded it, on the 
grounds of her husband's (the noble Count Cavalii fa) 
extraordinary usage, He opposed it with all his mighli 
because of the alimony, which has been assigned, with all 
her goods, chattels, carriage, &c. to be restored by him. 
In Italy thev can't divorce. He insisted on her giving 
me up, and he would forgive every thing — even the adul- 
tery which he swears that he can prove by 'famous wit- 
nesses.' But, in this country, the very courts hold such 
proofs in abhorrence, the Italians being a- much more 
delicate in public than the English, as they are more 

passionate in private. 

"The friends and relatives, who arc numerous and 
powerful, reply-to bim — ' I'm yourself are either fool or 
knave. — fool, if you did not see the consequences of the 

approximate f Lhasa two young persons, — knave, if 

you connive at it. Take your choice, — hut don't break 
out (after twelve months of the closest intimacy, under 
your own eves and positive sanction) with a scandal, 
which can onlv make you ridiculous and her unhappy.' 

" He swore that lie thougbj our intercourse was purely 
amicable, ami that / was more partial to him than to her, 
nil melancholy testimony proved the contrary. To this 
they answer, that 'Will of Ail wisp' was not an unknown 
person, and mat 'clamosa Kama' had not pre. claimed tho 
purity of my morals: — that her brother, a year ago, wrota 

from Rome to warn him, that his wife v. Id infallibly 

be led astray bv this ignis fatUUS, unless he took prop* 
measures, all of which he neglected to take, &c. ioc. 



• An I rii* ptimir for being in i »cr»p#. 



LETTK K 5,1820 



157 



"Now, he savs, lhal he encouraged my return to 
Ravenna, lo see'in uuanti picdi di aequo m'.imo,' and he 
has found onough lo drown nun in. In short, 

i M foil p-is le tool ; ■ FenuDC se phignk— 
Pnxe-I.a pare.. lei «e joim *» BXCUM el <l'l 
j '. Docteur «noo ttut le mauwf* manage I 
■ t . ,, limine eloil foil, que aafemmeeaoilauge. 
On lii casser le manage.' 
It is but to let the women alone, in the way of conflict, 
for they are sure to win against the field. She returns 
to her lather's house, and I can only see her under great 
restrictions— such is the custom of the country. The 
relations behaved very well;— I offered any settle- 
ment, bill they refused lo accept it, and swear shesta nt 
live with G. (as lie has tried to prove her faithless,) but 
that he shall maintain her ; and, in fact, a judgment lo 
this effect came yesterday. I am, of course, m an awk- 
ward situation enough. 

« I have heard no more of the carabiniers who protested 
against my liveries. They are not popular, those same 
soldiers, and, in a small row, the olher night, one was 
slain, another wounded, and divers put to liight, by some 
Of the Romagnuole youth, who are dexterous, and some- 
what liberal of Ihe knife. The perpetrators are not 
db ..red, but I hope and believe (hat none of mj raga- 
. were in it, though they are somewhat savage, 
and secretly armed, like most of the inhabitants. It is 
their way, and saves sometimes a good deal of litigation. 
" There is a revolution at Naples. If so, it will pro- 
bably leave a card at Ravenna in its way to Lombardy. 
« Your publishers seem to have used you like mine. 
Murray has shuffled, and almost insinuated that my last 
productions are dull. Dull, sir !— damme, dull 1 I believe 
■lit. He begs for the completion of my tragedy 
on Marino Fa'.iero, none of which is yet gone to England. 
The liflh act is nearly completed, hut it is dreadfully long 
— 10 sheets of long paper, 4 pages each— about 150 when 
printed; but 'so full of pastime and prodigality' that 1 
think it will do. 

■ Pray send and publish your Poem upon me ; and 
Jo n't be afraid of praising me loo highly. I shall pocket 
my blushes. 

"'Not actionable!'— Chontre ctenfer !*— by * * that s 
'a speech,' and I won'l put up with it. A pretty title 
lo give a man for doubting if there be any such place . 

«SomyGail is gone— and Miss Mahony won t take 
money. 'l am very glad of it — I like to be generous tree 
of expense. B it beg her not to translate me. 

"Oh pray tell Galignani that 1 shall send him a screed 
of doctrine if he don't be more punctual. Somebody 
regularly detains two, and sometimes /our, of his messen- 
gers by the way. Do, pray, entreat him to be more 
precise. News are worth money m this remote kingdom 
of the Ostrogoths- 

" Pray, reply. I should like much to share some of 
your Champagne and La Fitte, but I am too Italian for 
Paris in general. Make Murray send my letter to you 
—it is full of ep igrams. Yours, &c." 



folio wed. Dr. Moore's account is in some respects falsei 
and in all foolish and flippant. Nine of the chronicles 
(and I have consulted Sanulo, San.li, Navagero, and an 
anonymous Siege of Zara, besides the histories of Lau- 
gicr.Daru, Sismondi, &c.) state, or even hint, that he 
begged his life; they merely say i hit he did not deny 
the conspiracy. He was one of their great men, — com- 
mander at ihe siege of Zara,— beat 80,000 Hungarians, 
killing 8000, and at the same lime kept the town he was 
besieging in order, — took Capo d'Istria, — was amba i- 
dor at^Genoa, Rome, and finally Doge, where he fell foi 
treason, in attempting to alter the government, by whal 
Sanuto calls a judgment on him for, many years before, 
(when Podesta and Captain of Treviso,) having knocked 
down a bishop, who was sluggish in carrying the host at 
a procession. He 'saddles him,' as Thwackum did 
Square, 'with a judgment;' but he does not mention 
whether he had been punished at the time for what 
would appear very strange, even now, and must have been 
still more so in an age of papal power and glory. Sa- 
nuto savs, that Heaven took away his senses for this 

— " . ■ i i i- f_ : ( T3«-.\ T.. >u irn,p^n 



IIUIO SaVS, Ulai nrairu i"ua o."o._j im~ -«-.~ .— 

buffet, and induced him to conspire. ' Pert) fu permesso 
che il Faliero perdette 1' intelletto,' &c. 

" I do not know what your parlour-boarders will think 
of the Drama I have founded upon this extraordinary 
even'. The only similar one in history is the story of Agis, 
King of Sparta, a prince, with the commons against the 
aristocracy, and losing his life therefor. But it shall be 
sent when copied. 

" I should be glad to know why your Quartering Re- 
viewers, at the close of the Fall of Jerusalem,' accuse me 
of Manicheism ? a compliment to which the sweetener of 
'one of the mightiest spirits' by no means reconciles me. 
The Poem they review is very noble ; but could they not 
do justice to the writer without converting him into my 
relioious antidote? I am not a Manichean, nor an Any 
chean. I should like to know what harm my ' poeshies' 
have done ? I can't tell what people mean by making me 
a hobgoblin." 



LETTER CCCCXLV. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, July 17, 1830 
• I have received some books, and Quarterlies, and 
Edinburghs, fir all which I am grateful ; they contain 
all I know of England, except by Galignani's newspaper. 
" The Tragedyf is comple ed, but now comes the task 
4 copy and correction. It is very long, (42 sheets of long 
japer.'of fhur pages each,) and I believe must make more 
Jian 1 10 or 150 pages, besides many historical extract 
as notes, which I mean to append. History is closely 

■ Th- tut" Riven him 'iyM. LainerUne, ill one of tiii toemi. 
Ilarlao Pal'wre. 



LETTER CCCCXLVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

Ravenna, August 31, 1820. 

"I have 'put my strut into the tragedy, (as you if il;) 
but you know that there are d — d souls as well as trage- 
dies. Recollect that it is not a political play, though it 
may look like il; it is strictly historical. Read the history 
and judge. 

"Adas picture is her mother's. I am glad or it — the 
mother made a good daughter. Send me Gilford's opi- 
nion, and never mind the Archbishop. I can n< ithei send 
you away, nor give you a hundred pistoles, nor a better 
taste: I send you a tragedy, and you asked for ' facetious 
epistles;' a little like your predecessor, who advised Dr. 
Prideaux to ' put some more humour into his Life of Ma- 
homet.' 

" Bankes is a wonderful fellow. There is hardly one of 
my school or college contemporaries that has not turned 
out more or less celebrated. Peel, Palmerston, Bankes, 
Kobhouse, Tavistock, Bob Mills Douglas Kmnaird, &c. 
&c. have all talked and been talked about. 

***** 

"We are here going to fight a little next month, if the 
Huns don't cross the Po, and probably if they do. I can't 
say more now. If any thmg happens, you have matter for 
a posthumous work in MS.; so pray be civil. Depend 
upon it, there will be savage work, if once they begin here. 
The French courage proceeds from vanity, the German 
from phleom, the Turkish from fanaticism and opium, the 
Spanish from pride, ihe English from coolness, the Dutch 
from obstinacy, the Russian from insensibility, but the Jta- 
i lion from anger ; a i you 11 see that they will spare nothing. 



158 



LETTERS, 182ft 



LETTER CCCCXLVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, August 31, 1820. 
"D — n your 'mezzo cammin J ' 4 — von should sav 'the 
prune oflife, 1 a much more consolatoi ) phrase. Besides, 

ii i n it cornel. I was born in J7SS, and ronseqiifiii] \ 
ara but thirty-two. you are mistaken on another noun. 
Die 'Sequin Box* never came into requi ition, nor is it 
to do so. U were bettei that ii had, for then a man 
i not bounds you know. \ lo reform, I did relbnn — whal 
wo tld you have .' ' Rebellion lay in his way, and he found 
it.' [ verilj believe that nor you, nor anj man of poetical 
temperament, ran avoid a slum,' passion of some kind. Ii 
i^ the poetry oflife. What should ! have known orwrtfi- 
i I been a quietj mercantile politician, or a lord in 

■ ii ' A m hi must tra* el and turmoil] or there i< no 
existent Besides,] only meant to !"■ a Cavalier Ser* 
rente, and had no idea it would turn out a romance, ui the 
An ;lo fashion. 

" However, I suspect I know a ihin« or two of Italy — 
more than Lady Morgan has picked up in her posting. 
What do Englishmen know of Italians beyond their mu- 
seums and saloons — and some hack **, en passant? Now, 
I have lived in the heart of their houses, in par's of Italy 

freshest and leasl influenced hv sir;irii:«Ts, — ha\ <■ s.-en ami 

{para magna fin) a portion of their hopes, and 
leai . an ! passions, and am almost inoculated mto a fa- 
intly. This is io see men and things as they are. 

B You say that I called you'quiet'"f — I don't recollect 
any thing of the sort. On the contrary you are always in 
s< rapes. 

"What think von of the Queen? I hoar Mr. Hoby 
says, 'that it makes him weep to see her, she rununds him 
so much of Jane Shore.' 

"Mi H In ihi boo ■ lieirl U quite tart , 

Farmwi n i i ■ eu n i h ■ uk ul Shore ; 

And, in fact, • • • • • 

reuse this ribaldry. What is your Poem about? 
Write and tell me all about it and you, 

* Yours, &c. 
"P. S, I h.l you write the lively quiz on Peter Beil ? It 
has wit enough to he yours, and almost too much to be 
ai • bodj el (e T s now going, It was in Galignani die other 
day or h i 



LETTER CCCCXLVI1I. 

TO MH. Mt'RRAV. 

"Ravenna, September 7, 1?:0. 

"In correcting the proofs you must refer to the manu- 
nrript, because there arc in it t>arious rca/HnffS. Pray at- 
tend to this, and choose what GirTbrd thinks best. Let me 
hear what he thinks of the whole. 

"You speak of Lady **ls illness: she is not of those 

who die: — the amiable only do; and tin'-'' whose death 

would do good live. Whenever she is pleased to return, 
n may bt pr< umed she will take her 'divining rod' alon« 
with her: it may be of use to her at home, as well as to 
the 'rich man* of the Evangelists. 

tf Prav do not let the papers paragraph me back to Eng- 
land. They may say what they please, any Loathsome 
abuse but that. Contradict it. 

M Mv last Letters will have taught yon to - rpecl an ex- 
pto ion here: it was primed and loaded, but they hesitated 
to fire the brain. One of the citi a shirked from thi 

I Cannot write more at lar*je (or a thousand reasons. Our 

'pnir hill folk' oflered to stnke, and rai a the first banner, 
bul Bologna paused; and now*tis autumn, and the ea 

son half over. '0 Jerusalem! Jerusalem!' The Huns are 
on the Po ; bin if once they pass it on their way to Na- 



• I hdd conei-Miilateit him i 



riving alwtial Dante call* the " mci- 



Italy will be beliind them. The dogs — the wolves 
— may ihv\ perish like the host "f Sennacherib! If you 
want to publish tie- Prophecy of Dante, you never will 
have a heller time. 3 



■ linn tiiii;i.".'i.iit i. i.,..-.. u.i •.■•>£. 

%0 CBTiinii." of life, I tie If! oflhll U I ! '" I 

t 1 bad mikUkvii lL» concluding word* of hi* L-iur of Um 90 i of /aw 

Miron 



LETTER CCCCXLIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, Sept. 11, 1SS0. 

" Here is another historical ruts for you. I want to bo 
as near truth as the Drama ran be. 

■ I ,;i-i pbsl I sent you a note fierce as Faliero bins* II " 
in answer to a trashy tourist, who pretends thai be could 
have been introduced to me. Let me have a proof of it| 
that I ma} COl its lava into some shape. 

"What 1 rnTord Bays is very consolatory, (of the First 
Act.) English, sterling genuau Engh '■ is a desideratum 
among you, and I am glad that I have t!"' so much left ; 

'I L'h Heaven knows how [retain i . thear none but 

from ni\ valet, and his is Nbttmghanuhin ; and I ■■■ 
but m your new publications, and theirs is no langu 
all, but jargon. Even your ' * * * is terribly suited and 
.ui c i-ii. n i'h ■ ' i : >/. > by so soft and pamby. 

"Oh! if ever I do come among von again, I will give 
\ on such a ' Haviad atid M.vviad !' not us good as the old, 
tint even better menled. There never was such a set as 
your i ■■■>L , tinit{ffms, (I mean not yours onlv, but every body^B.1 
What with the i fockneys, and the Lakers, and l\\t follow- 
ers of Scott, and Moore, and Bvron, you are in the very 
uttermost decline and degradation of literature. I can't 
■ f j mk of it without all the remdrse of a murderer. I wish 
hat Johnson were alive again to crush them I" 1 



LETTER CCCCL. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



u Ravenna, Sept. 14, 1820. 

"What! not a line ? Well, have it in your own way. 

"I wish you would inform Perry that his stupid para- 
graph is the cause of all my newspapers being stopped in 
Paris. f The fools believe me in your infernal country, and 
have not sent on their gazettes, so that I know nothing ol 
your beastly trial of the Queen. 

B I cannot avail myself of Mr. Clifford's remarks, be- 
cause I have received none, except on the first act. 

■ Yours, &c. 

"P.S. Do, pray, beg the editors ofpaperato say any 
thing blackguard they phase; but not to put me among 
their arrivals. They do me more mischief by such non- 
sense than all their abuse can do." 



LETTER COCCLI. 



TO MR. Ml'RRAV. 



"Ravenna, Sept. 21, 1820. 

H So you are at your old trifks again. Tins is the se- 

... bet I have received unaccompanied hv a single 

line of good, bad, or indifferent. I' is stran ••■ tl at vou have 

never forwarded any farther observations of< SiffbrdV How 

am I to alter or amend, if I hear no farther .' or does this 

ill ii,-i mean tl at it is well enough as it is, or too bad to 

be repaired ? it* the last, why do you not say so at onro, 

instead of playing pretty, while you know that soon or late 

von must out with the truth. 

"Yours, &c. 
" P. S. Mv sister tells me, that yon sent to her to in- 
quire where I was, believing in my arrival, ' driving a cur* 



* Set nOUm lo Marion Faliero. 

t it had bMu ivporud liial ti« bad arrived In London lo aUe-vJ 'hi 

U"mi . innl 



LETTERS, 1820. 



159 



ride? &c. &c. into Paa< e-yard. Do you think me a cox- 
comb or a madman, to be capable of such an exhibition: 
My sister knew m ■ better, and told you, that cmtbi not be 
me. You might as well have thought me enuring on 'a 
pale horse,' Like Death in the Revela.ions." 



LETTER CCCCLH. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



* Ravenna, Sept. 23. 1820. 

"Get from Mr. Hobhouse, and send me a proof (.with 
the Latin) of my Hints from Horace: it has now the 
tiomtm premature tn artmtm .complete f>r its production, 
being written at Alliens m 1811. I have a notion thai, 
with some omissions of names and passages, it will do; 
and 1 could put my late observations for Pope among the 
notes, with the date of 1820, and so on. As far a-; versifi- 
-ation goes, it is good; and on looking back to what I 
wrote about that period, I am astonished to see how little 
I have trained on. I wrote better then than now ; but 
that comes of my having fallen into the atrocious had 
taste <>f the times. If 1 can trim it fir present publica- 
tion, what with the other things vou have of mine, pou 
will have a volume or two of variety at least, for there will 
be all measures, styles, and topics, whether good or no. 
1 am anxious to bear what Gilford thinks of the tragedy ; 
pray let me know. I really do not know what to think 
myself 

If the Germans pass the Po, they will be treated to a 
I 9 <mt of the Cardinal de ftvtz's Breviary, * * 's a 
fool, and could not understand this: Frere will. It is as 
pretty a conceit as you would wish to see on a summers 
day. 

" ^obody here believes a word of the evidence against 
the Queen. The very mob cry shame against their 
countrymen, and say that for half the money spent upon 
the trial, any testimony whatever may be brought out of 
Italy. This you may rely upon as fact. 1 told you as 
much before. As to what travellers report, what are trch 
' Now I have lived among the Italians — not 
Fioreneed, and Rmned, and sallened, and conversationcd 
it for a few months, and then home again ; but been of 
their families, and friendships, and feuds, and loves, and 
councils, and correspondence, in a part of Iialy least 
known to foreigners, — and have been among them of all 
classes, from the Conte to the Contadiiie ; and you may 
be sure of what I say to yi ill. u Yours, &C." 



LETTER CCCCLIII. 



TO MR. MURRAV. 



"Ravenna, September 28, 1820. 
* I thought that I had told vou long ago, that it* never 
was intended nor written with any view to the stage. I 
have said so in the preface too. It is too lon» and too 
regular for your stage, the persons too few, and the i rally 
i ni ch observed. It is more like a play of A'fieri's 
than of your stage, (I say this humbly in speaking of that 
great man ;) but there is poetry, and it is equal^to Man- 
fred, though 1 know not what esteem is held of Manfred. 

B I have now- been nearly as long out of England as I 
was there during the time I saw you frerjuemtv. I came 
home July 14th, 1811, and lefi again April 25th, 1816 ; so 
[it. 28th, 1620, brings me within a very few months 
of the same duration of time of mv stay and mv absence. 
In course, I can know nothing of the public taste and 
feelings, but from what I clean from letters, &c. Both 
seem to be as bad as possible. 

"I thought Anastasius excellent: did I not sav so? 
Matthews':, Diary most excellent ; it, and Forsyth, and 



parts of Hobhouse, are all we have of truth or sen.se upon 
Italy. The letter Eu Julia very gcod indeed. I do nut 
despise * * * * * * ; but if she knit blue-stockings 
instead of wearing them, it would be better. You are 
taken in by that false, stilieil, iravby style, which is a mix- 
ture of all die styles of the day, which are all ban 
(I don't except my own — no one has done more through 
negligence to corrupt the language;) but it is neither 
English nor poetry. Time will show. 

''I am sorry Gitlord has made no farther remarks 
beyond the first Act: does he think all die English equally 
sterling as he thought the first .' Vou did right to send 
the proofs: I was a fool; but I do really detest the sight 
of proo.'s: it is an absurdity ; hut comes from laziness. 

" You can steal the two Juans into the world quietly 
tagged to the others. The play as you will — the Dante 
too; but die Pulri I am proud of: it is superb; you have 
no such translation. It is the best tlung I ever did in my 
life. I wrote fhe play from beginning to end, and not a 
single scene without interruption, and being obliged 10 break 
off in the middle; for 1 had mv hanos full, and my head, 
too, just then ; so it i an lie no great shakes — I mean thi* 
play ; and the head loo, if you hke. 

"P. S. Politics here si ill savage and uncertain. How- 
ever, we are all in our 'bandalicrs' to join the 'Highland- 
ers if they cross the Forth,* i. e. to crush the Austrian* 
if they pass the Po. The rascals! — and that dog Liver- 
pool, to say their subjects are happy! If ever I come 
back, I'll work sonui of these ministers. 

•Sept. 29. 

"I open my letter to say that on reading mine of tie 
four volumes on Italy, where the author says ' declix.ed 
an introduction,' I perceive (liorresco referens) it is written 
by a WOMAN ! ! ! In that case you must suppress my 
note and answer,* and all I have said about the book 
and the writer. I never dreamed of it until now, in my 
extreme wrath at that precious note. I can only sav fiat 
I am sorry that a lady should say any thing of the kind. 
What I would have said to one of the othtrsex you kn iv 
already. Her book too (as a she book) is not a bad or? ; 
but she evidenily don't know the Italians, or raiher do i/t 
like them, and forgets the emtses of their misery and pro- 
Bigacy, (A/f/W/im-sand Forsyth are your men for the troth 

and tact,) and has gone over Italy in company always 

a bad plan: you must I ■ alone with people to know them 
well. Ask her, who was the ^descendant of Lady HI. IV 
Montague} and by whom ? bv Algarotti ? 

tt I suspect that in Marino Faliero, you <uid yours won'' 
like the politics which are perilous to you in these times 
but recollect that it is not a political plav, and that I 
was obliged to put into the mouths of the characters the 
sentiments upon which they acted. I hate all things 
written like Pizarro, to represent France, England, and 
so forth. All I have done is meant to be purely Vene- 
tian, even to the very prophecy of its present state. 

(i Your Angles in general know little of the Italians 
who detest them for their numbers and their Genoa 
treachery. Besides, the English travellers have not been 
composed of the best company. How could they ? — out 
of 100,000, how many gentlemen were there, or honest 
men? 

"Mitchell's Aristophanes is excellent. Send me the 
rest of it. 

" These fools will force me to write a book about Italy 
myself, to give them 'the loud lie.' They prate about 
assassination ; what is it but the origin of duelling — and 
4 a wild justice,' as Lord Bacon calls it ? It is the fount 
of the modern point of honour in what the laws can I or 
won't reach. Every man is liable to it more or less, 
according to circumstances or place. For instance, I am 
living here exposed to it daily, for I have happened to 
make a powerful and unprincipled man my enemy; — and 



Marino i*«\' ".». 



' ^ r < Lttiei 4i6. 



160 



LETTERS, 1820. 



I never sleep the worse for it, or ride in less solitary 
places, because pre* .-union is useless, and one Uunks of it 
as of a disease which may or may not strike. It is true 
that there are those here, who, if be did, would ' live to 
think on't ;' hut that would not awake my hones : I should 
be sorry if it wouid, were they once at rest." 



LETTER CCCCLIV. 

TO MR. MtJHKAV. 

"Ravenna. 8 h « 6°, 1820. 

"You will have now received all the Acts, corrected, of 
the Marino Falieio. What you say of the 'bet of 100 
guineas' made by some one who savs that he saw me last 
week reminds me of what happened in 1810; you can 
easily ascertain the (act, and it is an odd one. 

"In the lalier end of 1811, 1 met one evening at the 
Alfred mv old school and form-fellow, (for we wen- witbifl 
two of each other, he the higher, though both very near 
the lop of our remove,) Peel, the Irish secretary. He 
told me that, in 1810, he met me, as he thought, in St 
Jam-'!, -si reel, but we passed without speaking. He men- 
tioned this, and it was denied as impossible ; 1 being then 
in Turkey. A day or two afterwards, he pointed out to 
his brother a person on the o| posit e side of the way: 
— ' There/ Said he * is the man whom I look fi-r 1 ?\ r< •n." 
His brother instantly answered, ',Why it is Byron, and 
no one else* 1 But this is not all : — 1 was seen by some- 
body to write down my name among the inquirers after 
the king's health, then attacked by insanity. Now, at 
this very period, as nearly as I coulil make out, I was ill 
of a .strong fever at Patras, caught in the marshes near 
Olynipia, from the malaria. If I had died there, this 
would have been a new ghost story for you. You can 
easily make out the accuracy of this from Peel himself 
who told it in detail. I suppose you will be i f the opinion 
of Lucretius, who (denies the immortality of the soul, but) 
asserts that from the 'flying off of the surfaces of bodies, 
these surfaces or cases, lilt© the coats of an onion, are 
sometimes seen enure when they are separated from it, 
so that the shapes and shadows of both the dead and 
living are frequency beheld.' 

"But if they are, are their coats and waistcoats also 
seen? I do not disbelieve that we may be two by some 
unconscious process, to a certain sign, tun which of these 
two I happen at present to be, I leave you to decide. I 
only hope that £* other me behaves like a gemman. 

" I wish you would get Peel asked how far I am accu- 
rate in my recollection of what he told me; for I don't 
like to say such things without authority. 

"I am not sure that I was not tpO&en with ; but this also 
you can ascertain. I have written to you such letters 
that I stop. u Yours, Sic, 

"P. S. Last year (in June, 1819) I met ai Count 
Mosti's, at Ferrara, an Italian, who asked me 'if I knew 
Lord Byron T 1 told him no, (no one knows himself JfOU 
know.) 'Then,' says he, ( I do; I met him at Naples 
the other day.' 1 pulled out my rani and asked him if 
that was the way he spelled his name : he answered, yes. 

I suspect thai it was a blackguard navi Burgeon, who 
attended a young travelling madam about, and passed, 
himself for a lord at the post houses. He "as a vulgar 
dog — quite of the cockpit order — and a precious repre- 
sentative I must have had of him, if it was even so ; bul 
I don't know. He passed himself off as a gentleman, 
and squired about a Countess * * (of this place) then 
ui Venice, an ugly, banereo! woman, of bad morals even 
lor Italy." 



LETTER CCCCLV. 

TO MH. .MI'KIUl. 

"Ravenna, 8*>" 8°, 1820. 
•FoseoloV letter is exactly the llung wanted; firmly, 



because he Is a man of genius; wid, next, because b«* is 
an Italian, and therefore the best judge of liajics. Be- 

Sides, 

' lit '■ more an ajuique Roman lhan a Dane ;* 

that is, he is more of the ancient Greek than of the 
modern Italian. Though 'somewhat, 1 as DugoJd Dai- 

petty say, 'too wild and salvage,' (like 'Ronald of the 
JVIts,') 't is a wonderf.il man, and my Hiends Hobhoitffl 
and Rose both Bwear bv trim ; and they are {joud judges 
of men and of Italian humanity. 

1 Here ni .ii .i.i tua w i 't.v Totea ^ain'ri ■.' 
GifTbrd says it is good ' sterling genuine English, 1 and 
Koscolo says that the characters arc right Venetian. 
Shakspeare and Otway had a million of advantage! over 
me, besides the incalculable one of being rftwl from one 
to two (futures, and having been both born blackboards, 
(which aiie such attractions to the gentle living reader ;) 
let me then preserve the only one winch I couM pj ssihly 
have — ihat of having been at Venice, and entered mure 

into the local spoil of it. I el.uio DO in re. 

* I know what Poscolo means about t alendaro's spttting 
at Bertram ; fAoC's notional — the objection, I mean. The 
Italians and French, with iho>e 'Hags of abomination,' 
their pocket-handkerchicGs, spit there, and here, and every 

where else — m your fare almost, and therefore object to 
it on the stage as too familiar. But we who soil nowhere 1 
—but in a man's face when we grow savage — are not 
likely to feel this. Remember il/oswi/iger, and Keau's Sir 
Giles Overreach — 

* Lord ! Ihus I spit iO On-e unit nt thy CODDtel !' 

Resides, Calendaro does not spit in Bertrams face; he 
spits at him, as I have seen the Mussulmans do upon the 
ground when they are in a rage. Again, he does not in 
fact despise Bertram, thoogb he oflectS n, — as we all do, 
when SAgry with one we ihink OUr interior. He is angry 
at not being allowed to die in his own way, (although DOt 
afraid of death,) and recollect that he suspected and 
hatred Bertram from the first. Israel Bertuccio, on the 
other hand, is a cooler and more concentrated fellow : ho 
arts upon principU and impulst ; Calendaro upon impulse 
and example. 

"So there's argument for you. 

"The Doge repeats; — true, but it is from engrossing 
passion, and because he sees different persons, and is 
always obliged to recur to the cause uppertnosl m lus 
mind. His speeches are long; — true, but I wrote for the 
doset, and on the French and Italian model rather than 
yours, which I think not very highly ot, for all your old 
dramatists, who are long enough, too, God knows: — look 
into any of Uiem. 

1 I return you Foscolo's letter, because it allud< 
to his private affairs. I am sorry to see such a man m 
straits, because 1 know what they are, or what they were. 

I never mel but three men »ho would have held out a 

finger m me : one was yourseUj the other William Bankes, 

and the oilier ;i noliK man Ions ago dead . but of these the 

first was the onlj one who offered i) while I natty wan ed 

it ; the second from good-will — but I was not in need of 
Bankes's aid, and would not have accepted ir if J had, 
(though I love and esteem him ;) — and the tidrd — 

" So you see that I have seen some Strange thmgS in 

my time. As for your own offer, it wad in 1816, when I 
was in actual uncertainty of rive pounds. I rejected il ; 
but I have not forgotten it, althoughf you probabh have. 
"P. S. Foscolo's Riceiunlo w;is lent, with the leave* 
uncut, to some Italians, now In vflleggiaiura,so that I Ua\*> 
had on opportunitj of hearing their decision, or of reading 
it. They seized on it as Foscolo's, on account of the 
beauty of the paper and printrag directly. If I rind it 
takes, I will reprint it here. The Italians think as highly 



• Th. p*r*pnp)i it ||K Utut Impirftcl ui tht original. 
f S ( i Lciwr ***, 



LETT Ells, 1820. 



161 



of Fuscolo as they can of any man, divided and miserable 
as they are, and with neither leisure at present to read, 
nor head nor hear* t<> judge of any thing but extracts frum 
French newspapers and the Lugano Gazette. 

* We are all looking at one another, like wolves on their 
prey in pursuit, only waiting for the first falling on to do 
unutterable things. They are a great world in chaos, nr 

in hell, which von please ; hut out of chaos came 
paradise, and out of hell — I don't know what; but the 
Deri] went in there, and he was a fine fellow once, you 
know. 

* You need never favour tne with any periodical pubti- 

tcepf the Edinburgh) Quarterly, and an occasional 
Blackwood ; or now and then a Monthly Review : for the 
rest 1 do not feel curiosity enough to look beyond their 
covers. 

■ To be sure I took in the Editor of the British finely. 
He fell precisely into the glaring trap laid f >r him. It was 
inconceivable how he could be so absurd as to imagine us 
serious with him. 

* Recollect, thai if you put my name to ' Don Juan' in 
these ca:i*in^ days, any lawyer might oppose my guardian 

f my daughter in chancerv, on the plea of i:s con- 
ta aing the parody; — such are the |>erils of a foolish jest. 
I was not aware of this at the time, but you will find it 
', I believe; and you may be sure that the Noek 
would not let it slip. Now I prefer my child to a poem 
at any time, and so should you, as having half a dozen. 
" Let me know your notions. 

* If vou turn over the earlier pages of the Huntingdon 
peerage story, vou will see how common a name Ada 
was in the earlv Plantasenet davs. I found it in my own 
pedigree in the reign of John and Henry, and gave it to 
my daughter. It was also the name of Charlemagne's 
sifter. It is in an early chapter of Genesis, as the name 
of the wife of Lamech ; and I suppose Ada is the femi- 
nine of Adam. It is short, ancient, vocalic, and had been 
ui my family, for which reason I gave it to my daughter. 1 * 



LETTER CCCCLVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY - . 

"Ravenna, S br * 12°, 1820. 
"Bylani and sea carriage a considerable quaniity of 
books have arrived; and I am obliged and grateful: but 
medio de fonte lcporum, surgil amah aliquid,' &c. &c. ; 
which, being interpreted, means, 

1 I ' ni thankful for ronr boohs, dear Murray ; 
But why not mi J Stuit'i Moiuufcry 7 

the onlv book in four living volumes I would give a baioe- 
colo to see — 'ha'ing the rest of the same author, and an 
occasional Edinburgh and Quarterly, as brief chroniclers 
of the urnes. Instead of this, here are Johnny Keats's 

* * poetry, and three novels, by God knows whom, except 
that there is Peg * * **s name to one of them — a spin- 
ster whom I thought we had sent back to her spinning. 

* 'rayon is very good ; Hogg's Tales rough, but RACv,and 
welcome. 

* Books of travels are expensive, and I do n*t want 
bavins travelled already ; besides, they lie. Thank 
the author of' die Profligate 1 for his (or her) present. Prat 
s<*nd me no more poetry but what is rare and decidedly 
good. There is such a trash of Keats and the like upon 
my 'ables that I am ashamed to look at them. I say 
nothing against your parsons, your Smith's, and your 
L'nlv's — it is all very fine — hut pray dispense me from 
tii» pleasure. Instead of poetry, if you will favour me 
with a few soda-powders, I shall be delighted but all 
prose (Tja jng travel* and novels not by Scott) is wel- 
come, es(ieciallv Scott's Tales of .My Landlord, and soon. 

" In the notes to Marino Fait era, it mav as be well to 
64y that ' Benintcnde' was not really of the Ten % but merely 



Grand Cftonocfcr, a separate office, (although important); 
it was an arbitrary alteration of mme. The Doges too 
were all buried m St JLtrk's before Faliero. It is sin 
EUUV that when, his predecessor, Andrea Dandolo, died, 
the Ten marie a law that all die future Dn«es should be 
buried with their Jam dies, in their own churches, — one 
UMJtdd U,iiJi by a kind of presentiment. So that all that 
is said of his ancestral Dolts, as boned at Si. John's and 
Paul's, is altered from the (act, they bang in St. Mark's 
Make a note of tliis, and put Editor as Uie subscription 
to ir. 

* As I make such pretentions to accuracy, I should not 
like in he twitted even with such trifles on that score. Ot 
the play they niav say what they please, but not so of my 
costume and dranupers. they having been real existences. 

" I omitted Foscoto. in my list of living Venetian uvirthies 
in the notes, considering him as an Italian in general, and 
not a mere provincial like the rest; and as an Italian I 
have spoken of him in the preface to canto 4uS of Childe 
Harold. 

" The French translation of us ! ! ! ohrib '. m'ml! — and 
the German ; but I do n't understand the latter, and his 
ong dissertation ai the end about the Fausts. Excuse 
haste. Of politics it is not safe to speak, but nothing is 
decided as vet. 

" I am in a very fierce humour at not having Scott's 
M mastery. — You are too liberal in quantity, and some- 
what careless of the quality, of your missives. All the 
Quarterlies (four in number) I had had before from vou, 
and ttm of the Edinburgh ; but no matter, we shall have 
new ones bv-and-by. No more Keats, I entreat : — flay 
him alive ; if some of you do n't, I must skin him myself. 
There is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the manikin. 

" I do n ? t feel inclined to care farther about ' Don Juan.' 
What do you think a very pretty Italian lady said tome 
the other day ') She had read it in the French, and paid 
me some compliments, with due drawbacks, upon it. 
I answered that what she said was true, but that I sus- 
pected it would live longer than Childe Harold. — i Ak i 
but, (said she,) '/ would rather hate the fame of Childe 
Harold for three years then an immortality of /Jon 
JuanT The truth is thai it is TOO tkue, and the women 
hate many things which strip off the tinsel of sentiment ; 
and they are right, as it would rob them of their weapons. 
I never knew a woman who did not hate De Gramnumti 
Memoirs tor the same reason: even Lady * * used to 
abuse them. 

"Rose's work I never received. It was seized at 
Venice. Such is the liberality of the Huns, with their 
two hundred thousand men, that they dare not let such a 
volume as his circulate." 



LETTER CCCCLVn. 



TO MR. MT'HRAV. 



21 



"Ravenna, 8^ 16°, 1820 
" The Abbot has just arrived ; many Utftnks ; as also 
for the Monastery — uViett you send U ! ! I 

" The Abbot will have a more than ordinary interest fi»r 
me, for an ancestor of mine by the mother's side, Sir .1 . 
Gordon of Gight, the handsomest of his day, died on a 
seatlohl at Aberdeen for his loyalty to Mary, of whom he 
was an imputed paramour as well as her relation. His 
fate was much commented on in the Chronicles of the 
times. If I mistake not, he had something to do with her 
escape from Loch Leven.or with her captivity Uiere. But 
this you will know better Uian I. 

u I recollect Loch Leven as it were but yesterday. I 
saw it in my way to England, in 1798, being then ten 
years of age. My mother, who was as haughty as Luci- 
fer with her descent from the Stuarts, and her right hna 
from tiio old Gordons, not t!ie Seylon Gordons,as she dis- 



162 



LK'i* T E R S, [820 



dainfullj I ■ ducal bran h 

always reminding me how erG rdons were to 

iii«' southern Byrons, — notwithstanding 01 i 
always mascuUn i di ''in. which has never lapsed into a 
as my mother's Gordon had done in tit.' r own 
person. 

"I have written to pan bo ofi n lately that the brevity 
of this will be welcome. 

" Yours, &.c." 



LETTER CCCCLVlIt 

TO JMIl. MURHAV. 

« Rai ■ ' 1P L 20. 

"Kncloaed is the Dedication of Marino Faliero to 
Goethe. Query, — is Ins title Boron or u<-\ ' I think yes. 

Let me know youropi u, and bo forth. 

'• P. s. Let me know whal .Mr. Hob] 
tided about the two pros* l' 
' .1 tion 

" I enclose you an Italian ab trac ofthi I rman trans- 
la tor of Manfred's Appendix, in which j luwill ;■ 

1 what Goethe says ol the i 
poetry, (and not of me in particular). < to 'Ins the Dedi- 
cation is founded] as you will perceive, though I had 
thought of ii before, fur I look upon him as a great man.''' 

** Dcdicuiiun to Huron GoethCj &C &C. &C 
Kt 8XR, 

"'In the Appendix to an English work lately 
lated into German and published at Leipsic, a r 
iif vmrs ii|hiii Kn^lish poetry is quoted as follow ■ : : Thai 
in English poetry, great genius, universal power, a feeling 
of profundity, with suffit i< nt I 
be found ; but that altogether these do not conatitutt poets? 

Wi I regret, to see a ^'"nt man (ailing into a gn i n 
take, 'l in opinion of yours only proves that the " Di* - 
tumary of ten thousand in in I 'ngUsh authors* hws not been 
translated into German. You will have read, in your 
friend Schlegel's \- rsi >n, the dialogue in Macbeth — 

" There me ten thnuanm) I 
Mncbcth. G< . , , \, .Lin, : 

Antv>er. Authort 

Now, of these " ten thousand authors," there are actually 
nineteen hundred and eighty-seven poets, all alive at this 

moment, whatever their works may be, as their 1 1 

well know ; and among these there are several who pos- 
sess a far greater reputation than mine, alt! h consi- 
derably less than yours. It is owing to this w 
the pari of your German translators that you arc not 
aware of the works of * * * * 



1 There is also another, named * 



"'I mention these poets byway of sample to enlighten 
you. They form but two bricks of our Babel, (U , 

by-the-way,) but ma pecunen of the 

building. 

"'It is, moreover, asserted thai 

i i : of the w hole b <dj of the pn ei 
a disgust and contempt for Lit) . H Bui 1 rathi r bu ,-< ■ 
that, by one single work of prose, you yourself have 
excited a greater contempt for life Mian all the English 

volumes of poesj tl ivi i were written. Mad 

Stafil says, thai - Werther lias occasion) d mon 
titan 'Jie most beautiful woman ;" and I really believe that 
he has put more individuals oul of this world than Napo- 
leon himself] — except in the way of his proles ion. Per- 
haps, illustrious sir, the acrimonious [udj menl pa ;ed by a 
eeb'brated northern jounial upon you in particular, and 
the * rermans in gi net il, rather indisposed yoi 
English Doetry as weO as criticism, lint you must not 



regard our cri' I- 

up the law ut 
court, and laying i' down out of it. No 
lament ' ] ment, in your pi 

I [so expressed n 

; 
■■ ■ lit i. 

. i . . e of an 

to ■■ English poetry* . i _ ■ 
■ i as. 
"*My | to testify 

: a man. who, | 

up of a greal nation, and will 
go down 
his a) e. 

trated ] our i 

musical for the articula 
niv. In this you bai 

names would perhaps be in 
also — it' . hem. 

: 

tt] in inn ntional i> 

vou ; but this wi c : I am always flip] 

i bj I really ami warmly do, in 
common with all your own, and with most other na 
to I" - by for the first literary 

I iid feel, 

[< sirous work, — nol as 

[cannot proni iunce 
upon its pi e either ot or the other, i i 

or neither,) but a 

i in Germany 

■'tiij: ORE IT noi.i BE." 

r to be, 
" • with the li n 

\ lient 

buml I 51 riant, 
«'Byi 
i ■ ■ ■ »] ; 
" P. s. 1 perceive that in ' icrmany, as well a-- b I 
there is a j 
and ( Romnniir' — term! > no) subjects 

i r or five 

o. E onie of the I n is true, 

abused Pope and Sv.it'. but the reason -was tha 
themselves did nol know how to write either prose or 

verse . but nob< <dj tl ■ I > i them worth ma! ti 

Perhaps there may bi 

1 'oi,. h about it, and it 

such ba 



Li:i l ER O • I. IX. 

- 

" I 
•■ You owe mc two them. I want '*> 

know w duI. The summer it 

will be back lo P V' ipos of Paris, it was not 

, Sophia Go y — the English word Gay — 
i my correspondent. Can you tell who* 
■ * .' 

" Have j mi j on w ith youi poem } I 

the French ol ■ Only think of being; traduced into a 

It IS 
. 

1 
i tion. Shall [send it j far as it is gone .' 

" I can't sav any th n »ut Italy, for the Go- 

vernment I*' re look upon me with a uspicr as i ye, as I 
am well informed. Prcttj f I, a 

,i n, ■■ i , . ■ ■ ' ■■ I ■ tire 1 

of rifle and pis t buli hay took the 



LETTERS, 1820. 



163 



nlarm at the quantity of cartridges I consumed] — the 

a res! 
" You don't deserve a long letter — nor a letter i ' all — 
■ i ■ ilence- you h i\ e L r »t a new Bourbon, i 

: Dieu-donnl ;' — perhaps the 
m di muted. Did you write 

m , the Laker ? * * 

" The ■ nade a pretty theme for the j 

here ever such evidence published? Why it is 
i i : N ' [fyoudon'1 
write soon, I will ■ make you a spi 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLX. 



TO UK. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, &*" 25,1820. 
" Pray forward the enclosed to Lady Byron. It is on 

'•In thanking you for the Abbot, I made four grand 
. m was not of Gight^ but o! 
i He suffered not for 

insurrection. He ha I 
with Loch Lei 

iment : and, fourth 

; I ■ i tour or no, for 

- noi aUudi to 

is unfortunate) 
! 
'■ T mu listakes in re ■ 

mv m ither's a • >un 

; : . 111 j precise upon 

le had a 

. like Sir Lucius O'Trigger's, mosi 

i. mi I in the old Scotch < Ihronicles, 

Spalding, &c. in arms and I i. I remember 

ren, as well g Kerry : 

we weri in 1798. 

n Yours. 
"You had better not publish Blackwood and the 
■ urds Pope; — you have 
let liit tin 



LETTER CCCCLXI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna. ! 
6 1 have received f 
ters, duplicates, ami receipts, which will explain 
in- are your property by pu 
ice, u. 7 matter* ■ 
you to decide upon. I know not how far my compliance 
w ith Mr. Galignani's requi si I doubt 

tliat it would not b I 

range with him 

i i ■:. 
o exert the pow< r you justly 
pel 'v. I will hat 

to state 
that the letters to you, and the causes 

■ 
t; If you can 

- in the fire. I can have no 
; whatever, but to secure to you your property. 
* Yot i ■ . 
"P.S. I have read part of the Quarterly jusl 
■ iwles shall be answered:— he is n 



■ 

from htm ■ 

■ real nlier*, 



in hts statement about English Bards and Scotch Re- 
They support Pope, I see, in the Quarterly; 
ti t them continue to do so: it is a sin, and a shame, and 
m to think that Pope!! should require it — but he 
does. Those miserable mountebanks of the day, the 
j" lets, disgrace thi mselves and deny God in running down 
Pope, the most faultless of poets, and almost of men. 



LETTER CCCCLXII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



B Ravenna, Nov. 5, 1820. 

"Thanks f.<r your letter, which hath come somewhat 

costively, — bu1 better late than never. Of it anon. Mr. 

Galignaui, of the Press, hath, it seems, been supplanted 

Lted by another Parisian publisher, who has 

: inted an edition of L. B.'s Works, at the 

ultra-liberal price of 10 francs, and (as Galignani pite- 

iserves) S fi"ancs only for booksellers! 'horresca 

referens.' Think of a man's whole works producing so 

1 i , sends me, post haste, a permission for fa'm, 

. to publish, &c. &c, which permit I have signed 
to Mr. Murray, of Albemarle-street. Will you 
explain to ' • I at I hat i no right to dispose of Murray's 
works without hi : must refer him 

to M. to get the permit out of his claws — no easy matter, 
cl I have written to G. to say as much; but a 
from a 'great brother author' would con- 
vince him that I could not honestly have complied with 
J i I might legally. What I could do 1 
have done, signed the warrant and sent it to Murray. 
Let the dogs divide the carcass, if it is killed to their 
liking. 

"I am glad of your epigram. It is odd that we should 

both let our wits run away with our sentiments ; for I am 

e both Queen's men at bottom. But there 

is no re; isting a clinch — it is so clever! Apropos of that 

ive 'a dipth ng 3 also m this part of the world — not 

(r, hut a Spanish one — do you understand me ?— 

v to blow up the whole alphabet. It was 

unced at Naples, and is spreading; — but we 

are nearer the Barbarians ; who are in great force on the 

Po, md will i l1 with the first legitimate pretext. 

- There w ill be the devil to pay, and there is no saying 

who will or who will not be set down in his bill. If 

■ mi unlocked for 3 to any of your ao 

- •' of it, that his ghost, like poor 

ma) have the satisfac ion of being plaintively 

pitied — or still more nobly commemorated, like 'Oh 

breathe not his name. 1 In case you should not think him 

worth it. ' in Ibryou instead — 

i man hath no fre • .it homo, 

I I foi that ■■!!'■■ hi Ighboura ; 

1 . < -:e ami of Rome, 
A ml get knock "d on the tiL-ad for liis labours. 

" To 'In good to mnnkind is ttie chivalroiit plan, 
And is i, 1 
Then b aide I i jroo can. 

And, If not (hot or bang'd, you '11 gel knighted. 

"So you : en the letter of 'Epigrams' — lam 

i' I of it.* You will not be so. for I shall send you more. 

i ne I wr ite for the endorsement of ( the Dei I of 

Si paration 1 in 1816: but the lawyers objected to if, as 

superfluous. It was written as we were getting up the 

signing and sealing. T * Ills the original. 

■' nent to the Deed of Separation, in the April of 
1816. 

" A ypfii ago you •wore, fond she I 
' To love, l" honour,' and so forth : 
.. u ibe vi.iw vi.ii pledged 'o me, 
And here '• exactly what 't i» worth. 



Letter 413 



164 



LETTERS, 1820. 



"For the anniversary of January 2, 1821, 1 have a small 
grateful anticipation, which, in rase of accident, 1 add — 

* To Penebye, January 2, 1821. 

" This day, of till our day*, has Untie 

The wor«l for me and you j — 
'T ia Jual tix yean rince we were one, 

An-\Jire since we were tiro. 

* Pray, excuse all this nonsense; furl must talk non- 
*• ■ r i • ■ just now, fur fear uf wandering to more seriotui 
topics, which, in the present s;**e uf things, is not sail- by 
a foreign post. 

u I told you, in my last, that T had been *eing on with 
the l Memoirs, 1 and have go4 as far as twelve mon sheets. 
But I suspect they will be interrupted. In that case! 
will send them on by pos*, though [ feel remorse at mak- 
ing a friend pay so much for postage, fbr we can't frank 
here beyond the frontier. 

'- I shall he glad to hear of the event of the Queen's 

concern. Astoihe ultimate effect, the most inevitable 

one to vou and me (if the) and we live so long) will be 
thiit the Miss M ►ores and Miss Byrons will present us 
with a greal variety of grandchildren by different fathers. 

" Pray, where did you get hold of Goethe% Florenl ine 
husband-killing story? upon such matters, in general,! 
may say, with Beau Clincher, in reply to Errand's wife — 

" 'Oh the villain, he hath murdered my poor Timothy! 

a ' Cliurhir. Damn your Timothy ! — I tell you, woman, 
your husband has murdered me — he has carried away my 
fine jubilee clothes.' 

"So Bowles has been telling a storv, too, {'t is in the 
Quarterly,) about the woods of 'Madeira? and so f>nh. 
f shall he a' Bowles again, if he is not quiet. He mis* 
states, or mistakes, in a point or two. The paper is 
finished, and so is ihu letter. 

* Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXITT. 



TO MR. Ml'RKAV. 



"Ravenna, s*" 9, 1P20. 

"The talent you approve of .is ;m amiable one, and 

might prove a l national service, 1 but turfbrtunaiely I must 
be angry with a man before I draw his real portrait; and 
f can't deal in l generals} so that I trust never to have pro- 
vocation enough to make a (/* tilery. If 'the parson' bad 
not by many little dirty sneaking traits provoked il, I 
should have been silent, though I hatl ubtenoedlum. Here 
follows an alteration: put — 

" Deri), with inch -lelieht In itnmnirig, 

Th.it ll Hi il" ri->n ir, ll.'ll 

Luto him tin fret ikiimii 

Of biM Inline i'. nil. I In- gWeili 

T would ba nutiar 11. II Uiuu Heaven ; 
that is to say, if these two new lines do not too much 
lengthen out and weaken the amiability of the original 
thought and expression. You have a discretionary power 

about showing. I should think tl.it ( Viler would not 

disrelish a Bight of these light little humorous things, and 
may be indulged now and then. 

"Why, I do like one or two vires, to be sure; but I can 
hack a horse and fire a pistol 'without thinking or blink- 
ing' like Major Sturgeon; I have fed at limes (or two 
months together on sheer biscuil and water, (without me- 
taphor I can u' 1 " 1 over seventy or eighty miles ;i day 
riding post, and swim Jive ai u stretch, as at Venice, in 

1818, or at least I an/hi 'In, and have done it once. 

"I know Henry Matthews; he is the image, to the 

very voice, of his brother Charles, only darker — his cough 
his in particular. The first time I ever met him was in 
Scrope Davies's rooms after Ins brother's death, and I 
nearly dropped, thinking that it was his gnoSt. I have 
also dined with him in his rooms at Kind's College. 
Uobhouse once Durposed a similar Metuoit but f am 



afraid the letters of Charles's correspondence with me 
(which are at Whit ton with my other papers) would 
hardly do for the public ; for otir lives were not over strict, 
and our letters somewhat la* upon most subjects. 
***** 

"Last week I sent you a correspondence with Galig 
nam, and some documents on your property. You have 
now, I lliink, an opportunity of checkings or at least limit- 
ing diose French republications. You may let all your 
authors publish what they plvas< against mt and mine* 
A pi blish r i- no . and cannot l> , responsible [bs ail die 
works thai issue Cora his printi <-■ 

•• The ' \N hi i- Lady of Avenel, 1 i- not in 
a >'ui tetU authenticated (' Donna BiancsQ White Lady 
of Colalto, or spectre in me Marca Trivigiana, who ha* 

been repeatedly seen. There is a man (a bUBlSinau) 

now alive who saw her also. Hoppner i ou d U '■ ■ ai b I 
about her, and so can Rose, perhaps. I myself have no 
doubt of the fact, historical and spectral. Sb< 
appeared on particular oo at ion , beibre the death 
family, Si':, etc. I beard Madame Benzoin say, that she 
knew a gentleman whu had seen her cross his ro m at 
Colalto Castle. iloppner saw and spoke with ihe hunts- 
man, who met her at the chase, and never hunted after- 
ward, she was a girl attendant, who, one day dressing 
the hair if a Count ess Colalto, was seen b] her mistress 
to smile upon her liu band m the glass. The Countess 
had her shm un in Lite wall of the castle, like Constance 
Ic Beverly. Kver after, she haunted them and all the 
Colaltos. She is described as very beautiful and fair. 
It is well authenticated. 



LETTER CCCCLXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, 9 br * 18, 1820. 
" The death of Waite* is a shock to the — teeth, as wet 
as to the feelings of all who knew him. Good (Jod, he 
and Blake] both gone! I left them both in the mosi ro- 
bust health, and little thought of the national loss in so 
short a time as five years. They were both as much 
mperiot to Wellington in rational greatness, u be who 

preserves tlie hair and the teeth is preferable to ' iho 

bloody blustering warrior' who gains a name bv breaking 

leaih and kiineknig out grinders. Who succeeds him .' 

Where is tooth-powder, viidi, and vei efficacious — where 
is tincture — -where are cleajing-rooCi and ancsnjsi now to 
be obtained ' Pray oh'ain what mfjrmation you can 
upon these ' 7V*rulan questions.' My jaws ache to think 
on't. Poor fellows! I anticipated seeing both again; 
md yet they are gone to lhat place where both teeth and 
hair last longer than they do in this life. I have sw n a 

i sand graves opened, and alv ays j» roehred, that what- 

ivor was gone, the teeth and hair remain with those wIm 
had died with them. I- n il this od 1 .' They go I 

first things in youth, aid yet last the longest tu tl 

if people will but du to preserve them! It b a queer life 
and a queer death, thai of mortals. 

'• 1 knew thai Ware had married, but tittle thought thai 
the other decease was so soon to overtake him. Then 
he was such a dolight, such n coxcomb, sued s jewel of a 
man! There is a tailor at Bologna so like him! and 
also at the top of his profession. Do not neglect this 
commission. Who or what can replace him / \\ hnX 
ays the public ? 

"I remand you the Preface. Don't forget that the 
Italian extract from the Chronicle must be bwudated. 
With regard to what you say of retouching the Joans and 
the Hulls, it is all very well ; but I can't furhlxh. I am 
like the tiger, (in poesy,) if I miss the first spring I go 



Hii Deo un. 



t A ct loUuU-d liiur dia 



LETTERS, 1820. 



165 



[ can t 



growling back to my jungle. There is no second 
iorrect ; 1 can't, and I won't Nobody ever succeeds in 
it meat or small. Tasso remade the whole of his Jera- 
sa em , but who ever reads that version? all the work) 
roes to the first. Pope added to ' The Rape of the Lock, 
but did not reduce it. You must take my things as Ule) 
happen to be. If they arc not likely to suit, reduce then 
atimate accordingly. I would rather give them iwaj 
than hack and hew them. I don't say that you are ... 
right ; 1 merely repeat that I cannot better 
1 ei her make a spoon or spoil a horn;' - 
end. 

'P.S. Of the praises of that Irtlle 



Why 

' Soloinuti's Guide to 



icin. I must 
and there 's an 

" Yours. 
* + * Keats, 1 
shall observe, as Johnson did when Sheridan the aclor 
got a pension, ' What ! has he got a pension ! Then It is 
time that I should give up mine." Nobody could be 
prouder of the praise of the Edinburgh than I was, or 
more alive to their censure, as I showed in English Hauls 
and Scotch Reviewers. At present, all Ok men they have 
ever praised are degraded by that insane article. 
don't they review and praise 

Health ?' it is better sense and as much poetry as Johnny 
Reals. 

" Bowles must be howled down. 'T is a sad match at 
cricket if lie eiin get anv notches at Pope's expense. If 
h- once oet inlo ' lyn-.fs ground,' (lo continue the pun, be- 

, uige ii is I ish,) I think I could beat him in one inn- 

„, « You did not know, perhaps, thai I was once (not 
metaphorically, but reo%) a good cricketer, particularly in 
balling, and I played in the Harrow match against the 
Etonians in 1S0S, gaining more notches (as one of our 
, hosen eleven) than any, except Lord Ipswich and Brook- 
man, on our side." 



LETTER CCCCLXV. 



TO MR. MURRAV. 

» Ravenna, 9>"» 12, 1820. 
"Wha' you saiil of the late Charles Skinner Matthews 
has set me to inv recollections ; bin I have not been able 
to turn up any thing which would do fir the purposed Me- 
moir of his brother, even if he had previously done enough 
durui" his life to sanction the introduction ol anec- 
dotes°so merely personal. He was, however, a very ex- 
traordinary man, and would have been a great one. No 
one ever succeeded in a more surpassing degree than he 
did, as far as he went. He was indolent 'oo; but when- 
ever he stripped, he overthrew all an agoni its. His con- 
quests will be found registered at Cambridge, panic ilai I) 
his Dawning one, which was hotly and highly COO estud, 
and ye! ea ily won. Hobhouse was Ins most intimate 
friend, and can tell you more of him than any man. Wi - 
hum Bankea also a great d nl. I myself reco leel in ire 
of his oddities than ofhisacad imicalqua'.i ies,l » we! ved 
most together at a very idle period of my life. When 1 
went up°io Trinity in 1805, at the age of seventeen and a 
half, I was miserable and untoward to a degree. I was 

wretched at leaving Harrow, to which I had be< i - 

tached during the last two years of my stay there ; wretched 
at gom« to < iambridge instead of Oxf >rd, (there were no 
rooms vacant atChrisichueh,) wretched from some prival 
domestic circumstances i.f different kmds,and consequent!) 
about as unsocial as a wolf taken from die troop. So that, 

although I knew Matthews, and met him of.en Oven at 

Banker's, (who wa my colic |iate pastor, and master, and 
patron,) and at Rhode's, Milne's, Price's, Dick's, Muc- 
namara's, Fan 'ell's, Galley Km ■ht's. and others of thai set 
of contemporaries, yel I«a- neither intimate with him no, 
with anv else, exeept my old schoolfellow Edward Long 
(with whom I used to pass the day in riding and swim- 
ming,) and William Bankes, who was good-natured!;, 
tolerant of inv ferocities. 

« It was not till 1 S07, after I had been upwarJs of a yoai 



away fom Cambridge, to which I had returned again io 
reside for my degree, that I became one of Mauhews's 
familiar , by means of Hobhouse, who, af er haling me for 
two years, because I 'wore a olutc lull and a gray coat, 
and rode a groj horse,' (as he says himself) took me into 
his good "races because I had written some poetry. I 
had always lived a good deal, and got drunk occasionally, 
in their company ; bin now we became really friends in a 
morning. Matthews, however, was not at this period re- 
sident ui college. Imet him chiefly in London, and at 
uncertain periods at Cambridge. Hobhouse, m the mean 
time, did great things: he founded the Cambridge ' Whig 
Club.' (winch he seems to have forgotten,) and the ' Ami- 
cab . S iciety,' which was dissolved in consequence of the 
men, hers constantly quarrelling, and made himself very 
popular with 'us youth,' and no less formidable to all 
tutors, professors, and heads of colleges. William Bankes 
was gone ; while he stayed, he ruled the roast, or rathe; the 
roasting, and was fallier of all mischiefs. 

"Matthews and I, meeting in London, and elsewhere, 
became greal cronies. He was not good-tempered— nor 
am I— hut with a little tact bis temper was manageable, 
and I thought him so superior a man, that I was willing to 
sacrifice something to Ins humours, w Inch were ol.en, at 
the same time, amusing and provoking. What became of 
his p. vers, (and he certainly had many,) at the lime ol his 
death, was never known. I mention ihis by the way fear- 
ing lo skip it over, and as he wrote remarkably well, both 
in Latin and English. We went down lo Newstead to- 
gether, where I had got a famous cellar, and monks' 
dresses from a masquerade warehouse. We were a com- 
pany of some seven or eight, with an occasional neighbour 
or so for visiters, and used to sit up late in our friars' 
dresses, drinking Burgundv, claret, champagne, and what 
not, out of the skull-dp, and all sorts of glasses, and buf- 
fooning all round the house, in our conventual garments. 
Matthews always denominated me ' the Abbot,' and never 
called me by any other name in his good humours, to ihe 
day of his death. The harmony of these our symposia 
was somewhat interrupted, a few days af: er our assembling, 
bv Mauhews's threatening to throw ' bold Webster,' (as he 
vvas called, from winning afoot-match, and a horsc-malch, 
the first from Ipswich to London, and the second from 
Bnglilhelmstone,) by threatening to dvrow 'bold Web- 
ster 3 ' out of a window, in consequence of I know not what 
commerce ofjokes ending in this epigram. Webster came 
tome and said, that 'his respect and regard for me as host 
would not permit bun to call out any of my guests, and 
that he should go to town next morning.' He did. It was 
in vain that I represented to him that the window was not 
high, and thai the turf under it was particularly soft. 
Away lie went. 

« .Ma "hews and mvse'.f had travelled down from Lon- 
don together, talking all the way incessantly upon one 
single tonic. When we got to Loughborough, I know 
not wha cha m had male us diverge for a moment to 
oiher subject, at which he was indignant. 'Come, 



some 

said he, 'don't let us break through— let us go on as we 
began, to our journey's end;' and so he continued, and was 
en.ortai«ing as ever to the very end. He had previously 
occupied, .hiring my year's absence from Cambridge, my 
room, in Trinity, with the furniture; and Jones the tutor, 
in Ids odd way, had said on putting him in, 'Mr. .Mat- 
thews, 1 re, mend to ynur at ention not to damage any 

of the moveables, f.r Lord Byron, sir.is a young man of 
tumulhmu passions.' Matthews was delighted with ibis; 
in I whenever am body came to visit him, begged them to 
um, I!.- the very door with caution; and used to repeat 

lones'a admoni'ion, in his Ii and manner. There was 

a lar_'o mirror in the room, on which he remarked, 'Ihal he 
thought lii- friends were grown uncommonly assiduous in 
,min" to we /am, but he soon discovered thai they only 
, un to H« Oiem&lvcs.' Jones's phrase of 'tumultuous 
potions! ,md the whole scone had put linn into such good 



1GG 



LETTER 



i believe] thai I owed to itaj 

'When al Newslead, somebody by accidenl i 
against one of his whii" kin ■■ . one do befor 

dinner; of course the gentleman a Sir, 1 an- 

i.::>. ■ i .. < be all very well for you, who 
havi a gi :i 

lint t.» in*-, who kii i I 

cm ii he Abbot h op< n- 

ttie for such carelessn 
i tie bad lite same sorl of droll sardonic way about 

hing. A wild [rislunan, nam d I ' 
in be n :| , a rm hing at a argi suppei 

Vlatihews roared out 'Silence! 1 and then, pointing 
l.> K * - q the words of the ora 

. rtdou ■ d h .ili — ■ a.' i"ou may i b thai < ><- 

sun losi whai reasot uired, on bearing this 

comp 11 1 1- ni. When Hobhouse pul 
poems, the Miscellany (whii i would call the 

1 Mt*s- ■<.!,'-< i hi/.') ah the could be drawn from nun was, 
that tic prefai i ' I □ ■ v . I . 

tliought ibis al first a coi it; but we never could 

make out whai ii was, for all we know ol IVaUh is bis 
i kie to R in ■ epithet of ' fcnmtmg 

fValsJi.' When the Newstead party broke up for Lon- 
don, Hobhou o and Matthews, who were the greatest 
fi lends possibl I, for a w aim, to i i ■ ■ 

town. They quai relied by thi in r , a id ac ■ 
the latter half of their joui n 
repassing) without speaking. When Matthews had gol 

. ate, he had speni all his money but threepence 
halfpenny, an.d determined to spend thai also in a pint of 
beer, which I believe he was drin a public 

1 si , as l lobhouse passed him (still without p 

fur the last Dine on iheii i iul rhey were 
London again. 

K One of Matthews^ pa Bionswas the { the Fani 
he sparred uncommonly well. But he alv 
in rows, or combats with the bare fist, [n Bwimn 
he bw am well ; bul with $cri and laboWj and too ■ 
of the water; so thai Scropo Davies and myself of whom 
he was thei ein tys told him thai 

he would be drowned if ever he came to a difficult pass 
in the water. He was so; bul surely Scrope and my- 
seU would have been most heard] gla I that 

"'The Dc ml lived, 

*iul our i" g lii " w pi "■>< 'i i It*. 1 

"His head was uncommonly handsome, very like what 
/' W .i hi Ins youth. 

u His voice, and laugh, and feafj '-- re- 

■ d by his brother Henry's, if Henry be fu of King* 
t 'oil ■■< . lii- pa »ion for boxing was ■■■■ i great, thai hi ai - 
tually wanted me to match him with Do I 

had backed and made the match for a ainsi Tom Bel- 
cher,) and 1 saw then! partogi er a nry own lodgings 
m i Ii the gloves on. \ upon it, I would havi 

bad ed ; pl< b e him] bul the match went off 

Itwe "i cour te to havi been a private light in a ^i^-y 
room. 

"On one "<-' a i m, b< in \ too late to 
i 1 1 equipped by ;i friend, (Mr. Ba . i b i< ve,) in a 

ma m.i. lyfii nabli ■ m 

am! neckcloth. He proceeded to the Opi - nd look Ins 

stati 'ii in Fopla Alley. 1 'ui 

o] ' ra and the ballet, an acnua ntance t< >ok hi ■■ 

him, and saluted him: l C i i ■■■■ Vlatihews, 

come round.' 'Why should 1 come round? 1 said the 

other; 'you hav< ly to turn your head I am i 

you. 1 'Thai i- exactly what 1 cannot do,' answered 
Matthews : 'don't you bi a the state 1 am in?' pointing to 
his buckram Bhirt-collar, and inflexible cravat^ a 
he stood with his head always in the saute parol 
position during the whole spectacle. 

"One evening, after dining together, as we were goiii£ 



i ticket, 
■ bei to a box,) and to Matthews. 

' Now, sir, 1 said he to 

—another man woi 
it I i do bi tier with half a guinea than 

to a do t is a man n I 

asks me to dinner, bul 
These wen for no man wa 

or more hon arable in all lis doings 
Matthews. He gave 1 we Bet 

out for Constantinople, a most spl< i 
which we did amp e justice. I 

■ 
him, in I ku.>w not what < 
hat do ■ ■ ■ ,. ' Why, that he 

I illbij 1 1 '.m.i. ■ ■ .■■' on. Tins lie 

mfort of 
being covered al meo -ti ■ 

■■ w hen Su 1 1 at ) Smith n Cam 

for ;i row witfi a i r. l . ■ 

himself with shouting under Huron's ■•■ i 
sningj 

• Ah nu ' 
i . Uiron.* 

u He was also of thai I and of p 
under the auspices of ' ' " ', usi ■■■ Man- 

se! (late bishop of Bristol ) from 
of Trinity, and when hi I the window ti 

with wrath, and crying out, 'I know you, gent! i 
tnow you! 1 were won to i 'We beseech ihei to 

good /.'"/ — gi I ivi i us! 1 (I.ort was 

i tian name.) A- he was very free in his specu- 
lations upon b I ' ind ol 

iduct, and as I 

i n and corresnon- 

luselo aconsiderable 

******* 
•■ 'i i iu musl : Mich will 

■ 

■■ Salute CSifli >rd and all m 

i, &C * 



LETTER CCCCLXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

:■ ■ ., ■ 

"The ( Hints, 1 1 1 - i d deal 

: ing to suit Hi 1 1, i.- i, which vill bi a woi I ■ 

for T it.' n'i feel at all laboi ii 
efieel they are to have wou i or in a 

f also musl ■■■ ■ nrj nai ■■ 
Now, if you ■ i ■ ■ !i Don 

.i ian, ll ' ■■ idi ntiij Don Ji u a n In . whi< h 1 do n'i think 

. 
as in youi tit i ufficient to 

take away an 

I .. ere it h ould I"- difficult and 

i ; ,. . . ., njng a |[ 

letters. I wonder it' they can n ad them when iht ■ 
opcm 'I ■ 

HAND, THAT 1 rHINXTHEM J Ml.H-AMi 

it vim a hi ws, and tbsib bmpj aon b fool, and them- 

■ 
\ ienna R»i an; thing I care. 1 

of the Papal police, and an iway: but 

.,.,,,',, r m be voiy 

...■■ii. because th< I 

among themselves; but I suppose thai Providence «iil 
get tired of them at last, ****** 

'' Yours, &c* 



LETTERS. 1-20. 



167 



LETTER CCCCLXVH. 

TO MR. MOOHE. 

"Ravenna, Dec. 9 
a Besides 'his letier, 

3 more sheets of ? 

re in postage than th 
duce bv being printed .in the next century. Ins 

: 
the way of reversion, (thai is, af er my det 
should be very glad, — as, with all due regard to your 
far von to your grandchildren. Would not 
■i a certain sum note, 
! fill after 
my decease, think yo — 
■ 
power : beca s, a thing or 

the public. If I consent to 
dd be the 
barm? Taste? may change. I would, in your case, 
make m -;>ose of them, not pub i-!-. now ; an i 

. 
and, above ail, contradict any 
thinu, if I Lave ma-stated ; for my first, object is the 
ven at my ownezpen 

ir covntrynxui 

several letters 
■ 

[ should probably have been now, in 
j of wild 
i him, mixed with a due leaven of absurdity, — as 
there must be in all talent let loose upon the world with- 
out a martingale. 

" Th seem still to persecute the Queen x 

* * * * * * * bur they 

of b— cs. Damn reform — I want a place — what say 
■ 

ink of the intention. 
■ I have quantities of paper in England, original and 
translated — tra redy,&c & : a id a a n iw c ipyinjjoul a 
Fifth Canto of Don Juan, 149 stanzas. So that there 
wiil be near three thin Albemarle, Of lumes of 

all sorts of mv Muses. I mean to plunge thick. 
the contest upon Pope, anil to lay 
till I make manure of " ■ the top of Para 

a Thos - — 

— do n't we ?* You shall se — iat things 

I . 'an it pleases Pr 

But in these parts tii war ; and there is 

to be libertv, and a row. an — i hen they 

■hem. But I won't talk politics — it is low. Lei 

if the Gfcueen, and her bath, and her bottle — that 's 

motley now-a- 

" If there are any acquaintances of mine, salute them. 

The priests here are Drying to \>- -but no 



LETTER CCCCLXVm. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna. T 

show the 

country better than I can. The comman- 

dan'tof the f r ■. mj dead in my house. He 

•• at a little p ■ Jc, about two 

- 
■ tame la Contessa G. wha 1 

I into the hall,! I 



■ ■ 

.'laid, u if ibev would tulit,"at U* rt« of itte frmtcr 
i. - — ** 
* See Dw Juan Canto V Surxs 33. 



ingthat a man was murdered. I immediate!? ran 
Tita ( he bravest of hem] lo-fol iwme. 
ing, a- it is the 
for even- body here, it seems, to run away from 'the 

I .leer.' 
"However, down we ran, and found him lying on his 
most, if no; quite, dead, with five wounds, 
the heart, two in the stomach, one in the finuer, and the 
other in the arm. S hcrscocked their guns, and 

wanted to hinder me from passing. However, wepassed, 
und Diego, the adjutant, crying over him !i';e a 
child — a surgeon, who said nothmg of his profession — a 
bbmg a frightened prayer — and the commandant, 
all this time, on bis back, on the pavement, with* 

iiing around him but confu- 
sion and dismay. 

' As nohodv could, or would, do anv thing hut howl and 
pray, and as no one would stir a linger to move him, fur 
fear of consequences, I lost mv patience — made my 
errant and a couple of the m.b take up the body — I 
off two soldiers to the suard — despatched Dieso to the 
Cardinal with the new?, and had the commandant earned 
- into my own quarter. But it was too late, be was 
gone — not at ail disfigured — b'ed inwardly — not above an 
ounce or two came out. 

"I had him pai — made the surgeon examine 

him, and examined him mvself. He had been shot by cut 
balls, or slu^s. I felt one of the slugs, which ba 

.im, aJl but the skin. Every body conjectures 
why he was killed, but nooi how. The gun was 

found close bv him — an old <jun, half filed down. 

nly said/O Diol' and ' Gesu !' two or three time?, 

he was 
a brave officer, but had made himself much disliked by 
the people. I knew him personally, and had met him often 
at conversazioni and elsewhere. My house is full of 
dragoons, doctors, priests, and all kinds of per- 
sons, — though I have now cleared it, and clapped senti- 
nels at the doors. To-morrow the body is to be moved. 
The town is in the greatest a infusion, as you may suppose. 
■You are to know that, if I had not had the body 
moved, they would have left lum there till morning in the 
streej, for fear of consequences. I would not choose to 
a do2 die in such a manner, without succour ; — 
r consequences, I care for none in a duty. 

* Yours, &e. 
■ P. S. The lieutenant on duty by the body is smoking 
his pipe with great composure. — A queer people this.' 1 



LETTER CCCCLXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



'■Ravenna, Dec. 2-5, 1820. 

■Yon wil' or ought to have received the packet and let- 
ters which I rem address a fortnight ajo. (or it 
may be more days,) and I shall be slad of an answ er, as in 
these times and places, packets per post are in some nsk of 
not reaehingften* destination. 

"I have been thinking of a project for von and m.-, in 
case we both get I again, which (if a .w. 

war do n't suscitate) may be ca 
of us about the spring of 1S21 . I presume thai \ 
will be back bv tha' time, or never : hut on that you will 
give me some index. The project, then, ia for you and me 

to set up jointly a neivxpaptr — nothing m re n » le 

weekly, or so, with some improvement m i 
upon the plan of the present scoundrels, who degrade that 
department, — but a netcspnjicr, which we will edit in due 
form, and, nevertheless. n'i .n. 

"There must always he in it a piece of poesy from one 
w other of us tiro, leaving room, however, f .r such dilet- 
tanti rhymers as may be lecmed worthy of appearing in the 
same colunu ; but Vii* must be a sine qw't nnn ; and also 



16S 



LETTERS, IS20. 



as much prose as we ran compass. We will <al;c a:i 
office — out '■ aunout* d, but si peeled — and, b) 

theblcs in' ol Pi ''.I'Im e,give Lhe age some new liable 
upon policy, poe y, biography, criticism, morality, theology, 
an I a I o her um,ottfy, and 0/033/ whalsoev« r. 

■ Why, man, f we were to lake lo this in good earnest, 
your debts would be paid off in a twelvemonll ,and by dim 
of a Utile di igencean 1 practice, I doubt nol that we could 
distance the commonplace b a rkguards, who have so long 
disgraced coram m sense an I ihe common reader. They 
have no merit but practice and impudence, both of which 

n ia\ acquire, and, a- foi taient and culture, ihe devil a 

in 't it' such proof as we have given ol both can't furnt-h 
out something better than the*f ineral bal ed meats' "inch 
havecofdhj sei forth me breakfast table of allGrea Bri ain 
for so many years. Now, what think you? Let me 
know ; and recollect tha ,il we lake to such an enterprise, 

we must do so in j I earnest. Here is a hint, — do vou 

make 11 a plan. We will modify it into as literary and 
classical .1 concern as you please, only lei us pul cut our 
powers upon ii,and ii will mosl 19 ely succoed. Bui you 
iimsi iwe in London, and 1 also, to bring ii to bear, and we 
must keep it a secret. 

"As for ihe living in London, I would make tliat not 
difficult u>you, (if j ou wool' I allow me,) until wo could see 
whether one means or her (the success of the pan, t >r 
instance) would nut make it quite easy for you, as well as 
y.nir family ; and, in anj case, we should have some fun, 
■ ■■ imp 1 ling correcting, supposing, inspecting, and sopping 
1 igelherover our lucubrations. If you think this worth a 
thought, lei me know, and I will begin to lay in a small 
literary capital of composi 1 'ii for the occasion. 

" Yours ever affectionately, 
■ B. 

tt P.S. If you thought of a mi Idle plan between n SJpec- 
tator and a newspaper, why not'/ — onlj nol on a Sunday. 
Nol that Sunday is not an excellent day, bul it is engaged 
already. We will call it the 'Tends Rossa, 1 the Dame 
Tassoni pave an answer of Ins in a controversy, in allu- 
Bionto the delicaje hint of Timour the Lame, lo his ene- 
mies, by a ' Tends 1 of thai colour, before he gave battle. 
Or we will call it l Gli,' or 'I Carbonari, 1 it' n so please 
vou — or any oilier name full of 'pastime and prodigality, 1 
which you may prefer. ****** Let me 
have an answer. I conclude poetically, with the bellman, 
A merry Christinas to you!'" 



were no: a burden to whomsoever he mi^ht sar*< unda 
,■,-■ B . 1. nhat< m r place the Ncapoli an . 

menl might point ou . lh< re bej the ard< rs an 

cipateinthe dangers of his commanding officer, 
any other motive than ilia? of sharing the destiny of 1 
brave na it a, defending itseif against the sclln ailed Holy 
A lian :c, which bul combines the vice of hypocrisy with 

1 -m." 



ADDRESS 

TO THE NEAPOLITAN GOVERNMENT. 

[Translation from the original fiatian.] 

■ An Englishman, a friend to liberty, having understood 

that the Neanoli ans permit even foreigners tocontribuie 
to In- good cause, is desirous thai they should do him the 
honour of accepting a thousand louis, winch he 'a! es the 
liberty of offering. Having already, nol long since, been 
an ocular witness of the despotism of the Barbarians in 
the S'a'es occupied hv them in [faly, he s- ■■■■*■*, with the 
enthusiasm natural to a cultivated man, thegenerouj deter- 
m' nation of the Neanoli' ana to assert their well-won 
independence. As a member of the Eng'ish House of 
Peers, he wool I be a traitor to the princi ties which 1 lac ■>' 
the reigning family of England on (he throne^ if he were 
not grateful for the noble lesson so lately given both to 
people and to kings. The offer winch he desires to make 
i^ small in itselfj as must always be thai presen'ed from an 
nnhvidual to a nation ; hut he trusts tha' ii "ill nol be the 
last they will receive from his countrymen. His distance 
from the frontier, and the feeling of his personal inca] si it} 
to contribute efficaciously to the service of the na 1 n, 
prevents him from proposing himself a-^ worthy of the 
lowest commission, f >r which experience and ta^enl might 
be requisite. Rut if, as a mere volunteer, hu presence 



LETTER CCCCLXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Ravenna, Jan. 2, 1821. 

"Your entering into my project for tie Mamoii a 
pleasant tome. Bui I doubl (contrary to my deai Mad* 
M.li !•' * *, whom 1 always loved, and always shall — not 
only because I really did feel attached to her peraonotfy, 
but because she and about a dozen others of thai sex 
were all who stuck l>v me in the grand conflict of 18161 
— bul I doubt, 1 say, whether the Memoir could 
in my lifetime ; — and, indeed, 1 had rather it did not, 
tor a man always boksdead after his Lift has appeared, 
and I should certes nol survive 'he appearance of mine. 
The first part 1 cannot consent to alter, even although 
Mad* de Stael's opinion of Benjamin I lonsiant, and my 
remarks upon Lady Caroline's beauty, (which is surely 
great, and I suppose that I have said so— at least, I 
ought,) should go down to our grandchildren in unsophis- 
ticated nakedness. 

" As to Madam* de Staet, I am by no means hound to 
be her head man — she was always more civil to me in 
person than during mv absence. Our dear defunct friend, 
Matthew l.ewi>, who was too great a bore ever to lie, 
assured me, upon his tiresome word of honour, that, al 
Florence, the said Madame de Stael was open-fnotflVuH 
against me; and, when asked, m $tiil:rrlant/,ulty --he had 

changed her opinion, replied, with laudable sincerity, 
that I had named her in a sonnet with Voltaire, Rous- 
eeail, &c. &c. and that she could not help it, through 
decency. Now, I have not forgotten this, bul I have 
bet n generous, — as mine acquaintance, the late ( Captain 
\\ hi l\ of the navv, used to say to his seamen (when 

'married to the gunner's daughter 1 ) — 'two dozen, and 
let you off easy.' The ' two dozen' were with the cat-*- 
nine-tans; — the 'let you off easy' was rather his own 
opinion than that of :he patient. 

"Mv acquaintance with these terms and practices 
arises from my having been much conversant with ships 
of war and naval heroes in the years of my voys 
the Mediterranean. Whitby was in the gallant acrton 
off Lisas hi is]!. He was brave, but a disciplinarian 1 
When he lefl his frigate, he left anarrotf, which was tan 
hv the crew 'he following sounds — (It must be remark* d 
that ( 'aptam Wnilby was ihe image of Faweetl uV 
in v lice, face, and figure, and that he squinted.) 
" The Parrot fomatur. 

KI Whitby! Whitby! funny eye! funny eye! two rtu- 
zeii, and let vou off* easy. Oh von !' 

" Now, if Madame de H ha-- a parrot, it had better be 
taught a French parody of the same sounds. 

B With regard (o our purposed Journal, I will rail it 
what von pit a ■', bul it should be a newspaper, to make 
it pay. VVe can call it ' The Harp,' if you like — or any 
thing. 

B I feel exactly as vou do about our 'art, 1 hut it comey 
over me in a kind of rage every now and men, like * 

* * * and then, if I don't write to empty 
my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted 
love of writing, which youdescribe in your friend, I do 
not understand it. 1 feel it as a torture, which I must 
-jet rid of, hut never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I 
think composition a great pain. 

" I wish you to think seriously of the Journal scheme— 
for I am as serious as one can be, in this world, about 



LETTERS, 162!. 



169 



ary thing. As to matters here, they are high and mighty 
— but noi for paper. It is much about the state of things 
bf tween Cain and Abel. There is, in fact, no law or 
government at all; and it is wonderful how well things 
g » on without them. Excepting a few occasional mur- 
ders, (every bodv killing whomsoever he pleases, and 
being killed, m turn, by a friend, or relative, of the de- 
f! net,) there is as quiet a society and as merry a Carni- 
val as can be met with in a tour through Europe. There 
is nothing like habit in these thmgs. 

"I shall remain here till May or June, and, unless 
•honour comes unlookcd-fur,' we may perhaps meet, in 
France- or England, within the year. 

" Yours, &c. 

■Of course, I cannot explain to you existing circum- 
stances, as they open all letters. 

"Will you set me right about your cursed ' Champs 
Elvsees?' — are thev 'eV or 'ees' for the adjective? I 
know nothing of French, being all Italian. Though I 
can r*-ad and understand French, I never attempt to 
speak it; for I hate it. From the second part of the 
Memoirs cut what you please." 



LETTER CCCCLXXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, January 4, 18-1. 
* I just see, bv the papers of Galignani, that there is a 
new tragedy of great expectation by Barry Cornwall.* 
Of what T have read of his works I liked the Dramatic 
Sketches, but thought his Sicilian story and Marcian 
Colonna, in rhvme, quite spoiled, by I know not what 
affectation of VVordsworth, and Moore, and myselfj — all 
mived up into a kind of chaos. I think him very likely 
to produce a good tragedv, if he keep to a natural style, 
and not play tricks to form harlequinades for an audience. 
As he (Barrv Cornwall is not his true name) was a 
schoolfellow of mine, I take more than common interest 
in his success, and shall be glad to bear of it speedily. 
If I had heen aware that he was in that line, I should 
have spoken of him in the preface to Marino Faliero. 
He will do a world's wonder if he produce a great tragedy. 
I am, however, persuaded, that this is not to be done by 
following the old dramatists, — w-ho are full of gross faults, 
pardoned only f>r the beauty of their language, — but by 
writing naturally and regularly, and producing regular 
tragedies, like the Greeks; but not in imitation, — merely 
the outline of their conduct, adapted to our own times 
ani circumstances, and of course no chorus. 

u You will laugh, and say, ' Why don't you do so?' I 
have, you see, tried a sketch in Marino Faliero; but 
manv people 'hink my talent ' essentially urdritmntir? and 
I am not a' a'l clear that thev are not right. If Marino 
Faliero don 1 ! fall — in the perusal — I shall, perhaps, try 
a rain, (hut not frr the stage ;) and as I think that lave is 
not the principal passion tor tragedv, (and yet most of 
nnrs turn upon it,) you will not find me a popular writer. 
i nli u is \am,jurim&( i criminal, and hapless, it ought 
not to make a tragic subject. When it is melting and 
maudlin, it dor*, but r ought not to do ; it is then for the 
gallery and second-price boxes. 

a If you want to have a notion of what I am trying, 
take up a traisl-it'on of anv .if the Greek tragedians. If 
I said the original, it would be an impud- nt presumption 
ofraine : bui the translations are so inferior to the origi- 
nals that I think I may risk it. Then judge of the ( sim- 
I' i itj "f plot,* See. and dn not judge me hy your old mad 
dramatists, which is like drinking usquebaugh and then 
proving a fountain. Yet, after all, I suppose that you 
do not mean that spirits is a nobler element than a clear 



' Set Don Juan, t'uito XI. Sunt a 59. 



spring bubbling in the sun ? and this I take to be the dit 
ference between the Greeks and those turbid mounte- 
banks — always excepting Ben Jonson, who was a scho- 
lar and a classic. Or, take up a translation of Alfierj, 
and try the interest, &c. of these my new attempts in 
the old line, by him in English ; and then tell me fairly 
your opinion. But do n't measure me hy your ows ola 
or new tailors' yards. No'liing so easy as intricate con- 
fusion of plot and rant. Mrs. Cenilivre, in comedy, has 
ten times the hustle of Conejeve ; but are they to be com 
pared ? and yet she drove Congreve from the theatre u 



LETTER CCCCLXXIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, January 19, 1821. 

" Yours of the 29 h ultimo hath arrived. I must really 
and seriously request that you will beg of Messrs. Harris 
or Elliston to let the Doge alone: it is not an acting 
play; it will not serve their purpose ; it will destroy yours, 
(the sale ;) and it will distress me. It is not courteous, 
it is hardly even gentlemanly, to persist in this appropria- 
tion of a man's writings to their mountebanks. 

" I have already sent you hy last post a short protest 
to the public, (against this proceeding ;) in case that Oiry 
persist, which I trust that they will not, you must then 
publish it in the newspapers. L shall not let them off 
with that only, if they go on ; but make a longer appeal 
on that subject, and state what I think the injustice of 
their mode of behaviour. It is hard that I should have 
all the buffoons in Britain to deal with — pirates who will 
publish, and players who will act — when there are thou- 
sands of worthy men who can neither get bookseller nor 
manager for love nor money. 

" You never answered me a word about Galignani. 
If you mean to use the two documents, do ; if not, burn 
them. I do not choose to leave them in any one's pos- 
session; suppose some one found ihem without the let- 
ters, what would they think/ why, that /had been doing 
■ he opposite of what I have done, to wit, referred the whole 
thing to you — an act of civility, at least, which required 
saying, * I have received your letter.' I thought that you 
might have some hold upon those publications bv this 
means ; to mc it can be no interest one way or the other. 

" The third canto of Dun Juan is 'dull,' but you must 
really put up with it : if the hrst two ami the two follow- 
ing are tolerable, what do you expect ? particularly as I 
neither dispute with you on it as a matter of criticism or 
as a matter of business. 

" Besides, what am 1 to understand ? you, and Dou- 
glas Kinnaird, and others, write to me, that the tirst two 
published cantos are among the best that I ever wrote. 
and are reckoned so ; Augusta writes that they are 
thought 'cxecrafUe' (hitter word that lor an author— eh, 
Murray?) as a composition even, and that she had heard 
so much against them that she would never read them\ 
and never has. Be that as it may, I can't alter ; that is 
not mv forte. If you publish the three new ones without 
ostentation, thev mav perhaps succeed. 

u Prav publish the Dante and the Puln, (the Pnrpftecy 
of Dante, I mean.) I look upon the Pulci as my grand 
performance. The remainder of the ' Hints,' where be 
they? Now, bring them all out about the same time, 
otherwise ' the variety" 1 you wot of will be less obvious. 

•I am in bad humour: — some obstructions in business 
with those plaguy trustees, who object to an advantageous 
loan which I was to furnish to a nobleman on mortgage 
because his properly is in Ireland, \iave shown me how a 
man is treated in his absence. Oh, if I do come back, 
will make some of those who little dream of it spin, — or 
they or I shall go down." * * * * 

****** 



'70 



LKTTERS, 1821. 



LETTER CCCCLXXIII. 

TO MR. MnBAY. 

"January 20, 1821. 

M did not think to have troubled you with the plague 
anil postage of a double tetter this time, bul I have just read 
in an ftaiian paper, 'That Lf.nl Byron has a tragedy com- 
ing out,' &c. &c. &c. ami thai the Courier and Morning 
icle,&C. &C. are pulling one another to pieces about 
hini, &c. 

"Now I do reiterate am! desire, that even,- dung ma) 
be done to prevent it from coming out on too/ theatre, for 
which it never was designed] and on which (in the present 
state of the stage of London) it could never succeed. I 
have seal you my appeal by last post, which you wrutf jn*6- 
aeofneed; and I require yon even in your own 
name (if my honour is dear to you) to declare that such re- 
presentau" n would be contrary to my wish and t<> my judg- 
ment. If you do not wish i" drive me mad altogether, you 
will hit upon some waj to prevent this. 

tL Yours, &c. 

K P.S. I cannot conceive how Harris or Elliston should 
be so insane as to think of acting Marino Fahero; they 
might as well act the Prometheus of^Eschylus. I speak 
of course humbly, and with the greatest sense of the dis- 
tance of time and merit between the two performances; 
but merely to show the absurdity of the attempt. 

"The Italian paper speaks of a 'party against it:' to be 
sure there would he a party. Can you imagine, that after 
having never Battered man, nor beast, nor opinion, nor po- 
litics, ihere would nofbe a party against a man, who is also 

a popular writer — at least a successful? V^ by, all parlies 
would be a party against." 



LETTER CCCCLXXIV. 

TO MH. Ml'RRAV. 

"Ravenna, January 20, 1821 

■If Harris or Elliston persist, after the remonstrance 
which I desired you and Mr. Kinuaird to make on my be- 
half, and which I hope will be sufficient — but if I say, they 
oo persist^ men I pray von to present mnersenthe enclosed 
letter to the Lord Chamberlain : I have said in person, be- 
cause otherwise I shall have neither answer nor know- 
ledge that it has reached its address, owing to the'inso- 
Bolence of office. 1 

u I wish you would speak to Lord Holland, and to all my 
friends and yours, to interest themselves in preventing 
this cursed attempt at representation. 

"God help me! at this distance, I am treated like a 
corpse or a fool by the few people that I thought 1 could 
rely upon; and I uus a fool to think any better of them 
than of the rest of mankind. 

write. "Tours, &c. 

"P. S. I have nothing more at heart (that is, in litera- 
ture) than to prevent this drama from going upon the 
stage: in short, rather than permit it, it must be sup- 
prosed aUogi tker } and only./'""'.'/ copies ttrudk n/rprirattly for 
presents to my friends. What eursed fools those speen- 
lating buffoons must be not to sec that it is unfit for their 
fair — or their booth ' ' 



mean to present an address at Brandenbnrgh-hoiiM-, ' in 
armour,' and with all possible variety and splendour of 
brazen apparel ? 

" The Ureiicr*, it »eem«, »re preparing lo p«M 

An ukbtM, •ml prMRlt n ihcmaHveaitllin brM^— 

A •■ptrAuOUl pOgtftnt—- fur, liy tlir Lord Harrv, 

They 'II find where (hey "n going much more than ihry carry. 

There's an Ode for you, is it not ? — wor'.hy 

" Of • • ' *, the grand mrinqmiricnt p«rt, 

A man of v.mi marU, InoOfh few people know ll j 
Tlir |. ' '-xal Motrt) 

1 owr, in great pirt, la mj panicm fur \>**irj. 

: Mestri and Pusina are the ' trajects, or common fer- 
to v'enice ; but il was from Pusina that you and t 
embarked, though 'the wicked necessity of rhyming has 
made me press Mestri into the voyage. 

"> ., you have had a book dedicated to you? lam 
<dad of a, and shall be very happy f " see the volume. 

"I am in a peck of troubles about a tragedy of mine, 
which is tit only for the (*****) closet, and which it 
seems that the managers, assuming a right over published 
poetry, are determined to enact, whether I will or no, with 
their own alterations by Mr. Dibdin, I presume. I have 
written to Murray, to the Lord < ihamberlainj and toothers, 
to interfere and preserve me from such an exhibition. I 
want neither the impertinence of their hisses nor the in- 
solence of their applause. I write only for the rauler, and 
care for nothing but the silent approbation of those who 
close one's book with good-humour and qui*.- 1 contentment. 

"Now if you would also write to our friend Perry, to 
beg of him to meditate with Harris and Elliston to for* 

bear this intent, you will »n';i The play is 

quite unfit for the stage, as a single glance will show them, 
and, 1 hope, not shown them; and, if it were ever so fit, I 
will never have anything to do willingly with the theatres, 
* Yours ever, m haste, fcc," 



LETTER CCCCLXXV. 

TO Mil. MOOKE. 

'Ravenna, January 22,1821. 
•Pray gat well. T do not like your complaint. So, 
let me have a line to say you are up and doing again. To- 
day I am 33 years of age. 

* Through life'trond,' fte.&C,' 

"Have you heard that the ' Braziers' Company' have, or 



* Gheu lo hit Journal, po#e *S3. 



LETTER CCCCLXXVI. 

TO Mn. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna. January 27, 1821. 

a I differ from yon about the Dante, which I think should 
be published with the tragedy. But do as you please: 
you must be the best judge of your own craft. I agree 
with you about the title. The plav may be good or bad 
but I Ratter myself that it is original as a picture ofthot 
kind of passion, which to my mind is so natural, that I am 
convinced that I should have done precisely what the Doge 
did on those provocations. 

"I am glad ofFoscoUtfs approbation. 

(l Excuse haste. I believe I mentioned to you that 

I forget what it was ; but no matter. 

"Thanks for your compliments of the year. I hope 
that it will be pleasanter than the last. I speak with re- 
ference t<> England only, as far as regards my* !f. uAere I 
had every tund of disappointment — lost an important law- 
suit — and the trustees ofLady Byron refusing to allow of 
an advantageous loan to be made from my property to 
Lord Blessington, &c. be by way of closing the four sea- 
sons. These, and a hundred other such things, made a 
year of bitter business lor me in England. Luckily, things 
were a little pleasanter lor me here,chic I should have taken 
the liberty of Hannibal's ring. 

Trav thank Gilford for all his goodnesses. The win- 
ter i< as cold here as Parry's polarities. I mustnow take 
a canter in the forest ; my horses are waiting, 

u Yours ever and truly. 



LETTER CCCCLXXVIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

K Ravenna, February 2, 1821- 
" Your letter of excuses has arrived. I receive the let* 
Lor, but do not admit the excuses, except in courtesy as 



LETTERS, 1821. 



171 



when a man treads on your toes and begs your pardon the 
pard.m is granted, but the joint aches, especially if there be 
a c .rn upon it. However, I shall scold you presently. 

" In the last speech of the Doge, there occurs (I think 
from memory) the phrase — 

* And Thou who niakeal »»d unmakesl suns :' 

change this to — 

' And Thun who linillesl and who qnf nchest suns ;' 

that is to sav, if die verse runs equally well, and Mr. Gif- 
f irJ thinks the evprcssion improved. Pray have the bounty 
to attend to this. You are grown quite a minister of state. 
Mm 1 if gome of these days you are not thrown out. * * 
wdl not be always a Tory, though Johnson says die first 
Whig was the Devil. 
"You have learned one secret from Mr. Galignani's 
hat tardily acknowledged) correspondence: this 
is, that an English author may dispose of his exclusive 
copyright in France, — a fact of some consequence (in time 
gfpeaa) in the ca^e of a popular writer. Now 1 will teli 
vou what you shall do, and take no advantage < -f you, thi iugh 
rail were scurvy enough never to acknowledge my letter 
for three m uiths. Oder Galignani the refusal of the copy- 
right in France ; if he refuses, appoint any bookseller in 
Franc- you please, and I will sign any assignment you 
pleas.-, and it shall never cost you a sou on my account. 

'Recoiled that I will have nothing to do with it, except 
as far as it may secure the copyright to yourself. I will 
have no bargain but with the English bouksellers, and I 
desire no interest out of that country. 

" Now, that 's fair and open, and a little handsomer than 
your dodging silence, to see what would come of it. You 
are an excellent fellow, mio caro Moray, but there is still 
a little leaven of Fleet-street about you now and then — a 
crum of the old loaf. You have no right to act suspiciously 
with me, for I have given you no reason. I shall always 
be frank with you ; as, for instance, whenever you talk 
with the votaries of Apollo arithmetically, it should be in 
guineas, not pounds— to poets, as weli as physicians, and 
bidders at auctions. 

" I shall say no more at this present, save that I am 

" Yours, &c. 
"P. S. If you venture, as you sav, to Ravenna diisyear, 
I will exercise die rites of hospitality while you live, and 
bury you handsomely, (though no! in holy ground,) if you 
get ' -li't or slashed in a creat:h or splore.,' which are rather 
frequent here of late among the na'ive parlies. But per- 
haps your visit mav be anticipated; I may probably come 
to your conntrv ; in which case write to her ladyship the 
duplicate of the episde the king of France wrote to Prince 
John " 



LETTER CCCCLXXVIII. 



TO MA. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Feb. 16,1821. 

« In the month of March will arrive from Barcelona 
Sigmir Curioni, engaged fir the Opera. He is an ac- 
quaintance of mine, and a gentlemanly young man, high 
in his profession. I must request your personal kindness 
patronage in his favour. Pray introduce him to such 
of ih- theatrical people, editors of papers, and others, as 
may be useful toliim in bis profession, publicly and pn- 
rately. 

" The fifdi is so far from being the last of Don Juan, 
that it is hardly the beginning. 1 meant to take linn the 
tour of Europe, with a proper mixture of siege, battle, and 
adventure, and to make him finish as Anacharsis Cloots, 
in the French Revolution. To how many cantos this may 
extend, I know not, nor whether (even if 1 live) I shall 
complete it ; but lliis was my notion. I meant to have 
made him a cavalier servente in Italy, and a cause for a 
divorce in England, and a sentimental ' Werther-faccd 
man' in Grermanv, so as to show the different ridicules of| 



the society in each of those countries, and to have display- 
ed him gradually gdti and blase as he grew older, as is 
natural. But I had not quite fixed whether to make him 
end in hell, or in an unhappy marriage, not knowingwhich 
would be the severest: the Spanish tradition says hell ; 
but it is probably only an allegory of the other state. You 
are now in possession of my notions on the subject. 

" You say the Doge will not be popular : did I ever 
write for popularity ? I defy you to show a work of mine 
(except a tale or two) of a popular style or complexion. 
It appears to me diat there is room for a different style of 
the drama ; neither a servile following of the old drama, 
which is a grossly erroneous one, nor yet too French, like 
those who succeeded the older writers. It appears to me 
that good English, and a severer approach to the rules, 
might combine something not dishonourable to our litera- 
ture. I have also attempted to make a play without love ; 
and there are neither rings, nor mistakes, nor starts, nor 
outrageous ranting villains, nor melodrame in it. All this 
will prevent its popularity, but does not persuade me that 
it is therefore faulty. Whatever faults it has will arise 
from deficiency in the conduct, rather than m the concep- 
tion, which is simple and severe. 

" So you epigrammalize upon my epigram ? I will pay 
you for that, mind if I do n't, some day. I never let any 
one off in die long run, [who first begins.) Remember 
***■ and see if I do n't do you as good a turn. You un- 
natural publisher ! what ! quiz your own authors ? you 
are a paper cannibal ! 

■ In the letter on Bowles, (which I sent by Tuesday's 
post,) af er the words 'attempts had been made' (alluding 
to the republication of 'English Bards',) add the words, 
in Ireland ;' for I believe that English pirates did not 
betrin their attempts till after I had left England the second 
lime. Prav attend to this. Let me know what you and 
our svmxl think on Bowles. 

" I did not think the second seal so bad : surely it is far 
better than the Saracen's head with which you hav« 
sealed your last Utter; the larger, in profile, was surely 
much better than that. 

"So Foscolo says he will get you a seal cut belt, r in 
Italy ? he means a throat— dial is die only tiling they do 
dexterously. The Arts — all but Canova's, and Mor- 
ghen's, and Ovid's (I do n't mean poetry) — are as low as 
need be: look at the seal which I gave to William 
Bankes, and own it. How came George Bankes to quote 
'English Bards' in the House of'Commons? All the 
world keep Hinging that poem in my face. 

" Bclzoni is a grand traveller, and his English is very 
prettily broken. 

- \ . for news, the Barbarians are marching on Naples, 
and if they lose a single battle, all Italy will be up. It will 
be like the Spanish row. if they have any bottom. 

" ' Letters opened V — to be sure they are, and that 's the 
reason why I always put in my opinion of the German 
Austrian scoundrels. There is not an Italian who 
loathes them more than I do ; and whatever I could do to 
scour Italv and the earth of Iheir infamous oppression 
would be done con amore. 

•Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, Feb. 21, 1881.* 

" In the forty-fourth page, volume first, of Turner's Tra- 
vels, (which you lately sent me,) it is stated diat 'Lord 
Byn hi, when he expressed such confidence of ils practi- 
cability, seems to have forgotten that Leander swam both 
ways, 'with and asainst the tide ; whereas he (Lord Byron) 
only performed the easiest part of die task by swimming 
with it from Europe to Asia.' I certainly could not have 



' Sec —Don Juan, Cuu 11, Suuua 106, &c 



172 



LETTERS, 1821. 



(brggtten, what is known to every schoolboy, thai Leander 
crossed in ihe night, and returned towards the morning. 
My objeci was, to ascertain that the Hellespont could be 
craw d ut nil by swimming and in this Mr. Ekenhead 

and myself DOtfa succeeded, the one in an hour and ten 
tninuteS] and the oilier ui an hour and five minutes. The 
ti<!f a as not in our favour ; on the contrary, the great dif- 
ficulty was to bear up against the current, which, so far 
from helping us in'o the A ialic ade^set us down right to- 
wards the Archipelago. Neither -Mr. Ekenhead, myselfj 
nor, I will venture to add, any person on board the frigate, 
from Captain Bathursi downwards, had any notion of a 
differ) ace of the current on die Asiatic side, of which Mr. 
Tumi r speaks. 1 never heard of it till this moment, or I 
would have taken the other course. Lieutenant Eken- 
head'a sole motive, and mine also for setting out from the 
European side was, that the hide cape above Sestos was 
a more prominent starting-place, and the frigate, which 
'ay below, close under the Asian, castle, formed a better 
I hit of view for us us to swim towards; and, in fact, we 
landed inunecbatery below it. 

u .\Ir. Turner says, 'Whatever is thrown into the 
stream on this part of the European hank, must arrive at 
tin Asiatic shore. 1 This is so far from being the case, 
that it must arrive in the Archipelago, if left to the current, 
although a strong wind in the Asiatic direction nu^hthave 
such an effect occasionally. 

w Mr. Turner attempted the passage from the Asiatic 
side, and failed : ' Afer live-and-twenty minutes, in which 
he did not advance a hundred yards, he gave u up from 
complete exhaustion.' This is very possible, and might 
nave occurred to him just as readily on the European 
side. He should have set out a couple of miles higher, 
and could thru hive come out below the European rastle. 

I particularly stated, and Mr. Hobbouse has done so also, 
that we were obliged to make the real passsage of one 
n nl<- extend to between three and /buf*, owing to the force OJ 
the stream. I can assure Mr. Turner, that his success 
would have given me great pleasure, as il would have 
added one more ins'auct: io ihe proofs of the probability. 
It is not quite fair in him to infer, that because he failed, 
Leander could not succeed. There are still four in- 
stances on record : a Neapolitan, a young Jew, Mr. Eken- 
head, and myself; the two last done in the presence of 
hundreds of Engtixh witnesses. 

u With regard to the difference ofthectorenfl perceived 
none ; il is favourable to the swimmer on neither side, but 
mav be stemmed by plunging into the sea, a considerable 
way above the opposi e porn! of die coast which the 
swimmer wishes to make, but still hearing op against it; 
n is strong, but if you calculate well, you may reach land. 
My own experience and that of others bids me pronounce 
the passage ofLeander perfectly practicable. Any young 
man, in good and tolerable skill in swimming might suc- 
ceed in it from eftAer side. I was three hours in swim- 
ming across (he Tagus, which is much more hazardous. 
being two hours longer than the Hellespont, of what 
may be done in swimming, I will mention one more 
instance. In 181 S, the Chevalier Mengaldo, (a gentleman 
of Bassano,) a rood swimmer, wished to swim with my 
friend Mr. Alexander Scott and myself. As he seemed 
particularly anxious on the subject, we indulged him. We 
all three Biarted from the island of the 1 .ido and swam to 
Venice. At the entrance of the Grand Canal, Scott and 
I were a good way ahead, and we saw no more of our 
foreign friend, which, however, was oJ do consequence, as 
there was a gondola to hold his domes and pick him up. 
Scotl swam on till past the Rialto, where he got out, less 
from fatigue than from rhtll, having been four hours in the 
water, without rest or sTay, except what is to be obtained 
bv floating on one's back — this being the condition of our 
performance. 1 continued my course on to Santa Chiara, 
comprising the whole of the Grand Canal, (besides the 
distance from the Lido,) and g»t out where the Laguim 



ones more opens to Fusina. I had been in the waier, by 
my w atch, without help or rest, and never touching ground 
or boat, Jew r hours and turnty minutes. To this match, 
and during die greater part of its performance, Mr. 
Hoppner , the consul-general, was witness, and it is well 
known to many others. Mr. Turner can easily verify 
the fact, if he dunks it worth while, by referring Io Mr. 
Hoppner. The distance we could not accurately ascer- 
tain ; it was of course Considerable. 

" I crossed ihe Hellespont in one hour and ten minutes 
only. Cam now ten years older in time, and iweiit\ m 
constitution, than I was when I passed the Dardanelles, 
and yet two years ago I was capable of swimming four 
hours and twenty minutes ; and I am sure that 1 could 
have continued two hours longer, though I had on a pail 
of browsers, an accoutrement which by no means assis:s 
the performance. My two companions were also your 
hours in the water. Mengaldo might be about Unity 
years of age ; Scott about six-and-lwenty. 

■ With this experience in swimming at different poriods 
of life, not only upon the SPOT, but elsewhere, of various 
persons, what is d.ere to make mc doubt that Leander s 
exploit was pcrfeetly practicable? If three individuals 
did more than the passage of the Hellespont, why should 
he have done less? But Mr. Turner failed, and, natu- 
rally seeking a plausible reason for his failure, lays the 
blame on the jisiutic side of the strait. He tried to swim 
directly across, instead of going higher up to take the 
vantage: he might as well have tried lojly over Moure" 
Athos. 

" TLat a young Greek of Uie heroic limes, in love, ana 
with his limbs in full vigour, might have succeeded in such 
an attempt is neither wonderful nor doubtful. "\\ hethei 
he attempted it or not is another question, because he might 
have had a small boat to save him die trouble. 

"I am yours very truly, 

"Byron. 

"P. S. Mr. Turner says that the swimming from 
Europe to Asia was ' the easiest part of the task .' I doubt 
whether Leander found it so. as it was the return ; how- 
ever, he had several hours between the intervals. The 
argument of Mr. Turner ' that higher up, or lower down, 
the strait widens so considerably that he could save Utile 
labour by his starting,' is only good for indifferent swim- 
mers; a man of any practice or skill will always consid'f 
the distance less than the strength of the stream. If 
Ekenhead and myself had thought of crossing at the 
narrowest point, instead of going up to Uie Cape above it, 
we should have been swept down to Tenedos. The 
strait, however, is not so extremely wide even where it 
broadens above and below the forts. As the frigate was 
Stationed some time in the Dardanelles waiting for the fir- 
man, I bathed often in the straits subsequently to our tra- 
ject, and generally on the Asiatic side, without perceiving 
the greater strength of the opposite stream by which die 
diplomatic traveller palliates bis own failure. Our amuse- 
ment in the small bav which opens immediately below the 
Asiatic fort was to dive for the land tortoises, which we 
flung in on purpose, as lliev amphibiously crawled alor>g 
the bottom. TViwdnes not argue any greater violence of 
current than on the European shore. With regard to tiie 
modest insinuation that we chose the European side as 
' easier,' I appeal to Mr. Hobbouse and Captain Bathurst 
if it be true or no, (poor Ekenhead being since dead.) 
Had w«- been aware of any such difference of current as 
is asserted, we would at least have proved it, and were 
not likely to have given it up in the twenty-five minutes 
of Mr. Turner's own experiment. The secret of all this 
is, that Mr. Turner failed, and that we succeeded; and 
he is consequently disappointed, and seems not unwilling 
io overshadow whatever little merit there might be in our 
success. Why did he not try die European side ? If he 
had succeeded there, after failing on the Asiatic, his plea 
would have been more graceful and gracious. Mr. Tur 



LETTERS, 1921. 



173 



ncr may find what fault he pleases with my poetry, or my 
politics ; but I recommend him to leave aquatic reflec- 
tions till he is able to swim 'five-and-rwenty minutes' 
without being ' exhausted though I believe be is the first 
modern Tory who ever swam* against the stream' fur half 
lire nme." 



LETTER CCCCLXXX. 

TO MR. MOORP 

"Ravenna, Feb. 22, IS2I 
a As I wish the soul of the la:e Auioine Galijnani to 
rest iii peace, {you will have read his death published bv 
lumsetf] m Ins own newspaper,) you are requested parti- 
cularly to inform bis children and heirs, that of their 
1 Literary Gazette, 1 to which I subscribed more than two 
months agOj I have only received one nvmner, notwith- 
standing 1 have written to them repeal edly. Ifthev have 
no regard for ine, a subscriber, diey ought to have some 
for thei deceased parent, who is undoubtedly no belter 
oh*" in (lis present residence for this total want of atten- 
tion. If not, let me have my francs. They were paid bv 
Missiaglia, the W^enetian bookseller. You may also hint 
to them that when a gentleman writes a letier, it is usual 
to send an answer. If not, I shall malce them 'a speech,' 
which will comprise an eulogy on the deceased. 

" We are here full of war, ami within two days of the 
5-.1t of it, expecting intelligence momently. We shall 
now see if our Italian' friends are good for anv thing but 
'shooting round a corner,' like the Irishman's gun. Excuse 
nast£j — 1 write with my spurs putting on. My horses 
are at the door, and an Italian Count waiting to accom- 
pany me in my ride. " Yours, &c. 

■'P. 8. Pray, among my letters, did you get one del ail- 
ing the death of the commandant here ? He was killed 
near my door, and died in my house. 

"BOWLES AND CAMPBELL. 
* To the air of ' How nozn, Madame Flirt, in the Beg- 
gar's Opera. 
" Bo 'let. 
" Why, how now, utuc; Tom, 
tl yuu (Iiuh mual ramble, 
1 will (iul'li«l> nuine 
Remark* tin Mr. Campbell. 

" CainjibtU. 
" Hfliy, how now, B.liy Bowlcc, 



LETTER CCCCLXXXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"March 2, 1821. 
" This was the beginning of a letter which 1 me<uit lor 
Perry, but stopped short hoping that you would be able lo 
prevent the theatres. Of course you need not send it ; 
b it it explains to you my feelings on the subject. You 
*ay that 'there is nothing to fear, let them do what thev 
please ,' that is to say, that you would see me damned 
fflth great tranquillity. You are a fine fellow." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXIL 

TO MR. PERRY. 

" Ravenna, Jan. 22, 1S21 . 

* DEAR SIR, 

' I have received a strange piece of news, which can- 
not be more disagreeable to your public than it is to me. 
Letters and the gazettes do me the honour to say, that it 
is 'he intention of some of the London managers to bcin° 
forward on their stage the poem of ' Marino ral""}ro ( 'Ste. 



which was never intended for such an exhibition, and I 
trust will never undergo it. I, U certainly nnht for it. I 
have never Written bul (or the solitary reader, and require 
no experiments for applause beyond his silen i approbui ion . 
Since such an aiiempj to drag me forth as a gladiator in 
the theatrical arena is a violation of all the couriers of 
literature, I tnut that the impartial part of the press will 
step between me and this pollution. I say pollution, 
because every violation of a rigid i> such, and I claim my 
riL'ht a-; an airhor to prevent what I have written from 
being turned into asiage-play. I have loo much respect 
for the public to permit this of my own free will. Had I 
sought their favour, i' would have been by a pantomime. 

" I ha\e said thai I write onlv for the reader. Beyond 
tins I < annoi consent to any publication, or \o the abuse of 
any publication of mine to the purposes of hisirionism. 
The applauses of an audience would give me no pleasure ; 
their disapproha ion might, however, give me pain. The 
wager is therefore not equal. You mav, perhaps, sav, 
'How can this be? if their disapprobaiion gives pain, 
their praise might afford pleasure ?' Bv no means: the 
kick of an a^s or the sting of a wasp may be painful to 
those who would find nothing agreeable in the braying of 
the one or the buzzing of the other. 

" This may not seem a courteous comparison, but I 
have no other ready ; and it occurs naturally. 



LETTER CCCCLXXXIU 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Marzo, 1821. 

" DEAR MORAY, 

"In my packet of the 12th instant, in the last sheet, 
(not the half* sheet,) last page, omit the sentence which 
(defining, or attempting to define, what and who are gen- 
tlemen) begins 'I should say at least in life that most 
military men have it, and few naval; that several men of 
rank have it, and few lawyers,' &c. &c. I say, omit the 
whole of that sentence, because, like the' cosmogony, or 
creation of the world,' in the 'Vicar of Wakefield,' it is 
not much to the purpose. 

"In the sentence above, too, almost at the top of the 
same page, after the words ' that there ever was, or can 
>e, an aristcx-racy of poets,' add and insert these words— 
I do not mean that they should write in the style of the 
:on;_' by a person of quality, or park euphuism ; but there 
is a nubility of thought and expression to be found no less 
inShakspeare, Pope, and Bums, than in Dante, Alfien, 
&c. &c. and so on. Or, if you please, perhaps you had 
better omit the whole of the latter digression on the vul- 
var pue's, and insert only as far as the end of the sen* 
'ence on Pope's Homer, where I prefer it to Cowper's and 
.juoie Dr. Clarke in favour of its accuracy. 

" Upon all these points, take an opinion ; take the sense 
(or nonsense) of your learned visitants, and act thereby. 
I am very tra< 'able — in phose. 

« Whether 1 have made out the case for Pope, \ know 
not ; but I am very sure that I have been zealous in the 
ittempt. If it comes to the proofs, we shall beat the 
>'a kgnards. I will show more imagery in twenty lines 
>( Pope than in anv equal length of quotation in English 
>oesy, and thai in places where they least expect it. For 
instance, in his lines on Sporus, — now, do just read them 
over — the subject is of no con-equence (whether it be 
satire or epic) — we are talking of pnetry and imagery from 
nature ami art. Now mark the images separately and 

arithmetically : — 

u 1 . The thing of silk, 

2. Cur*/ of <i.<t.i'.i rmik. 

3. The butterfly. 

4. The u lied. ' 

' Second Ivtlai iii answer to RtwWa. 



174 



LETTERS, 1821. 



5. Rug with gilded wings. 

6. Painted child of dirt. 

7. Whose&ut*. 

8. Well-bred tnantefr. 

9. Shallow streams run dimpling, 
JO. Florid impotence. 

1 1 . Prompter. Puppet squeaks. 

12. 77ie ear of Eve. 

13. Fumtli'ir toad. 

1 -I . Hriltfiotf i, half venom, spits himsel f aim iad . 
15. Fop at iii'- 1 Ut I. 
Iti. / , /(i//«rT ai tin- board. 

17. Amphibian* thing, 

18. Now trips. B /'(-/;/■ 

19. Now struts a bnf. 

20. A eht rutfe hire. 

SI . A rqofife all the rest. 

22. The Rabbins. 

23. PnJr thai ticks the dust — 

' Bi .inly thai ahoclo you, ptru thM none will irnst, 
Wil UmI can CltCp, nnd p'nie llittlitfl* the duit.' 

" Now, is there a line of all the passage without the 
(in...! /„,,,/,/, imagery, (for his purpose?) Look at the 
variety — at the poetry of the passage — ut toe imagines 
lion: there is hardly a line from which a painting mighl 
not be made, and is. But this is nothing in comparison 
with his higher passages in the Essay on Man, and many 
of his other poems, serious and comic. There never 
was such an unjust outcry in this world as that which 
these fellows are trying against Pope. 

"Ask Mr. Gifford i^inthe fifth act of the Dog< ' you 
jould not contrive (where the sentence of the Vtd is 
passed) to insert the following lines in Marino Falicro'a 
unswer ? 



a. It wlUbeliiTaln : 

ill blighted name, 

■ i ' i these li neuti) 

ir« gm en id,, n ihe Lhounnd poi trtlli 
'■■ 'I n hi their painted irapplugi, 



* Bui let It b 

The veil wl 

Aiirfhlritn, 

Shall .1 &u 

Whtehgllui 

Your delegated ilaeee— tbi 

" Yours truly, &c 
n P. S. Upon public matters here I say little : you 
*n\\ all hear soon enough of a general row throughout 
Italy. There never was a more foolish step than the 
•expedition to Naples by these fellows 

" I wish to propose to Holmes, the miniature painter, to 
eome out to me this spring. I will pay his expenses, and 
any sum in reason. I wish him to take my daughter's 
picture, (who is in a convent,) and the Countess G.'s, and 
the head of a peasant girl, which latter would make a 
study for Raphael. It is a complete r^asoni face, but an 
Italian peasants, and quite in the Raphael Fomarina 
style. Il«r figure is tail, but rather large, and not at all 
comparable to her face, which is really superb. She is 
not seventeen, and I am anxious to have her face while it 
lasts. Madame G. is also very handsome, but 't is quite 
in a different style—completely blonde and fair— very 
uncommon in T-aU-- yet not an English fairness, but 

more likely a Swede or a Norwegian. Her figure, too, 
particularly the bust, is uiienmmotily g I. 1' musl be 

Holme*: 1 like him because he takes such inveterate like- 

* ■" There is a war here; but a solitary traveller, 
with little baggage, and nothing to do with politics, has 
nothing to fear. Pack him up in the Diligence. Do n't 
forget." 



LETTER CCOCL XXXIV. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



" Ravenna, April 3,1821. 
■ Thanks for the translation. I have sent you some 
books, which I do not know whether you have read or no 
—you need not return them, in any case. I enclose you 



• These lint* iwwr inserted in the Traguly 



also a letter from Pisa. 1 have neither spared trouble not 
expense in the care of the child ; and as she wa 

lour yean old complete, and quite above the control of die 

servants — and as a man living without any woman at the 
head of bit house cannol much attend to a nursery — I 

had no res oe bul to place her tor a time (at a high 

pension too) in the convent of Bagna-Cavalti, (twelK 
niilrs off.) where the air is good, and where she will, at 
Least, have her learning advanced, and her morals and 
religion inculcated* I had also another reason j — things 
wire and are in such a state here, that I bad no reason to 
look upon my own personal safety as particularly ensum- 
We ; and I thought the infant best out of barm's way for 
the present. 

"It is also fit that I should add that 1 by no means 
intended, nor intend, to give a natural child an English 
education, because with the disadvantages of her birth, 

her afler-S'til-tm ut would be doubly difficult. Abroad, 
with a fair foreign education and a portion of five or su 
thousand pound-, she might and may marry very respec- 
tably. In England such a down would be a pi 
while elsewhere it is a fortune. It is, besides, my wish 
thai she should be a Roman Catholic, which I I.,, ft 

as the best religion, as it is assuredly the oldest of the 
various branches of Christianity. I have now explained 
my nolions as to the place where she now is — it is the 
best I could find for the present ; but I have no prejudices 
in its favour. 

; I do not speak of politics, because it seems a hopeless 
subject, as long as those scoundrels are to be permitted to 
bully states out of their independence. Believe me 

" \ ours ever and truly. 
" P. S. There is a report here of a change in France ; 
but with what truth is not yel known. 

"P. S. My respects lo Mrs. H. I have the 'best 

opinion 1 of her countrywomen; and at my tin r lift, 

(three-and-thirty,2£d January j 1821,) thai . to say, after 
the life I have led, a good opinion is the only rational one 
which a man should entertain of the whole sex: — up to 
thirty, the worst possible opinion a man can have of them 
m general, the better for himself. Afterward, it is a 
matter of no im|>ortance to them, nor to him either, what 
opinion he entertains — Ins day is over, or, at least 
should be. 

" You see how sober I am become." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, April 21,1821. 
" I enclose you another letter on Bowles. But I pre- 
mise that it is not like the former, and that I am not at all 
sure bow much, if any, of it should be published. Upon 
this point you can consull with Mr. Gifford, and think 
tutu before you publish it at all. 

"Yours tiulv, 

"B. 
"P. S. You may make my subscription for Mr. Scott's 
widow, &c. thirty instead of the proposed trn pounds : but 
do not put down mtj mint, ; put down N. N. only. The 
reason is, that, as I have mentioned him in the enclosed 
pamphlet, it would look indelicate. I would give more, 

butmydisai in:m. u1s last year about Rochdale and 

the transfer from the funds render me more aeon 
for die present." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXVI. 

TO MR. SHELLEY - . 

" Ravenna, April 26, 1821 . 
" The child continues doing well, and the accounts 
are regular and favourable. It is gratifying to me UiUv 



LETTERS, 1821. 



175 



ymi and Mrs. Shelley do not disapprove of the step 
which I have taken, which is merely temporary. 

" [ am very *nrrv in hear what vou say of Keafs— is il 
actually true ? I did not think criticism had been so 
killing. Though I differ from you essentially in your 
estimate of his performances, I so much abhor all unne- 
cessary pain, that I would rather he had been seated on 
the highest peak of Parnassus than have perished in such 
a manner. Poor fellow! though with such inordinate 
self-love he would probably have not been very happv. 
I read the review of ' Endymion 1 in the Q,narierly. Ii 
was severe, — but surely not so severe as my reviews in 
that and oth'-r jo irnals upon others. 

" I recollect the effect on me of the Edinburgh on my 
first poem ; it was rage, and resistance, and redress — but 
not desp tn lency nor despair. I grant that those are not 
amiable feelings; hit, in this world of bustle and broil, 
and especially in the career of writing, a man should 
calculate upon his powers of resistance before he goes 
into the arena. 

' F.< |>ect not life from pit In DOT danger free, 
Nor deem the doom of mmi reversed for ihee.' 

"Vou know my opinion of that second-hand school of 
poetry. Vou also know my high opinion of your own 
poetry, — because it is of no school. I read Cenci — but, 
that I think the subject essentially un dramatic, I 
am not an admirer of our old dramatists, as tftodels. I 
deny that the English have hitherto had a drama at all. 
Your Cenci, however, was a worlc of power an. I poetry. 
As to my drama, pray revenge yourself upon it, by being 
as free as I have been with yours. 

'• I have not vet got your Prometheus, which T long to 
see. I have heard nothing of mine, and do not know 
that it is yet published. I have published a pamphlet on 
the Pope controversy, which you will not like. Had I 
known that Keats was dead — or that he was alive and 
so sensitive — I should have omitted some remarks upon 
his poetry, to which I was provoked by his attnrk upon 
Pope, and my disapprobation of his own style of writing. 

L - V m want me to undertake a great Poem — I have nol 
the inclination nor the power. As I grow older, the indif- 
— not to life, for we love it by instinct — but t<> tin- 
stimuli oflife, increases. Besides, this late failureof the 
Italians has latterly disappointed mc for many reasons, — 
some public, some personal. My respects to Mrs. S. 

" Yours ever. 

"P. S. Could not you and I contrive to meet this 
summer ? Could not you take a run here alone . ? " 



LETTER CCCCLXXXVIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna. April 26, 1821 . 

" T sent vou by last posfu a large packet, which will not 

do for publication. (I suspect,) being, as the apprentices 

Bay, ' damned low. 1 I put off also for a week or two 

the Italian scrawl which will form a note to it. 

The reason is, that letters being opened, I wish to 'bide 

"Well, have vou published the Tragedy? and does 
the Letter take? 

M Is it true what Shelley writes me, that poor John 
K tats died at Rome of the (Quarterly Review? T am 
■ ry for it, tfa iugh I think he took the wrong hue as 
a poet, and was spoiled hv Cocknevfving, and suburbing. 
an! versifying Tooke's Pantheon and Lempriere's Dic- 
tionary. I know, by experience, that a savage review is 
hemlock to a sucking author ; and the one on me (which 
produced the English Bards, &c.) knocked me down — 
but I got up again. Instead of bursting a blood-vessel, 
1 drank three bottles of claret, and begun an answer, 
finding that there was nothing in the article for which I 



could lawfully knock Jeffrey on the head, in an honourable 
way. However, I would not be the person wno wrote 
"he homicidal article for all the honour and glory in the 
world, though I by no means approve of that school of 
scribbling which it treats upon. 

" You see the Italians have made a sad business of it, 
— all owing to treachery and disunion among themselves. 
Ti has given me great vexation. The execrations heaped 
upon the Neapolitans by the nther Italians are quite in 
unison with those of the rest of Europe. 

" Yours, &c. 

"P. S. Your latest packet of books is on its wav 
here, but not arrived. Kenilworth excellent. Thanks 
for the pocket-books, of which I have made presents to 
those ladies who like cuts, and landscapes, and a.\ that. 
I have got an Italian book or two which I should like to 
send vou if I had an opportunity. 

" I am not at present in the very highest health, — spring, 
probably ; so I have lowered my diet and taken to Epsom 
salts. 

" As you say mv prose is good, why do n't you treat 
with JMoore for the reversion of the Memoirs ? — condi- 
tionally^ recollect; nol to be published before decease. He 
has the permission to dispose of them, and I advised 'lira 
to do so." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXVUI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, April 28, 1821. 

" You cannot have been more disappointed than myself, 
nor so much deceived. I have been so at some personal 
risk also, which is not yet done away with. However, 
no time nor circumstances shall alter my tone nor my 
feelings of indignation against tyranny triumphant. The 
present business has been as much a work of treachery 
as of cowardice. — though both may have done their part. 
If ever you and I meet again, I will have a talk with you 
upon the subject. At present, for obvious reasons, I can 
write but little, as all letters are opened. In mine they 
shall always find my sentiments, hut nothing that can 
lead to the oppression of others. 

" You will plea.se to recollect that the Neapolitans are 
Dowhere now more execrated than in Italy, and not blame 
a whole people for the vices of a province. That would 
be like condemning Great Britain because they plundei 
wr ks in Cornwall. 

" And now let us be literary ; — a sad falling off, but it is 
always a consolation. If ' Othello's occupation be gone, 1 
let us take to the next best ; and, if we cannot contribute 
to make mankind more free and wise, we may amuse 
ourselves and those who like it. What are you writing? 
I have been scribbling at intervals, and Murray will bo 
publishing about now. 

"Lady Noel has, as you say, been dangerously ill ; but 
it may console you to learn that she is dangerously well 
again. 

"I have written a sheet or two more of Memoranda 
for you ; and I kept a little Journal for about a month or 
two, till I had filled the paper-hook. I then left it off, as 
things grew busy, and, afterward, too gloomy to set down 
without a painful feeling. This I should be glad to send 
you, if I had an opportunity ; but a volume, however 
small, do n't go well by such posts as exist in this Inquisi- 
tion of a country. 

u I have no news. As a very pretty woman said to me 
a few nights ago, with the tears in her eyes, as she sat at 
the harpsichord, 'Alas! the Italians must now return *o 
making operas.' I fear that and maccaroni are their forte, 
and 'motley their only wear.' However, there are some 
high spirits among them still. Priy write. 

"And believe me, &c." 



175 



LETTERS, 1821. 



LETTER CCCCLXXX1X. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Ravenna, May 3, 1821. 
■Though I wrote to you on the 28ih ultimo^! nuisl 
acknowledge yours of thtf day, with the linos.* The) 
are sublime, a* well as beautiful, and in your ver) bea 
mood and manner. They are also but too irue, How- 
ever.donol confound the scoundrels a) Ihe heel oi the 
boot wi li their be ters at rhe top pf it. I assure you (ha; 
i. ■ some lof ier spirits. 

* Nothing however, can be bctlcr "lino your poem, m- 
mor*' deserved by ihe Lazzaroiu. The) are now abhor- 
red and disclaimed nowhere more than here. We will 
talk -.vcr these Uiings (if we meet) some day, and I will 

r< nut my own adventures, some of which have been a 

little hazardous, perhaps. 

"So y<m liavc got ihe letter on Bowles? I do no 
recollect to haw said any tiling of you that could offend, — 
certainly, nothing breniionally. As t^r * *, I meant 
him a compliment. 1 wrote the whole off-hand, without 
copy or correction, and expecting then trery day to b< 
called into the field. What have I said of you / I am 
sure I forget. It must be something of regret foryour 
approbation of Bowles. And did you not approve, as he 
says ? Would I hail known thai before! I would have 
given him sum.- more gruel. My intention was in make 
fun of all these fellows; but how I succeeded, 1 do n't 
know. 

" As to Pope, I have always regarded him as the great- 
est name in our poetry. Depend upon it, the rest are 

barbarians. I !•• is a ( ireck Temple, with a < rothic < lathe- 
dral on one hand, and a Turkish Mosque and all sorts of 
fantastic pagodas and conventicles about him. You may 
rail Shakspeare and Milton pyramids, if you please, i ul I 
prefer the Temple of Theseus or the Parthenon to a 
mountain of hurnt brickwork. 

* The Murray has written to me but once, the day of its 
pifebcation. wln-n it seemed prosperous. Hut I have 
heard of late from England hut rarely. Of MurrayVj 
other publications (of mine) I know nothing, — nor whe- 
ther he fua published. Mb was to have done so a month 
a<,'o. I wish you would do something, or thai we were 
together. 

"Ever yours and affectionately, 

' u B. n 



for Kean's return before he attempted H ; though, ei*x 
I ijnsl the atu mpl a* ever. 

B 1 haw ... ma i of boi I.-, b 'it er -'■ 

rave, Oxford, roi Scott's novels a rig them. Why 

don*l you republish Hodgson's Child< Harold M -t 

and Laiino-masiii ? ihe) are excellent. 'I I ink ■ 
he) at all fur Pope. B Vour , &C-* 



LETTER CCCCXCI. 



TO MR. HOIM'WER. 



LETTER CCCCXC 



TO MR. Mt'RKAV. 



"Ravenna, May 10, 1821. 
I have just pot vonr packet. I am obliged to Mr. 
Bowles, and Mr. Bowles is obliged to me, for having 
restored him to good-humour. He is to "rite, and you to 
publish, what you please, — motto ami subject. I desire 
nothing but fair play for all parlies. ' if emir--'', after 'In- 
new tone of Mr. Bowles, you will not publish my tb ft no 
of Gilchrist : it would be brutal to do so after his urbanity, 
fir it is rather too rough, like In own attack upon Gil- 
christ. Vim may tell him what I say there of hit fltfia- 
•<!<•, itn,. (ii is praised, as it deserves.) However, and if 
'here are any passages not prrstmnl to Bowles, and yet 
bearing upon ihe question, you may add them to the 
reprint (if it is reprinted) of ray first Letter to you- Upon 
this consult ( Hfibffd ; and, above all, do n't let any thing be 
added which can personalty aflbct Mr. Bowles. 

"In the enclosed notes, of course, what I say of the 
democracy of poetry cannot apply to Mr. Bowles, but to 
the Cockney and water washing^tub schools. 

u I hope and trust that Elliston woiCi he permitted to 
act the drama ? Surely fie iniyht have the grace to wait 



"Ravenna. May II, 1821. 
"If I h;*d hut known your notion about SwiU land 
before, 1 should have adopted it at once. As it i-, I shall 
lei the child remain in her convent, where she seems 
health* and happy, for the presenl ; but I shall feel mucii 
obliged if you will inquire, when you are in the cantons, 
about the usual and better modes of education tl 
females, and lei me know rhe result of • our opinions. It 
is some consolation that both Mr. and Mi 
written to approve entirely my placing the child with the 

nuns for the present. I can refer to my whole conduct, ;is 

Imvuie neither spared care, kindness, nor expense, since 
the child was suit to me. The people may say what 
the) please, I must content myself with not deserving (in 
this instance) that tl ey should speak ill. 

"The place is a country town, in a good air, where 
there is a large establishment for education, and many 
children, some of considerable rank, placed in it. As a 
country town, ii is leas liable to objections of every kind. 
It has always appeared to me, that the moral defect in 
rial) dors not proceed from a conventual education, — 
because, to my certain knowledge, they came out of their 
convents uukh ent even to ignorance of moral evil, — but to 
the state of societ) into which they are direct]) pi 
on coming oui of it. It is like educating an infant otn a 
mountain-top, and then taking him to tin sea ami throwing 
him into it and desiring him to swim. The evil, however, 
though still too general, is partly wearing away, a<; the 
women are more permitted to marry from attachment; 
this is, I believe, the case also in France. And, after aH, 
what is the higher society of England? According to 
mv own experience, and to all that 1 ha b seen and heard, 
(and I have lived there in the very highest and what is 
called the bat,) no way of life can be more corrupt. In 
Italy, however, it is or rather was, more ByxtetTiatu rf, 
but ttoWy ihcy themselves are ashamed >f regular Serven- 
tism. In England, the only homage which ihey pay to 
rirtue is hypocrisy. 1 speak of course, of the tone ol hi-h 
iif,._the middle ranks may be very vil I B. 

"I have not gut any copy (nor ha e yel had) of the 
letter on Bowles ; ■ f course I should I e delighted to send 
it i«) you. How is Mrs. 11.7 well again, I hope. Let mr 
know when you set out. I regret thai I cannot men you 
in the Bernese Alps this summer, as I once hoped aim 
inti nded. With mj best respects to I ia.tam, 

" 1 am ever, &r. 

"P.P. I gavetoo musicianiT a letter for you sometime 
ago— h*a he presented himself? Perhaps you could 
info dut e him to the [ngraras and other dilettanti. He is 
simple and unassuming — two strange ihines in his pr* fu- 
sion— and lie fiddles like Orpheus himself oi Am 
't is a pity thai be can 1 ! make Venic dance awa) from 
the brutal tyrant who tramples upon it." 



" Ay, ii, wi, to the 'i.j.t wiUj Uicm, ihuu a* they Artt," &c. ic. 



LETTER CCCOXC1I. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

■ May 14, 1821. 
"A Milan paper stairs lhat the play has been repre- 
sented and universally condemned. As rcmonatnuca 



LETTERS, 



1621. 



177 



has been vain, complaint would be useless. I presume) 
however, for your own sake, (if not for mine,) that you 
and my other friends will have at least published my dif- 
ferent protests against its being brought upon the stage at 
ail ; and have shown that Elliston (in spite of tbe writer) 
forced it upon the theatre. It would be nonsense to say 
ihat this lias not vexed me a good deal, but I am not 
i and I shall not take the usual resource of bla- 
ming the public, (which was in the right,) or my friends for 
do! preventing — what they could not help, nor I neither — 
representation by a speculating manager. It is 
ihat vou did not show them its unfitness for the 
before tbe play was published, and exact a promise 
from the managers not to act it. In case of their refusal, 
we would not have published it at all. But this is too 
late. " Yours. 

■ P. S. I enclose Mr. Bowles's letters ; thank him in 
mv name for their candour and kindness. — Also a letter 
for Hodgson, which pray forward. The Milan paper 
states that I ' brougfU forward the play!!!' This is 
ple&santer still. But don't let yourself be worried about 
it; and if (as is likely) the folly of Elliston checks the 
sale, I am ready to make any deduction, or the entire 
cancel of your agreement. 

"You will of course not publish my defenceof Gilch.ist, 
as after Bowles's good humour upon the subject, it would 
be too savage. 

u Let me hear from you the particulars ; for, as yet, I 
have only the simple fact. 

" If you knew what I have had to go through here, on 

account of the failure of these rascally Neapolitans, you 

would be amused: but it is now apparently over. They 

! disposed to throw the whole project and plans 

of these parts upon me chiefly." 



by the trustees — my life threafened last month (they put 
about a paper here to excite an attempt at mv assassina- 
tion, on account of politics, and a notion which the priests 
disseminated that I was in a league against the Germans) 

and, finally, my mother-in-law recovered last fortnight, 
and mv play was damned last week !* These are like 
'the eight-and-twenly misfortunes of Harlequin.' But 
they must be borne. If I give in, it shall be after keeping 
up a spirit at least. I should not have cared so much 
about it, if our southern neighbours had not bungled us all 
out of freedom for these five hundred years to come. 

"Did you know John Keats? They say that he was 
killed bva review of him in the Quarterly — if he be dead, 

hich I really don't know.f I don't understand that 
yielding sensitiveness. What I feel (as at this present) is 
an immense rage for eight-and-fbrty hours, and then, as 
usual — unless this time it should last longer. I must get 
on horseback to quiet me. "Yours, &c 

" Francis I. wrote, after the battle of Pavia, ' All is lost 
except our honour.' A hissed author may reverse it — 
]!fbihing is lost, except our honour. 1 But the horses 
are waiting, and the paper full. I wrote last week to 
you." 



LETTER CCCCXCHI. 

TO MR. KJ00RE. 

"May 14,1821. 

* If anv part nf the letter to Bowles has (unintention- 
ally a-< far as 1 remember the contents) vexed you, you 
are fully avenged; for I see by an Italian paper that, not- 
withstanding ail my remonstrances through all my friends, 
(and yourself among the rest,) the managers persisted in 
allemptii I., and that it has been ' unanimously 

hissed! P This is the consolatory phra-e of the Milan 
pap-r, [which detests me cordially, and abuses me, on al! 
occasions, as a Liberal,) with die addition, that I 'brought 
. out' of my own good-wilL 

■ All this is vexatious enough, ami seems a sort of dra- 
matic Calvinism — predestined damnation, without a sin- 
ner's own fault I took all the pains poor mortal could to 
prevent this inevitable catastrophe — partly by appeals of 
all kinds up to the Lord Chamberlain, and partly to the 
fellows themselves. But, as remonstrance was vain, oom- 

- useless. I do not understand it — for Murray's 
letter of the '24:h, and all his preceding ones, gave me the 

1 (here would be no re pre sen 'a' ion. 

- I know nothing bin lb) (act, which I presume to 

is Pans, and the 30: h. They must 
have been in a hell of a hurry fir this damnation, since I 
tat it was published; and, without its 
being first published, the histrions could not have got hold 
Vny 006 might have seen, at a glance, that it was 
utterly impracticable for the stage ; and this little accident 
will by no means enhance its merit in the closet. 

* Well, patience is a virtue, and, I suppose, practice will 
make u" perfect. Since last year (spring, that is) I have 
lust a lawsuit, of great importance, on Rochdale collieries 
— have occasioned a divorce — have had my poesy dis- 
paraged by Murrav and the critics — mv fortune refused 
to be placed on an advantageous settlement (in Ireland) 

23 



LETTER CCCCXCIV. 



TO MR. MPRRAV. 



*Ravenna,May 19, 1821 

"By the papers of Thursdav, and two letters of Mr. 
Kinnaird, I perceive that the Italian Gazette had lied most 
Italicully* and that the drama had not been hissed, and 
that my friends had interfered to prevent ihe representa- 
tion. So it seems thev continue to act it, in spite of us 
all : for this we must ' trouble them at 'size.' Let it by all 
means be brought to a plea: I am determined to try the 
right, and will meet the expenses. The reason of the 
Lombard lie was that the Austrian? — who keep up an 
Inquisition throughout Italy, and a list of names of all who 
think or speak of anv thing but in favour of their despo- 
tism — have for five years past abused me in every form 
in the Gazette of Milan, &c. I wrote to you a week ago 
on the subject. 

"Now, I should be glad to know what compensation 
Mr. Elliston would make me, not only for dragging my 
writings on the s'agc in./Jcc days, but for being the cause 
(hat I was kept fi.r Jour days (from Sunday to Thursday 
morning, the nnlv post days) in the belief that the tragedy 
had been acted and 'unanimously hissed ;' and litis with 
the addition that /'had brought it upon the s' age,' and 
consequently that none of my friends had attended to my 
request to the contrary. Suppose that I had burst a blood- 
vessel, like John Keats, or blown my brains out in a fit of 
raop, — neither of which would have been unlikely a few 
years ago. At present I am, luckily, calmer than I used 
to be, and yet I would not pass those four days over again 
fur — I know not what. 

K I wrote to you to keep up your spirits, for reproach u 
useless always, and irrigating — but my feelings were very 
much hurt, to be dragged like a gladiator to the fa'e of a gla- 
diator by thafreftaWus,' Mr. Elliston. As to his defence 
and offers of compensation, what is all this to the pur- 
pose ? It is like Louis the XIV. who insisted upon buy- 
ing a* any price Algernon Sydney's horse, and, oo his 
refusal, on taking it by force, Sydney shot his horse. I 
could not shoot my tragedy, but I would have flung it into 
the fire rather than have had it represented. 

" I have now written nearly three acts of another, (in- 
tending to complete it in five,) and am more anxious than 
ever to be preserved from such a breach of all literary 
courtesy and gentlemanly consideration. 



V 



• 3 t e Letter 499. T Sec Don Jutn, Cioto XI. Suqw GO. 



l73 



LETTERS, 1821. 



" If we succeed, well ; if not, previous to any future publi- 
cation we will request a promi**. not in be acted, which I 
would even pay for, (as money is iheir object,) or I will 
n<»t publish — which) however, you will probably Dot much 
regret. 
•' The Chancellor has behaved nobly. You have also 
■ .1 vourself in the most satisfactory manner; and 
1 have no fault to find with any b idybul the stageplayers 
and their proprietor. I was always bo civil to Elliston 
i illy that he ought to have been the la I to atti mpl 
to injure me. 

"There is a most raiding thunder-storm pelting away 
at this present writing; bo thai I write neiineTby day, nor 
by candle, nor torchlight, but by lightning light : th< 
are as brilliant as the most gaseous glow of the gas-light 

c panj . My chimney board has jusl been thrown dowi> 

bya first of wind : I thought H was the 'Bold Thunder' 
and ' Brisk Lightning 3 in person. — T/iree of us would be 
loo many. Tin re it goes — -JUuh again ! hut 

■ I tax Dot you, j«deineau, with itnkfndnm ; 

I never EftVr jsfimk$ t HOT I Wd Upon viu .' 

n- I have done by and upon Mr. Elliston. 

"Why do you not write . ? You should at least send 
me a Une of particulars : 1 know nothing yel but by Galig< 
nani and the H mourable Douglas. 

'•"Well, and how dors our P >pe controversy go nn? and 
the pamphlet? It is imnos ible to write any news: the 
Austrian scoundrels rummage all letters, 

" P. s. I could have sent you :i go 1 1 deal of gossip and 
some real information, were ii not that all letters pass 
through the Barbarians 1 inspection, and I have no wish to 
inform th m of any thing but my utter abhorrence ofthem 
and theirs. They have only conquered by treachery, 
however." 



" Von will oblige me, then, by causing Mr. Gazette of 
France to i ontradicl himself which, I suppose) he is used 
to. I never answer a foreign criticism; but this is tmere 
matter ol fad i and not of opinions. I presume that you 
have English and French interest enough to do this 
(or me — though, to be sure, as it is nothing but the truth 
the insertion may be more difficult. 

"Asl have written to you often lately al 
won't bore you farther now, than by begging you to com- 
ply with my request; and I presume the * esprit du corps,' 
(is it 'du' <>r *de V for this is more than I know) will suffi- 
ciently urge you, as one of 'ours,' to set this atl'air in its 
real aspect. Believe me always yours ever and most 
affectionately, w Byron.' 1 



LETTER CCCCXCV. 

TO THE COTJKTSSS OUICCIOM. 

" Yon will see here confirmation of what I told you the 
other day! lam sacrificed in every way, without know- 
ing the »'/)// or the wherefore. The tragedy m question is 
not (nor ever was) written tor, or adapted to, the stage; 
nevertheless, the plan is not romantic; it is rather regular 
than otherwise ; — in point of unity of time, indeed, per- 
fectly regular, and failing but slightly in unity of place. 
You well know whether it was ever my intention to have 
it acted, since it was written at your side, and at a period 
assuredly rather more tragical to me as a man than as an 
author; for you were in affliction and peril, [n the mean 
time, I learn frdm your Gazette that a cabal and party 
has been fumed, while 1 myself have never taken the 
slightest step m the business. It is said thai the author 
read it aloud!!! — here, probably, al Ravenna? — and to 
Whom? perhaps to Fletcher !!!— thai iliiistnoiis literary 
character, &c. fee." 



LETTER CCCCXCVH. 



TO MR. MOnPNER. 



LETTER CCCCXCVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

ivenna,May CO. 1831. 
■Since T wrote to you last week I have received Eng- 
lish letters and papers, by which I perceive that whaf 1 
took for an Italian truth is, after all, a French lie of the 
Gazette de France. It contains two ulira-filsehoods in 
as many lines. Iii me first place, i.ord p. did not brino 
forward his play, hut opposed the same ; and, secondly, it 
was not condemned, but is continued to be acted, in de- 
spite of publisher, author, Lord Chancellor, and {for aught 
I know to the contrary) of audi. -nee. up to the first of 
May, at least— the latest date of my letters. 



1821. 

"T am very mucfi pleased with wh it yofj mi of Swifc 
Eerland, and will ponder upon it. I would rather she 
married there than here for that matter. For fortune, J 
shall make if all that I can spare, (if I live and she ,, c ,, r . 
rect m her conduct,) and if I die before she is settled. I 

have left her by will \\\-- ll sand pounds which is 

pro* i ion out of England for a natural child. ( shall 
increase it all I can, if circumstances permit me ; hut, of 
course {like a ll other human things) this is very urn ertain. 
" You will oblige me very much by Interfering to bave 
the facts of Jhe play-acting stated, as these Bcoundrets 

appear to I | item of abuse against me 

because I am in their'&t. 1 I care nothing for their eri- 
tiris/n, but the matter of fact. I have written ./bur acts 
of another tragedy, so you see they txmh bully me. 

Vou know. I suppose, that they actually keep a list 
of all individuals m Italy who dislike them— it m 
numerous. Their suspicions and actual alarms, about 
my conduct and presumed intentions in the late row, 
were truly ludicrOUS—though, DOl to bore vou, [touched 
upon them lightly. They believed, and still believe here, 
or an"ect to believe it, that the whole plan ana pro 
rising was settled by me, and the means furnishe I, &c 
&c All tins was more fomented by the barbarian agents, 
who are numerous here, (one of them was stabh 
terdaj by-the-way,but not dangerously :)— end although, 
when the ( 'oiiiniaudaiit was shot here before my door 
in December, I took him into my house, where he had 
everj assistance till he died on Fletcher's bed; and 
although not one of them dared to receive him into their 
houses hut myself, they leaving him to perish in the night 
in the streets, they put up a paper about three months 
ago, denouncing me as the Chief of the Liberals, and 
stirring up persons to assassinate me. But this shall 
never silence nor bully my opinions. All this came from 
the German Barbarians." 



LETTER CCCCXCVUT. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

■ Ravenna, May 25, 1821. 

" MR. MORAV, 

u Since I wrote the enclosed a week ago, and for some 
ieks before, 1 have not had a line from vou: now. I 
should be glad to know upon what principle of common 
>r uncommon feeling, vou feave me without any informs 
rion but what I derive from garbled gazettes in English 
an I abusive ones in Italian, (the Germans hating me, as« 
li-Aeowr,) while all this kick-up has been going on abou 
me play? You B&abbT fellow!!! Were it not tbr two 
I 'ters from Douglas Kinnaird, I should have been as 
ignorant as you are negligent. 



LETTERS, 1821. 



179 



"So, I hear Bowles has been abusing Holthouse? if 
that 's (he case, he has broken the truce, like Morillo's 
successor, and I will cut him out, as Cochrane did the 
Esmeralda. 

"Since 1 wrote the enclosed jacket I have completed 
(bul do! copied out) four acts of a new tragedy. When 
I have finished the hfdi I will copy it out. li is on the 
Bubjeci of 1 Sardanapalus, 1 the las* lung of the Assyrians. 
The words Queen and Pavilion occur, but u is not an 
allusion to his Britannic Majesty, as you may tremulously 
This you will one day see, (if I finish it.) as 1 
have made Sardanapalus brave, (though voluptuous, as 
hi iui\ represents him,} and also as amiable as my poor 
powers coujd render him: — so that u could neither be 
truth nor satire on any living monarch. 1 have strictly 
preserved all the unities hitherto, and mean to continue 
them in the rain, if possible; but not for the stage. Yours. 
iu haste and lintred you shabby correspondent ! 

«N." 



LETTER CCCCXCIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, May 28, 1821. 

■Since my last of the 26th or 25th. I have dashed 
off my fifth act of the tragedy called 'Sardanapalus.' 
But now comes the copying over, which may prove heavy 
«,,rk — lieavy to the writer as to the reader. I have 
written to you at least six times sans answer, which 
proves you to be a — bookseller. I pray you to send 
me a copy of Mr. Wranghamh reformation of'Lang- 
forties Plutarch.' I have the Greek, which is somewhat 
•nnall of print, and the Italian, which is too heavy in style, 
md as false as a Neapolitan patriot proclamation. I pray 
vou also to send me a Life, published some years ago. ol 
the Magician Apollomus of Tyana. It is in English, 
and 1 think edited or written by what Marhn Marprelate 
calls l a bouncing priest' I shall trouble you no farther 
villi this sheet than with the postage. 

" Yours, &c. 
«N. 

" P. S. Since t wrote this, I determined to enclose it (as 
tt half sheet) to Mr. Kmnaird, who will have the goodness 
to forward it. Besides, it saves sealing-wax." 



LETTER D. 

TO MR. MURRAY". 

"Ravenna, May 30i 1S21 

a DEAR MORAV, 

■You say you have written often: I have only re- 
ceived yours of the eleventh, which is very short. By 
this post, in ./foe packets, I send you fl.e tragedy of Sar- 
danapalus, which is written in a rough hand: perhaps 
Mrs. Leigh can help you to decipher it. You will phase 
to acknowledge it by refum of post. You will remark 
that the unities are all strictly observed. The scene 
in the same hall always: the time, a summer'a 

about nine hours, or less, though it begins b< fore 
sunset ami ends after sunrise. In the third act. when 
Sardanapalus calls f >r a mirror to look at himself in his 
armour, recollect toquote the Latin passage from Juvenal 
U ion "Mo, (a similar character, who did the same thing:) 

I will help you to it. The trait is perhaps too 
(arnular, bul it is historical, (of Otto, at least,) and natural 
in an effeminate character." 



'About Allegra — I will take some decisive step in the 
course of the year ; at present, she is so happy where 
he is, that perhaps she had better have her alphatwt im- 
parted in her convent. 

" What you say of ihe Dante is the first I have heard 
f it — all seeming to he merged in the rout about tho 
tragedy. Continue it! — Alas! what could Dante him- 
self now prophesy about Italy? 1 am glad you like it, 
however, but doubt that you will be singular in your 
opinion. My new tragedy is completed. 

" The Benzoni is right, — I ought to have mentioned 
her humour and amiability, but I thought at her snttf 
beauty would be most agreeable or least likely. How- 
it, it shall be rectified in a new edition ; and if any 
of the parties have either looks or qualities which they 
wish to be noticed, let me have a minute of them. I 
have no private nor personal dislike to Venice., rather the 
contrary, but I merely speak of what is the subject of 
all remarks and all writers upon her present state. Let 
me hear from you before you start. Believe me, 

" Ever, &c. 
P. S. Did you receive two letters of Douglas Kin- 
naird's in an endorse from me ? Remember me to Men- 
naldo, Soranzo, and all who care dial I should remember 
them. The letter alluded to in the enclosed, ' to the 
Cardinal} was in answer to some queries of the govern- 
ment, about a poor devil of a Neapolitan, arrested at 
Sinigaglia on suspicion, who came to beg of me here : 
being without breeches, and consequently without pockets 
for halfpence, I relieved and forwarded him to his country 
and they arrested him at Pesaro on suspicion, and have 
since interrogated me (civilly and politely, however,) 
about him. I sent them the poor man's petition, and such 
information as I bad about him, which, I trust, will get 
him out again, that is to say, if they give him a fair 
hearing. 

"I am content with the article. Pray, did you receive, 
some posts ago, Moore's lines, which I enclosed to you, 
written at Paris '?" 



LETTER DII. 



TO MH MOORE. 



LETTER DL 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

"Ravenna, May 31,1821. 
"1 enclose you another letter, which will only confirm 
what 1 have said to you. 



"Ravenna, June 4, 1821. 
K You have not written lately, as is the usual custom 
with literary gentlemen to console their friends with their 
observaiions in cases of magnitude. I do not know 
whether I sent you. my 'Elegy on the recovery of Lady 
Noel ;'— 

" Behold the blessings of a lucky lot — 
My play is damtlM, and Lady Noel nor. 

"The papers (and perhaps your letters) will have put 
you in possession ofMuster EuTstoh's dramatic behaviour. 
It is to he presumed that the play was Jilted for the stage 
by Mr. Dihdin, who is the tailor upon such occasions, and 
will have taken measure with Ins usual accuracy. I hea. 
that it is slill continued to he performed — a piece of ob- 
stinacy for which it is some consolation to think that the 
discourteous hislrio will be out of pocket. 

"You will he surprised to hear that I have finished 
another tragedy hi five acts, observing all the unities 
strictly. It is called 'Sardanapalus,' and was sent by 
last post to England. It s not fur the staire, any more 
lhan the other was intended for it, — and I shall take better 
care tltis time that they do n't get hold on 't. 

"1 have also sent, two months ago, a farther letter on 
Bowles, &c. I but lie seems to he so taken up with my 
'respect' (as he calls it) towards him in the former case, 
that I am not sure that it will he published being some- 
whal too full of 'pastime and prodigality.' I learn from 
some private letters of Bowles's, that >imi were 'the gen- 
tleman in asterisks.' Who would have dreamed it ? you 



LETTERS, 1821. 



ISO 



B ee whal mischief that clergyman has done by printing 
notes without names. How the dense was I to suppose 
ihat the first four asterisks meant 'Campbell' ami not 
*Pope,' ami that the blank signature meant Thomas 
Moore. V«m see what comes oY being familiar with 
parsons. IIh answers have not yei reached me, but I 
understand from Hobhouse that he (H.) »» attacked an 

them. If that be the case, Bowles has brol he truce, 

(whicli he himself proclaimed, by*the-wayO and I must 
ban at him again. 

"Did you receive my letters wilfe the twn or three con- 
cluding sheets 0/ Memoranda ? 

"There are no news here to interest much: A Ger- 
man spy {boasting himself such) was stabbed last week, 
but not mortally. The moment I heard that he went 
apout bull; ing and boasting h was easy for me, or any 
one else, to foretell whal would occur to him, which I did, 
and i' oame to pass in two days after. He lias got of!; 
however, for a slight incision. 

* A row the other night, about a lady of the place. 
between her various lovers, occasioned a midnight dis- 
charga of pistols, but nobody wounded. Great scandal, 
however— planted by her lover— to !>e thrashed by her 
husband; t'-.i inconstancy to her regular Servente, who 
is coming home post about it, and she herself retired in 
confusion into the country, although it is the acme of the 
opera season. All the women furious against her (she 
herself having been censorious) for being foundout. She 
is a pretty woman— a Countess + * * * — a fine old 
Visigoth name, or Ostrogoth. 

"The Greeks! what think you? They arc my old 
acquaintances — but what to think I know not Let us 
hope, howsomever. " ^ ours, 

« 13." 



LETTER DHL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, June 22, 1821'. 

'Tour dwarf of a letter came yesterday. That is 
right ; — keep to your 'magnum opus' — magnoperate away. 
Now, if we were but together a little to combine our 
Journal of Trevouxl 1 But it is useless to sigh, and yet 
very natural, — for I think you and 1 draw better together, 
in the social line, than any two other living authors. 

" 1 forgot to ask you, if yo»l had seen your own pane- 
gyric in the correspondence "I" Mrs. Waterhouse an 
Colonel Berkeley? To bo sure, their moral is not quite 
exact; but your passion is fully effective; ami all poetry 
o( the Asiatic kind — I mean Asiatic, as the Romans 
called 'Asiatic oratory,' and not because the scenery is 
Oriental— must be tried by that lest only. I am not 
quite sure that I shall allow the Miss Byrons (legitimate 
or illegitimate) 10 read Lalla Rookh — in the tir^i place, 
on account of ibis said pussiun; and, in the second, that 
they may n't discover that there was a better poet than 
papa. 

"You say nothing of politics — but alas! what can be 
said? 

"Tlir- world U ahim.llf of t.oy, 

Muiitiiinl niv Hi" HOMO who |iull, 
K-h *i tup It :' rittTerani «n*\— 
Ami tin- greater: ol nil i* John Bull 1 

"How do von call your new project? 1 have tent to 
Murray a new tragedy, ycleped '.Sardanapalus, 1 writ ac- 
cording to AristOth — all, save the chorus— 1 could not 
reconcile me to that' I have begun another, and am in 
the second act ; — so you see 1 saunter on as usual. 

1 Bowles's answers have reached me; but I can't go 
on disputing for 1 ver^— particularly in a polite manner. 1 

suppose he will take being silent for siicural. He has 
been so civil that I can't hud it in my liver to be facetious 



with him, — else 1 had a savage joke or two at his service. 
* * * * * * * 

"I can't send you the little journal, because it is in 
boards, and I can't UUSl u per post. Ho n't suppose it » 
any thing particular; but it will show the jntrntioits of 
the (fativea ai that time — and one or two other dnngi 
chiefly personal, like the former one. 

"So, Longman durft l»t<.— It was my wish to have 

lade that work ofuse. Could yOU not raise a sin I 
, (however small,) reserving the power of redeeming it 
on repaj men) ! 

Arc you in Pari*;, or a villajdng? If you are in tbf 
city, you will never resisl the Anglo-Hivasion you B|jeaJi 
of. I do not see an Englishman in half a year; and 
when 1 do, I turn my horse's head the other way. The 
fact, which vou will find in the last note to the Doge, has 
:;i\cn me a <.ood excuse for quite dropping the let 

nexion b Uh travellers. 
"Ido not recollect the speech you speak of, but 

it is not the Dole's, but out- ol' Israel Bcrtuccio to Calen 
daro. I hope you think that Klliston behaved shamefully 
— it is my onlv consolation. I made the Milanese foj 
lows contradict their lie, which they did with the grace of 
people used to it. "YoUre, ^< 



LETTER D1V. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, July 5, 1821. 

u How could you suppose that I ever would allow any 

thing that could be said on your account to weigh wkfa 

me? I only regret that Bowles had not .vuW that you 

were the writer of that note until afterward, when out he 

comes with it, in a private letter to Murray, which Murray 

sends to mc. D — n the controversy ! 

11 D— n Twlnle, 
D— n the bell, 
And ti— 11 the fool who rung It— Well ! 
From all iikIi jingoes I'll quickly l «• delivsnd. 

ri l have had a friend of your Mr. living's* — a very 
prcttv lad — a Mr. Coolidge, of Boston — only somewhat 
too full of poesy and l entusymusy.' I was very civil to 
him during his few hours' slay, and talked with him much 
of Irving, whose writings are my delight. But I suspect 
that he did not take quite so much to me, from his having 
expected to meet a misanthropical gentleman, in wolf- 
skin breeches, aitd answering in fierce monosyllables, 
instead of a man of this world. I can never get people 
to understand that poetry is the expression of cj-citcd pu*- 
sion, and that dure is no such thing as a life of passion 
any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal 
fever. Besides, who would ever shem themselves in such 
a state .' 

11 1 have had a curious letter to-day from a girl in Eng- 
land, (1 never saw her,) who says she is given OVOI <l 1 
decline, but could not go oul of the world without thank- 
ing me loi the delighi which my poesj foi si Vera! years, 
Sic. &c. &c. It is signed simply N. N. A. and has not 
a word of 'cant' or preachment in it upon amy opinions. 
She merely says that she is dying, and that as I had 

contributed so highly to her existing pl< asure, she thought 
that she might say so, begging me 10 burn her tetter — 
which, b\-thc-way, I can not do, as I look upon such a 

letter, in such circumstances, as better than a diploma 
from ( rottingen. I once had a letter from Drontheim, in 
X<"inn/, (but not from a dying woman,) in verse, on the 
same score of gratulation. These are the things which 
make one at times believe one's self a poet.f But if 1 
must believe that * * * * * *, and such follows, are 
poets also, it is better lo he out of the corps. 



' See Mvnwi ±m\ Jim, |iagc 2G8. I fcec do. 26?- 



LETTERS, 1P21. 



181 



■1 am now in the Hfh act uf 'Foscari,* being the third 

tragedy in twelve month , besides -proses; so you perceive 
that I am not at all idle. And are you, too, busy? I 
doubi thar your life at Pans draws too much upon your 
time, which is a pity. Can't you divide your day, so as 
to cnrahme both? I have had plenty of all sorts**. f 
worldly business on my hands last year,— and yet it is 
ant so difficult to give a few hours to the Pluses. This 

sentence is so tike * * * * that 

" Ever, &c. 
" If we were together, I should publish both my plavs 
(peri i licaJlv) m our joint journal. It should be our plan 
to publish all our best things in that way/ 



LETTER DVIL 



TO MR. MURRAV. 



LETTER DV. 



TO MR. MPRRAV. 



"Ravenna, July 6, 1821. 

■In asreenKTit with a wish expressed bv Mr. Hoh- 
h use, it is my determination to omit the stanza upon the 
hirse of .S miram'ts* in the Fif.h Canto nf Don .loan. 1 
mention this, in case vou are, or intend to be, the publisher 
of the remaining Cantos. 

"A 1 the particular request of the Oontessa G. I have 
promised not to continue Hon .luan. You will therefore 
I ill upon these three Cantos as the last of the poem. 
She had read the first two in the French translation, and 
never 'cased beseeching in* 1 to write no more of it. The 
reason of this is not at first obvious to a superficial 
observer of foreign manners; but it arises from the 
wish of a'l women to exalt the sentiment of the pas- 
sions, and to keep up the illusion which is their empire. 
Now Don Joan strips off this illusion, and laughs at that 
and most other things. I never knew a woman who did 
not protect Rousseau^ nor one who did not dislike De 
Grammont, Gil Bias, and al! the comedv of the passions, 
when brough; out natiirallv. But 'kings 1 blood must keep 
word,' as Serjeant Bothwefl says." 



LETTER DVT. 



Til MR. Ml'liKAV. 



•July 14, 1821. 
M trust that Sardanapalus "ill not be mistaken tor a 

wtti/irut p'av, which was so far from my intention, thai [ 
thought of nothin; but Asiatic history. The Venetian 
play, toO) is rigidly historical. My object has been to 
dramatise, 'ike the Greeks, (a morfeM phrase,) striking 
passages of history, as they did of history and mythology. 
Vou will find all ibis very unlike Shakspeare ; and so 
much the better in one sense, C» T look upon him to be 
•Uf. ivrrst of mod lis, though the most extraordinary of 
writers. It has been my object to be as simple and 
severe as A'tieri, and I have broken do\n the poetry as 
m*arly as 1 eonld to common language. The hardship 
in these ti-n-'s one can neither speak of kings or 
queens without suspicion of politics or personalities. I 
intended neither. 

" 1 am not very well, and I write in the midst of un- 
pleasant scenes hi re; they have, without trial or process, 
banished several of the tir^t inhabitants of the cities — here 
And all around the Roman states — among them manv of 
my personal friends — so that every thins is in confusion 
and grief: it is a t ind of thing which cannot be described 
without an equal pain as in beholding it. 

"You are veiy niggardly in your letters. 

" Yours truly, 



"Ravenna, July 22, 1981. 
H The printer has done wonders ;— he has read what I 
canno" — my own handwriting. 

"I oppose the 'delay till winter.-' I am particularly 
anxious to print while the winter theatres .-.re dosed, to gain 
time, in case they try their former piece of politeness. 
Any torn shall be considered in our contract, whether 
occasioned by the season or oilier causes; but print away 
and publish. 

u I think they must own that I have more stylca than 
one. ' Sardanapalus' is, however, almost a comic charac- 
ter: bill for that matter, so is Richard the Third. Mind 
the unities, which arc my great object of research. I am 
glad that Gilford likes it: as for 'the million,' you see I 
have carefully consulted any thing but the taste of the day 
for extravagant 'coups de threatre.' Any probable loss, 
as I said before, will be allowed for in our accompts. 
The reviews (except one or two, Blackwood's, for in- 
stance) are cold enough; hut never mind those fellows: 
I shall send them to the right about, if I take it into mv 
head. I always found the English fiaser in some things 
than any other nation. You stare, but it 's true as to 
•rratitvtle, — perhaps, because they are prouder, and proud 
people hate obligations. 

" The tyranny of the Government here is breaking out. 
They have exiled about a thousand people of the best 
families all over the Roman states. As many of my 
friends are among them, I think of moving too, but not till 
t have had your answers. Continue pour address to me 
/wre, as usual, and quickly. What you will not be sorry 
to hear is, that thepwr of the place, bearing that 1 meant 
to go, got together a petition to the Cardinal to request 
that he would request me to remain. I only heard of it a 
day or two ago, and it is no dishonour to them nor to me ; 
but it will have displeased the higher powers, who look 
upon me as a Chief of the Coal-heavers. They arrested 
a servant of mine for a stree'-quarrel with an officer, (thev 
drew upon one another knives and pistols,) but as Oie 
■ifflrtT was out of uniform, and in the ivrong besides, on 
my protesting stoutly, he was released. I was not pre- 
sent at the affray, which happened by night near my 
stables. My man, (an Italian,) a very stout and not over- 
patient personage, would have taken a fatal revenge after- 
wards, if I had not prevented him. As it wa«, he drew 
his" stiletto, and, but for passengers, would have carbonadoed 
the captain, who, I understand, made but a poor figure in 
•be quarrel, except by beginning it. He applied to me, 
and 1 offered him any satisfaction, either by tuminz away 
the man, or otherwise, because he had drawn a knife. He 
answered that a reproof would be sufficient. I reproved 
him; and yet, after this, the shabby dog complained to 
the Government! — af'er being quite satisfied, as he said. 
This roused me, and I gave them a remonstrance, which 
had some effect. The captain has been reprimanded, 
the servant released, and the business at present rests 
there." 



LETTER DVIII. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

■ Ravenna, July 23, 1821. 
■This country being in a state of proscription, and aD 
my friends exiled or arrested — the whole family of Gamba 
obliged to go to Florence for the present — the father and 
son for polices — (and the Guiccioli because menaced 
with a convent, as her father is not here,) I have deter- 
mined to remove to Switzerland, and tiiev also. Indeed 
mv life here is not supposed to be particularly safe — but 
that has been the case for this twelvemonth past, and is 
therefore not die primary consideration. 



182 



LETTERS, 1S21. 



•I have written by this post to Mr. Hentsch, junior, tin- 
banker of Geneva, to provide (if possible) a hou e lor 
me, and another fur Gamba's family] (the father, son, and 
daughter,) on the Jura side of the lake ofGeneva, furnish- 
ed, ;iml with siublin^' (for me at least) fur eight I. I 
shall bring Allegra with me. Could you assist me or 
Hentsch in his researches? The Gambas are at Flo- 
rence, but have authorized me to treai for them. You 
know, or do not know, that they are great patriots — and 
both— but the son in particular — very fine fellows. 7Vi» 
I know, far I have seen them lately in very awkward 
situations — not pecuniary, but personal— and they be- 
haved like heroes, neither yielding nor retracting, 

u \ ou have no idea what a state of oppression ihb 
country is in — they arrested above a thousand ofhigh and 
low throughout Roniagna — banished some and confined 
others, without trial, prtjotss, or even accusation ! ! Every 
body says they would have done the same by me if the} 
dared pr ed openly. M, motive, however, for remain- 
ing is because every om-. of my acquaintance, to the 
amount of hundreds almost, have been exiled. 

'Will you do what you ran in looking out for a couple 
of houses Jurnishea\ and conferring with Hentsch for us ? 
We care nothing about society) and are only anxious foi 
a temporary and tranquil asylum and individual freedom. 
'Believe me, Sec 
"P. S. Can you »ive me an idea of the comparative 
expenses of Switzerland and Italy? which I have for- 
gotten. I speak merely of those of decent tinn« } horses, 
<s. ami not of luxuries or high living. Do not, howevi r, 
decide any thing positively till I have your answer, as I 
can then know how to think upon these topics of trans- 
migration, &c. Ike. &.e." 



LETTER DIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY/. 



" Ravenna, July 30, 1821. 
"Enclosed is the best account of the Doge Faliero, 
which was only senl to me from an old MS. the oilier 
Gel it translated, and append it as a note to tin- 
next edition. You will perhaps be pleased to see that my 

conceptions of Ins character were correct, though I regret 
not having met with tins extract before. Y.m will [ n r. » i \ t- 
that he himself said exactly what he is made to say about 
the Bishop of Treviso. You will see also that l he spoke 
very little, and those only words of rage and disdain, 1 after 
Ins arrest, which is die case in (he play, except when he 
breaks out at the close of Act Fifth. But his speech to 
the conspirators is better in the MS. than in the play. I 
wish thai I had met with it in tune. Do not forget this 
note, with a translation. 

" In a former note to the Juans, speaking of Voltaire, 1 
have quoted bis famous * Zaire, tu pleures, 1 which i- an 
error ; it sh.mld be 'Zaire, 1 vans pleurez? BecoUocl I ins. 

u I am SO busy here ahout those poor proscribed exile-, 
who are scattered about, and with trying to gel some of 
them recalled, that I liave hardly time or patience to write 
a short preface, which will be proper for the two plays. 
However, I will make it out on receiving the next proofs. 
tt Yours ever, Sec. 

"P. S. Please to append the letter about the Hellespont 
as a note to your next opportunity of the verses on Lean- 
Jer, &C&U. &c. in Childe Harold. 1 >■> n'i k» gel il amid 
/our multitudinous avocations, which [think of celebrating 
in a Dilhyrambic Ode to Albemarle-street. 

"Are you aware that Shelly has written an Elegy on 
Ktw»'s,f and accuses the Quarterly of killing him ? 

1 Who kill'd John Keats?' 

' I,' n.iys the Cliuirti.'i I y , 
■ 
' "f whs one of my fenta.' 



t I hit note "si omlttci). 



1 Who »tut the arrow / 

' TI.e |>oei-prie« Milinnn, 
(Si n*dj to kill mm.,) 
Or Souiliey or Barrow.' 

"You know very well thai 1 did not approve of 
Keats's poetry, or principles of poetry, or of his abuse 
of Pope; but, as he is dead, omit '*// that is said about 
him in any MSS. of mine, or publication. His Hype- 
rion is a line monument, and will keep his name. 1 
do not envy the man who wrote the article; — you Re- 
view-people have no more right to Kill than any other 
footpads. However, he who would die of an article in a 
R,< view would probably have died of something ewe 
equally trivial. The same thins nearly happened to Kirke 
\\ luii', who died afterward of a consumption. 1 



LETTER DX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, August 2, 1881. 

K I had certainly answered your hist letter, though nuf 
briefly, to the part to which you refer, merely Baying 
• damn the controversy f and quoting some verses of 
(oorur Colman's, not as allusive to you, but tu the dis- 
putants. Did you receive tin- letter } It imports me 
to know that our letters are not intercepted or mislaid. 

1 Your Berlin drama* l$ an honour, unknown since the 
days of Elkanah Settle, whose 'Emperor uf Morocco* 
was repn -' nted bj the I 'ourl ladies, whi h was, as John- 
son says, ' the last blast of inflammation 1 to poor I >i 

mid u'ii bear it, and fell foul of Settle without 
ni<ti-\ "i in. "Irian hi. .'i bat and a fronl ■ 

which he dared to put before in- plaj . 

" \\ as not your showing the Memoranda to * * some- 
what perilous? Is there not a facetious allusion or two 
which might as well be reserved lor posterity .' 

■J know S<li.' g< -1 well — thai is to say, I have met him 
occasionally at Copet, I- he no) also touched lightly in 
ihe Memoranda? In a review uf Childe Han-Id, Canto 
4th, three years ai_'*>, in Black wool's Ma^a/me, they ijuote 
-ohm- st an/as of an i-lt-yv uf St bezel's on Rome, from which 
they say that 1 might have taken some ideas. 1 give you 
my honour that I never saw it e\cept in that criticism, 
winch gives, 1 think, three or four stanzas, sent them {they 
say) for the nonce by a correspondent — perhaps himself. 

The feci is easily proved; for I don't understand German 

and linn- was, I beheve, no translation — al least, it was 
die first time that 1 ever heard uf, or saw, either transla- 
tion or original. 

"I remember having some talk with Schegel about 
Allien, whose merit be denies. He was al o wroth about 
the Edinburgh Review of Goethe, winch whs sharp 
enough, to I"- Bure. He went about saying, too, of the 
French — 'I meditate a terrible vengeance against the 
French — 1 will prove that Moliere is no poet, 1 * * 

M don't see why you Bhould talk of 'declining.' When 

u, you looked thinner, and yet younger, than you 

did when we pan.'. I several years before. You may rely 

Upon this as fact. If it were not, I should say nothing 

for I would rather nut say unpleasant personal thmgs to 
any one — but, as it was the pleasant tru/A, I tell it you 
[f you had led mj life, indeed, changing climates ami con- 
nejuons— thinning yqjurself with fasting and purgatives — 
lhe wear and tear of the vulture passions, and a 
very bad temper besides, von might talk in this way — but 
you! I know no man who looks so well for his years, or 
who deserves to look better and to be better, in all re- 
ap) eis. You are a * * *, and, what is perhaps better fir 



* There hml bCBD, a shorl time before, tie. Conned n( lhe Court ol 
Berlin, a iiwcUtcle founded on the Pi-om of L*IU Rookh, In which Oie 
prevent Bmpera bI Hutut ^itounled Femmon, mill the Lnii>i«« 
I*1U Kookli. 



LETTERS, 1S21. 



1S3 



your friends, a good fellow. So, don't talk of decay, bur 

put in for eighty, as you well may. 

"I am, at present, occupied principally about these 

i and exiles, which have taken place 

here on account of politics. Ii has been a mi 

sight to see the ° 'neral desolation in families. I anr-doing 

what I can for them, high and low, by such interest and 

g to b'.-ur. There have 

been iho riptions within the last 

month in tlie Exarchate, or (to speak modernly) the 

, ■ . . ,a man go( his bach broken, in 

mine from un ler a mill-wheel. The 

the man is in the greatest danger. I 

was not present — it happened before I was up, owing to 

the dog to bathe in a dangerous spot. 

I must, of course, provide lor the poor fellow while he 

in t his family, if he dies. I would gladly have given 

a much greater sum than that will come to that he had 

never been hurt. Pray, lei me hear from you, and 

excuse haste and hot weather. 

■ Yours, &c. 
****** 
u You may have probably seen al! sorts of attacks upon 
me in some gazettes in England some months ago. I 
only saw them, by Murray's bounty, die other day. They 
rail me md what no'. I think I now, in my 

lime, have bei 

"I have not given you details of little events here; bul 

they have been trying to mala me i ul 1 1 be the chief uf a 

wan! of proofs for an 

investigation has stopped them. Had it been a 

|, tot native, the suspicion were enough, as it has been for 

bundi eds. 

"Why don't vou write on Napoleon? I have no 
spirits, nor 'estro' to do so. His overthrow, from the 
nj, was a blow on the head to me. Since that 
period, we have been the slaves of fools. Excuse this 
long letter. Ecca a translation literal of a French epi- 
gram. 

" Pgle, beanlr and poet, has t<x> Hide crimes, 
She makes her own face, and docs not make her rhymes, 

K I am goin^ to ride, having been warned not to 
a particular part of the forest, on account of the ulira- 
poDticians. 

"Is there no chance of your return to England, and of 
our Journal ? I would have published the two pi i 
— two or thr<->' scenes [» j r number — and. bid© 
mine in it. If you went to England, I would do so still 



LETTER DXI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, August 10, 1821. 

* Your conduct to Mr. Moore is certainly very hand 
some; and I would not say so if I could help it, for yoi 
are not at present by any means in ray good graces. 

■ With regard to additions, &C. there is a Journal which 
I kept in 1814 which you may ask him for; also a Jour- 
nal which you musl gel from .Mrs. Leigh, of my journey 
in the Alps, which contains all the germs of Manfred. I 
have also kept a small Diary here for a few months last 
winter, which I would send you, and any continuation 
You would find easy access to all my papers and tetters, 
and do not neglect this (in case of accidents,) on account 
of the mass of confusion in which they are ; f >r out of 
that chaos of papers you will find some curious ones of 
mine and others, if not lost or destroyed. If circum- 
stances, however (which is almost impossible,) made me 
osent to a publication in my lifetime, you would in 
that case, I suppose, make Moore some advance, in pro- 
i to the likelihood or non-likelihood of success. You 
are both sure to survive me, however. 



"You must also have from Mr. Moore 'he correspond- 
ence between me and Lady Byron, to whom I offered the 
sight of all which regards herself in these papers. This 
is important. He has her letter, and a copy of my answer. 
I would rather Moore edited me than another. 

"I sen! you Valpy^s letter to decide for yourself] and 
Stockdale's to amuse you. / am always loyal with you, 
as I was in Galignani's affair, and you with me — now and 
then. 

M return you Moore's letter, which is very creditable 
to him, and you, and me. tt Yours ever." 



LETTER DXIT. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, August 16, Ittft. 

" I regret that Holmes can't or won't come : it is rather 
shabby, as I was always very civil and punctual with him. 
But he is but one * * more. One meets with none else 
among the English. 

B 1 u ait the proofs of die MSS. with proper impa- 
tience. 

"So you have published, or mean to publish, the new 
Ar n't you afriad of the Constitutional Assas- 
sination of Bridge-street ? When first I saw the name 
of Murray 1 thought it had been yours ; but was solaced 
by seeing that vour synonyme is an attorneo, and that you 
are not one of that atrocious crew. 

"I am in a great discomfort about the probable war, 
and with my trustees not getting me out of the funds. If 
the funds break, it is my intention to go upon the highway. 
All the other English professions are al present so ungen- 
tlemanly by the conduct of those who follow them, that 
open robbing is the only fair resource left to a man of any 
principles ; it is even honest, in comparison, by being un- 
disguised. 

" J \\ rote to you by last post, to say that you had done 
the handsome thing by Moore and the Memoranda. Y'ou 
are very good as times go, and would probably be still 
better but f^r the ' march of events,' (as Napoleon called 
it,) which won't permit any body to be better than they 
should oe. 

* Love to GifTord. Believe me, &c. 

a P. S. I restore Smith's letter, whom thank for his good 
opinion. Is the bust bv Thorwaldsen arrived ■** 



LETTER DXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, August 23, 1821. 
"Enclosed are the two acts corrected. With re- 
gard to the charges* about the shipwreck, I think that I 
told both you and Mr. Hothouse, years ago, ihat there 
was not a single circumstance of it not taken froinyhe'; 
not, indeed, from any single shipwreck, but all from actual 
facts of different wrecks. Almost all Don Juan is real life, 
ei:her of mv own, or from people I knew. By- the- way, 
much "1" the description of the furniture, in Canto Third, 
is taken from TtUlys Tripoli, (prav note this,) and the rest 
from my own observation. Remember, I never meant to 
conceal this at all, and have only not stated it. because 
Don Juan had no preface nor name to it. If you think 
it worth while to make this statement, do so in your own 
way. /laugh at such charges, convinced that no writer 
ever borrowed less, or made his materials more his own.f 
Much is coincidence; fir instance. Lady Morgan (in a 
really exceBeni ba 4c, I assure you, on Italy) calls Venice an 
oeeofi Rome: I have the very same expression in Foscari, 
and vet yent know that the play was written months ago, 

" Some ct iiir« hi. I acCttMd MfD of plagiarism, 
t See Ap^ieiiJix l> ''i*" Two Fosca,n."' 



184 



LETTERS, IB21. 



bikI sent to England: the'Italy"! received only on the 

16 li nisi. . , 

" 1 .,,, friend, like the public, is no' aware,** my .Ira- 
ni,,,, simplicit) i- rt,«a«^Gre4*,aiHlmuirtconiinuo»q: 
„„ reform ever succeeded at lirsi. 1 admire me old 
Ertelish dramatists; bui thisUquiie another field, and nas 
,„,:(„,,, io do wilh theirs. 1 want to make a regular 
English drama, no matter whether for the stageor not, 
which isno mi ,,1,,,-ei,— but a mctioi' «rWre. _ 

» ^ ours. 

•P. S. Can't accept your oourteous offer. 

.. p m n,. ilttcgntn 

Yon civc much more Umhi nil' ye" gare J 

\\ iin-li ,. not fiurle i h«*e. 

Mi Murray. 

■• Bo inse If :i lier dog, '« i* Mia, 
Bi worth* lion fairly lueti, 
A ffM ton! mtul t.c worts MoOrMi 

M, M„,r„y. 

'• And .f. Mthe ...iiimii -■■-■■. 

Vi .... li .11. .. . M.'' Mil* ''""' ?»•*— 

C.-u-s, lchuuklh»ve '".-.- „,, il»'»e, 

Mv Murray. 



Q i ,, iw ihtitliMI '• liearlj I 

I 
An I Ifyuu icon'l.you 'n..v beflnm 
My Murrv- 



juri sent bin. die [Mowing answer .o a propoiiUi 

his ■■— 

•• K.»r Orf.r.l „,>.! for WntltfJ". *<=. 

-The innmuaii of the above is, that he wan 
'slinf n.L- of mv tilings, as Lear says-<lial is to 
,,, p IO p -i in i nravaganl prici for an extravagant 
as ,. beconnng. l'ruv take his ::< incas by all mean — / 
taught him that. He made me a filthy offer ol | 

once, but 1 told him dial, like physicians, | 

dealt with in gmiieasas being the onlj advantage poets 
eould have in die association wilh than, as votaries "I 
A|«illo. I write f" you in hurry and hi stle, which I wil 
upoundinmynea. - V ours, ever, &c. 

»p. s. v.ui mention something of an attorney on Ins 
way to me on legal business. I have hud no wan 
such an apparition. W hal can the fellow want .' I have 
some lawsuit., ami business, bin have not heard ol any 

thing to put me >•• the expen fa trmdhnf lawyer. 

Tbcy do enough, in ihat nay, at home. 

■Ah, pool Q,uenn! but perhaps it is 6* the best, if 

Herudotus's one. J is to be 1» '■>■ ivcd * 

Iteniembet me to an) fncndly An les "I our ' al 

acqiiai.ua What are y loing? Here I ha* 

my hands full "f tyrants and their v a. There never 

was such oppression, even in Ireland, scarcely 1" 



•These matteis must be arranged with Mr. Douglas 
K,iM,.ur.l. 11<- is my trustee, ami a man of honour. To 
i in v ,„j can state oil your mercantile reasons, which you 
might not likc.to state to me personally, such as, 'heavy 
s ., on'— 'Hat public'— 'dorA go ofT— ' lordship writes 

i i ii h'— ■won't ink.- advice'— -'declining popularity— 

deduction for the trade'— 'make very little'— • generally 
1 , ,| unV-f pirated edition'— ' foreign edition'— 'severe 
criticisms,' &e., with other hints and howls tor an oration, 
which 1 leave Douglas, who is an orator, to answer. 

« Vuu can also state litem more freely to a thirJ per- 
son, as between you ami me they could only produce 
B smut postscripts, which would not adorn our mu- 
tual archives. 

" 1 am sorry for die Queen, anil tint's more than you 



LETTER DXIV. 



TO Mil. MOOHE. 



"Ravenna, August 24, l c -'l 
•Yours of the 5th only yesterday, while I had Utters 

ofthe 8th from London. Doth the post dabble int it 

letters? Whatever agreement you make with Murray, 
i id factory to you, must be so t. me. There need be 

no scruple, because, though I used sometimes lobun I 

|ng a quibble us well as die barbarian hira- 

s. t (Shakspeare, to wit)— 'that, like aSpartan,Iw .1 

sell m) ■'''• as 'liarl;/ as possible'—,, never was my inton- 

tiontotuni ilto personal, pecuniar) account, b be- 

queath it to a friend— yourself— in die eve,,, ofsurvivor- 
jhjp. | .„,,„ ipated thai period, because we happened to 
meet, and I urged you to make what was possible netnbj 
it, for reasons which are obvi his. li has been no possi- 
ble privatum to me, and therefore does not require the 
acknowledgments you mention. So, forGod's sake, do n't 
consider it like * 
"By-the-wav, when you writo to Lady Morgan, will 

you thank her for her handsome s] ihes in hei I k 

about my books ? I do not know her address. Her work 
is fearless and excellent on (he subject "I [t»iy— pray lell 
hoi so— and I know the country. I wish «n« bad fallen 
,„ » ,th me, I could have told her a diing or two that would 
have confirmed her positions. 

"I am olad that you arc satisfied with Murray, who 
se.-ms to value dead lords more than live ones. I have 



LETTER DXV. 

TO tin. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, August SI, 1821. 
" I have received the Joans, which are printed so <-„;r- 
fessiy, especially the fifth cat/ ■■ as to be disgraci ful 
and not creditable to you. It reaUy must be got 
„.-„,ii with the mmaaaipti ihe errors are so gross ■— 
words added— changed— so as io make cacophont 

nonsense. V„„ have I f this poem bees i 

some of your s,|„ad dou't approve of it; but 1 nil you 

that it will be long before you see any thing half SO _ 

as poetry or writing. Opon what principle hav, 
omitted the note on Bacon and Vo'tairo .' and one „f the 
| concluding Btauzas senl as an addition .'—because it ended, 
1 suppose, with — 

" And do no, H,iV two vlrtUOU eoule for life 
l„lo llt.u moral cenlour, mur, and wife? 

"Now 1 most sav, once for all, that I will not permil 
any human being to take such liberties with my writings 
Because 1 am absent. I desire the omissions In be re- 
placed (exaepl the stanza on Sennramis,)— particularly 
the stanza upon the Turkish marriages; and I request 
ihat ihe whole be carefully gone over with the M6>. 

"1 never saw st.eh stuff as is printed j— GuHeyas in 
.„.,„,, if,, „//,eva/, &•-. Are you aware that Gulbeyat 
a , real name and the other nonsense? 1 copied hs 

;„„/,., out carefully, s u there ,u .no te 

printer read, oral least jrmU,the MS. of die plays with- 

,,!„ error. 

I, ,„„ have, no feeling for your own reputation, pray 

ace some Bttle for inine. I have read over the n 

carefully, and I tell you, it ■'•• ,»«"-.'/• ^ °"' ««« '"' "" ■ 
knot of parson-poets may say what they please: i„„e 

ill show that I am not in this instance mistaken. 

"Desire my fnend Hobhouse to correct the press, 
especially of the last canto, from the manuscript as it is. 
I, is anoti-hto drive one outofoneVi teas,,,, Io seethe 
infernal torture of words from the original. For ii.s.aiieo 
the line — 

» And ^ir their rhyme. .. Venue Joke, her dor..-- 

is printed — 

" Ami yraiii tl.eir rhymce, &e. 

Also 'preconrms' for ' preoodaus ;' and this line, stanza 133 

" .W «li» elrone eJlreme e/eel 10 lire na I ,n t ,r. ^ 



• (.orrevieil L Vtii« edilwa. 



LETTERS, 1821. 



185 

intrusted to Mr. Mawman for me, contained a portion. 
to the amount of nearly a hundred pages, of a prose story, 
relating the adventures of a young Andalusian nobleman, 
which had been begun by him, at Venice, in 1S17, of 
which the following is an extract. — Moore.] 

a A few hours afterward we were very good fri.jnds, 
and a few days after she set out for Arragon, with my 
son, on a visit to her father and mother. I did not ao 
company her immediately, having been in Arragon before, 
but was to join the family in then Moorish chateau within 
,i few weeks. 

"During her journev T received a very affectionate 
letter from Donna Josepha, apprizing me of the welfare 
of herself and my son. On her arrival at the chateau, I 
received another still more affectionate, pressing me, in 
very Kind, and rather f m lish term-, to join her immedi- 
ately. As I was preparing to set out from Seville. I 
received a third — this was from her father, Don Jose di 
Oardozo, who requested me, in the politest manner, to 
dissolve my marriage. I answered him with equal polite- 
ness, that I would do no such thing. A fourth letter 
arrived — it was from Donna Josepha. in which she in- 
formed me that her father's letter was written by her 
particular desire. I requested the reason by return of 

st — she replied, by express, that as reason had nothing 
to do with the matter, it was unnecessary to give any— 
hut that she was an injured and excellent woman. I then 
inquired why she had written to me the two preceding 
affectionate letters, requesting me to come to Arragon. 
She answered, that was because she believed me out of 
my senses — that, being unfit to take care of myselfj I had 
only to set out on this journey alone, and make my way 
without difficulty to Don Jose di Cardozo's, I should there 
have found the tenderest of wives and — a straight waist- 
coat. 

"I had nothing to reply to this piece of affection but a 
reiteration of my request for some lights upon the subject. 
I was answered that they would only be related to the 
Inquisition. In the mean time, our domestic discrepancy 
had become a public topic of discussion; and the world, 
which always decides justly, not only in Arragon but in 
Andalusia, determined that I was not only to blame, but 
that all Spain could produce nobody so blameable. My 
case was supposed to comprise all the crimes which could, 
and several which could not, be committed, and little less 
than an auto-da-fe was anticipated as the result. But 
let no man say that we are abandoned by our friends in 
adversity — it was just the reverse. Mine thronged around 
me to condenm, advise, and console me with their disap- 
probation. — They told me all that was, would, or could be 
said on the subject. They shook their heads — they ex- 
hort. ,| me — deplored me, with tears in their eyes, and — 
went to dinner. 11 



Now do turn to the manuscript and see if I ever wrote 
such a bnp; it is not terse. 

" No wonder the poem should fail, (which, however, it 
won't you will see,) with such things allowed to creep 
about it. Replace what is omitted, and correct what is 
so shamefully misprinted, and let the poem have fair 
olav ; and ] fear nothing. 

" I see in the last two numbers of die Quarterly a 
strong itching to assail me, (see the review of ' The Eto- 
nian ;') lei it, and see if they sha'n't have enough of it. 1 
do not allude to Gilford, who has always been my friend, 
and whom 1 do not consider as responsible for the articles 
written by others. 

"You will publish the plays when ready. I am in such 
a humour about this printing of Don Juan so inaccurate!) 
that I must close this. " Yours. 

■ P. S. I presume that you have not lost the stimza to 
which I allude? It was sent afterward: look over my 
letters and find it." 



LETTER DXVI.* 



TO MR. MUKRAY. 



■ The enclosed letter is written in bad humour, but not 
without provocation. However, let it (that is, the bad 
homour) go for little ; but f must request your serious 
attention to the abuses of the printer, which ought never 
to have been permitted. You forget that all the fools 
London ((he chief purchasers of your publications) will 
condemn in me the stupidity of your printer. For instance, 
in the notes to Canto Fifth, 'the Adriatic shore of the 
Bosphorus 1 instead of the Asiatic .'.' All this may seem 
little to you, so fine a gentleman with your ministerial 
connexions, hut it is serious to me, who am thousands of 
miles ofij and have no opportunity of not proving myself 
the fool your printer makes me, except your pleasure and 
leisure, fbrSOOth. 

" The gods prosper you, and forgive you, for I can't." 



LETTER DXVIL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, Sept. 3, 1821. 

tt By Mr. Mawman, (a paymaster in the corps, in which 
you and 1 are privates,) I yesterday expedited to your 
address, under cover one, two paper-books, containing the 
(rtaour-nal, and a thing or two. It won't all do — even 
for ihe posthumous public — but extracts from it may. It 
is a brief and faithful chronicle of a month or so — parts 
of it not very discreet, but sufficiently sincere. Mr. Maw- 
man saitb that he will, in person or per friend, have it 
delivered to you in your Elysian fields. 

"If you have got the new Joans, recollect that there are 
some very gross printer's blunders, particularly in the 
Fifdi Canto, — such as ' praise' fur ' pair" — ' precarious' for 
precocious' — ' Adriatic' for ' Asiatic' — ' case'for ' chase 1 — 
besides gifts of additional words and syllables, which make 
hut a Cacophonous rhvthmus. Put the pen through the 
said, as I would mine through Murray's ears if 1 were 
alongside of him. As it is, I have sent him a rattling 
letter, as abusive as possible. Though he is publisher to 
the ' Board of Longitude? he is in no danger of discover- 
in- it. 

"I am packing for Pisa — but direct your letters here, 
till farther notice. u Y'ours ever, &c." 

[One of the K paper-books" mentioned in this letter as 



LETTER DXVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



* Written Li U» tuvtlupc of the preceding Lstler. 

24 



"Ravenna, Sept. 4, 182] 
a By Saturday's post, I sent you a fierce and furibuml 
letter upon the subject of the printer's blunders in Don 
Juan. I must solicit your attention to the topic, Uiough 
my wrath hath subsided into sullenness. 

"Yesterday I received Mr. , a friend of yours, 

and because he is a friend of yours ; and that 's more than 
I would do in an English case, except for those whom 1 
honour. I was as civil as I could be among packages- 
even to the very chairs and tables, for I am going to Pisa 
in a few weeks, and have sent and am sending off my 
chattels. It regretted me that, my books and every thing 
being packed, I could not send you a few things I meant 
for you ; but they were all sealed and baggaged, so as to 
havw made it a month's work to get at lliem a^ain. I 



1SS 



LETTERS, 1821. 



gave him an envelope, wilh tlie Italian scrap in it,* al Rul- 
ed to in* my Gilchrist defence. Hobhouse will make it 
out for you, and it "ill make jrou laugh, and him too, the 
ilarly. The ' Mericani, 1 of whom they call 
'Capo,' (or Chief]) mean 'Americana,' which is 
the name given in Romagna to a part of the Carbonari 
that is to say, t'» the popular pari, the troops of the Carbo- 
nari. They are originally a society of hunters in tb 
forest, who took the name of Americans, but at present 
comprise some thousand ,&c; but I aha' n't let you far 
tli'T into tin* secret, which may be participated with the 
postmasters. Why they thoughl me their Chief] I know 
not: their Chiefs are like ' Legion, being many.' H« 
ever, i' is a post of more honour than profit, for, new thai 
they are persecuted, it is- lit that I should aid them; and 
bo I have done, as far as my means would permit. They 

are blundering: they actually seem to know nothing) fbj 
lh< - have arrested and banished many of their own put] 
and let others escape who are not their friends. 

" What think'st thou of Greece? 

" Address to me here as usual, till you hear farther fron 
mr. 

* Hy Mawman I have sent a Journal to Moore ; hut ii 
won't do for the public, — at least a great deal of it won 1 ! 
— parts may. 

"I read over the Juans, which are excellent. Your 
Squad are quite wrong ; and so you will find by-and-by 
I regret that I do not go on with it, for I had all the plan 
for several cantos, and different countries and climes. 
You say nothing of the note I enclosed to you, whii h « ill 
explain why 1 agreed to discontinue u, (at Madame Guie- 
cioii's request;) but you are 50 grand, and sublime, and 
occupied, that one would think, instead of publishing for 
1 the Board of Longitude? that you were trying to dis- 
cover it. 

"Let me hear that Gilford is better. He can't be spared 
either bv you or me." 



LETTER DXIX. 



TO Mil. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, Sept. 12, 1821 
"By Tuesday's post, I forwarded, m three packets, the 
drama of Cain in three acts, of which I request th< 
acknowledgment when arrived. To the last speech of 
JSve, in the last act, (i. e. where she curses Cain,) add 
these three lines to the concluding ones — 

" May the grass wither from thy fool ! Mil* woods 
Deny that ■belter I earth n home] the dust 
A grave 1 the BUD his light I tun! HtftVeQ her God I 

B There 's as pretty a piece of imprecation for you, 
Ahen jmiud to the lines already sent, as you may wish 

10 meet with in the course of your business. Hut don't 
forgel the addition of the above tlwee lines, which are 
slim hers to Eve's speech. 

"Let me I, now what I fifibrd thinks, (if the play arrives 
in safety ;) for I have a good opinion of the piece, as 
poetry; it ia in my gay metaphysical style, and in the 
Manfred line. 

* You must at least commend mv facility and variety, 
wnen you consider what I have done within the last fifteen 
mouths, with my head, too, full of other and of mundane 
matters. But no doubt you will avoid saying any good 
«f it, for fear I should raise the price upon you: that's 
light : stick to business. Let me know what your other 
ragamuffins are writing, f >r I suppose you do n't like start- 
ing too many of your vagabonds at once. You may give 
Litem the start lor any thing I care. 

•Why don't you publish my Puhd — the very best thing 
I «ver wrote, — with the Italian to it ? I wish I was along- 



An anonymoiu letter whith lie had received, ihrocieumc hira with 
awloauon. 



side of you ; nothing is ever done in a man's absence : 
every body runs counter, because they ran. If ever I 
do return to England, (which I aha' n't, though,) I wiU 
write a pop mi to winch L Knglish Bards,' &c. shall be new 
milk, in comparison. Your present literary world of 
mountebanks stands in need of such an Avatar. But I 
am not yet quiie bin •'<■• enough: a season or two more, 
and a provocation or two, will wind me up to the point, 
ami then have :ii (he whole set! 

"I have no patience with the sort of trash you send me 
out by way of books ; except Scott's novels, and three or 
four other things, I never saw such work, or works. Camp- 
bell is lecturing — -.%!.►.. r. idling — Sou they twaddling — 
Wordsworth drivelling — Coleridge muddling — * * pid- 
dling — Howies quibbling, squabbling and snivelling. 
* + willtfoj ifhedon't cant too mucb,nor imitate Southey ; 
the fellow has poesy in him : bur he 1- envious ami unhappy, 
as all the em 1 on-; are. Siill he is among the best of the 
day. Barry Cornwall will do better by-and-by, I dare say, 
if he don' 1 get spoiled by green tea, and the praises of Pen- 

lonvilic and Paradise-row, The pity of these nun is, that 
they never lived in tdgh lilt, nor in solitude: there is no 
medium tor the knowledge of the suayor the still world. If 
admitted into high life lor a season, it 1- merely as specta- 
tors — they form no part of the mechanism thereof Now, 
Moore and I, the one by circumstances, and the other by 
birth, happened to be free of the corporation, and to have 
entered into its pulses and passions, rnwwn partes f minus. 
Both of us have learned by this much which nothing else 
could have taught us. "Yours. 

"P. S. I saw one of your brethren, another of the allied 
sovereigns of Grub-street, the other day, Mawman the 
Qreat, by whom I sent due homage to your imperial self. 
To-morrow's post may perhaps bring a letter from you, 
but you are the most ungrateful and ungracious of corre- 
spondents. But there is some excuse l"-r you, with your 
perpetual levee of politicians, parsons, scribblers, and loun- 
gers. Some day I will give you a poetical catalogue of 
them." 



LETTER DXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, Sept. 17,1821. 

"The enclosed lines,* as you will directly peree*Ye,are 
written by the Rev. W. L. Bowles. Of course it is for 
him to deny them if they are not. 

"Believe me yours ever and most affectionately, 

*B. 

"P. S. Can you forgive this? It is only a reply to your 
lines against my Italians. Of course I will stand by my 
lines against all men ; but it is heart-breaking to see SUfifa 
things in a people as the reception of thai unredeemed 
* + * * * * in an oppressed oountry. Four apotheosia is 
now reduced to a level with his welcome, and their grati- 
tude to Grattan is cancelled by their atrocious adulation of 
this, &c. &c. &c." 



LETTER DXXI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

■ Ravenna, Sept. 19, 1821. 

"I am in all the sweat, dust, and blasphemy of a uni- 

■rsal packing of all my things, furniture, &c. for Pisa, 

whether I go for the winter. The cause has been the 

exile of all my fellow Carbonics, and, among them, of the 



" The IrflhAmtar," Poems, p. 4S5. In this copy the following Mn- 

i' nee (taken from a Letter of Curran, in the «t>le Life of thnt true Irutj- 

Mn, bj his son) is prefixed as a motto to the Poem—" And Ireland, lit 3 

■ I elephant, kneeling to receive the paltry rider." — Letterof 

ww n pef 389 II the, end of the raraei *'•■ thaw wonla ; 

>Si K ncri) W, L. B ' *, M. A., and written with a view lo a Biehop 

ck. —Moore. 



LETTERS, 1821. 



1S7 



whole family of Madame G. who, you know, was divurccd 
from her husband Last w eek, ' on account oi V. P. clerk of 
this parish,' and who is obliged to join her father and rela- 
tives, mw in exile there, to avoid being shut up in a mo- 
naster; because the Pope's decree of separation required 
her to reside in cam paterna, or else, for decorum's sake, 
in a convent. As I could not say, wiih Hamlet, ' Gel thee 
to a nunnery, 1 1 am preparing to follow them. 

" It is awiul work, this love, and prevents all a man's 
projects of good or glory. I wanted to go to Greece lately 
_as everv thing seems up here) with lier brother, who is 
a" verv fine, brave fellow, (I have seen liim put to the 
proof,) and vuld about liberty. But the tears of a woman 
v.h,. lias left a husband f >r a man, and the weakness of 
one's own bean, are paramount to these projects, and I 
can hardly indulge them. 

" We were divided in choice between Switzerland and 
Tuseanv, and I give my vote for Pisa, as nearer the 
Mediterranean, which I love for the sake of the shores 
which it washes and for my young recollections of 1S09. 
Switzerland is a cursed, selfish, swinish country of brutes, 
placed in the most romantic region of the world. I never 
could bear the inhabitants, and still less their English 
visiters : for which reason, after writing for some informa- 
tion about houses, upon hearing that there was a colony 
of English all over the cantons of Geneva, &c. I imme- 
diate!) gave up the thought, and persuaded the Gatnbas 
DO do the same. 

"By last post I sent you 'the Irish Avatar,'— what 
think you ? The last line — ' a name never spoke but 
with curses or jeers' — must rim either ' a name only 
uttered with curses or jeers,' or, ' a wretch never named 
but with curses or jeers.' Berase as how, ' spoke' is not 
grammar, except in the House of Commons ; and I doubt 
whether we can say 'a name spoken] for mentioned. I 
have some doubts, too, about 'repay,' — 'and for murder 
repay with a shout and a smile.' Should it not be, ' and 
for murder repay him with shouts and a smile,' or l reward 
him with shouts and a smile ? 

" So, pray put your poetical pen through the MS. and 
take the least bad of the emendations. Also, if there be 
anv farther breaking of Priscian's head, will you apply a 
plaster.' I wrote in the greatest harry and fury, and sent 
it to you the dav after ; so, doubtless, there will be some 
awful constructions, and a rather lawless conception of 
rhvthmus. 

" With respect to what Anna Seward calls ' the liberty 
of transcript,'— when complaining of Miss Matilda Mug- 
glelon, the accomplished daughter of a choral vicar of 
Worcester Cathedral, who had ahused the said ' liberty 
of transcript,' by inserting in the Malvern Mercury, Miss 
s ..oi , 'Elegy on the South Pole,' as her own produc- 
tion, with lier mm signature, two years after having taken 
a' copv, bv permission of the authoress— with regard, 1 
sav, to the' liberty of transcript,' I by no means oppose an 
occasional copy to the benevolent few, provided it does 
not degenerate into sorb licentiousness of \ erb and Noun 
as may tend to ' disparage my parts of speech' by the 
carelessness of the trauseribblers. 

■ I do not think that there is much danger of the ' King's 
Press being abused 1 upon tbe occasion, if the publishers 
of journals have any regard for their remaining liberty of 
person. It is as pretty a piece of invective as ever put 
publisher in the way to 'Botany.' Therefore, if they 
meddle with it, it is at their peril. As for myself, I will 
answer any jontleman — though I by no means recognise 
a 'rioht of search' into an unpublished production and 
tmavowed poem. The same applies to things published 
snm consent. I hope you Like, at least, the concludin, 
lines of the Putnc? 

" What are you doing.and where are you ? in England ? 



now in his hands, or in the printer's. It is in the Man- 
fred, metaphysical style, and full of some Titanic decla- 
ma'ion ; — Lucifer being one of the dram. pers. who takes 
Cain a voyage among the stars, and, afterwards, to' Hades,' 
where he shows him the phantoms of a former world, and 
its inhabitants. 1 have gone upon the notion ofCuvier, 
thai the world has been destroyed three or four times, and 
was inhabited by mammoths, behemoths, and what not ; 
but not by man till the Mosaic period, as, indeed, is proved 
by the strata of bones found ;— those of all unknown 
animals, and known, ft ring dug oat, but none of mankind. 
I have, therefire, suppiscl Cain to be shown, in the 
rational Preadamites, beings endowed with a higher in- 
telligence than man, but' totally unlike him in form, and 
with much greater strength of mind and person. \ou 
may suppose the small talk which takes place between 
loin and Lucifer upon these matters is not quite canonical. 
"The consequence is, that Cain comes back and kills 
Abel in a fit of dissatisfaction, partly with the politics of 
Paradise, which bad driven them all out of it, and partly 
because (as it is written in Genesis) Abel's sacrifice was 
the more acceptable to the Deity- I trust that the 
Rhapsody has arrived— it is in three acts, and entitled 
' A Mystery,' according to the former Christian custom, 
and in honour of what it probably will remain to lluj 



reader. 



" Yours, Sic." 



LETTER DXXII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"September 20, 1821. 
"After the stanza on Gratlan, concluding with 'His 
soul o'er the freedom implored and denied,' will it please 
vou to cause insert tbe following 'Addenda,' which 1 
dreamed of during to-day's Siesta : 

" Ever glurious Grallmi ! &c. &c. &c. 

I will tell you what to do. Get me twenty copies of the 
whole carefully and privately printed off, as your lines 
were on the Naples affair. Send me sir, and distribute 
the rest according to your own pleasure. 

" 1 am in a fine vein, ' so full of pastime and prodiga- 
lity ? — So, here 's to your health in a glass of grog. Pray 
write, that I may know by return of post — address to me 
at Pisa. The gods give you joy! 

"Where are you? in Paris? Let us hear. You will 
take care that there be no printers name, nor author's, as 
in the Naples stanzas, at least for the present." 



LETTER DXX1I1. 



TO Mn. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Sept. 20, 1821. 
" You need not send ' the Blues,' which is a mere buf- 
foonery, never meant for piiblicalion.* 

"The papers to which 1 allude, in case of survivorship 
are collections of letters, &c. since I was sixteen years 
old, contained in the trunks in the care of Mr. Hobhouse. 
This collection is at least doubled by those I have now 
here, all received since my last ostracism. To these I 
should wish the editor to have access, nn( for the purpose 
of abusing confidences, nor of hurling the feelings of cor- 
respondents living, nor the memories of tbe dead ; but 
there are things which would do neither, that I have left 
unnoticed or unexplained, and which (like all such things) 
time only can permit to be noticed or explained, though 
some are to my credit. The task will of course require 
delicacy ; but that will not be wanting, if Moore and Hob- 



Nail Murray— nail luni to his own counter, till he shells I house survive me, and, I may add, yourself; and that you 

out the thirteens. Since I wrote to you, 1 have sent him 

another tragedy — ■' Cain' by name — making three in MS. I 



■ See Poem*, p. 461 



1SS 



LETTERS. IS2T, 



may all three do so is, I assure you, my very sincere with. 
I am not sure thai lung life is desirable for one of my 
temper and constitutional depression of spirits, win* h of 
course I suppress in society ; but which breaks out when 
a! Hi*-, and in my writings, in spite of myself. It lias been 
deepened, perhaps, by some long-past events, (I do not 
allud-- ti> my marriage, &c— -on the contrary, Oiat raised 
them by the persecution giving a fillip to my spirits ;) but 
I call it constitutional, as I have reason to think it. You 
know, or you do not know, that mv maternal grandfather, 
(a very clever man, and amiable, I am told J was Btrohgly 
uicide, (he was found drnwned in the Avon 
at Bath,) and that another very near relative of tin- saint 
branch took poison, and was merely savnl by antidotes, 
For I lie first of these events there was no apparent cause, 
as he was rich, respected, and of considerable intellectual 
resources, hardly forty years of age, and not at all addicted 
unhinging vice. It was, however, but a strong 

in, owing to the manner of his death and his melan- 
rholv temper. The second had a cause-, but it does not 
becom me 1 6 touch upon h : it happened when I was far 
too young to be aware of it, and I never heard of it till 
after the death of that rotative, many years afterward, I 
t] ink, then, lhal I may call this dejection constitutional. I 
hail always been told that I resemoled more my maternal 
Crandlather than any of my father.* family — that is, in 
the gloomier part of his temper, tor he was what you call 
a g tov-natwed man, and I am not. 

" The Journal here I sent to Moore the other day ; but 
a- it is a mere diary, only parts of it would ever do for 
publication. Tin- other Journal of the Tour in 1816,1 
should think Augusta might let you have a copy of. 

u I am much mortified that <iil!"ird do n't take to my 
new dramas. To be sure, they are as opposite to the 
Engl) 1 1 drama as one thing eau he to another; but I have 

a n n >n that, if understood, they will in tune find favour 

(llioiil-h nut on the sta^-e) with the reader. The simpli- 
city of plot is intentional, and the avoidance of rant also, 
as also the compression of the speeches in the more se- 
vere situation-;. What I seek to show in ' the Fosoans' 
is the suppressed passions, rather Uian the rant of the pre- 
sent day. For that matter— 

» N.iy, if thou *tt moulh, 
I 'II runt u» will m ibou— ' 

would not be difficult, as I think I have shown in my 
younger productions, — not dramatic ones, to be sure. 
But, as I said before, I arn mortified that GitTord don't 
like thern ; hut I see no remedy, our notions on that subject 
being so different. How is he? — well, I hope; — let me 
know. I regret his .lemur the more that he has been 

always my grand patron, and I know no praise which 
would compensate me in mv own mind for his censure. 1 
do not mind Reviews, as I can work them at their own 
weapons. u Fours, Sic. 

- Address to me at Pisa, whither I am going. The 
reason is, that all my Italian friends here have been exiled, 
and are met there for the present, and I go to join them, 
as agreed upon, for the winter." 



LETTER DXXIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, Sept. 21, 1921. 

* 1 have been thinking over our late correspondence, 
und wish to propose to you the following articles for our 
future : 

"Istly, That you shall write to me of yourself, of the 
health, wealth, and welfare of all friends; but of me 
(tjno'td me) little or nothing. 

2dly. That you shall send me soda-powders, tooth- 
powder, tooth-brushes, or any such anti-odontalgic or 



chemical articles, as heretofore ( ad libitum,' upon being 
reimbursed for the same. 

"3d!v. That vou shall not send me any modem, or (as 
they are called) »«r publications, in Kngtirii, w/i«/*jeier, 
save ami excepting anv writing, prose or verse, of (or 
reasonably presumed to be of) Walter £eott, Cnthbe, 
Moore, Campbell, Rogers, (iitlord, Joanna BaiUie, irvmgj 
(the American,) Bogg, Wilson, (the Isle of Paha 

or any cspe< nl amgfe wi-rk of fancy which is thought lo 
be of considerable merit; Voyage* and Tnnck, pi 
that they are neither m G ••■. \ pom, Ana JWinor, Al- 
bania, nor Italy, will be welcome. Having travelled the 
countries mentioned, I know that wha! is said of them can 
convey nothing farther which I desire to know about 
them. — No other English works whatsoever. 

u -Ithly. That you send me no periodical works what- 
soever — no Edinburgh, (Itiarterly, Monthly, nor any 
review, magazine, or newspaper, English or fereigBj ol 

any description. 

"5thly. That you send me no opinions whatsoever, 
either £,''**/. hoi/, or hidi/ffratt, of yourself, or vonr f| i>-it d&j 
or others, cotircriung any work, or works, of mine, past 
present, or to come. 

"6thlv. That all negotiations in matters of bnsinon 
between you and me pass through the medium of the 
Hon. Douglas Kmnaird, my friend and trustee, or Mr. 
Hobhouse, as 'Alter ego,' and tantamount to myself dur- 
ing mv absence — or presence. 

"Some of these propositions may at first seem strange, 
hut they are founded. The quantity of trash I have 
received as books is incalculable, and neither amused nor 
instructed. Reviews and magazines are at the best but 
ephemeral and superficial reading : — who thinks of the 
%rand article of last year in anv trie en Rt i UTW ? In the 
next place, if they regard mvself, thev lend to increase 
?%otixm. If favourable, I do not denv that the praise 
iota, and if unfavourable, that the abuse irritates. The 
latter may conduct me to inflict a species of satire, which 
would neither do good to you nor to your friends : they 
may smite note, and so may you ; but if I look vou all 
in hand, it would not be difficult to cut you up like 
gourds. I did as much by as powerful people at nine- 
teen years old, and I know little as yet, in three-aud- 
thirly, which should prevent me from making all your 
ribs gridirons for your hearts, if such were Tnv pro- 
pensity : but it is not ; therefore let me hear none of 
your provocations. If anv thine, occurs so very gross 
as to require my notice, I shall hear of it from my legal 
friends. For the rest, I merely request to be left in 

norance. 

" The «atne applies to opinions, ^W, /><«/, or uuliferenL, 
of persons in conversation or correspondence. These 
do nut interrupt, but they soil, the current of my miwt. 
I am sensitive enough, but not till I am tmuNul ; and 
here [ am beyond the touch of ihe short arms of literary 
Englanil, execpl the few feelers ofthe polypus lliat cra«l 

over the channels in die way of extract. 

All these precautions in England would he useless , 

the libeller or the flatterer would there reach me in sjale 

>f all ; but in Italy we know- little of literary England, 
and think less, except what reaches us through some 

arbled and brief extract in some miserable gazette. 
Fur two years (excepting two or three articles cut out 
ami s. nt to you by the post) I never read a newspaper 
which was not forced upon me by some accident, and 
know, upon the whole, as little of England as vou do of 
Italy, and God knows that is little enough, with all your 
travels, &e. &c. &c. The English travellers hnuiv lUdy 
as you know Guernsey: how much is that? 

" If any thing occurs so violently gross or persona! as 
reipnres notice, Mr. Douglas Kinnaird will let me know , 
but of praise, I desire to hear nothing. 

You will say, ' to what tends all this V I w ill answer 
that ; — to keep my mind free ami unlr.ased by all t<ttltry 



LETTERS, 1851. 



189 



and personal irritabilities 01 praise or censure — to lei 
my senilis take its natural direction, while my feelings 
are like the dead, who know nothing and feel nothing of 
all or aught that is said or done in their regard. 

1 If you can observe these conditions, you will spare 
yourself and others some pain; let me not be worked 
upon to rise up; fur if 1 do, it will not be for a Utile. 
If you cannot observe these conditions, we shall cease 
to be correspondents] — but not frieitds> for I shall always 
)*■ yours and ever truly, "Byron. 

"P.S. I have taken these resolutions not from any 
irritation against you or yours, but simply upon reflection 
that ai 1 reading, either praise or censure, of myself has 
done nie barm. When I was in Switzerland and Greece. 
I was out of the way of hearing either, and tutw I wrote 
— In Italy I am out of the way of it too; but lat- 
terly, [»artly through my fault, and partly through your 
in wishing to send me the newest and mo*t 
periodica] publications, I have had a crowd of Reviews, 
Be. thrust upon me, wl ich have bored me with their 
jargon, of one kind or another, and taken off mv atten- 
tion from greater objects. You have also sent me a 
parcel of tra<h of poetry, for no reason that I can con- 
tinless to provoke me to write a new 'English 
Bards. 1 Now this I wish to avoid: for if ever 1 do, it 
will be a strong production ; and I desire peace as long 
as the fouls will keep llieir nonsense out of my way." 



LETTER DXXV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"September 27, 1821. 

* It was not Murray's fault. I did not send the IMS. 
overture, but I send it now,* and il maybe restored; — 
or, al any rate, you may keep the original, and give 
any copies you please. I send it, as written, and as I 
read it to you— I have no other ropy. 

"By last week's two posts, in two packets,! sent tn 
your address, at Paris, a longish poem upon the late 
Irishism of your countrymen in their reception of * * *. 
Prav, have you received it ? It is in MIk- high Roman 
fashion," and full of ferocious fantasy. As you could not 
well take up the matter with Paddy, (being of the same 
nest,) I have ; — but f hope still that I have done justice 
in In- great men and Ins good heart. As for * * *, you 
will find it laid on with a trowel. I delight in your 'fuel 
historical' — U tt a fact? K Yours, &c. 

* P. S. You have not answered me about Schlegel — 
why not ? Address to nit at Pisa, whither I am going, 
to join the exiles — a pretty numerous body, at present. 
Let iii' hear how you are, and what you mean to do. Is 
there nochaiiceof your recrossing the Alps ? If the G. 
Rei marries Again, let him not want an Epithaiamiiirn 
— suppose a joint concern of you and me, like Sternhokl 
and Hopkins !" 



LETTER DXXVT. 



TO MK- MURRAY. 



■September 28, 1821 
■I add another cover to request you to ask Moore to 
obtain (if possible) my letters to ihe late Lady Mel- 
bourne from Lady Cowper. They are very numerous. 

and ought to have been rt stored long ago, as 1 was ready 
to «nve back Lady Melbourne's in exchange. These 
latter are in Mr. Hubhouse's custody with my other 
papers, and shall be punctually restored if required. 1 



did not choose before to apply to Lady Cowper, as her 
mother's death naturally kept me from intruding upon 
her feelings at the time of its occurrence. Some years 
have now elapsed, and it is essential that I should have 
my own epistles. They are essential as confirming that 
part of the '.Memoranda' which refers to the two periods 
(1812 and 1P14) when my marriage with her niece was 
in contemplation] and will tend to show what my real 
views and feelings were upon that subject. 

a You need not be alarmed ; the ' fourteen years'* will 
hardly elapse without some mortality among us: it is a 
long lease of life to speculate upon. So your calculation 
will not be in so much peril, as the 'argosie' will sink 
before that time, and 'the pound of flesh' be withered 
previously to your being so long out of a return. 

"I also wish to give you a hint or two, (as you have 
really behaved very' handsomely to Moore in the bu«i- 
ness, and are a fine fellow in your line,) fur your advan- 
tage, //"by your own management you can extract any 

of my epistles from Lady (* * * * * * *,) 

they might be of use in your collection, (sinking of course 
the names, and ali such circumstances as might hurt living 
feelings, or those of survivors;) they treat of more topics 
than love occasionally. 

****** 

u I will tell you who may hajrpen to have some letters 
of mine in llieir possession: Lord Powerscourt, some to 
Ins late brother; Mr. Long of — ([ forget his place) — 
but the father of Edward Long of the Guards, who was 
drowned in going to Lisbon early in 1809; Miss Eliza- 
beth Pigot, of Southwell, Notts, (she may be Mistress 
by this lime, for she had a year or two more than 1 :) 
they were not love-letters, so that you might have them 
without scruple. There are, or might be, some to the 
late Rev. J. C. Tattersall, in the hands of his brother 
(half-brother) Mr. "VVheatley, who resides near Canter- 
bury, I think. There are some of Charles Gordon, now 
of Dulwich ; and some few to Mrs. Chaworth ; bul 
these latter are probably desrroyed or inaccessible. 
***** 

" I mention these people and particulars merely a> 
chances. Most of them have probably destroyed th* 
letters, which in fact are of little import, many of then* 
written when very young, and several at school and 
college. 

" Peel (the second brother of the Secretary) was a cor- 
respondent of mine, and also Porter, the son of the Bishop 
of * Hogher ; Lord Clare a very voluminous one ; William 
Harness (a friend of Milman's) another ; Charles Drum- 
mond 1 (sonoflhe banker ;) William Bankes (the voyager) 
your friend ; R. C. Dallas, Esq. ; Hodgson ; Henry 
Drury ; Ht.bhntisc you were already aware of. 

" 1 have gone through this long list of 

1 Tl.c cold, ihc faithleai, and the dead,* 

because I know thai, like 'the curious in fish-sauce,' you 
are a researcher of such things. 

"Besides these, there are other occasional ones to lite- 
rary men and so forth, complimentary, &c. &c. &c. not 
worth much more than the rest. There are some hun- 
dreds, too, of Italian notes of mine, scribbled with a noble 
contempt of the grammar and dictionary, in very English 
Etruscan ; for I speak Italian very fluendy, but write if 
carelessly and incorrectly to a degree." 



• The lima "Oh Wellington," Don Juan, Canto IX. St am* I, 
fee. which I ii».l mi*aed iu their original place at the opcaiux of the 
Third Can'o, ind leuk Ibi granted that itwy bad been aupptneaad by hla 

puWuuer,- .Moor 4. 



LETTER DXXVU. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"September 29, 1821. 
K I send you two rough things, prose and verse, nof 



• He b*n advert, torn paaaing remark in one of Mr. Murray '» KlUTi 
hut «» hi! lonUhip'i " Memoranda" were not to be published In hu 

lUetlmf iht «un now paid for ibe work, 21t*J/. would mull probably, 
i |IO ti a r*a*oiiable calculation d ioi vivonbip, amount ultimately to oa 

Itiaalhuj BOOM*— Atetfrt. 



190 



LETTERS, 1821. 



much in themselves, but which will show, one of them 
the state of the country, and the other of your Quod's 
nt in J, when they were written. Neither of (hem were 
!■ ...i on concerned, but you will see, by the 
si.k of ui> in, thai the^were sincere, u [am in signing 
myself " SfoUM ever and truly, 

■B." 

[Of ihe two enclosures, mentioned in the foregoing 
np;e, oue was a lettei intended to bv sent lo Lad} Byron, 
relative to his money invested in the funds) oCwtuch ihe 
following aru extracts.] 

"Ravenna, Mar/a Imoj 1821. 

"I have received your message, through mysisterV 
letter about English security, &c. &c. U is coo 
(and true, even,) thai such is to be found — hut nut that I 
shall find it. Air. * *, for his own views and purposes, 
will thwart all such attempts till he has accomplished bis 
own, viz. to make me lend my fortune to some client of 
bis choosing. 

"At this distance — after this absence, and with my 
utter ignorance of affairs and business — with my temper 
an 1 impatience] I have neither the means nor the- mind to 
resist. ' * * * * * 

Thinking of the funds as I do, and wishing to secure a 
r rvesion to my sister and her children, 1 should jump at 
most expedients. 

u What I told you is come to pass — the Neapoliian 
war is declared. Your funds will fall, and 1 shall he ii 
consequence ruined. That 's nothing — but my blood- 
relations will be so. You and your child are provided 
for. Live and prosper — I wish so much to both. Live 
and prosper — you have the means. 1 think but of rny 
rc&l kin and kindred, who may he the victims uf this ae- 
cursed bubble. 

" You neither know nor dream of the consequences of 
this war. It is a war of nun with monarchs, and wi 
Spread liko a spark on the dry, rank grass of the vegeta- 
ble desert. What ii is with you and your English, you 
do not know, fur ye sleep. What it is with us here, I 
know, for it is before, and around, and within us. 

"Judge of my detestation of England and of all that it 
inherit-;, when I avoid returning to your country at a time 
when nut only my pecuniary interest, but, ii may be, even 
mv personal security require it. I can Bay no more, for 
all letters are opened. A short time will decide upon 
what is to be done here, and then you will learn it without 
being mure truubled widi me or my correspondence. 
Whatever happens an individual is little, so that the 
cause is forwarded. 

" I have no more to say to you on the score of alfairs or 
on any other subject." 

(The second enclosure' in the note consisted of some 
verses, written hy him, Dee'iuher 10th, 1H20, on seeing 
the following paragraph in a newspaper. B Lady Byron 
is this year the lady patroness at the annual ( lharity Ball 
given at the Town Hall al Hinckly, Leicestershire, and 
Sir G. Crewe, Bart, the principal steward." These 
verses are full of strong and indignant reeling, — every 
stanza concluding pointedly with the words "Charity 
Ball," — and the thought that predominates through the 
whole may be collected from a few of the opening lines. — 
Moore.] 

" Wlml mutter the pnng* of n huitnind ami fnlhcr. 

If hi* *orroum in BlUe he gre«l 01 t«imaN, 

So the Pharisee"* glorin around hrr •lie gather, 

Ami the Saint I'lun-ninu* her ' Charity Ball.' 

Whit matter*-— a heart, which though faulty wu feeling, 
Be driven lo eicewi which once could ajinal— 

That the Sinner ahould luffer ia only fair dealing. 

AaUio Saint keep* her Jmuiy buck lor* the- Bnll. 1 Sc.&c." 



LETTER DXXVIIL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"September—no — October 1, 1821. 

" I have written to vou lately, botli m prose and verse^ 
at great lenglli, to Paris and London. 1 presume that 
Mrs. Moore, or whoever i-; your Pans deputy, will for- 
ward my packets to you in London. 

"1 am setting off f r Pisa, if a slight incipient intermit- 
tenl fever dv not prevent me. 1 fear it is nut strung 
enough to give Murray much chance df realizing his thir- 
B : .iiii. 1 hardly should regret it, I think, provided 
vou raised your price upon him — as what Lady Holder* 
ness (my sisters grandmother, a Dutchwoman) used to 
i all A.U usta, her Ra'tdee Isgaioo — so as to provide for 
us all ; my bones with a splendid and lannovanie edition, 
and you with double what is extractable during my 
tifl time, 

"1 have a strong presentiment that (bating some oul- 
uf-tlie-wav accidenti you Will survive me. The differ- 
ence of eight years, or whatever it is between our ages is 
nothing. I do not feel (nor am, indeed anxious to el) 
the principles of life m me tend to longevity. My lather 
and mother died, the one at thirty-five or six, and tie othei 
at forty-five ; and Doctor Rush, or somebody else, says 
that nobody lives long, without having vne parent t at least, 
an old stager. 

Li 1 g/wuW, to he sure, like to see out my eternal mother- 
in-law, not so much for her heritage, but from my natural 
antipathy. Bui the indulgence of tins natural desire is 
too much to expect from the Providence who presides 

i.iver old women. 1 bore you with all tins about lues, 

because it has been put in my way by a calculation of 
ensurances which Murray has sent me, I really think 
you should have more, if I evaporate within a reason- 
able time. 

"I wonder if mv ' Cain 1 has got safe to England, I 
have written since alKiut sixty stanzas of a poem, in octave 
stanzas,* (in the Pulci style, which the fools in 1 
think uas invented by Wlnstlecraf: — it is as old as the 
lulls in Italy,) called ' The Vision of Judgment, by Q,uo 
vedo Redivivus,' with this motto— 

' A Daniel come to judgment, yen, a Daniel : 
I tu. ink UiM, Jew, for touching me that word.' 

"In this it is my intent to put the said George*s Apo- 
theosis in a Whig point of view, not forgetting the Poet 
Laureate fur his preface and his other demerits. 

"I am just got to the pass where Saint Peter, hearing 
that the royal def met had opposed Catholic Emanci- 
pation, rises up and, interrupting Satan's oration, de- 
clares he will change places with Cerberus sooner than 
let him into heaven, while he has the keys thereof. 

" I must go and ride, though rather feverish and chilly. 
It is the ague season; hut the. allies do me rather good 
than harm. The feel after the Jit is as if one had got rid 
of one's bodv for good and all. 

"The gods go with you! — Address to Pisa. 

■ Ever yours. 

"P.S. Since I came hack I feci better, though I stayed 
out too late fir this malaria season, under the thin cres- 
cent of a very youn^ moon, and got off my horse to walk 
in an avenue with a Signora for an hour I thought of 
you and 

1 When at r*c thou rorrrt 
By the star thou lo*Mt.' 

Hut it was not in a romantic mood, as I should have been 
once; and yet it was a new woman, (that is, new to 
ni'%) and, of course, expected to be made love to. But 
I merely made a few commonplace speeches. I fee 1 
as your poor friend Cumin said, before his death,' a 
mountain of lead upon my heart,' which I believe to ho 



*8v«Don Juan, Canto IT. StamaS. 



LETTERS, 1821. 



191 



constitutional, and that nothing will remove il bul thv 
same remedy. 11 



LETTER DXXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



October 6, 1821. 

"By this post I have sent my nightmare to balance the 

incubus of Southey's impudent anticipation of the Apo- 

of George the Third. I should like you to take a 

l>iok over it, as I think there are two or three tilings in it 

which might please 'our puir hill fjlk.' 

u By the last two or three posts I have written to you 
at length. My ague bows to me every two or three days, 
but v. e are not as yet upon intimate speaking terms. . I 
have an intermittent generally every two years, when the 
climate is favourable, (as it is here,) but it does me no 
harm. What I rind worse, and cannnot get rid ofj is the 
growing depression of my spirits, without sufficient cause. 
1 ride — I am not intemperate in eating or drinking — and 
my general health is as usual, except a slight ague, which 
rather does good than not. It must be constitutional ; for 
I know nothing more than usual to depress uie to that 

" How do you manage ? I think you told me, at Ve- 
nice, that your spirits did not keep up without a little 
claret. I ran drink and bear a g<--od deal of wine, (as 
you may recollect in England ;) but it don't exhilarate — 
it makes me savage and suspicion?, and even quarrel- 
some. Laudanum has a similar effect ; but I can take 
much of if without any effect at all. The thing that gives 
me the highest spirits (it seems absurd, but true) is B dose 
o( salts — I moan in the afternoon, after their effect. But 
one can't take I'tem like champagne. 

° Excuse this old woman's letter ; but my UtnanrJuAy 
don't depend upon health, for it is just the same, well or 
ill, or here or there. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXXX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Ravenna, October 9, 1821. 

"You will please to present or convey the ei ed 

poem to Mr. IVIoore. I sent him anotlior copy to Paris; 
tilt he has probably left that city. 

"Don't forget to send me my first act of '"Werner* (if 
Hobhouse can find it among my papers) — send it by the 
post to (Pisa;) and also cut out Sopliia Lee's 'German's 
Tale' from the 'Canterbury Tales,' and send it in a letter 
also. I began that tragedy in \h\b. 

* By- 1 he-way, you have a good deal of my prose tracts 
in MS. J Let me have proofs of them all again — I mean 
ihe controversial ones, including the last two or three 
years of time. Another question! — The Episile of Si. 
Paul, which I translated from the Armenian, for what 
leason have you kept it back, though you published that 
fulT which gave rise to the 'Vampire? 1 Is it because 
you are afraid to print any thing in opposition to the cant 
uf the Quarterly about Manicheism? Let me have a 
proof of that Episile directly. 1 am a better I 
than those parsons of vours, though not ]»aid for Lt-uig &o. 

"Send — Fahf-r's Treatise on the Cabiri. 

'Sainte Or-.i\'< Mysterea t^u Paganisine, (scarce, per- 
haps, but to be found, as Mitferd refers to his work fre- 
quently.) 

"A common Bible, of good legible print, (bound in rus- 
sia.) I have one; but as it was the last gift of my sister, 
(whom I shall probably never see again,) I can only use 
it carefully, and less frequently, because I like to keep it 
in good order. Don't forget thi«, for I am a great reader 
and admirer of those books, and had read them through 
and through before I was eight years old, — thai is to say, 



the Old Testament, for the New struck men as a task 
but the other as a pleasure. I speak as a boy from the r*> 
collected impression of that period at Aberdeen in 17S6 
"Any novels of Scott, or poetry of the same. Ditto cf 
Crabbe, Moore, and the Elect; but none of your cursed 
commonplace trash, — unless something starts up of actual 
merir, which may very well be, for 'tis lime it should " 



LETTER DXXXI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"October 20, 1821. 

" If the errors are in the MS. write me down an ass . 
they are not, and I am content to undergo any penalty if 
they be. Besides, the omitted stanza, (last bul one or 
two,) sent qjlerward, was that in the MS. too ? 

u As to ' honour,' I will trust no man's honour in affairs 
of barter. I will tell you why: a state of bargain *s 
Hobbes's 'state of nature — a state of war.' It is so w.th 
all men. If I come to a friend, and sav, 'Friend, lend me 
five hundred po;ind.-,' — he either does it, or says that he 
can't or won't; bul if I come to ditto, and say, 'Ditto, I 
have an excellent house, or horse, or carriage, or AISS. <r 
books, or pictures, or &c. &c. &c. &c. honestly worth a 
thousand pounds, you shall have them for five hundred, 
what does Ditto say ? why, fie looks at them, he hums, ho 
has, — he humbugs, if he can, to get a bargain as cheaply 
as he can, because it is a bargain. — This is in the blood 
and bone of mankind ; and the same man who would 
lend another a thousand pounds without interest, would 
not buy a h'orse of him for half its value if he could help 
it. Il is so: there's no denying it; and therefore I will 
have as much as I can, and you will give as little ; and 
there's an end. All men art intrinsical rascals, and I am 
only sorry that, not being a dog, I can't bite them. 

"I am filling another book for you with little anecdotes, 
to my own knowledge, or well authenticated, of Shendan, 
Curran, &c. and such other public men as I recollect to 
have been acquainted with, for I knew most of them more 
or less. I will do what I can to prevenl your losing by 
my obsequies. " Yours &c.° 



LETTER DXXXO. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

■ Ravenna, October 21, 1821. 

a I shall be (the gods willing) in Bologna on Saturday 
next. This is a curious answer to your letter; but I have 
taken a house in Pisa for the winter, to wliich all my chat- 
tels, furniture, horses, carriages, and live stock are already 
removed, and I am preparing to follow. 

" The cause of this removal is, shortly, the exile or pro- 
scription of all my friends' relabons and connexions here 
into Tuscany, on account of our late politics ; and where 
they go, I accompany them. I merely remained till now 
to settle some arrangements about my daughier, and to 
give time for my furniture, &c. to precede me. I have 
not here a seat or a bed hardlv, except some jury chairs, 
and tables, and a mattress for the week to come. 

■ If you will go on with me to Pisa, I can lodge you for 
as long as you like, (they write that the house, the Palazzo 
Lanfranchi, is spacious : it is on the Arno :) and I have 
four carriages, and as many saddle horses, (such as they 
are in these parts,) with all other conveniences at yotlf 
command, as also their owner. If you could do this, wc 
may, at least, cross the Apennines together; or if you 
are going by another road, we shall meet at Bologna, I 
hope. I address this to the post-office, (as you desire,) 
and vou will probably find me at the Albergo di San 
Marco. If you arrive first, wait till I come up, wliich 
will be (barring accident-) on Saturday or Sunday at 
.farthest. 



192 



LETTERS, IS21. 



* I presume you arc alone in your voyages. Moore i< 
in London incogs according to my latest advices {rono 
those cli mates. 

"It is better than a lustre (five years and six month 
nnd some days, more or less,) since me met; and, like 
the man from Tadcaster in the farce, ('Love laughs at 
Locksmiths,') whose acquaintances, including the cat and 
the terrier, 'who caught a halfpenny in his mouth, 1 were 
all ■ g me dead, 1 hut too many of our acquaintances have 
taken the same path. Lady Melbourne, Graltan, Sheii 
dan, Curran, Stc. &o. almosl every body of much name 
of the old school. But* so am not I, said the foolish (at 
scullion, 1 therefore let us make the most of our remainder, 

"Let me find two lines from you at 'the hostel or inn. 1 
" Yours ever, &C. 



LETTER DXXXIIL 



TO MR, MOORfi. 



"Ravenna, Oct. -2ft, 1S2L 

■'*T is the middle of night by the castle clock,' and in 

three hours more 1 have to set out on my way to Pisa — 

silting up all night to hi- sore of rising. I have just marie 

them take off" my bed-clothes — blankets inclusive — in case 

of temptation from the apparel of sheets to mv eyelids. 

" Samuel Rogers is — or is to be — at Bologna, as he 
writes from Venice, 

" I thought our Magnifico would 'pound von, 1 if possi- 
' hie. lie is trying to ' pound 1 me, too; hut Pll specie the 
rogue — ir, at least, I "11 have the odd shillings out of him 
in keen iambics. 

u Your approbation of ' Sardauapalus 1 is agreeable, for 
more reasons than one. Hobhouse is pleased to think as 
you do of it, and so do some others — hut the * Arimaspian,' 
whom, like 'a Gryphon in the wilderness, 1 I will 'follow 
fir his gold,' (as I exhorted you to do before.,) did or doth 
disparage it — 'stinting me in mv sbangs.' His notable 
opinions on (he ' Foscari 1 and 'Cain' he hath not as yet 
forwarded) or, at least, I have nr>t yet received them, nor 
the proofs thereof, though promised by lasl post, 

" I see the way that he and his Quarterly people are 
ten ling — they want a row with me, anil they shall have it. 
I onlv regret that I am not in England for the notice; as, 
here, it is hardly fair ground for me, isolated and out of 
the way of prompt rejoinder and information, as I am. 
But, though barked by all the corruption, and infamy, and 
patronage of their master rogues and slave renegadoes, 
if (hey do once rouse me up, 

'They had better gall the devil, Salisbury.' 

"I have that for two or three of them, which they had* 
better not move me to put in motion ; — and yet, after all, 
what a fool I am to disquiet myself about such fellows ! 
It was all very well ten or twelve years ago, when 1 was 
a ' curled darling, 1 and mimh-d BUch things. At present, I 
rule them at their true value ; but, from natural temper 
and bile, am not able to keep quiet. 

" Let me hear from you on your return from Ireland, 
which ought to be ashamed to see you, after her Bruns- 
wick blarney. I am of Longman's o|miion, that you 
should allow your friends (o liquidate (he Bermuda claim. 
Why should you throw away the two thousand pounds 
(of the non-guinea Murray) upon that cursed piece of 
treacherous inveiglement? I think you carry the matter 
a hide too far am! scrupulously. When we see patriots 
begging publicly] and know that Graltan received a for- 
tune from his country, I really do not see why a man, in 
no whit inferior to any or all of them, should shrink from 
accepiing that assistance from his private friends, which 
every tradesman receives from his connexions upon much 
less occasions. For, after all, it was not your debt — it 
was a piece of swindling against you. As to * * * +, 
and the ' what noble creatures !' &c. &c. it is all very fine 



and verv well, but till you can persuade me that there is 
no rreht and n > <- ''- rpptauae to be obrained bv being of 
use to a celebrated man, I mu same opinion 

of the human species, which I do of our friend M 1 . Spt u ' 



LETTER DXXXIV. 



TO MR, MIRIi \ V. 



■Pisa, November 3, 1821. 

"The Iwn passages cannot be altered without making 
Lucifer talk like the Bishop of Lincoln, which would not 
1"- in the character of the former. The uoiiou is from 
Cuvier, (that of the old worlds,) as t have explained ID 
an additional note to the preface. The other passage is 
also in character: ifnonst rase, bo much the better, because 
then it can do no harm, and the sillier Satan is nude, the 
safer for every body. As to ' alarms,' &c. do you really 
think such things ever led any body astray? Are these 
people more impious than Milton's Satan? or the Pro- 
metheus of /Eschvlus .' or even than the Sadducees of 
Mitotan, the 'Fall of Jerusalem 1 * T .' Are nol Aoain, 
Eve, Adah, anl Abel, as pious as the catechism ? 

"Gilford is too wise b man to think that such things can 
have any senou« effect: who was ever altered by a poem ! 
I beg leave to observe, thai there is no creed nor personal 
hypothesis of mine in all this; but I was obliged to 

make Cam and Lucifer talk consistently, and surely this 
has always been permitted to poesy. Cain is a proud 
man: if Lucifer promised him kingdom, &c. it would elate 

him: the object of the Demon is to depress him still farther 
in his own estimation than he was before, by showing him 
infinite things, and his own abasement, till he falls into the 
frame of mind that hails to the catastrophe, from mere 
internal irritation, nol premeditation, or envy of AbeL 
(which would have made him contemptible,) but from 
rage and fury against the inadequacy of his State to his 

ceptions, and which discharges itself rather b 

life, and the Author of life, than the mere living. 
" His subsequent remorse is the natural effect of looking 

on his sudden deed. Had the deed been j>rc meditated ', his 
repentance would have been tardier. 

Either dedicate it to Walter Scott, or, if you think he 
would like the dedication of 'the Foscaris' better, put the 
Indication to ' the Foscaris. 1 Ask him which. 

"Your first note was queer enough ; but your two other 
letters, with Moore's and Giffbrd 's opinions, set all right 
again. I told you before that I can never recast any thin?. 
1 am like the tiger : if I miss the first spring, I go grumbling 
back to my jungle again ; but if I d<> hit, it is crushing. 
* * You disparaged die last three cantos 

to me, and kept (hem back above a year; but I have 
heard from England (hat (notwithstandingthe errors of the 
press,) they are well thought of; Rw instance, by Ameri 
can Irving, which lasl is a feather in my (fodPs) cap. 

"You have received mv letter (open) through Mr. 

Kinnaird. and so, prav. send me no more reviews of any 
kind. 1 will read no more of evil or good in that line 
Walter Scott has nol read a review of himself t\>r tiur- 
ti,n tjeart. 

"The bust is not my property, but Hoi 'house's. I 
addressed it to you as an Admiralty man, great at the 
custom-house. Pray deduct the expenses of the same, 
and all others. " Yours, &c '* 



LETTER DXXXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, Nov. 9, 1821. 

"I never rend the Memoirs at all, nol even since thev 
were written ; and I never will : the pain of writing them 
was enough ; you may spare me (hat of a perusal. Mr. 
Moore has (or may have) a discretionary power to omit 



LETTERS, 1821. 



193 



any repetition, or expressions which do not seem good to 
1 Mm, who is a better judge than you or I. 

"Enclosed is a lyrical drama, (entitled 'a Mystery, 
from us subject,) which, perhaps, may arrive in time for 

..■ You will find U pious enough, I trust— at 

least some of the Chorus might have been written by 
is emhold and Hopkins themselves for thai, and perhaps 
. idy. As it is longer, and more lyrical and Greek 
than I intended al first,Ihave notdivided it into acts, but 
>iia I have sent Part First, as there is a suspen- 
sion of the action, which iv» either close there without 

prieiy, or be continued ma way that I have in view. 

1 wish the first part to be published birfore the second, 
l„ cause, if il do n't succeed, it is better to stop Uiere than 
t. o on in a fruidess experiment. 

- 1 desire you to acknowledge the arrival of this packet 
bv return of post, u" you can conveniently, with a proof. 
" Your obedient, &c. 
"P. S. My wish is to have it published at the same 
time, and, d' possible, m the same volume, .villi the others, 
i ver the merits or demerits of these pieces 
may be, it will perhaps be allowed that each is of a differ- 
erif kind, and in a different style ; so lha\ including the 
prose and the Don Juans, &c I have at least sent you 
uaruJtf during the last yeai or two." 



LETTER DXXXVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

•Pisa, Nov. 16,1821. 

• There is here Mr. Taafe, an Irish genius, with whom 
we are acquainted. He hath written a really excellent 
Commentary on Dante, full of new and true information, 
and much ingenuity. But his verse is such as it haih 
pleased God to endue him withal. Nevertheless, he is so 
firmly persuaded of its equal excellence, that he won't 
divorce the Commentary from the traduction, as I ventured 
delicately to hint,— not having the fear of Ireland before 
mv eyes', and upon the presumption of having shotteri very 
well in his presence (with common pistols too, not with my 
Manton's) the day before. 

" But he is eager to publish all, and must be gratified, 
though the Reviewers will make him suffer more tortures 
than "there are in his original. Indeed, the Notes are well 
worth publication ; but he insists upon the translation for 
company, so that they will come out together, like Ladj 
C * * t chaperoning Miss * *. I read a letter of yours 
10 him vesterdav, and he bei£S me to write to you ab ml his 
Poeshie. He is really a good fellow, apparently, and I 
dare sav that his verse is very good Irish. 

"Now, what shall we do for him? He says that he 
will risk pan of the expense with the publisher. He will 
never rest till he is published and abused— for he has a 
high opinion of himself— and I see nothing left but to 
gratify him so as to have him abused a- hide as possible; 
for I think it would kill him. You must write, then, to 
Jeffrey to beg him not to review him, and I will do the 
wine to Gifford, through Murray. Perhaps they might 
notice ihe Comment without touching the text. But I 

.! i thedogs — the textis too templing, * 

» * * 

» I have to thank you aeain, as I believe I did before, 
for vo tr opinion of 'Cain, 1 &c. 

"You are nstht to allow to setile the claim ; but 

I io not see why you should repay him out of your [ego v— 
U least not vet.' If you/eel about it, (as you are 
on such points,) pav him the interest now, and (he print i- 
pal when von are strong in cash ; or pay lurn by inslal 



menis; or pay him as I do my creditors — that is, not nil 
Uicy make me. 

«I address this to you at Paris, as you desire. Reply 
Boon, and believe me ever. &c. 

25 



P.S. What I wrote to you about low spirits is, how- 
ever, very true. At present, owing to the climate, &c. (I 
can walk down into my garden, and pluck my own oranges; 
and, by-lhe-way, have got a diarrhoea in consequence of 
indulging in this meridian luxury of proprietorship,) my 
spirits are much better. You seem to think that I could 
not have written the 'Vision,' &c. under the influence of 
low spirits ;— but I think there you err. A man's poetry 
is a distinct faculty, or Soul, and has no more to do with 
the every-day individual than the Inspiration with the 
Py ihoness when removed from her tripod." 

To Lord Byron. 

" Fromc, Somerset, Nov. 21, 1821. 
"my lord, 
" More than two years since, a lovely and beloved wife 
was taken from me, by lingering disease, after a very short 
union. She possessed unvarying gentleness and fortitude, 
and a piety so retiring as rarely to disclose itself in words, 
but so influential as to produce uniform benevolence of 
conduct. In the last hour of life, afier a farewell look on 
a lately born and only infant, for whom she had evinced 
inexpressible affection, her last whispers were, 'God's 
happiness! God's happiness!' Since the second anni- 
vei ir\ of her decease, I have read some papers which no 
one had seen during her life, and which contain her most 
secret thoughts. I am induced to communicate to yout 
lordship a passage from these papers, which, there is no 
doubt, refers to yourself; as I have more than once heard 
the writer mention your agility on the rocks at Hastings. 

" ' Oh, my God, I take encouragement from the assur- 
ance of thy Word, to pray to Thee in behalf of one for 
whom I have lately been much interested. May the 
person to whom I allude (and who is now, we fear, as 
much distinguished for his neglect of Thee as for the 

mi, ndent talents thou hast bestowed on him) be 

awakened to a sense of his own danger, and led to seek 
that peace of mind, in a proper sense of religion, which 
he has found this world's enjoyments unable to procure ! 
Do thou grant that his future example may be productive 
of far more extensive benefit than his past conduct and 
writinos have been of evil ; and may the Sun of righteous- 
ness, which, we trust, will, at some future period, arise on 
him, be bright in proportion to the darkness of those 
clouds which guilt has raised around him, and the balm 
which it bestows, healing and soothing in proportion to the 
keenness of that agony whick die punishment of his vices 
has inflicted on him! " May tnf hope that the sincerity 
of my own efforts for the attainment of holiness, and the 
approval of my own love to the great Author of religion, 
will render this prayer, and every other for the welfare 
of mankind, more effii acious.— Cheer me in the path of 
duty ;— but let me not forget, that, while we are permitted 
to in limate ourselves to exertion by every innocent motive, 
these ire but the lesser streams which may serve to 

rease the current, but which, deprived of the grand 

fountain of good, (a deep conviction of inborn sin, and 
linn belief iii the efficacy of Christ's death for the salva- 
tion of those who trust in him, and really wish to serve 
him,) would soon dry up, and leave us barren of every 
virtue as before. 
"'July 31st, 1814. 

"' Hastings.' " . 

" There is nothing, mv lord, in this extract, which, in a 
literary sense, can nl ail interest you ; but it may, per- 
haps, appear to you worthy of reflection how deep and 
expansive a concern for the happiness of others tho 
Christian faith can awaken in the midst of youth and 
prosperity. Here is nothing poetical and splendid, as in 
Ihe expOBtillaWry homage of M. Delamartine ? but here 
is the tublime, mv lord ; f.r this intercession was offered, 
on your account, to the supreme Source of happiness. It 
sprang from a faith more confirmed than that of the 
French poet, and from a charily which, in combination 



194 



LETTERS, 1821. 



Willi faith, showed its power unimpaired amid the lan- 
guors and pains of approaching dissolution. I WlD hope 
that a prayer, which, I am sure, was deeply sincere, may 
not bo always unavailing. 

" It would add nothing) mv lord, to the fame with which 
your genius has surrounded you, I"t an unknown and 
obscure individual to express bis admiration of it. I had 
rather be numbered with those who wish and pray, that 
'wisdom from above,' and 'peace,' and 'joy,' may enter 
such a mind. H Johzi Sum tard. 1 ' 



LETTER DXXXVII. 



TO MA. SIIEPI'ARP. 



Pisa, December 8, 1821. 

R SIR, 

B 1 have received your Letter. I need not say, that the 
extract which it contains has affected me, because it would 
imply a want of all feeling to have read it with indhTerence. 

Though I am not quite sure that it was intended by the 
writer for me, yet the date, the place where it was written, 
with some i.ihci- cireuiiistances that you mention, render 
the ailusiiiii probable. Urn for whomever it was meant, 1 
have read it « ith all the pleasure which can arise from so 
melancholy a topic. I say pleasure — because your brief 
and Simple picture of the life and demeanour of the ex- 
cellent person whom I trust you will again meet, cannot 
be contemplated without tin admiration due to her virtues 
and her pure and unpretending piety. Her last moments 
were particularly striking; and I do not know that, in the 
course of res lirJg the story of mankind, and still less in my 
observation-- upon the existing portion, I ever met with any 
thing bo unostentatiously beautiful. Indisputably, the firm 
believers in the Gospel have a great advantage over all 
others, — for tins simple reason, that, if true, they will 
have their reward hereafter; and if the no be no here- 
after, they can be but with the infidel in his eternal sleep, 
having had the assistance of an exalted hope] through 
lit" , without subsequent disappointment, since (at the 
worst for them) 'out of nothing, nothing can arise,' not 
even sorrow. But a man's creed does not depend upon 
hx,iis,!f: who can say, I mil believe this, that, or the other? 
and] least of all, that which he least can comprehend. I 
havej however, observed, that those who have begun life 
with extreme &ith, have in the end greatly narrowed it. as 
Chillingworth, Clarke, (who ended as an Arian,) Bayle, 
and Gibbon] (once a Catholic,) and some others; while, 
on the othor hand, nothing is more common than for the 
early skeptic to end in a firm belief, like Alaupertuis and 
Henry Kirs White. 

" But my business is to acknowledge your letter, and 
not to make a dissertation. I am obliged to you for your 
good wishes, and nior*" than obliged by the extract from 
tin papers of the bet*,, m rjbject whose qualities you have 
bo will described in a few words. I can assure you, thai 
all the fame which ever cheated humanity into higher no- 
tions of its own importance would never weigh UQ mv mind 

against the pure and pious interest which s virtuous being 
may he pleased to tako in my welfare . In this point of 
view, I would not exchange the prayer of Ihe dec< ased in 
my behalf for the united glory of Homer, Ca3sar, and Na- 
poleon, could such be accumulated upon a living head. Do 
me at least the justice to suppo.se, that 

' Video mi li. nil proboque,* 

however the ' deteriora sequor,' may have been applied to 
iny conduct. 

" I have the honour to be 

"your obliged and obedient servant, 
" Bvno.v. 

*P. S. I do not know that lam addressing a clergy- 
man ; but I presume that von will not be affronted bv the \ 
mistake (if it i a one) on the address of this letter. One I 



who has so well explained, and deeply felt the docinnes of 
religion, will excuse the error which led me to belie vr rum 
its minister. 11 



LETTER DXXXVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



Pisa, December 4, 1821. 
"By extracts in the English papers, — in your boh ally 
Galignanis 'Messenger, 1 — I perceive that 'the two great- 
est examples of human vanity in the present age' are 
firstly, ' the ex-emperor Napolet m, 1 and, secondly,' his lord- 
ship, &C. the noble poet,' meaning your humble servant, 
1 j r guiltless I.' 

R Poor Napoleon! he little dreamed to what vile com 
parisons (he turn of the wheel would reduce him ! 

a I have got here into a famous old feudal palazzo, on 
the Arno, large enough for a garrison, with d u ngeons he- 
low and cells in the walls, and so full of ghosts iliat the 
learned Fletcher (my valet) has begged leave to change 
his room, and then refused to occupy his new room, be- 
cause there were more ghosts dure than in the other. It 

is rjuitr true tha> then- ar st t xtraordinary noises, (as 

in all old buildings.) which have terrified the servants SO 

as to incommode me extremely. There is one place 
where people were evidently [palled up, fur there i-; but one 
possible passage, broken through the wall, and than meant 
to be closed again upon the inmate. The In hi I 
to the Lanfranchi family, (the same mentioned by I 
in his dream, as his persecutor with Sismondi,) and has 
had a fierce owner or two in it.s time. The staircase, &c. 
is said to have been built by Michel Agnolo. It is not yet 
cold enough for a lire. "What a climate ! 

"I am, however, bothered about these spectres, (as they 
say the last occupants "ere, too,) of whom I have 
seen nothing, nor, indeed, heard {myself) j but 

ears have been regaled by all kinds of supernatural 
The first nighi I thought I heard an odd noise, but it has 
not been repeated. I have now been lure more than a 
month. u Yours, &c° 



LETTER DXXXtX 



TO MR. MURRAV. 



8 Pisa, December 10, 1821 

K This day and this hour, (one, on the c'ock,) mv daugh- 
ter is six years old. I wonder when I shall see her again, 
or if ever 1 shall see her at all. 

u I have remarked a curious coincidence,* which almost 
looks like a fatality. 

"My mother^ myuifa my daughter, my half-sistn, my 

six(,rs /riufhtr, my jiiiUtrul dasUjAfsr, (as far at lefl 

am concerned,) and nn/sef/jare all only cfttt 

1 My father, by his firsl marriage with Lad) < lonyers, (an 

only child,) had only my BtSter; and by his second mar- 
riage with an only child, an only child again. Lady Byron, 

as you know, was "in- a Im>, and so is my daughter, &e. 
Is not this rather rnkl — such a complication of only 
' By- the- way, send me my daughter Ada's 
miniature. I have only the print, which gives little or 
DO idea of her complexion. 

"Yours, &c. 



"B.' 



LETTER DXL. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, December 1 2, 1821. 
"What you say about Galignani's two biographies ts 
very amusing ; and, if I were not lazy, I would certainlv 

* See Memorandum*, page -61. 



LETTERS, 1821. 



195 



do what you desire. But I doubt my present stock of 
Guetiousness — that is, of good serious humour, so as not 
to let the eat out of the bag.* I wish you would under- 
take it. I nil; ihrtnve and indulge you (like a pope) before- 
han I. few any thing ludicrous, that might keep those fools 
iu i leir own dear belief that a man is a loup sarou. 

u l suppose [told vou that the Giaour story had actuallv 

mndation on facts ; or, if I did not, you will one day 

11 a letter of Lord Slip's, written to me after the 

publication of the poem. I should not like marvels to rest 

upon any account of my own, and shall say nothing about 

it. However, the real incident is still remote enough from 

the poetical one, being just such as, happening to a man 

of any imagination, might suggest such a composiiion. 

■ >r>t of aiivrfo/ adventures is that they involve 

living people— -else Mrs. 's 's,&e. areas'german 

to the matter 1 as Mr. Maturin could desire fur his novels. 
***** 

■ The consuimnationyou mentioned for poor Taafe was 

nf-ar taking place yesterday. Riding pretty sharply after 

Mr. Medwin and rayselfj in turning the corner of a lane 

between Pisa and the hills, he was spilt, — and, besides 

some claret on the spot, bruised himself a good deal, 

i qo danger. He was bled, and keeps his room. 

As I was a-ht-ad of him some hundred yards, I did not see 

the accident ; but my servant, who was behind, did. and, 

says the horse did not fall — the usual excuse of floored 

equestrians. As Taafe piques himself upon his horse- 

ip, and his horse is really a pretty horse enough, I 

long for his personal narrative, — as I never yet met the 

man who would fairly claim a tumble as his own property 

u Could not. you send me a printed copy of the 'Irish 
Avatar T — I do not know what has become of Rogers since 
we parted at Florence. 

u Do n't let the Angles keep you from writing. Sam 
told me that you were somewhat dissipated in Paris, which 
I can easily believe. Let me hear from you at your best 
leisure. " Ever and truly, &c. 

"P.S. December 13. 
a I enclose you some lines, writtea not long ago, which 
you may do what you like with, as they are very harm- 
Only, if copied} or printed, or set, I could wish it 
> .rreetly than in the usual way, in which one's 
'nothings are monstered,' as Coiiolanus says. 

•■ Y iu must really get Taafe published — he never will 

reel nil he is so. He is just gone with his broken head to 

Luccea, at my desire, to try to save a man. from being 

bund. The Spanish * * *, that has her petticoats over 

had actually condemned a poor devil to the stake, 

out of a church. Sheilcy and 

I, of course, were up in arms against this piece of piety, 

and have been disturbing every body to get the scnteiu e 

chanced. Taafe is gone to see what can be done. 

° " IT " 



strance, is of course out of the question ; but I do not see 
why a temperate remonstrance should hurt any one. Lord 
I ruilrord is the man, if hewouM undertake it. He knows 
the Grand Duke personally, and might, perhaps, prevail 
upon him )• interfere, But, as he goes to-morrow, you 
must be quick or it will be useless. Make any use of 
my name that you please. 

" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER DXLII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



LETTER DXLI. 

TO MR. SHELLEY. 

"December 12, 1521. 

*MV TiKVR SHEM.F.V, 

"Enclosed is a note lor you fr>m . His reasons 

ore ;ill Tery true, T dare say, and it mi^ht and may be of 

p -rsiiKi! inconvvm.-nc,' to us. Rut that does not appear 

m Im- a rvn ;on to allow a being to be burnt without 

trying to save him. To save him by any means but remortr 



* Mi . Galignani fwwing expressed ^ with t" be furnished with a short 
i ir ihe purpose of prefixing it lo the Fr.r.rli 
1 | ' n_-!y in & preceding letter lo his lord- 

lie dissosmoo of the world i« 
i ' urc*." if he would wrile for Ihe [>ublic, Kngtish aa well 
1 ' rig, inhorrori 
»nd wondem, all th«l hndlieen ret rein- ! ir d! mm ! nflum, utid leaTiiig 
•▼enGoettic'i itory of i lie djuble murder at Florence far behind. 

t Slanxaa written o.i tho road between Florence and Pisa, page 487. 



" T send you the two notes, which will tell you the story 
I allude to of the Auto da Fe. Shelley's allusion to his 
1 f,-llow-srrpent ' is a buffoonery of mine. Goethe's 
Mqihistotilus calls the serpent who tempted Eve 'my 
aunt, the renowned snake ;' and I always insist that 
Shelley is nothing but one of her nephews, walking about 
on the tip of his tail." 

To L/jrd Byron. 

w 2 o'clock, Tuesday Morning. 

K MV DEAR LORD, 

u Although strongly persuaded that the story must bo 
either an entire fabrication, or so gross an exaggeration 
as to be nearly so; yet, in order to be able to discover 
the truth beyond all doubt, and to set your mind quite at 
rest, I have taken the determination to go myself to Lucca 
this morning. Should it prove less false than I am con- 
vinced it is, I shall not fail to exert myself in every vmy 
that I can imagine may have any success. Be assured 
of this. " Your lordship's most truly, 

«* + p 

" P. S. To prevent bavardage^ I prefer going in person 
to sending my servant with a letter. It is better for you 
to mention nothing (except, of course, to Shelley) of my 
excursion. The person I visit there is one on whom I 
can have every dependence in every way, both as to au- 
thority and truth. 

To Lnrd Byron. 

" Thursday Morning 

U MV PEAR LORD BYR.OV, 

"I hear this morning that the design, which certainly 
had been in contemplation, of burning my fellow-serpent, 
has been abandoned, and that he has been condemned lo 
the galleys. Lord Guilford isatLeghorn; and as v our 
courier applied to me to know whether he ought, to ieave 
your letter f >r him or not, I have thought it best since this 
information to tell him to take it back. 

" Ever faithfully yours, 

"P. B. Shellev. 



LETTER DXLIIT. 

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

« Pisa, January 12,1822- 

"MV DEAR SIR WALTER, 

K I need not say how grateful I am for your letter, but 
I must own my ingratitude in not having written to you 
again long ago. Since I left England, (and it is not for 
ail the usual term of transportation,) I have scribbled to 
five hundred blockheads on business, &c. without difficul- 
ty, though willi no great pleasure; and yet, with the no- 
tion of addressing you a hundred times, in my head, and 
always in my heart^ I have not done what I ought to have 
done. I can only account for it on die same principle of 
tremulous anxiety with which one sometimes makes love 
to a beautiful woman of our own degree, with whom one 
is enamoured in good earnest; whereas, we attack a fresh- 
coloured housemaid without (I speak, of course, of earlier 



196 



LETTERS, 182J. 



tunes) any BemimeBtal remoree or mitigation of our vir- 
tuous purpose, . f 

■I owe to you for more than the usual obligation for 
the courtesies of literature and common friendship, for yi u 
went om of your way in 1817 to do me a sernee, wham 
required not merely kindness, but courage to do -■■: to 
have I- n recorded by you in such a manner would have 

been a proud manorial al any , bul al snchatimc 

when 'all the world ..".I his wife,' as the prov. 
werelryir«totrninpleupcnme,was8omething i 
lomyeelf-esteemr-I allude to iKeauarterlj Reviey, ol 
the Third Canto ofChilde Harold, which Mumg told me 
was written by you,-and, indeed, I should have known 
Kwithoul his information, as there could not "fcsowho 
couU and wouid have done this al motnne. Ha I tl l» n 
a common criucism, however eloquent or i«»r»'" ' 
should have felt pleased, undoubtedly, and grateful, bul 
not to the extent which the extraordinary goooMiearteu- 
ness of the whole proceeding must induce in any nund 
capable uf such sensations. The very unaneH "I Una 
acknowledgment will, al least, show thai 1 have nol for- 
gotten the obligation; and Icanassun youth* 
of ,t has been out at compoimd interest during the delay. 

IshaUonly add word upon the subject, winch i ,tnai 

[think that von, and Jeffrey, and Leigh Hunt, were the 
only literary men, of numbers whom 1 know, (and some ot 
whom I haw served,) who dared venture even an anony- 
mous word in ,nv favour just then ; and that of those three, 
1 had never seen on. at all— of the second much less than 
I I .,re.l— and that die thud was under no kind "I obh- 
, to mc whatever; while the olher two had been ao- 
tually attacked by me on a former occasion; oiu indi ed, 

with some provocation, but the other wantonlj ■ -'•• 

s , iron see von have been heaping 'coals ot lire, &i in 

Gospel manner, and I can assure you U.at they 

have burnt down to my very heart. 

-1 am glad that von accepted the Inscription. I mean! 
to have inscribed 'the Foscarini' lo you instead; bul 
firs,, I heard thai 'Cain' was thought the least had ol the 
two as a composition; and, 2dly, 1 have abused Southey 
like a pickpocket, in a note to the Foscarini, and 1 rei ol- 

tected thai he is a friend of yours, (thougl I ol i ■.) 

and that it would not be the handsome thing lo dedicate 

I re friend any thing containing such matters about 

another. However, I '11 work the Laureate before 1 have 
done with him, as soon aslcan muster Billingsgate there- 
for. I likearow, and always did from a boy, in the course 
of which propensity, Imusl needs say, that t have found 
it the most easy of all to be gratified, personal!} andpoeli- 
callv. You disclaim 'jealousies;' but I would ask, as 
Boswell did of Johnson, 'ofiotom oouW you be jealous,— 
of none of the living, certainly, and (taking all and all into 
consideration) of which of the dead? I don't like to bore 
you about the Scotch novels, (as they call them, though 
two of them are wholly English, and the rest half so,) but 

nothing can or could evi r persuade , sh* e I was the 

hrsi ten mm. nes in your company, that you arc juf the 
man To mo those novels have so much ol 'Auldlang 
syne, (I was bred a canny Scot till ten years old,) thai I 
never move without Ihem; and when 1 removed from 
Ravenna to Pisa, the other day, and samon my library 
before, they were the only books mat I kepi by me, al- 
though I already have them by heart. 

■ January 87, 1822. 
« I delayed till now concluding, in die hope that I should 
have "oi 'ile Pirate,' who b now under way lor me, bul 
hasnol \oi hove in sight. [ hear that your daughter is 
married, and I suppose by this tune you are hall ■ grand- 
father— a young one, by-the-way. I have heard great 
things of Mrs. LocWnwts personal and mental charms, and 
mui ligood of her lord: thai you may live to see as many 
novel Scotts as there are Scots' novels, is tire very had 
iml', bul sincere wish of 

" Yours ever most affectionately, &c 



«P S Why do n'i yon take a turn in Italy .' Yoo 

, d'find your* If as well known and as wefaaaa u ... 

mdsai ig the natives. As for the English, 

vou would be with thi ... as in London; and I need not 
add, ihat I should be delighted to see you again, which a 
Bu more than I shall ever feel or say for England,." (w„h 
, few excepti ma •ol'Uh.k..,, and allies') any thug thai it 
contain. Bul my 'lean warms to the iar.au, ot 

,,„„., „f Scotland, which reminds n 1 Aberdeen and 

other nans, not s., far from the Highlands* as thai town, 

abOUl Iuvereailld and Bra. -mar, "here 1 was BOW l"drUlk 

,,.. ,, ,,, in 1795.6, in consequence ol a Ihreal. n 

, ,.„ jcrlei fever. Bul I am gossiping ; so, good 
night— and the gods he with your dr. 

, ,„ ,„ v respects to Lad;. Sett, who may 

perhaps recoUecl having se w in town m 1816. 

« [ ne that one of your supporters (tor, fake sir Hilde- 

brand, I am fond ofl hnllin) is a mermaid, » « my en* 

too, and with precisi une curt ol tad. 1 here , 

,,„,,„,,,„„, fo, you '-Jam building a little .utter at 

i go a-crukdng in the summer. I knew j,uu Urn 

the sea too." 



LETTER PXI.IV. 

TO DOUGLAS KINNA1KD. 

■•Pisa, February, 6, 1822. 
-'Try back the deep lane,' till we find a publisl 
'the Vision;' and if none such is to be found, print fifty 
copies at my expense, distribute Iht ma gmy acquaint- 
ance, and you «.n s i see thai the booksellers natlpub- 

:,.., them, even .1 we oppose them. That they are now 
afraid is natural; but I do nol seethal 1 ought logweway 
count. I Imownothing of Rivingtons ■Remon- 
strance' by the 'eminenl t 'hotel. ...an;' bul I suit i 
wants a living. I once heard of a preacher at B 
Town against '('am.' The same outcry was raised 
against Priestley, Hume. Gibbon, Voltaire, and all the 
tne.i who dared io put tithes to the question. 

"thavi tSouthey'S pretended reply,'™ which lam 

surprised thai vou do not allude. What remains to be 
do,,.- is, to call him out. The question is, would Ire comef 
for, if he would n it, the whole thing world appear ridicu- 
lous, if] were to lake a long and expensive journey lo no 

purpose. 

« You must be my second, and, as such, I wish to con- 
sult vou. 

■I apply to vou as one well versed m the duello, or 
monomachie. I rfcoursi I shall come to England as pri- 
vately as possible, and leave it (supposing that I was the 
survivor) in the same manner; having no olher object 
which could bring me to thai country except to settle 
quarrels accumulated during my absence. 

■By the last post I transmitted to | «t ■ letter upon 
some Rochdale toll business, from which then are moneys 

in prospect. My agenl lays fcootl an I pounds,bul sup- 

I ',. to be only om hundred, still 11 

neys; and 1 have lived lor, 

ci fir the smallest curri nt coin of any realm, or 
Ih, I. isl sum, which, although I may nol want it myself, 

may i 9 idling for others who may need it more than I. 

•They say that 'Kriowli ge is Power;' — I used to 
think so; bul I now know that they meant 'money:' and 
when Socrates declared, 'that all he knew was, that ho 
knew nothing, 1 he merely intended lo declare, that he had 
not s drachm in me Athenian world. 

" The eirrulart are arrived, and circulating like the vor- 
ticas (or vortexes) of Descartes, still I have a due euro 
ofihe needful, and keep a look out a-head, as mj notions 
upon the score of moneys coincide with yours, and with 
all men's who have lived to see that every gum. 
philosopher's stone, or al least his Im/cA-slone. You will 

• Sou Nolo lo " Tut Ulnjd. - ' 



LETTERS, 1822. 



197 



doubt me the less, when I pronounce my firm belief] that 

Cash is Virtue. 

"I cannot reproach myself with much expenditure: my 
only extra expense (and it is more than I have spent upon 
myself] being a i tan of two hundred and fifty pounds tc 
Hunt; and fifty pounds' worth of furniture which I have 
b Jii^'hi fin' him ; and a boat which I am building for myself 
at Genoa, which will cost about a hundred pounds more. 

"But to return. I am determined 10 have all the mo- 
neys 1 can, whether by my own funds, or succession, or 
lawsuit, or .MSS., or any lawful means wlia- V'-r. 

" I will pay (though .with the sinceresl reluctance) my 
remaining creditors, and every man of law, by instalments 
from the award of the arbitrators. 

" I recommend to you the notice in Mr. Hanson's letter, 
on the demand of moneys for the Rochdale tolls. 

" Above all, I recommend my interests to your honoura- 
ble worship. 

"Recollect, too, that I expect some moneys for the 
various MSS., (no matter what;) and, in short, 'Rem, 
quocunque modo, Rem!' — >the noble feeling of cupidity 
grows upon us with our years. 

"Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER DXLV. 



TO MR. MURRAV. 



"Pisa, Feb. 8, 1822. 

K Attacks upon me were to be expected, hut I perceive 
one upon you in the papers, which I confess that I did not 
expect. How, or in what manner,you can be considered 
resposdble for what / publish, I am at a loss to conceive. 

■ If'Cain' be ( blasphemous,' Paradise Lost is blasphe- 
mous ; and the very words of the Oxford gentleman,' Evil, 
be thou my good,' are from that very poem, from the 
mouth of Satan; and is there any thing more in that of 
Lunfrr m the My-tery? Cain is nothing more than a 
h-ama, not apiece of argument. If Lucifer and Cain 
speak as the first murderer and the first rebel mav be 
supposed to speak, surely all the rest of the personages 
talk also according to their characters — and the strong *r 
is have ever been permitted to the drama. 

K I have evt-n avoided introducing the Deity as in Scrip- 
ture, (though Milton does, and not verv wisely either,") 
but have adopted his tngel as sent to Cain instead, on 
purpose to avoid shocking any feelings on the subject by 
failing short of what all uninspired men must fall short in, 
viz. giving an adequate notion of the effect of the presence 
of Jehovah. The old Mysteries introduced him liberally 
enough, and all this is avoided in the new one. 

"Tlie attempt to built/ you, because they think it won't 
succeed with nv, seems to me as atrocious an attempt as 
ever disgraced the times. What ! when Gibbon's, Hume's, 
Priestley's, and Drummond's publishers have been allowed 
to real in peace fjr seventy years, are you to be singled 
mt Cor a work of Jfcrion, not of history or argument? 
There must be something at the holism of this — some 
private enemy of your own: it is otherwise incredible. 

"lean only say, 'Me, me; en adsum qui feci;* — thai 
any proceedings directed against you, I beg, mav be trans- 
ferred to me, who am willing, and ought, to endure them 
all ; thai if you have lost money by the publication, I will 
refund any or all of the copyright ; that I desire vou will 
say that both you and TV/r. Giffhrd remonstrated against 
the publication] as also Mr. Hobhonse ; that /alone oc- 
casioned i', and I alone am the person who, either legally 
or otherwise, should bear the burden. If they prosecute, 
1 will come to England — that is, ifj by meeting it in mv 
own person, I can save yours. Let me know. You sha 1 n'r 
suffer fur me, if I can help it. Make any use of this letter 
you please. u Your* ever, &c." 

"P. S. I write to you about all this row of bad passion' 
and absurdities, with lli* rammer moon (for here our win- 



ter is clearer than your dog-days) lighting the winding 
Amo, with all her buildings and bridges, — so quiet and 
still !— -What nothings are we before the least of thesa 
stars I" 



LETTER DXLVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, Feb. 19, 1S22. 

"I am rather surprised not to have bad an answer to 
ny letter and packets. Lady Noel is dead, and it is not 
mpossible that I may have to go to England to settle the 
division of the Wentworth property, and what portion 
Lady B. is lo have out uf it ; all which was left undecided 
by the articles of separation. But I hope not, if it can be 
done, without, — and I have written to Sir Francis Burdell 
to be my refeiee, as he knows the property. 

" Continue io address here, as I shall not go if I can 
avoid it — at least, not on that account. But I may on 
another; for I wrote to Douglas Kmnaird to convev a 
message of invitation to Mr. Southey to meet me, either 
in England, or (as less liable to inierruptioii) on the coast 
of France. Tins was about a fortnight ago, and 1 have 
not yet had time to have the answer. However, you shall 
have due notice ; there ftre continue to address to Pisa. 

K My agents and trustees have written to me todesire 
that I would take the name directly, so that I am yours 
very truly and affectionately, 

"Noel Byron. 

"P. S. I have had no news from England except on 
business ; and merely know, from some abuse in that 
faithful ex and f/e-trador, Galignani, that the clergy are 
up against 'Cain.' There is (if I am not mistaken) some 
good church preferment on the Wentworth estates ; and 
I will show them what a good Christian I am by patronis- 
ing and preferring the most pious of their order, should 
opportunity occur. 

"M. and I are but little in correspondence, and I know 
nothing of literary matters at present. I have been wri- 
ting on business only lately. What are you about ? Bo 
assured that there is no such coalition as you apprehend.'' 



LETTER DXLVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, Feb. 20, 1822.* 

"Your letter arrived since I wrote the enclosed. It is 
not likely, as I have appointed agents and arbitrators fir 
the Noel estates, that I should proceed to England on 
that account, — though I may upon another, within stated. 
At any rate, continue you to address here till you heai 
further from me. I could wish you still to arrange for me, 
either with a London or Parts publisher, for the things^ 
&c. I shall nor quarrel with any arrangement you may 
please to make. 

"I have appointed Sir Francis Burdctt my arbitrator 
to decide on Lady Byron's allowance out of the Noel 
estates, which are estimated at seven thousand a-ycar, 
and rents very well paid, — a rare thing at this time. It 
is, however, owing to their consisting chiefly in pasture 
!ands, and therefore less affected by corn bills, Sic. than 
properties in tillage. 

"Believe me yours ever most affectionately, 

"Noel Bvhow. 

u Between my own property in the funds, and mv wife^ 
in land, I do not know which side to cry out on in politics. 

"There is nothing against the immortality of the soul 
in 'Cain' that I recollect. I hold no such opinions;— 
but, in a drama, the first rebel and the first'murderer must 
he made to lalk accoidiiu: to their characters. However, 



* Tin- pracedtuf kucr emu m- i ..id In u-i*. 



199 



llle parsons are all preaching at il, from Kentish Town 
end Oxford to Pisa;— the scoundrels of priests, who do 
mori harmto religion dianall the infidels that ever forgot 
tho'u catechism 1 

•'I have not seen Lady Noel's death announced in 
Galuniani. — How is that.'" 



LETTERS, 1522. 



LETTER DXI.VIII. 



TO MK MOOKE. 



"Pisa, Feb. 28, 1822. 

■ 1 begin to think that the packet (a heavy cue) of five 
acts of 1 Werner,' &c. ran hardly have reached you, for 
nun letter of last week (which I answered) did not al- 
I,,,!, to it, and yet I ensured it at the postofEce here. 

*• I have no direct news from England, except on the 
Noel business, which is proceeding quietly, as I have ap- 
pointed a gentleman (Sir !•'. Burden) for my arhitraior. 
They, too, have said that theywill recall the lawyer whom 
r ',, : ;, i chosen, and will name a gentleman too. Tins 
is better, as the arrangemenl of die estates and of La I) 
H.'s allowance will thus I"' settled without quibbling. 
I\lv lawyers are taking out a license for ihe name and 
arms, which it seems I am to endue. 

another, and indirect quarter,! hear that 'Cain' 
I,!, been pirated, and that the Chancellor has refused to 
give Murray any redress. Also, that G. R.* (.your friend 
'Ben,') has expressed great personal indignation at the 
said poem. All this is curious enough, L think, — after 
allowing Priestly, Hume, and Gibbon, and Bolinghroke, 
and Voltaire In be published, without depriving ihe 1 k- 

sellers of their rights. 1 heard from Rome a day or two 

ago, and, with what truth I know not, lhat * * * . 

• Yours, fee 11 



LETTER DXI.IX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



•Pisa, March 1,1882. 

" As r still have no news of my ' Werner,' &c. packet, 
sent to von on the 29lh of January, I continue to bore you, 
(for ihe fifth time, I believe,) to know whether " baa not 
miscarried. As it was fairly Copied ouf, it will be vex- 
atious ifil be lost. Indeed, I ensured it at the postoffice 
to make them take more care, and directed it regularly to 
you at Paris. 

■ In ihe impartial Galignani I perceive an extracl from 
Blackwoodts Magazine, in whirl, it is said ihnt there are 
people who have discovered thai you and 1 are no poets. 
With regard to one of us, I know lhat this northwest 
to mv magnetic pole had been long discovered 
by some sages, and I leave them the foil benefit of their 
penetration. I think, as l iibbon says of bis 1 1 is i on, 'that, 
perhaps, a hundred years hence u may still conunue to be 

abused.' However. I am far from pretending pt ti 

or compare w ith lhat illustrious literary character. 

"Bui, with regard to yen, I thought that you had al- 
wavs been allowed to he a /"W, even by the stupid as 
well as the envious — a had one, to be sure — immoral, 
florid, Asiatic, and diabolically popular, — leu still always 
a poet, mm. eon. This discovery, therefore, has to me all 
the grace of novelty, as well as of consolation (according 
lo Rochefoucault) to hod myself no-poetized in such good 
company. I am content to 'err with Plato, and can 
assure you very sincerely, thai I would rather !»■ received 
a non-poet with you, than be crowned Willi all toe hays 
of (the yet-uncrowned) I.akersni their society. I believe 
you think heller of those worthies than 1 do. I know 

die,,, ***** 

" As for Southey, the answer to my proposition of a 

•The Kmj. 



meeting is not yet come. I sent the message, with a 
short note, to him through Douglas Kinnaird, and Dou- 
glas's response is not arrived. If he accents, I shall 
have to go to England ; but if not, 1 do not think the Noel 
affairs will lake me there, as the arbitrators can settlo 
them w ithout my presence, and there do not seem to be 
any difficulties. The license lor die new name and ar- 
morial bearuigs will be taken out by the regular applica- 
tion, in such cases, to tire Crown, and sent to me. 

"1- llore a hope of seem:: you in I'alv again ever? 
What are vou doing '.'—torn/ by me, I know ; hut I have 
explained why before. I have no correspondence now 
with London, except through relations and law \ i 
one or Iwo friends. My greatest friend, Lord Clan, is 
at Rome : we met on the road, and our meeting was quite 
eniiimiiial — really pathetic on both sides. I have al- 
ways loved him better than any male thins in the world.' 
The preceding was enclosed in lhat which follows. 



LETTER DL. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Pisa, March 4, 1822. 

"Since I wtoIc the enclosed, I have waited anoiher 
post, and now have your answer acknowledging the arrival 
of ihe packet — a troublesome one, I fear, to you in more 
ways than one, both from weigh! external and internal. 

•The unpublished ihings in your hands, in Douglas 
K.'s, and Mr. John Murray's, are,' Heaven and I 

Ivri'-al kind of Drama ii| Ihe I l.lugc, &c. ;' — 'W'.-rn. r,' 

now with you; — a translation of Ihe first Canto of die 
Morganie Maggiore; — ditto of an Episode in Dante ; — 
some stanzas to ihe Po, June 1st, 1819 J— Hints from 
Horace, written in 1811, but a good deal, since, to bo 
omitted; — several prose things, which may, perhaps, as 
well remain unpublished; — 'The Vision, &c. of U 
Redivivus' m verse. 

"Here you see is'niore matter for a May morning;' 
but how much of this can be published is for con 
tion. The Cluevcdo (one of my best in thai line) has 
appalled the Row already, and must take ils chance al 
Paris, if al all. The new Mystery is less speculative 
than 'Cain,' and very pious; besides, it is chiclly lyrical 
The Morgante is the best translation lhat ever was or 
mil bo made ; and the rest are— whatever you please 
lo think them. 

" I am sorrv vou think Werner even approaching to any 
fitness lor Ihe stage, which, with my notion upon it, is 
very far from my present object. With regard to the 
publication, 1 have already explained that 1 have I 
hiiani expectations of either fame or profit in the present 

instances; hut. wish them published b mas they are 

written ; which is the common feeling of all scribblers. 

« Wei, respect to ■ Religion,' can 1 never convm 
that / have no such op, ,,,„.- , - the characters in thai 
drama, winch seems to have frightened everybody 1 Vol 
they arc nothing lo the expressions in Goethe's Faust, 
(which are leu limes hardier,) and not a whit more hold 
than those of Milton's Satan. My ideas of a character 
may run away with me: like all imaginative men, 1, of 

, se, imbody myself with the character while 1 oVou 

ii, hoi not a moment after ihe pen is from off the paper. 

"I am no enemy t" religion, but the contrary. Asa 
proof, I am educating mynaniraldaughterastrict I lalnohc 
in a convent of Romagna, for 1 think people can never 
have enough of religion, if they are to have any. I 
incline, myself, very much to the Catholic doctrines; but 
if 1 am to write a drama, I must make my characters 
speak as I conceive metO likely to arL'iie. 

" As to poor Shelley, who is another buohear to you 
and il,- world, he is, lo mv knowledge, the lead selfish and 
the uiildcsl of men — a man who has made more sacrifices 
ot'hi. fortune and feelings for others than any 1 ever heard 



LETTERS, 1822. 



199 



of./ With his speculative opinions I have nothing in com- 
mon, nor desire to have. 

"The truth i>, my dear Moore, you live near the stove 
of societv, where y<_m are unavoidably influenced by its 
heat and us vapours. I did so once— and too much — and 
enough to give a colour to my whole future existence. As 
in society was no* inconsiderable, I am surely 
not a prejudiced jud<*e upon the subject, unless in its 
favour; but 1 think it, as nowconstituted,/ataito all great 
original undertakings of every kind. I never courted it 
theii^ when I was young and high in blood, and one of its 
'curled darlings ;' apd do you think I would do so now, 
when I am living in a clearer atmosphere? One thing 
only might Lend me back to it, and that is, to try- once more 
it" I could do any good in politics; but not in the petty 
politics I Bee now preying upon our miserable country. 

'• Du not let me be misunderstood, however. If you 
speak your own opinions, they ever had, and will have, the 
i \- i. lit with me. But if you merely echo the 
monde,' (and it is difficult not to do so, being in its favour 
and its ferment,) I can only regret that you should ever 
repeal any thing to which I cannot pay attention. 

■ Hut I am prosing. The gods go with you, and as 
much immortality of all kinds as may suit your present 
and all other existence. 

8 Yours, fee" 



LETTER DLL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Pisa, March 6, 1622. 

"The enclosed letter from Murray hath melted me; 
though I think it is against his own interest to wish that 
I should continue his connexion. You may, therefore, 
send him the packet of ' Werner,' which will save you all 
further trouble. And pray, can you forgive me for the 
bore and expense I have already put upon you ? At 
least, say so — f >r I feel ashamed of having given you so 
much for such nonsense. 

"The fact is, I cannot keep mv resentments, though vio- 
lent enough in their onset. Besides, now that all the 
world are at Murray on my account, I neither can nor 
ought to leave him ; unless, as 1 really thought, it were 
for him that I should. 

B I have had no other news from England, except a 
letter from Barry Cornwall, the bard, and my old school- 
fellow. Though I have sickened you with letters lately, 
..- me "Your-, Sec. 

"P. S. In your last letter you say, speaking of Shelley, 
that von would almost prefer the 'damning bigot' to the 
'annihilating infidel.' Shelley believes in immortality, 
however — but this bv-the-way. Do you remember 
Frederick the Great's answer to the remonstrance of the 
villagers whose curate preached against the eternity of 
hell's torments ? It was thus: — 'If my faithful si bj< i 
of Schrausenhaussen prefer being eternally damned, let 
mem !' 

"Of the two, I should think the long sleep better than 
the agonized vigj!. But men, miserable as they are, cling 
so to anv thing like life, that they probably would prefer 
damnation to quiet. Besides, they think themselves so 
important in the creation, that nothing less can Satisfy 
their pride — the insects I" 



LETTER DLII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, March 6, 1822. 
8 You will long ago have received a letter from me, (or 
should,) declaring my opinion of the treatment you have 
met with about the recent publication. I think it dis- 
graceful to those who have persecuted you. I make 



peace with you, though our war was for other reasons 
than this same controversy. I have written to Moore bv 
this post to forward to you the tragedy of ' Werner." t 
shall not make or propose any present bargain about it or 
the new Mystery till we see if they succeed. If they 
don't sell, (which is not unlikely,) you sha' n't pay ; and I 
suppose this is fair play, if you choose to risk it. 

il Bartolini, the celebrated sculptor, wrote to me to desire 
to take my bust : I consented, on condition that he also 
took that of the Countess I ruicciou. He has taken both, 
and I think it will be allowed that hers is beautiful. I shall 
make you a present of them bo'h, to show that I >\->nt 
bear malice, and as a compensation fbr the trouble and 
squabble you had about Thorwaldsen's. Of my own I 
can hardly speak, except that it is thought very Uke what 
I now am, which is different from what I was, of course, 
since you saw me. The sculptor is a famous one; and 
as it was done by his mm particular request, will be done 
well, probably. 

"What is to be dune about Taafe and his Commen- 
tary? He will die, if he is not published; he will be 
damned if he ia; but that he do n't mind. We must 
pubbsh him. 

" All the row about me has no otherwise affected me 
than by the attack upon yourself, which is ungenerous in 
Church and State : but as all violence must in time have 
its proportionate reacUon, you will do better by-and-by. 
" Yours very truly, 

Noel Byron " 



LETTER DLIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, March 8, 1822. 

" You will have hed enough of my letters by this time- 
yet one word in answer to you' present missive. You 
are quite wrong in thinking that your 'advice* had offended 
me ; but I have already replied (if not answered) on 
that point. 

"With regard to Murray, as I really am the meekest 
and mildest of men since Moses, (though the public and 
mine ' excellent wife' cannot find it out,) I had already 
pacified myself and subsided back to Albemarle -street, as 
my yesterday's yepistle will have informed you. But I 
thought that I had explained my causes of bile — at least 
to you. 

" Some instances of vacillation, occasional neglect, and 
troublesome sincerity, real or imagined, are sufficient to 
put vour truly great author and man into a passion. But 
reflection, with some aid from hellebore, hath already 
cured me ' pro tempore ;' and, it it had not, a request from 
you and Hobhouse would have come upon me like two 
out of the ' tribus Antjcyris,' — with which, however, 
Horace despairs of purging a poet. I really fee' ashamed 
of having bored you so frequently and fully of late. But 
what could I do ? You are a friend — an absent one, 
alas ! — and as I trust no one more, I trouble you in pro- 
portion. 

8 This war of 'Church and S'ate' has astonished me 
more than it disturbs ; for I really thought ' Cain' a specu- 
lative and hardv, but still a harmless production. As I 
said before, I am really a great admirer of tangible reli- 
gion ; and am breeding one of my daughters a Catholic, 
that she may have her hands full. It is by far die most 
elegant worship, hardly excepting the Greek mythology. 
What with incence, pictures, statues, altars, shrines, relics, 
and the real presence, confession, absolution, — there is 
something sensible to gTasp at. Besides, it leaves no 
possibility of doubt ; for those who swallow their Deitv, 
really and truly, in transubstanuation, can hardly find any 
thing else otherwise than easy of digestion. 

"I am afraid that this sounds flippant, but I do n\ mean 
it to be bo ; only my turn of mind in so given to taking 



200 



LETTERS, 1822. 



things in the absurd point of view, that it breaks out in 
spite of me every now and then. Still, I do as 
that I axn a v<:v good Christian. Whether you will 
believe me in this, I do not know ; but I trust you will 
take my word f >r being 

H Very truly and affectionately yours, &c. 
"P.S. Do tell Murray that one of the conditions of 
peace is, tliat he publisheth (or obtaineth a publisher for) 
Taaie's Commentary on Dante, against which there 
appears in tin- trade an unaccountable repugnance. It 
will make the man so exuberand) happy. He dines with 
iii' and half a dozen English to-day ; and I have not the 
hear) to tell him how the bibllopolar world shims from his 
Commentary ; — and yet it is full of the most orthodox 
religion and morality. In short, I make ii a point that he 
shall he in print. He is such a good-natured, hear) " " 
Christian, thai we must give him a shove through the 
press. He naturally thirsts to be an author, and has been 
the happiest of men for these two months, printing, cor- 
recting collating, dating, anticipating', and adding to his 
treasures of learning. Besides, lit* has had another fall 
from liis horse into a ditch the other day, while riding oul 
with me into the.country." 



LETTER DLIV. 



TO .MR. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, March 15,1822. 

"I am glad that you and your friends approve t,\~ my 
letter of the 8th ultimo. You may give it what publicity 
you think proper in the circumstances. I have since 
written to you twice or thrice. 

"As to' a Poem in the old war,' I shall attempt of that 
kind nothing further. I Pillow the bias of my own mind, 

will I considering whether women or men are or are not 

to be pleased: but this is nothing to my publisher, who 
must judge and act according to popularity. 

"Therefore let the things take their change: if thry 
pay, ynu will pay nie in proportion ; and if they do n't, I 
must. 

"The NoelaffhirSjI hope, will not take me to England. 
I have no desire to revisit that country, unless it be to 
keep ymi out of a prison, (if this can be effected by my 
taking your place,) or perhaps to get myself into one, hy 
exacting satisfaction from one or two persons who take 
advantage of my absence to abuse me. Further than 
this, I have no business nor connexion with England, nor 
dc.sire to have, out of my own family ami friends, in whom 
I wish all prosperity. Indeed, I have lived upon the 

whole so little in England, (about hve years since I was 
one-and-twenty,) that my habits are too continental, and 
votir climate would please me as little as the society. 

"I saw the Chancellor's Report in a French paper. 
Pray, why do n't they prosecute the translation of Lucrt- 
tiua? or the original with its 

' Piimui In orbc De<M Cecil Timor,' 
'Tnntum Ratlfta pottlll uiadsn nialomm ?' 

"You must really get something dene for Mr. Taafe's 
Commentary ; what can I say to him .' 

"Yours, &o." 



LETTER DLV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, April 13, 1822. 

"Mr. Ktnnaird writes that there has been an 'excel- 
lent Defence' of 'Cam,' against 'Oxoniensis:' you have 
sent me ■•thing but a not very excellent o/-fcucc of the 
same poem. If there be such a 'Defender of the Faith,' 
you may send me his thirty nine articles, as a counter- 
balance to some of your late communications. 

"Are you to publish, or not, what Moure and Mr. Kin- 



naird have in hand, and the ' Vision of Judgment? 1 if 
von publish the latter in a very cheap edi d ■ 
baffle the ; ii ties b) a low price, you will find thai it wtfl 
do. The ■ Mystery 1 I look upon as good, and ' v, 
too, and I expect thai you will publish them > ■ 

Vi.ii in- ed not put your name to (Jtt't >■!>,, hill publish it ;i> 

a foreign edition, and let it make its way. Douglas Kn- 
naird has it still, with the preface, I believe. 

" I refer you to him tor documents on the late row here. 
I sent them a week ago. 

" Yours, fcc," 



LETTER DLVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, April 18, 1822. 
"I have received the Defence of 'Cam.' Who is my 
Warburton I — for he has done for me what the rash 
lor the poet against Crousaz. His reply semis to IBS 

conclusive : and if you understood your own inten 
would print it together with the poem. 

■ Ii is very odd that I do not hear from you. I have 
forward. -d to Mr. Douglas K aird tin- documents 0fl a 

squabble here, which occurred about a month a^o. The 
affair is still going on ; but they make nothing of it hitl*- 
erto. I think, w hat with home and abroad, there has been 
hot water enough for one while. Mr. Dawhrns, the 

English minister, has behaved in the handsomest and 
most gentlemanly manner throughout the whole business. 
" Yours ever, &c. 
"P. S. I have got Lord (Jlenhervie's book, winch is 

very amusing and able upon the topics whii h he touches 
upon, and part of the preface pathetic. Write soon." 



LETTER DLVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Pisa, April 22,1828. 

u Ynu will regret to hear that I have received intclli 
gence of the death of my daughter Allegra of a fever, in 
the convent of Bagna Cavallo, where she was placed for 
the last year, to commence her education. It is a heavy 
blow for many reasons, hut must be home, with time. 

" It is my present intention to send her remains to 
England for sepulture in Harrow church, (where I once 
hoped to have laid my own,) and tins is my reason for 
troubling you with this notice. I wish the funeral to be 
very private. The body is embalmed, and in lead. It 
will be embarked from Leghorn. Would you have any 
objection to give the proper directions on its arrival .' 
"I am yours, &c. 
■ X. B. 

a P. S. You are aware that Protestants arc not allowed 
holy ground in Catholic countries. 11 



LETTER DLVIII. 

TO MR. SHELLEY. 

"April 23, 1822. 
"The blow was stunning and unexpected ; for I thought 
die danger over, by the long interval between her stated 

amelioration and the arrival of the express. But I have 
borne up against it as I best can, and so far stieeessfaliy, 
that I can go about the usual business of life with (ho 
same appearance of composure, and even greater. There 
is nothing to prevent your cunnng to-morrow; but, per- 
haps, to-day, and yester-evening, it was better not to have 
met. I do not know that I have anv thing to reproach in 
my conduct, and certainly nothing in my feelings and 
intentions towards the dead. Bui it \i a moment when 



LETTERS, 1S22. 



201 



we are apt to think that, if this or that had be n done, 
such event might have been prevented ; (hough every day 
and hour shows us that ihey are the most natural and 
inevitable. I suppose that Time will do his usual work — 
Deuih has done his. 

K Yours ever, 

"N.B." 



LETTER DLIX. 

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

e Pisa,May4, 1322. 

*MV DEAR SIR WALTER, 

•Your account of your family is very pleasing: would 
that"! 'could answer this comfort with the like I' but I 
have just lost my natural daughter, Allegra, by a fever. 
The only consolation, save time, is the reflection, that she 
is either at rest or happy ; for her few years (only five) 
prevented her from having incurred any sin, except what 
we inherit from Adam. 

'Whom the goda love, die young.* 
a I need n<»t say that your letters are particularly wel- 
come, when they do not tax your time andVpalience ; and 
now that our correspondence is resumed, I trust it will 
continue. 

M have lately had some anxiety, rather than trouble 
about an awkward affair here, which von may perhaps 
have heard of: but our minister has behaved very hand- 
somely, and the Tuscan Government as well as it is pos- 
sible for such a government to behave, which is not saying 
much for the latter. Some other English, and Scots, and 
myself, had a brawl with a dragoon, who insulted one of 
the party, and whom we mistook for an officer, as he was 
medalled and well mounted, &c. ; but he turned out to be 
a sergeant-major. He called out the guard at the gates 
to arrest us, (we being unarmed ;) upon which I and 
another (an Italian) rode through the said guard ; but 
they succeeded in detaining others of the party. I rode 
to my house, and sent my secretary tcjfgive an account of 
the attempted and illegal arrest to the authorities, and 
then, without dismounting, rode back towards the gates, 
which are near my present mansion. Half way I met 
my man, vapouring away, and threatening to draw upon 
me, (who had a cane in my hand, and no other arms.) I, 
etill believing him an officer, demanded his name and 
address, and gave him my hand and glove thereupon. A 
servant of mine thrust in between us, (tntallv without 
orders,) but let him so on my command. He then rode 
off at full need ; but about forty paces further was stab- 
bed, and very dangerously, (so as to be in peril,) by some 
Cairn m Beg or other of my1pcd*ple, (tor I have some 
rough-handed folks about me,) I need hardly say without 
my direction or approval. The said dragoon I . 
sabnr.g our unarmed countrymen, however, at the gate, 
after thai were vi arresty and held by the guards, and 
wounded one, Captain Hay, very severely. However, he 
got his paiks, having acted like an assassin, and being 
treated like one. IV ho wounded him, though it was done 
before thousands of people, they have never been able to 
ascertain, or prove, nnr even the iceapon ; some said a 
pistol, an air-gun, a stiletto, a sword, a lance, a pitchfork, 
and what not. They have arrested and examined ser- 
vants and people of all descriptions, but can make out 
nothing. Mr. Dawkins, our minister, assures me, that no 
suspicion is entertained of the man who wounded him 
having been instigated by me, or any of the party. I 
enclose you copies of the depositions of those with us, 
and Dr. Craufurd, a canny Scot, (not an acquaintance,) 
who saw the latter part of the affair. They are in 
Italian. 

"These are the only literary matters in which I have 
been engaged since the publication and row about ( Cain ■;' 
out Mr. Murray has several tilings of mine in his obste- 

26 



trica! hands. Another Mystery — a Vision — a Drama— 
and the like. But you wont tell me what you are dom» ; 
however, I shall fir.d you out, write what you will. You 
say that I should like your son-in-iaw ; it would be very 
difficult for me to dislike any one coimected with you ; 
but I have no doubt that his own qualities are all that \ou 
describe. 

" I am sorry you do n't like Lord Orford's new work. 
My aristocracy, which is very fierce, makes Mm a favour- 
ite of mine. Recollect that those 'little factions' com- 
prised Lord Chatham and Fox, the father, and that we 
live in gigantic and exaggerated times, which make all 
under Gog and Magog appear pigmean. After having 
seen Napoleon begin like Tamerlane and end like Bajazet 
in our own time, we have not the same interest in what 
would otherwise have appeared important history. But 
I must conclude. 

"Believe me ever and most truly yours, 

"Noel Byron." 



LETTER DLX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Pisa, May, 17, 1822. 

"I hear that the Edinburgh has attacked the three- 
dramas, which is a bad business for you; and I dout 
wonder that it discourages you. However, that volume 
may be trusted to time, — depend upon it. I read it over 
with some attention since it was published, and I think 
the time will come when it will be preferred to my other 
miings, though not immediately. I say this without irri- 
tation against the critics or criticism, whatever they may 
be, (for I have not seen them ;) and nothing that has or 
may appear in Jeff] Re* iew can make me forget that 
he stood by me for ten good years without any motive to 
do so but his own good-will. 

"I hear Moore is in town ; remember me to him, and 
believe me" " Yours truly, 

■N. B. 

"P.S. If you think it necessary, you may send me the 
Edinburgh. Should there be any thing that requires an 
answer, I w ill reply, but temperately and technically ; that 
is to say, merely with respect to the principles of the criti- 
cism, and not personally or offensively as to its literary 
merits." 



LETTER DLXI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, May 17,1822. 

"I hear you are in London. You will have heard from 
Douglas Kinnaird (who tells me you have dined with 
him) as much as you desire to know of my affairs at home 
and abroad. I have lately lost my little girl Allegra by 
a fever, which has been a serious blow to me. 

" I did not write to you lately, (except one letter to 
Murray*s,) not know a your ' whereabouts. 

Douglas K. refused to forward my message to Mr. 
Sou they — why, he himself can explain. 

"You will have seen the statement of a squabble, &c. 
&c* "What are you about ? Let me hear from you at 
your leisure, and believe me ever yours, 

«N. B." 



LETTER DLXn. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

" Montenero,f May 26, 1822. 
" Near Leghorn. 
"The body is embarked, in what ship I know not, nei- 



* Here fellows a repetition of the details given on tils lubjeet lo Bit 
Walter Scott and other*. 

t AhiU.Uiree or four mile* from Leghorn, much retorted to ai a p«M 
of residence during the summer irj) iih». 



202 



LETTERS, 1622. 



Iher could I enter into the details ; but the Countess G . 
G. has had the goodness to give I orders to 

Mr. Durui, who superintends the embarkation, and will 
■vrite to you. I wish 11 to be buried in Harrow church. 

" There is a spot in the churctn/arri, near the foot path, 
on the brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a 
tomb under a large tree, {I- ■■ ' ol Peacbie, 

or Peachey,) where I used to sit f'r hours and hours 
wheu a boy. This was my favourite spot ; bul as 1 wish 
to erect a tablet to her memory, the body bad better be 
deposited in the church. Ne« , on the left hand 

as you enter, there is a monument with a labial 
ing these words : — 

• Wbcri Sorrow weepso'ir Virt-i. ' - laefTcTdalt, 
Our tears bocome ua, aod OOr griefia Just I 

Such were Hie lears ahe shed, who grateful pay! 
This last Bad tribute of her love and praiae .' 

I recollect them, (after seventeen years,) not 6om any 
thing remarkable in them, but because from my seat in 

the gallery I had generally my eyes turned towards thai 
monument. As near it as convenient I coul I wish Alle- 
gro to be buried, and on the wall a marble tablet placed, 
with these words : — 

" In Memory of 

Allegra, 

Daughter of G. G. Lord Byron, 

who died at Bagna Cavallo, 

in Italy, April 20th, 1822, 

aged five years ami three months. 

1 1 shall go lo her, but she ahall not return to me.' 

Set Samuel, xii.23. 



I went over the Constitution, (the Commodore's flag-ship,) 
and saw, among other things worthy of remark, a little 
boy torn on board nl ber byasailor's wife. They had 
led him 'Constitution Jones.' I, of course, ap- 
the name; and the woman added,' Ah, sir, if he 
turns out but half as good as his name !' 

" Yours ever, &C." 



"The funeral I wish to he as private us is consistent 
with decency ; and I could hope that Henry Drury will, 
perhaps, read the service over her. If he should decline 
it, it can be done by die usual minister for the lime being. 
I do not know that I need add more just now. 

"Since I came here, I have been invited by the Ameri- 
cans on board Uteir squadron, where I was received widi 
all the kindness wliich I could wish, and with mare cere- 
mony than I am fond of. I round them finer ships than 
your own of the same class, well manned and . 
A number of American gentlemen also were on board at 
the time, and some ladies. As I was taking hue, an 
American lady asked me for a rosi re, for the 

purpose, she said, of sending to America something which 
I had about me, as a memorial. 1 need not add that 1 
felt die compliment properly. Captain Chauncey showed 
me an American and very pretty edition of my poems, 
and offered me a passage to the United Slates, if I would 
go there. Commodore Jones was also not less kind and 
attentive. I have since received the enclosed [etter,do- 
siring me to sit for my picture for some Americans. It 
ular diat, in the same year that Lady Noel Leaves 
by will an interdiction for my daughter to see her father's 
portrait for many years, the individuals of a nation not 
remarkabli C i their likin<r to the English in particular, 
nor for flattering men in genera!, request me t-> sit for mj 
c pottrtraicture,' as Baron Bradwardine calls it. I am 
also told of considerable literary honours in Germany. 
Goethe, I am told, is my professed patron and protector. 
At Lcipsic, this year, the highest prize was proposi d for 
a translation of two cantos of Childe Harold. I am n"t 
sure that this was at teipsic, but Mr. Rowcroftwaa my 
authority — a good German scholar, (a young Ann ncan,) 
and an acquaintance of Goethe's. 

"Goetho and the Germans arc particularly fond of 
Don Juan, which they judge of as a work of art. I had 
heard something of this before through Baron Lutzerode. 
The translations have been very frequent of several of 
the works, and Goethe made a comparison between 
Faust and Manfred. 

" All this is some compensation for your English native 
Vutality, so fully displayed this year to its highest extent. 
* I forgot to mention a little anecdote of a different kind, j 



LETTER DLXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Men i nero, near Leghorn, May 29, IS22. 

" I return you the proofs* revised. Your printer has 

made one odd mistake :— ' poor as a mouse,' instead of 

'poor .is a miser.' The expression may seem strange, 

but it is only a translation of semper avarus eget.' You 

t stery, and publish as soon as you can. 

I care notlung ( m,' nor the Hue approbations 

as. All thai is to bi red by you 

on the subject is as a matter of biatrial ; and if I square 

thai t" your notions, (.even to the running the risk entirely 

: ,,, permit me to choose avj own time and 

i i on. With regard to the late volume, 

thi present run against it or me may impede it for a time, 

but it has the vral principle of permanency within it, as 

you may perhaps one day discover, I wrote lo you on 

another subject a few days ago. "Yours, 

■•N.B. 
"P. S. Please to send me the Dedication of Sardana 
palus to Goethe. I shall prefii it to Werner, unless you 
prefer my putting another, slating that die former had 
been omitted by the publi 
"On the tidepage of die present volume, put ( Published 
Author by J. M." 



LETTER DLXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAF. 

" Montenero, Leghorn, June 6, 1822. 

"I return you the revise of Werner, and expect die rest. 
With regardto the Lines to the Po,pefhaps you had 
better put them quietly in a second edition (it you reach 
one, thai istosay) than in the first ; because, though they 
have been reckoned fine, and I wish them to be preserved, 
I do not wish them t" attract immediate observation, 
on act mi of the relationship of the Lady to whom they 
are addressed with the first fimnaes in Homagna and the 
Marches. 

" The dl find, r of 'Cam' may or may not be, as you 
term huu, 'a tyro m literature:' however, 1 mink both you 
and I are under great obligation t" him. I have n 
I Idinburjjh Review in Galigi t me, and have 

ndl yet decided whether to answer them or not; fiV, it'I 
do, it will bediliiculi t>r me apt 'to makeeport for the 
Philistines 1 by pulling down a In. use or two; since, when 
t ones lake pen in hand, I must say what comes upper- 
most, or fling il away. I have not the hypocrisy to pre- 
tend impartiality, noi the temper (as it is i ailed) to keep 
always from saying what may not be pleasing to the 
hearer or reader. What do ihey mean by 'elaborate? 
w by, you know that they were written as fast as I could' 
put pen to paper, and pruned from the original MSS., 
and never revised but in the proofs: luoh at the dates and 

the MSK. themselves. Whatever faults they have must 

spring from carelessness, and not fi"in Labour. They said 

tl„ at i • l.ara,' which I wrote while undressing, after 

coming home from balls and masi|ueradcs in the year of 
revelry, ISM "Yours. 

"June 8, 1822. 
• You give me no explanation of your intention as to the 



LETTERS, 1822. 



203 



1 Vision of Quevedo Redivivus,' one of my best things : 
indeed, you are altogether so abstruse and undecided 
lately, that I suppose you^mean me to write 'John Mur- 
rav, Esq. a Mystery,'-T-a composition which would no! 
displease the clergy nor the trade. I by no means wisl. 
you to do what vol do n't like, but merely to say what you 
will do. The Vision must be published by some one. 
As to * clamours,' the die is cast ; and, ( come one, come 
all,' we will fight it out — at least one of us." 



LETTER DLXV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



■ Montenero, Villa Dupov, near Leghorn, 
"June 8,1822. 

* I have written to you twice through the medium of 
Alurrav, and on one subject, trite enough, — the loss of 
poor little Allegra by a fever ; on which topic I shall say 
no more — there is nothing but time. 

" A few davs ago, my earliest and dearest friend, Lord 
l llare, came over from Geneva on purpose to see me be- 
Ibre he returned to England. As I have always loved 
him (since I was thirteen, at Harrow) better than any 
(mate) thing in the world, I need hardly say what a me- 
lancholy pleasure it was to see him for a day only ; for 
he was obliged to resume his journey immediately. * 

* ****** 
I have heard, also, many other tilings of our acquaintances 
which I did 'not know; among others, that * 

* * *. Do you recollect, in the year 
of revelry, 1814, the pleasantest parties and balls all over 
London ? and not the least so at * * 's. Do^jou recol- 
lect vour singing duets with Lady * *, and my flirtation 
with Lady* *, and all the other fooleries of the time? 
while * * was sighing, and Lady * * ogling him with 
her clear hazel eyes. J9i<* eight years have passed, and 

since that time, * * has ****** ; has run 

away with ***** ; and myscn (as my Nottingham- 
thirc friends call themselves) might as well have thrown 
myself out of the window while you were singing, as in- 
lermarried where [ did. You and ***** have come 
off the best of us. I speak merely of my marriage, and 
its consequences, distresses, and calumnies; for I have 
been much more happy, on the whole, since, than I ever 
could have been with * * * * *■ 

I have read the recent article of Jeffrey in a faithful 
transcription of the impartial Galignani. I suppose the 
Ion" and short of it is, that he wishes to provoke me to 
reply. But 1 won't, for I owe him a good turn still for 
bis kindness by-gone. Indeed, I presume that the present 
jpportumty of attacking me again was irresistable ; and 1 
can't blame him, knowing what human nature is. I shall 
make but one remark :— what does he mean by elaborate? 
The whole volume was written with the greatest rapidity, 
in the midst of evolutions and revolutions, and perse- 
cutions, and proscriptions of all who interested me in 
Italy. They said the same of ' Lara,' which, you know, 
was' written amid balls and fooleries, and after coming 
home from masquerades and routs, in the summer of the 
sovereigns. Of all I have ever written, they are perhaps 
ihe most carelessly composed ; and their faults, whatever 
they may bo, are those of negligence, and not of labour. 
I do not tlunk this a merit, bin it is a fact. 

" Yours ever and truly, 

"N. B. 
" P. S. You see the great advantage of my new signa- 
ture : it may either stand for ' Nota Bene' or ' Noel 

Byron,' and, as such, will save much repetition, in writing 
either books or letters. Since I came here, I have been 
invited on board of the American squadron, and treated 
with all possible honour and ceremony. They have asked 
me to sit for my picture; and, as I was going away, 



an American lady took a rose from me, (which had been 
given to me by a very pretty Italian lady that very mom- 
ni7.) because she said, 'She was determined to send or 
take something winch I had about me to America.' There 
is a kind of Lalla Rookh incident for you ! However, all 
these American honours arise, perhaps, not so much from 
their enthusiasm for my ' Poeshie,' as their belief in my 
dislike to the English, — in which I have the satisfaction 
to coincide with them. I would rather, however, have a 
d from an American, than a snuff-box from an em- 
peror." 



LETTER DLXVI. 



TO MR. ELLICE. 



"Montenero, Leghorn, June 12, 1822. 

" MY DEAR ELLICE, 

"It is a long time since 1 tiave written to you, but I 
have not forgotten your kindness, and I am now going to 
tax it — I hope not too highly — but do nt be alarmed, it is 
not a loan, but information which I am about to solicit. 
Bv your extensive connexions, no one can have better 
opportunities of hearing the real state of South America — 
I mean Bolivar's country. I have many years had trans- 
atlantic projects of setUement, and what I could wish 
from you would be some information of the best course to 
pursue, and some letters of recommendation in case I 
should sail for Angostura. I am told that land is very 
cheap there ; but though I have no great disposablefunds to 
vest in such purchases, yet my income, such as it is, would 
be sufficient in any country, (except England,) for all the 
comforts of life, and for most of its luxuries. The war 
there is now over, and as 1 do not go there to speculate, 
but to settle without any views but those of independence 
and the enjoyment of the common civil rights, I should 
presume such an arrival would not be unwelcome. 

"All I request of you is, not to discourage nor encou- 
rage, bot to give me such a statement as you think prudent 
and proper. I do not address my other friends upon this 
subject, who would only throw obstacles in my way, and 
bore ine to return to England ; which I never will do, 
unless Compelled by some insuperable cause. I have 
a quantity of furniture, books, &c. &c. &c. which I could 
easily ship from Leghorn; but I wish to 'look before I 
leap' over the Atlantic. Is it true mat for a few thousand 
dollars a large tract of land may he obtained? I speak 
of South America, recollect. I have read some publica- 
tions on the subject, but they seemed violent and vulgar 
party productions. Please to address your answer to me 
at tiiis place, and believe me ever and truly yours, &c." 



LETTER DLXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Pisa,July6,1822. 
"I return you the revise.* I have softened the part 
to which Gifford objected, and changed the name of 
Michael to Raphael, who was an angel of gentler sym- 
pathies. By-the-way, recollect to alter Michael to Ra- 
phael in the scene itself throughout, for I have only had 
time to do so in the list of the dramatis personam, and scratch 
nut all the pcnril-murks, to avoid puzzling the printers. 
I have given the ' Vision of Quevcdo RedhivuJ to John 
Hunt, which will relieve you from a dilemma. He must 
publish it at his mm ri<k, as it is a! his ovi u desire. Give 
hjm the corrected copy which Mr. Kinnaird had, as it is 
mitigated partly, and also the preface. 



« Yours, &c." 



' Ot "lle&veu »uJ Emh." 



204 



LETTERS, 1822. 



LETTER DLXYIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



■ Pisa, July B 
"Last week I returned you the pa'Let of pr.Hits. Ymi 
bad perhaps, better not publish in the same volume the 
Po and Rimini translation. 

B I have consigned a tetter to Mr. John Hunt for the 
*\ ] ion of Judgment, 1 which vou will hand over to him. 
Also the 'Pulci id Kalian, and any pro 

rrive I hi re, a 
of commencing a pei ' whii h l 

1 do not propose to you to be the pi 
i 1 know that you are unfriends ; bul all I 
your care, except the volume now in the press, and the 
manuscript purchased of Mr. Moore, can be given for 
this purpose, according as they are wanted. 
"With regard to what von say about your ' want of 
: .,' I can only 1 1 i ted the note to 

Marino Faliero against my positive revocation, and thai 
vou omitted the Dedication of Sardanapalus to I 
i i 1 ii, i ire the volume now in the pre ■■■■,) both of 

which were things not very agreeable bo m< and which 1 
could wish to be avoided in future, OS they it., ' be with 
a very little care, or a simple memorandum in your pocket 
book. 

"It is not impossible that I may have three or four 
cantos of I ton Juan ready by autumn, or a little 
[ obtained a permission from my dictatress to continue 
/t, — provided always it was to be mure guarded and deco- 
rous and ai atimeutal in the continuation than in the conv 
i onditions have been fulfilled 
ma) be seen, perhaps, by-and-by ; but the embargo was 
only taken off upon these stipulations. You can answei 
at vour leisure. " X'our8 > &C. 1 



i.Kttii; hi, XIX. 



TO Mil. MOORE. 



"Pisa, July 12, 1822. 

K I have written to you lately, but nol in answer to your 

jasl letter of about a fortnighl ago. 1 wish to know [and 

requesj an answer to that point) what became of H,. 

st an/as to Wellington, 11 (intended to open a canto of Don 

Juan with,) which I sent you several months ago. II 

they have Fallen into Murray's hands, he and the Tories 
mil suppi i ■ them, ai tl a line: rati that hero at his real 

value. Tin be ex] n tins, as 1 have no other copy, 

having sent you the original ; and if you have them, let 
me have that again, or a copy correct. * * * 

R I subscribed at Leghorn two hundred Tuscan crowns 
to your Irishism committee : it is about a thousan 

more or less. As Sir C. S., who receives thirteen tl - 

sand a-year of the public money, could no) afford 

,■1 livres out of his enormous salary, ii would 
have appean d ostentatious in a private individual t" pre- 
tend to surpass him ; and therefore I have sent but the 
above sun', as you will gee by the enclosed receipt 

"Leigh Hunt is here, after a voyage of eight months, 
during which he has, I presume, made the Periplus of 
Hanno the Carthaginian, and with much the same speed. 
lie is setting up a Journal, to which I have promised to 
contribute; and in the first number the 'Vision of Judg- 
ment, by duevedo Rcdivivus,' will probably appear, with 
other articles. 

"Can you give us any tiling? He seems sanguine 
about the matter, but {mire nous) I am not. 1 do not, 
however, like to put him out of spirits by saying so; for 
be is bilious and unwell. Do. pray, answer this letter 
immediately. 

" Do send Hunt any thing, in prose or verse, of yours, 



l Dou Juic, Caolo IX. S.ama 1. 



to start him handsomely — any lyrical, irical, or what you 
please. 

L Has not your Potato Committee been blundering? 
Your ad',. hi Mr. L. Callaghan (a 

name for a banker) hath been disposing of money in 
Ireland 'sans authority vC the Committee.' I suppose it 
will end in Caltaghan's calling out the Committee, the 
i ties pistols in his pocket, of course. 

8 When you can spare lime from duelling, coquetting 
and clareting with vour Hibernians of both sexes, let me 
have a hue from you. I doubt whether Paris is a good 
ii the comp isHioD of your new poesy. 1 



LETTER DLXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



-Pisa, August 8, 1822. 

"You will have heard by this time thai Shelley and 
another gentleman (Captain Williams) were drowned 
about a month ago, {a mwUfi yesterday,) in a squall off* 
There is ihus another man gone, 
about whom the world was ill-naturedly, and ignorantly, 
and brutally mistaken. It will, perhaps, do him justice 
now, when be can be no better for it. 'You were all 
mistaken about Shelley, who was, without exception, tho 
best and least selfish man 1 ever knew.' 

L - 1 have not seen the thing you mention,* and only 
heard of it casually, nor have 1 any desire. The price 
is, as I saw in some advertisements, fourteen shillings, 
which i* too much to pay fur a libel on <>!,.■'< self. Some 
one said in a letter, that it was a Doctor Watkins, who 
deals in the life and libel line. It must have dimished vour 
natural pleasure, as a friend, (vide Kochefoucault,) to see 
yourself Hi It. 

B With regard to the Blackwood fellows, I never pub- 
lished any tinny against them; nor, indeed, have seen 
theii Magazine (except in Galignanffl extracts) for these 
three years past. I once wrote, a good while ago, some 
remarks! on their review of Don Juan, but saying very* 
little about themselves, — and these were not published. 
If vou think iliat 1 iiu^lit to follow your c:.simp!e| (and I 
tike to be in your company when I can) in contradicting 
their impudence, you may shape this declaration of mino 
into a similar paragraph for me. It is possible that you 
may hai e Been the little I did write (ami never published) 
at Alurrav's; ii contained much more about Southey than 
about the Blacks. 

■ If you think that I ought to do any tlung about Wat- 

Irfns's I Ir, I should not care much about publishing my 

Memoir now, should it be necessary to counteract the 
fellow. Hut in thai ease, I should lU*e to look over the 
pre&l myself Lei me know what you think, or whether 
1 had belter not} — at least, not the second part, which 
touches on the actual confines of still existing matters. 

"I have written three more Cantos • f Don Juan, and 
am hovering on the brink of another, (the ninth.) The 
reason I v anl the stanzas again which 1 sent vou is, that 
as these cantos contain a full detail (like the storm in 
Canto Second) of the siege and assault of Ismael with 
much of Barcasm on those hutchersQ in large business, 
your mercenary soldiery, it is a good opportunity of grac- 
ing the poem with *****_ With 
in I these fellows, it is necessary, in the pre- 
b of philosophy and tyranny, to throw away the 
scabbard. 1 know it is against fearful odds ; but the battle 
must be fought ; and U will bo eventually for the good of 



A book which had Jml uppcarud, entitled " Memoirs of the HieU 
Hon. Lord Byron " * 

t Sh I? It eri w the BfJItOra of Bl«ckwoml'» Magazine, pope 292. 

J It h.ul bean unrud, hi a lute number of iHackw ood, that both 
Lord Byron and myself were employed in writing satires against tbfcl 

U Alluding to Wellington. See the beginning of Canto IX. 



LETTERS, 



1822. 



205 



mankind, whatever it may be for the individual who risks 
himself. 

" What do you think of your Irish bishop ? Do you 
remember Swift's line, ' Let me have a barrack — a fig for 
the clergy? This seems to have been his reverence's 
motto. * * * * * 

******* 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER DLXXI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, August 27, 1S22. 

" II is boring to trouble you with ' such small gear ;' but 
it must be owned that I should be glad if you would 
mt|Mire whether my Irish subscription ever reached the 
Committee in Paris from Leghorn. My reasons, like 
Vellum's, 'are threefold:' First, I doubt the accuracy of 
all almoners, or remitters of benevolent cash: second, 1 
do suspect that the said Committee, having in part served 
its time to timeserving, may have kept back the acknow- 
ledgment of an obnoxious politician's name in their lists ; 
and, third, I feel pretty sure that I shall one day be twitted 
by the government scribes for having been a professor of 
love for Ireland, and not coming forward with the others 
in her distresses. 

"It is not, as you may opine, that I am ambitious of 
having my name in the papers, as I can have that any 
day in the week gratis. All I want is, to know if the 
Reverend Thomas Hall did or did not remit my subscrip- 
tion (200 scudi of Tuscany, or about a thousand francs, 
more or less) to the Committee at Paris. 

tt The other day at Viareggio, I thought, proper to swim 
off to my schooner (the Bolivar) in the offing, and thence 
to shore again— about three miles, or better, in all. As it 
was at midday, under a broiling sun, the consequence has 
been a feverish attack, and my whole skin's coming off, 
after going through the process of one large continuous 
blister, raised by the sun and sea together. I have suf- 
fered much pain ; not being able to lie on my back, or 
even side ; for my shoulders and arms were equally St. 
Bartholomewed. But it is over, — and I have got a new 
skin, ami am as glossy as a snake in its new suit. 

B We have been burning the bodies of Shelley and 
'Williams on the seashore, to render them fit for removal 
and regular interment. You can have no idea what an 
extraordinary effect such a funeral pile has, on a desolate 
Bhore, with mountains in the back-ground and the sea 
before, and the singular appearance the salt and frankin- 
cense gave to the flame. All of Shelley was consumed, 
except his heart, which would not take the flame, and is 
now preserved in spirits of wine. 

"Your old acquaintance, Londonderry, has quietly died 
at North Cray ! and the virtuous De Witt was torn in 
pieces by the populace ! What a lucky * * * 
* * the Irishman has been in his life and end.* 

In him your Irish Franklin est mort! 

"Leigh Hunt is sweating articles for his new Journal ; 
and both he and I think it somewhat shabby in you not 
to contribute. W ill you become one of the properrioters ? 
Do, and we go snacks. 1 I recommend you to think twice 
before you respond in the negative. 

u I have nearly {quite three) four new cantos of Don 
Juan ready. I obtained permission from the female 
Censor Morum of my morals to continue it, provided it 
were immaculate ; so I have been as decent as need be. 
There is a deal of war — a siege, and ail that, in the style, 
graphical and technical, of the shipwreck in Canto Se- 
cond, which 'took,' as they say, in the Row. 

"Yours. &c. 



" P. S. That * * * Galignani has about ten lies 
m one paragraph. It was not a Bible that was found in 
Shelley's pocket, but John Keats's poems. However, 
it would not have been strange, for he was a great 
admirer of Scripture as a composition. / did not send 
my bust to the academy of New-York ; but I sat for my 
picture to young West, an American artist, at the request 
of some members of that Academy to him that he would 
take my portrait, — for the Academy. I believe. 

" I had, and still have, thoughts of South America, but 
am fluctuating between it and Greece. 1 should have 
gone, long ago, to one of them, but for my liaison with 
the Countess G'.; for love, in these days, is little com- 
patible with glory. She would be delighted to go too, 
but I do not choose to expose her to a long voyage, and a 
residence in an unsettled country, where I shall probably 
take a part of some sort." 



LETTER DLXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAV. 



* The particular* of this event bad, it la evident, not vet rtacoeo 
Bw Mfiowi 



"Genoa, October 9. 1822. 

" I have received your letter, and as you explain it, I 
have no objection, on your account, to omit those pas- 
sages in the new Mystery, (which were marked in the 
half-sheet sent the other day to Pisa,) or the passage in 
Cain; — but why not be open, and say so aXjirst? You 
should be more straight-forward on every account. 

" I have been very unwell — four days confined to my 
bed in ' the worst inn's worst room,' at Lerici, with a vio- 
lent rheumatic and bilious attack, constipation, and the 
devil knows what : — no physician, except a young fellow, 
who, however, was kind and cautious, and that's enough 

"At last I seized Thompson's book of prescriptions, 
(a donation of yours,) and physicked myself with the first 
dose I found in it ; and after undergoing the ravages of 
all kinds of decoctions, sallied from bed on the fifth day to 
cross the Gulf to Seslri. The sea revived me instantly ; 
and I ate the sailor's cold fish, and drank a gallon of coun- 
try win.*, and got to Genoa the same night after landing 
at Sestri, and have ever since been keeping well, but thin- 
ner, and with an occasional cough towards evening. 

" I am afraid the Journal is a bad business, and won't 
do ; but in it I am sacrificing myself for others — / can 
have no advantage in it. I believe die brothers Hunts to 
be honest men ; I am sure that they are poor ones: they 
have not a nap. They pressed me to engage in this work, 
and in an evil hour I consented. Still I shall not repent, 
if I can do them the least service. I have done all I can 
for Leigh Hunt since he came here ; but it is almost use- 
less : — his wife is ill, liis six children not very tractable and 
in the affairs of this world he himself is a child. The 
death of Shelley left them totally aground ; and I could 
not see them in such a state without using the common 
feelings of humanity, and what means were in my power* 
to set them afloat again. 

"So Douglas Kinnaird is out of the way? He was so 
the last time 1 sent him a parcel, and he gives no previous 
notice. When is he expected again 7 

" Yours, &c. 

" P. S. Will you say at once — do you publish Werner 
and the Mystery, or not ? You never once allude to them. 

" That cursed advertisement of Mr. J. Hunt is out of 
the limits. I did not lend him my name to be hawked 
about in this way. 

****** 

u How ever, I believe — at least, hope — that after all you 
may be a good fellow at bottom, and it is on this presump- 
tion that I now write to you on the subject of a poor wo- 
man of the name of Fbssy, who is, or was, an author of 
yours, as she savs, and nublished a book op Switzerland 
in 1816. patronized by the 'Court and Colonel M'Mahon, 



LETTERS, 1822. 



206 



Bui it seems that neither the Court nor the Colonel couM 
get ovei the portentous price of * three pounds thirteen 
ui< I -i\,i in-. , which alarmed the to ■ ■- public; 

and, m short, 'the book died away,' and, what is worse, 
the pooi soul's husband di< d too, and she writes with the 
man a corpse before her; but instead of addressing the 
bishop <w Mr. Wilberforce, she hath recourse to that 
i «d, atheistical, i ical, phlogistical person, 

jnysen, as they say in Notts, It is strange enough, but 
the rascaille English, who calumniate me in everydirec- 
tion and on every Bcore, when* n r the) are in great dis- 
tns b recur to me tor assistance. It' 1 have had one ex- 
ample of this, I have had letters from a thousand, and as 
far as is in my power have tried to repay good lor evil, 
and purchase a shilling's worth of salvation as long as tnv 
pocket can hold out. 

■■ Now, 1 am willing to do what I can for this unfor- 
tunate person; hut her situation ajid her wishes (not 
unreasonable, however) require more than can be ad- 
vanced bj one individual Like myself; tor 1 have many 
claims of the same kind just al present, and also some 
remnants of ddt to pay in England — God, he knows, the 
latter how reluctantly! Can the Literary Fund do no- 
shing for her ! By your interest, which is great among 
ihe pious, I dare say that something might be collected. 
Can you get any of her hooks published .' Suppose you 
took her as author in my place, now vacant among your 
ragamuffins: she is a moral and pious person, and will 
shine upon your shelves. But, seriously, do what you 
can fur her." 



LETTER DLXX11I. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Genoa, 9 h ™ 23,1822. 
"I have to thank you for a parrel of books, which are 
very welcome, especially Sir Waller's gift of ( Halidon 
Hill.' You have sent mo a copy id • Werner,' hut with- 
out the preface. If you have published it u-ithmtt, you 
will have plunged me into a very disagreeable dilemma, 

because 1 shall he accused of plagiarism from Miss Lee's 

i ri miaii's Tale, whereas 1 have lully and freely acknow- 

|.-d'_'<-d lliat tin- drama is entirely lal,< n I'mm the story. 

K I return you the Quarterly Review, uncut and un- 
opened, not from disrespeet, or disregard, or pique, but it 
is a kind of reading which I have some time disused, as I 
think the periodical style of writing hurtful to the habits 
of the mind by presenting the superficies of too many 
things at once. 1 do not know that it contains any thing 
disagreeable to me — it may or it may not ; nor do I re- 
turn it on account that there may he an article which you 
[Anted at in one of your late letters, but because I have 
left off reading these kind of works, and should equally 
have returned you any other number. 

"I am obliged to take in one or two abroad because 
solicited to do so. The Edinburgh came before me by 
mere chance in Galignani's picnic sort of gazette, where 
he had inserted a part of it. 

M You will have received various letters from me lately, 
jn a style which I used with reluctance ; but you lefl me 
no other choice by your absolute refusal to communicate 
with a man you did not like upon the men- simple matter 
of transfer of a few papers of little consequence, (except 
to tlieir author,) and which could be of no moment to 
yourself. 

u I hope that Mr. Kinnaird is hotter. It is strange 
that you never alluded to his accident, if it be true, as 
stated in the papers. 

a I am yours, &c. &c. 
* I hope that you have a milder winter than we have 
had here. We have had inundations worthy of the Trent 
or Po, and the conductor (Franklin's) of my house was 



Struck (oi supposed to be stricken) by a thunderbolt. I 

.. i, ai the window that 1 was dazzled and my eyes 

hurt for several minutes, and everybody in the house fell 

an electric shock at the moment. Madame Guiccioli was 

yoSC. 

"I have thought since Uiat your bigots would have 
saddled me wit (asThwackumdidSanars) 

whi n be bit lus tongue in talking metaphysics) if any 
thing hsd happened of consequence. These fellows al- 
ways forget Christ in their Christianity, and what he said 
when 'the lower of Siloam fell. 1 

K To-day is the 0th, and the 10th is my surviving daugh- 
ter's birthday. 1 have ordered, as a regale, a mutton chop 
and a battle of ale. She is seven years old, I believe. 
Did I ever tell you that the day I came of age I dined on 
eggs and bacon and a bottle of al< ' For once in a way 
they are my favourite dish and drinkable, but as neither 
of them agree with me, 1 never use them but on great 
jubilee — once in (bux or five years or so. 

'■ I see somebody represents the Hunts and Mrs. Shel- 
ley as living in my house; it is a falsehood. They 
reside at some distance, and I do not see them twice in a 
mon h. I have not met Mr. Hunt a dozen times since 
I came to Genoa, or near it. 

" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER DLXXTV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Genoa, lC*" 25°, 1822. 
" I had sent you back the Quarterly without perusal, 
having resolved to read no more reviews, good, bad, or 
indifferent ; but ' who can control his fate V G align an i, 
to whom my English studies are confined, has forwarded 
a copy ofat least one-half of it in Ins indefatigable catch- 
penny weekly compilation ; and as, ' like honour, it came 
unlookcd for,' I have looked through it. I must say that, 
upon the whale, that is, the whole of the haff which I have 
read, (for the other half is to he the segment ofGafigna- 
in's next wei k*s circular,) it is extremely handsome, and 
any thing but unkind or unfair. As I take the good in 
wood part, I must not, nor will not, quarrel with the bad. 
What the writer says of Don Juau is harsh, but it is in- 
evitable. He must follow, or at least not directly oppose, 

il pinion of a prevailing and yet not very firmly seated 

party. A review may and will direct and ' turn awry' the 
currents of opinion, but it must not directly oppose them. 
Don Juan will be known, hv-and-bv, for what it is in- 
tended, a Satire on almses of the present state of I 
and not an eulogy of vice.* It may be now and then 
Voluptuous : — I can't help that. AriostO is worse ; Sniol- 
[ett (see Lord StrutweB in vol. 2d of Roderick Random) 
ten times worse; and Fielding no better. No girl will 
eyei I"- seduced by reading Don Juan: — no, no; she will 

go to Little's poems and Rousseau's Rumaiis for that, or 
even to the immaculate De Sta£L They will encourage 
her, and not the Don, who laughs at that, and — and — most 
other things. But never mind — ca, ira! 



Now, do you see what you and your friends do by 
your injudicious rudeness? — actually cement a sort of 
connexion which you strove to prevent, and which, had 
the Hunts prosperity would not in all probability have con- 
tinued. As it is, I will not quit them in their adversity, 
though it should cost me character, fame, money, and the 
usual ti cetera. 

" My original motives I already explained, (in the let- 
ter which you thought proper to show :) they are the true 
ones, and I abide by them, as I tell you, and I told Leigh 
Hunt when he questioned rae on the subject of that letter 
He was violently hurt, and never will forgive me at bofr- 

* Seo Doq }uu, CtDto IV StuwiG M,4s. 



LETTERS, 1823. 



207 



torn ; but I can't help that. I never meant to make a 
parade of it ; bat if he chose to question me, I could only 
answer the plain truth ; and I confess I did not see any 
thing in the letter to hurt him, unless I said he was 'a 
otire, 1 which I don't remember. Had their Journal gone 
on weil, and I could have aided to make it better for them, 
I should then have left them, after my safe pilots 
[ee shore, to make a prosperous voyage by themselves. 
As it is, I can't, and would not if I could, leave them 
among the breakers. 

a As to any community of feeling, thought, or opinion 
between Leigh Hunt and me, there is little or none. We 
meet rarely, hardlv ever; but I think him a good-princi- 
pled and able man, and must do as I would be done by. 
I do not know what world he has lived in, but I have lived 
in three or four; but none ef them like his Keats and 
kangaroo terra incognita. Alas! poor Shelley! how we 
would have laughed had he lived, and how we used to 
laugh now and then at various tilings which are grave in 
the suburbs ! 

"You are all mistaken about Shelley. You d i nol 
Know how mild, how tolerant, how good he was in society ; 
and as perfect a gentleman as ever crossed a drawing- 
room, when he liked, and where liked. 

" I have some thoughts of taking a run down to Naples 
(sotus, or, at most, cum sol'/) this spring, and writing, 
when I have studied die country, a Fifth and Sixth Canto 
of Childe Harold: but this is merely an idea for the pre- 
sent, and I have other excursions and voyages in my 
mind. The busts * are finished: are you worthy of diem ? 

" Yours, &.c. 
"N. B. 

W P. S. Mrs. Shelley is residing with the Hunts at 
some distance from me. I see them very seldom, and 
generally on account of their business. Mrs. Shelley, I 
Deheve, will go to England in the spring. 

" Count Gambia's family, the father and mother and 
daughter, are residing with me by Mr. Hill (die minis- 
ter's) recommendation, as a safer assy Urn from die politi- 
cal persecutions than they could have in another resi- 
dence ; but they occupy one part of a large house, and I 
the other, and our establishments are quite separate. 

"Since I have read the Quarterly, I shall era^e two 
or three passages in the latter six or seven cantos, in 
which I had lightly stroked over two or throe of your 
authors ; but I will not return evil for good. I liked what 
I read of the article much. 

"Mr. J. Hunt is most likely the publisher of the new 
Cantos; with what prospects of success I know not, nor 
does it very much matter, as far as I am concerned ; but 
I hope it may be of use to him, for he is a stiff", sturdy, 
conscientious man, and I like him: he is such a one a 
Prynne or Pym might be. I bear you no ill-will for de- 
clining the Don Juans. 

" Have you aided Madame de Yossy, as I requested ? 
1 sent her three hundred francs. Recommend her, will 
vou,to the Literary Fund, or to some benevolence within 
vour circles." 



LETTER DLXXV. 



"Albaro, Nov. 10, 1822. 

* * * t * * * 

"The Chevalier persisted in declaring himself an ill 

used gentleman, and describing you as a kind of cold 

Calypso, who lead astray people of an amatory disposition 

without giving them any sort of compensation, contenting 



yourself, it seems, with only making ote fool Instead of two, 
which is the more approved method of proceeding on such 
occasions. For my pari, I think you are quite right , 
and be assured from me that a woman (as society is con- 
stituted in England,) who gives anv advantage to a man 
may expect a lover, but will sooner or later find a tyrant ; 
and this i- not the man's fault ei her, perhaps, but is the 
necessary and natural result of die circumstances of 
society which, in fact, tyrannize over the man equally with 
the women, that is to say, if either of them have any 
feeling or honour. 

'• Yuu can write to me at your leisure and inclination. 
I have always laid it down as a maxim, and found it justi- 
fied bv experience, that a man and a woman make far 
better friendships than can exist between two of the same 
sex; but these with this condition, that they never have 
mad'-, or arc to make, love with each other. Lovers 
may, an i, indeed, generally arc enemies, but they never 
can be friends ; because there must always be a spice of 
jealousv and a something of self in all their speculations. 

k ' Indeed, I rather look upon love altogether as a sort 
of hostile transaction, very necessary So make or to break 
matches, and keep the world going, but by no means a 
sinecure to the parties concerned. 

"Now, as my love-perils are, I believe, pretty well 
over, and yours, bv all accounts, are never to begin, we 
shall be the best friends imaginable as far as both are 
concerned, and with this advantage, that we may both 
fall to loving right and left through all our acquaintance, 
without either sullenness or sorrow from th it amiable 
passion which are its inseparable attendants. 

" Believe tie, &c. M 



• Of the bust of himself by Bariollini he says, in one of hii letters to 
Mr. Murray :— " The bust dws not lnrn out a e;ood ooe, — though it may 
be like for aught I know, ss it e*jclly resembles asuperanuaied Jesuit." 
Again, " I as<ure you Bartollim's is dreadful, though my mind misgiven 
m» th-it it is hideously like. II it is, 1 cannot be long for this world, foi 
U orerlook* itTsnty." Moore. 



LETTER DLXXVI 

TO MR. PROCTOR. 

"Pisa, Jar. 1823. 
"Had I been aware of your tragedy when I v rote my 
note to 'Marino Fallen},' akhough it is a matter of no 
nee to you, I should certainly not have emitted 
to insert your name with those of the other writers who 
still do honour to the drama. My own notions on the 
subjei i alt "gether are so different from the popular ideas 
of Lhe day, that we differ essentially, as indeed I do from 
our whole English literati upon, that topic. But I do not 
contend that I am right — I merely say that such is my 
Opinion, and as it is a solitary one, it can do no great 
harm. But it does not prevent me from doing justice to 
the powers of those who adopt ad liferent system." 



LETTER TLXXVII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Genoa, Feb. 20, 1823. 

"MY DEAR TOM, 

"I must again reftr you to those two letters addressed 
to you at Passy before I read your speech in Galignaru, 
&c, and which you do not seem to have received. 

" Of Hunt I see little — once a month or so, and then 
on his own business, generally. You may easily suppose 
that I know too little of Hampstead and his satellites to 
have much communion or community with him. JVlj 
whole present relation to bim arose from Shelley's unex- 
pected wreck. You would not have had me leave him 
in the street with his family, would you ? and as to the 
other plan you mention, you forget how it would humiliate 
him — that his writings should be supposed to be dead 
weight! Think a moment — -he is perhaps the vainest 
man on earth, at least his own friends say so pretty 
loudly; and if he were in other circumstances, I might 
be tempted to take him down a. peg ; but not now, — il 
would be cruel. It is a cursed business ; but neither the 



208 



LETTERS, 1823. 



motive the nn i rt \\ upon my conscience, and it 

happens that he and his brother farce been so far h ■ 
i>v the publication in a pecuniary point of w\ iw. His 
brother is .1 -■■ ady, bold fi How, such as Ptynnej for exam- 
ple, and full of moral) and] [hear) physical courage. 

" Ami you are really recanting or softening to the 
clergy! It will do little good for you — it is you, not tin- 
poem, they are at. They will say they frightened you — 
forbid it, Ireland! 

"Yours ever, "X. B." 



LETTER DLXXVIII. 



TO MRS. 



11 1 presume that yon, at least, know enough of me to 
be sure that 1 could have no intention to insult Bunt's 
poverty. On the contrary, I honour him for it ; for I 
know what it is, having been as much embarras 1 
over he was, without perceiving aught in it to diminish an 
honourable man's self-respect. If you mean to say that, 
had lie been a wealthy man, I would have joined in this 
Journal, I answer in the negative. * * * I engaged in 
the Journal from good-will towards him, added to respect 
fur his character, literary and personal; and no less for 
lis political courage, as well as regret for his present 
circumstances: I did this in the hope that he might, with 
the same aid from literary friends of literary contribu- 
tions, (which is requisite for all Journals of a mixed 
nature,] render himself independent. 

****** 

u l ha*- always treated him, in our personal intercourse, 
with such scrupulous delicacy, that I have foreborne in- 
truding fid\ io , \\hu:h 1 llmn-lil mi III In 'h .1 .;.-.,:■.'. 

lest he should impute it to what is called 'talcing advan- 
tage ofa man's situation ' 

" As in til. 'nil -I ip, it is a propensity in which my genius 
is very limited. 1 do not know the male human being, 
except Lord Clare, the friend of my infancy, for whom 1 
feel any thing that deserves the nam--. All my others are 
men of the world fiiendshi] s. I did not even feel it foi 
Shelley, however much I admired and esteemed him ; bo 
that you see nol even vanity could bribe me into it, for, of 
all men, Shelley thought highest of my talents, — and, per- 
haps, of my disposition. 

" I will do my duty by my intimates, upon the principle 
of doing as you would be dour by. I have done so, I 
trust, in most instances. 1 may be pleased with their con- 
versation — rejoice in their Bucces — be glad to do them a 
service, er to receive their counsel and assistance in re- 
turn. But, as for friends and friendship, I have (as I al- 

ready .-aid) named th ily remaining male for whom i 

feel any thing of the kind, excepting perhaps, Thomas 
Moore. I have had, and may have still, a thousand 
friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's part- 
ners in the waltz of this world, not much remembered 
when the ball is over, though very pleasant for the time. 
Habit, business, and companionship m pleasure or in pain, 
an- links ofa similar kind, and the same faith in politics is 
another." * * * 



LETTER DLXXIX. 



" Genoa, March, 28, 1S23. 
+ * * * * * 

"Mr. Hill is her'-: [dined with him on Saturday be- 
fore last ; and on leaving Ins house at S. P. d'Arena, nvj 
carriage broke down. I walked home, about three miles, 
— no very great feat of pedestrianism ; but either the 
coming out of hot rooms into a bleak wind chilled me, <>r 
the walking up-hill to Albaro heated me. or snmethm- u 
other set me wrong, and ne\t day I had an inflammatory 

attack in the face, to which I have been subject litis win- 



ter for the first time, and I suffered a good deal of pain, 
but no peril. My health is now much as usual. Mr. 

1 believe, occupied with bis diplomacy. I shall 
in y«>ur message when I see him again.* 
B M) name, I see in the papers, has been dragged into 
the unhappy Portsmoul I w Inch all that 1 know 

is irery succineL Mr. Hanson is my solicitor. I found 
him so when I was t. D years old — at my uncle's death — 
and he was continued in the managi meat of my legal 
business. He asked me, by a civil espistle, as an old ac- 
quaintance "I" bis family, to be pr< sent at the marriage of 
.Miss Hanson. 1 went very reluctantly] one misty morn- 
ing (for I had been up at two balls all night,) to witness 
the ceremonyj which I could not very well refuse without 
affronting a man who had never offended me. I saw 
nothing particular in the marriage. Of course I could not 
know the preliminaries, except from what he said, not having 
ui at the wooing, nor after it, for I walked home, 
and they went into the country as soon as they had protnis* 
ed and vowed. Out of this simple fad 1 hear the Debatsde 
Paris ha II. as 'autrefois ires bee avec le 

celehri ,' \e. ive. I am obliged to him for the celebrity, 
hut beg leave to dei line the liaison, which is quite untrue; 
my liaison was with the father, in the unsentimental shape 
of long lawyers' bills, through the medium of which I have 
had to pay him ten or twelve thousand pounds within these 
few yt are. She was not pretty, and I suspect that the in- 

defatigable Mr. A was (like all her people) more 

attracted by her title than her charms. I regret very much 
that 1 was presenl ai the prologue to the happy state oi 
horsewhipping and black jebs, &c. &c., but I could not 

thai a man was to turn out mad, who had gone 

about the world f >r fifty years, as competent to vote, and 

walk at large ; nor did he seem to me inure insane lhan 

any other person going to be married. 

"I have noobje :ttonto be acquainted with the Marquis 

ini, if he wishes it. Lately, I have gone little into 
society, English or foreign, for I had seen all that was 
worth seeing in the former before I left England, and at 
the time of life when 1 was more disposed to like it ; and 
of the latter I had a sufficiency in the first few years of 
n> i idence in Switzerland, chiefly at Madame de 
Stael'a/where I went sometimes, till I grew tired of con- 
versazioni and carnivals, with their appendages, and the 
bore is, that if you go once, you are expected to be there 
daily, or rather nightly. I went the round of the most 
noted soirees at Y< Dice or elsewhere (where I remained 
hot any time) to the Benzona, and the Albrizzi, and the 

i &c. &C, and to the Cardinals and the various 
potentates of the Legation in Romagna (that is, Ravenna,) 
and only receded for the sake of quiet when I came into 
Tuscany. Besides, if I go into society, I generally get, in 
the long run, into some scrape of some kind or other, which 
do ut occur in my solitude. However, I am prett) well 
settled now, liy time and temper, which isHO far luck} as it 
prevents!' ■'.■■ ni j but, as I said before, as an act 
tance of yours, I will be ready and willing to know you 
friends. He may be a sort i f connexion for aught I knon \ 
for a Falavicina, of Hofogwii I believe, married a distant 
relative of mine half a century ago. I happen to know 
the fact, as he and his spouse bad an annuity of five hun- 
dred pounds on my uncle's property, which ceased at his 
demise, though I recollect hearing they attempted, natu- 
rally enough, to make it survive htm. If I can doanv thing 
for you here, or elsewhere, pray order, and be obeyed." 



LETTER DLXXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 



"Genoa, April 2, 1823. 
' I have just seen some friends of yours, who paid me a 



■ The fclnrl of PortBmnuth marrird Mint Hun son. Attempts wcr« made 
about (km lime iii the Kuglish Court* to [.rote him meant. 



LETTERS, 1823. 



209 



visit yesterday, which, in honour of them and of you, I re- 
turned to-day ; — as I reserve my bear-skin and teeth, and 
paws and claws, for our enemies. 

" I have also seen Henry Fox, Lord Hollands son, 
whom I had not looked upon since I left him a pretty mild 
boy, without a neckcloth, in a jacket, and in delicate 
health, seven lon^ years agone, at the period of mine 
eclipse — *he third, I believe, as I have generally one every 
two or three years. I think that he has the softest and 
most amiable expression of countenance I ever saw, and 
manners correspondent. If to those he can add heredi- 
tary talents, he will keep the name of Fox in all its fresh- 
ness for half a centurv more, I hope. I speak from a 
transient glimpse — but I love still to yield to such im- 
pressions ; for I have ever found that those I liked longest 
and best, I took to at first sight ; and I always liked that 
boy ; perhaps, in part, from some resemblance in '.he less 
fortunate part of our destinies ; 1 mean, to avoid mistakes, 
his lameness. But there is this difference, that he appears 
a halting angel, who has tripped against a star; while I 
am Le Diable Botieux, — a soubriquet, which I marvel that, 
among their various jiominis umbras, the Orthodox have not 
hit upon. 

"Your other allie?, whom I have found very agreeable 
personages, and Milor Blesshigton and spouse, travelling 
with a very handsome companion, in the shape of a 
' French Count,' (to use Farquhar's phrase in the Beaux' 
Stratagem,) who has all the air of a Cupidon dichaini, 
and is one of the few specimens I have seen of our ideal 
of a Frenchman before the Revolution — an old friend with 
a new face, upon whose like I never thought that we 
should look again. Miladi seems highly literary, to which, 
and your honour's acquaintance with the family, I attri- 
bute the pleasure of having seen them. She is also very 
pretty, even in a morning, — a species of beauty on which 
the sun of Ital" does not shine so frequently as the chan- 
delier. Certainly, Englishwomen wear better than their 
continental neighbours of the same sex. M * * seems 
very good-tat ured, but is much tamed, since I recol- 
lect him in all the glory of genos and snuff-boxes, and 
uniforms, and theatricals, and speeches in our house — 
'I mean, of peers' (I must refer you to Pope — whom 
you do n't read, and won't appreciate — for that quota- 
tion, which you must allow to be poetical,) and sitting 
to Stroeling, the painter (do you remember our visit, 
with Leckie, to the German?) to be depicted as one of 
the heroes of A gincourt,' with his long sword, saddle, 
bridle, whack fal de,' &c.&c. 

"I have been unwell — caught a cold and inflamma- 
tion, which menanced a conflagration, after dining with 
our ambassador, Monsieur Hill, — not owing to the dinner, 
but my carriage broke down on the way home, and I had 
to walk some miles, up-hill partly, after hot rooms, in 
a very bleak windy evening, and over-hotted, or over- 
cotded myself. I have not been so robustious as for- 
merly, ever since the last summer, when I fell ill after 
a long swim in the Mediterranean, and have never 
been quite right up to this present writing. I am thin, 
— perhaps thinner than you saw me, when I was nearly 
transparent, in 1812, — and am obliged to be moderate of 
my mouth, which, nevertheless, won't prevent me (the 
gods willing) from dining with your friends the day after 
to-morrow. 

tt They give me a very good account of you, and of 
your nearly 'Emprisoned Angels.' But why did you 
change your title ? — you will regret this some day. The 
bigots are not to be conciliated , and, if they were, are 
they worth it? I suspect that I am a rhore orthodox 
Christian than you are; and, whenever I see a real 
Christian, either in practice or in theory, (for I never yet 
found the man who could produce either, when put to the 
proof) I am his disciple. But, till then, I cannot truckle 
to tithe- mongers, — nor can I imagine what has made you 
circumcise your Seraphs. 

27 



LETTER DLXXXI. 

TO THE EARL OF BLESSI?TGTO!T. 

"April 5,1823, 

"MR. DEAR LORD, 

* How is your gout ? or rather, how are you ? I return, 
the Count * *'s Journal, which is a very extraordinary 
production,* and of a most melancholy truth in all that 
regards high life in England. I know, or knew, per- 
sonally, most of the personages and societies, which he 
describes ; and after reading his remarks have the sensa- 
tion fresh upon rrie as 1 had seen therri yesterday. I 
would however plead in behalf of some few exceptions, 
which I will mention by-and-by. The most singular 
thing is, how he should have penetrated not the fact, but 
the mystery of the English ennui, at two-and- twenty, t 
was about the same age when I made the same dis- 
covery, m almost precisely the same circles — (for there is 
scarcely a person mentioned whom I did not see nightly 
or daily, and was acquainted more or less intimately with 
most of them) — but I never could have described it so 
well. Ilfaut etre Francois, to effect this. 

u But he ought also to have been in the country during* 
the hunting season, with 'a select party of distinguished 
guests,' as the papers term it. He ought to have seen 
the gentlemen after dinner, (on the hunting days,) and 
the soiree ensuing thereupon — and the women looking as 
if they had hunted, or rather been hunted; and I could 
have wished that he had been at a dinner in town, which 
1 recollect at Lord C * *s — small, but select, and com- 
posed of the most amusing people. The dessert was 
hardly on the table, when, out of twelve I counted Jive 
asleep', of that five, there were Tierney, Lord * * and 
Lord * * — I forget the other two, but they were either 
wits or orators — perhaps poets. 

B My residence in the East and in Italy has made me 
somewhat indulgent of the siesta — but then they set 
regularly about it in warm countries, and perform it in 
solitude, (or at most in a ttke-a-teUe with a proper com- 
panion,) and retire quietly to their rooms to get out of the 
sun's way for an hour or two. 

"Altogether, your friend's Journal is a very formidable 
production. Alas! our dearly-beloved countrymen have 
only discovered tliat they are tired, and not that they are 
tiresome ; and I suspect that the communication of the 
latter unpleasant verity will not be better received than 
truths usually are. I have read the whole* with great 
attention and instruction. I am too good a patriot to say 
pleasure — at least I won't say so, whatever I may think. 
1 showed it (I hope no breach of confidence,) to a young 
Italian Lady of rank, trls instruite also; and who passes, 
or passed, for being one of the three most celebrated belles 
in the district of Italy, where her family and connexions 
resided in less troublesome times as to politics, (which is 
not Genoa, by-the-wav,) and she was delighted with it, 
and says that she has derived a better notion of English 
society from it than from all Madame de StaePs meta- 
physical disputations on the same subject, in her work on 
the Revolution. I beg that you will thank the young 
philosopher, and make my compliments to Lady B. and 
her sister* 

" Believe me your very obliged and faithful 

"N.B. ? 

" P. S. There is a rumour in letters of some disturbance 
or complot in the French Pyrenean army— generals sus- 
pected or dismissed, and ministers of war travelling to see 
what's the matter. 'Marry, (as David says,) this hath an 
angry favour.' 

*Teli Count * * that some of the names are not 
quite intelligible, especially of the clubs ; he speaks of 



" In another teller to Lord Bleaaington, he •«»■ of thi» gentleman, 
"he wim to hare all the mialilira re.|ui»ua to hat* figured la hit 

brother-io-Iftw'i taeettor'i Memoiri." 



210 



LETTERS, lr>23. 



IVaUa perhaps he is ri^ht, but in my time JVatiers was man may do in London with impunity while he is 'a la 



LETTER DLXXXII. 

TO THE EAKL OF BLESSlIBGTON. 

"April 6. 182S. 
a It would be worse than idle, knowing, as 1 do, the 



mode j 1 which I think it well to state, thai he may not 
me of taking advantage of his confidence. The 
observations are very general." 



the Dandy Club, of which (though no dandy) 1 was a 
member, at the lime loo of its greatest glory, when Brum- 
mcll and MUdmdy, Alvanley and Pierrepoint, gave the 
dindy balls; and wo (the club, that is,) got up the famous 
masquerade at LSutlington House and Garden for Welling- 
ton. He does not speak of the Alfred, which was the LETTER DLXXXI1I. 
most nchercM and must tiresome of anv, as I know by 
being a member of thai too." T0 THE EARL 0F blessing™*. 

"April 14, 1823. 
"I am truly sorry that I cannot accompany you in your 
ride thia morning owing to a rioleot pain in my face, 
arising from a wart to which 1 by medical advice applied 
a caustic. Whether I put too much, I do not know, but 
the consequence is, not only I have been put to some 
pain, but the peccant part and its immediate environ are 
as black as if the printer^ devil had marKed me for an 
utter worlhlessness of words on such occasions, in me to author. As 1 do not v. ish to frighten your horses, or their 
attempt to express what I ought to feel, and do feci for. riders, I shall postpone waring upon y ,i until six ofcbek, 
the loss you have sustained |* and I must thus dismiss thai when I hope to have subsided into a n re Chriatianfilia 
subject, for I dare not trust myself further with \\ for your* resemblance to my ft How -creatures. My infliction lias 
sake, or fbr my own. I shall endeavour to see you as sunn purhally extended even to my fingers for on trying to gel 
as it may not appear intrusive. Pray excuse the levity the black from off my upper lip at least, I have only 
of my yesterday's scrawl — I little thought under what transfused a portion tl. rreofto my ngnl hand, and neither 



circumstances it would find you 

w I have received a very handsome and flattering note 
from Count * *. He must excuse my apparent rude- 
ness and real ignorance in replying to it in English, 
through the medium of your kind interpretation. I would 
not on any account deprive him of a production, of which 
I really think more than 1 have even said, though you are 
good enough not to be dissatisfied even with that ; but 
whenever it is completed, it would give me the greatest 
pleasure to have a copy — but how to keep it secret! lite— 
rarv secrets are bke others. By changing the names or 
at least omitting several, and altering the circumstances 
indicative of the writer's real station, the author would 
render it a most amusing publication. His countrymen 
have not been treated either in a literary or personal point 



lemon-juice nor eau de Cologne, nor any oilier can, have 
been able as yet to redeem it also from a more itky 
appearance than is either proper or pleasant. But ' out 
damn'd spot 1 — you may have perceived something of the 
kind yesterday, For on my return, 1 saw that during my 
visit it had increased, was inen osing, and ought to be 
diminished ; and 1 could not help laughing at the figure I 
must have cut before you. At any rate, I shall be wfdi 
you at SUE, with the advantage of twilight. 

"Ever most truly, &c. 

■ 1 1 o'clock. 
U P. S. I wrote the above at three this morning. 1 
regret to say that the whole of the skin of about an inch 
square above my upper lip has come off, so iIkii I cannot 
of view with such deference in English recent works,as to even shave or masticate, and I am equally unfit to appear 
lay him under any very great national obligation of forbes,- at your table, and to partake of its hospitality. AN' ill you 
ranee; and really the remarks are so true and so piquante therefore pardon me, and not mistake this rtii-ful excuse 

that I cannot bring myself to wish their suppression ; for a ' make-believej as you will soon recognise whenever 
though, as Dangle says, ' He is my friend,' many of these 1 have (he pleasure of meeting you again, and I will call 
personages ' were my friends] but much such friends as the momenl I am, in the nursery phrase, 'fit to be seen.' 



Dangle and his allies, 

" I return you Dr. Parr's letter — I have met him at 
Payne Knight's and elsewhere, and he did me the honour 
once to be a patron of mine, although a greal friend of 
the other branch of the House of Atreus, and the I rr» k 
teacher (I believe) of my moral Clytemnestra — I say 
moral, because it is true, and so useful to the virtuous, 
that it enables them to do any thing without the aid of an 
JEgisthus. 

"I beg my compliments to Lady B. Miss P. ami to 
your Alfred. I think, since his Majesty of the same 
name, there has not been such a learned surveyor of our 
Saxon society. 

" Ever yours most truly, 

"N. B. n 



"April 9, 1823. 



"UV DEAR LORD 



"P. S. I salute Milcdt, Madamoiselle Mama, and the 
illustrious Chevalier Count * * who, 1 hi pe, will continue 
his history of ' his own times.' There ar some strange 
coincidences between a part of his remarks and a certain 
work of mine, now in MS. in England, (I do not mean 
the hermetically sealed Memoirs, but a continuation of 
certain Cantos of a certain poem,) especially in what a 



* The death of Lord BleMingtiMi'a »on, which h»4 been tong tx- 
S*cied, but oi which lha ityoum had 'u«i ihen ttrdtcd. 



Tell Lady B. with my compliments, that I am rummag- 
ing my papers tor a MS. worthy of her acceptation. I 
have just *■ « u thr younger Count Gamba, and as I can- 
not prevail on his inlmile modesty to take the field without 
me, 1 must take this piece of diffidence on my m\self 
also, and beg your indulgence foi both." 



LETTER DLXXXrV. 

TO THE COUNT * *. 

B AprU22 1 I823. 

■My dear Count * *, (if you will permit me to address 
you so familiarly,) you should be content with writing in 
your own language, like tirammont, and succeeding in 
1. on, I, m as nobody has succeeded since the days of 
Charles the Second and the records of Antonio Hamil- 
ton, without deviating into our barbarous language^— 
which you understand and write, however, much better 
than it deserve*. 

" My ' approbation,' as you are pleased to ten;: it, was 
very sincere, but perhaps not very impartial ; for though I 
love my country, I do not love my countrymen— at least, 
such as they now are. And besides the seduction of 
talent and wit in your work, I fear that to me there was 
the attraction of vengeance. I havo seen and feli much 
of what you have described so well. I have known th« 
persons, and the reunions so described — (many of them. 



LETTERS, 1523. 



211 



that is 10 say,) — and the portraits are so like that I 
cannot but aJinire the painter no less than his perform- 
ance. 

- But I am sorry for you ; for if you are so well 
acquainted with life at your age, what will become of 
you when the illusion is still more dissipated ? but never 
nun f — en avant'. — live while you can ; and that you may 
have the fill enjoyment of the many advantages of youth, 
talent, and figure, which you possess, is the wish of an — 
Englishman, — I suppose, — but it is no treason; for my 
mother was Scotch, and my name ami my family arc both 
Norman ; and as for mvself, I am of no country. As for 
mv 'Works,' which you are pleased to mention, let them 
go to the devil, from whence (if you believe many per- 
sons) they came. 

" I have the honour to be your obliged, &c. &c." 



LETTER DLXXXV. 

TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. * 

«May3,lS23. 
"dear lady * *, 

* My request would be for a copy of the miniature of 
Lady B., which I have seen in possession of the late 
Lady Noel, as I have no picture, or indeed memorial of 
any kind of Lady B., as all her letters were in her own 
possession before I left England, and we have had no cor- 
respondence since — at least on her part. 

'• My message, with regard to the infant, is simply to 
this effect — that in the event of anv accident occurring to 
the mother, and my remaining the survivor, it would be 
my wish to have her plans carried into effect, both with 
regard to the education of the child, and the person or 
persons under whose care Lady B. might be desirous that 
she should be placed. It is not my intention to interfere 
with her in any way on the subject during her life ; and I 
presume that it would be some consolation to her to 
know, (if she is in ill health, as I am given to understand,) 
that in no case would any thing be done, as far as I am 
concerned, hut in strict conformity with Lady B.'s own 
wishes and intentions — left in what manner she thought 
proper. 

" Believe me, dear Lady B., your obliged, &c." 



LETTER DLXXXVI. 

TO THE COUNTESS OF * * + . 

"A!baro,May 6, 1823. 

"MY DEAR LADY * * *, 

B I send you the letter which I had forgotten, and the 
book,* which I ought to have remembered. It contains 
(the book, I mean) some melancholy truths; though I 
believe that it is too triste a work ever to have been popu- 
lar. The first time I ever read i', (not the edi'ion I send 
you, — for I got if since,) was at the desire of Madame de 
Stael, who was supposed by the good-natured world to be 
uie heroine ; — which she was not, however, and was 
furious at the supposition. This occurred in Switzerland, 
in the summer of 1816, and the last season in which I 
ever saw that celebrated person. 

"I have a request to make to my friend Alfred, (since 
he has not disdained the title,) viz. that he would conde- 
scend to add a cap to the gentleman in the jacket, — it 
would complete his costume, — and smooth his brow, which 
is somewhat too inveterate a likeness of the original, God 
help me ! 

11 1 did well to avoid the wa'er-party, — why, is a myste- 
ry, which is not less to be wondered at than all my other 



lysteries. Tell Milor that I am deep in his MS., and 
will do him justice by a diligent perusal. 

B The letter which I enclose I was prevented from 
tending, by my despair of its doing any good. I was per- 
fectly sniicr'.- when I wrote it, and am so still. But it is 
difficult for me to withstand the thousand provocations on 
that subject, which both friends and foes have for seven 
years been throwing m the way of a man whose feelings 
were once quick, and whose temper was never patient. 
Bui ' returning were as tedious as go o'er.' I feel this as 
much as ever Macbeth did ; and it is a dreary sensation, 
which at least avenges the real or imaginary wrongs of 
one of the two unfortunate persons whom it concerns. 

" But I am noing to be gloomy ; — so, 'to bed, to bed.' 
Good night, — or rather morning. One of the reasons 
why I wish to avoid society is, that I can never sleep 
after it, and 'he pleasanter it has been, the less I rest. 
"Ever most trulv.&c. &c." 



LETTER DLXXXVIL* 

TO LADY BYRON. 

(To the care of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh, London. ) 

"Pisa, Nov. 17, 1821. 

" I have to acknowledge the receipt of * Ada's hair, 
which is very soft and pretty, and nearly as dark already 
as mine was at twelve years old, if I may judge from 
what I recollect of some in Augusta's possession, taken 
at that age. But it do n't curl, — perhaps from its being 
let grow. 

K I also thank you for the inscription of the dale and 
name, and I will tell you why ; — I believe that they are 
the only two or three words of your handwriting in my 
possession. For your letters I returned, and except the 
two words, or rather the one word, 'Household,' written 
twice in an old account-book, I have no other. I burnt 
your last note, for two reasons : — lstly, it was written in a 
style not very agreeable ; and, 2dly, I wished to take your 
wor 1 « ithout documents, which are the worldly resources 
of suspicious people. 

a I suppose that this note will reach you somewhere 
about Ada's birthday — the 10th of December, I believe. 
She will then be six, so that in about twelve more I shall, 
have some rhance of meeting her ; — perhaps sooner, if I 
am obliged to go to England by business or otherwise. 
Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance or near- 
ness ; — everyday which keeps us asunder should, after so 
long a period, rather soften our mutual feelings, which 
must alwavs have one rallying-point as long as our child 
exists, winch I presume we both hope will be long after 
either of her parents. 

M The time which has elapsed since the separation, has 
been considerably more than the whole brief period of 
our union, and the not much longer one of our prior 
acquaintance. We both made 'a bitter mistake ; but now 
it is over, and irrevocably so. For, at thirty-three on my 
part, and a f-w years less on yours, though it is no verv 
extended period of life, still it is one when the habits and 
thought are generally so formed as to admit of no modifi- 
cation; and as we could not agree when younger, we 
should with difficulty do so now. 

" I say ail this, because I own to vou that, notwith- 
standing every thing, I considered our reunion as not 
impossible for more than a year after the separation ;— 
but then I gave up the hope entirely and for ever. But 
this very impossibility of reunion seems to me al least a 
reason why, on all the few points of discussion which can 
arise between us, we should preserve the courtesies of 
life, and as much of its kindness as people who are never 
to meet may preserve, perhaps more easily than nearei 



* Adoltibt, by M. Benjamin ConsUjit. 



1 Knc'owl in Leller 582. 



I.KTTERS, 1823. 



ilments. To you, who arc colder ana more coiiccn- 
d, I would just hint, that you may sometimes mistake 
lepth of a cold anger for dignity, and a worse reeling 
uty. I assure you that I bear you noui (whatever [ 



812 

connexions. For tttv own part, I am violent, but not 
malignant ; for only fresh provocations can awaken my 
resentment*. To you, who are colder and more concen- 
trated, 
the depth 

for duty. I assure you __ 

may have done) no resentment whatever. Remember, 
that ■/ you have injured me in aught, tins forgiveness is 
something; and that, ifl have mjurarlyou,il is something 
more still, if " be true, as the moralists say, that the most 
offending are the least forgiving, 

« Whether the offence ha- been solely on my sid. -, oi 
reciprocal, or on yours chiefly, 1 have ceased to reflect 
upon any but two thuigs,— viz. that you arc the mother ol 
my child, and that we shall never meet again. I think ll 
you also consider the two corresponding points with rel.-r- 
(srice |o myself, it will be better for all three. 

" Yours ever, 

"Noel Bvron." 



LETTER DLXXXVIII. 

TO MR. RLAO.UIERE. 

"Albaro, April 5, 1823. 
"dear sir, 
" I shall be delighted to sec you and your Greek friend ; 
and the sooner the better. I have been expecting you 
for some time,— you will find me at home. I cannot ex- 
press to you how much I feel interested in the cause ; 
and nothing but the hopes I entertained of witnessing the 
liberation of Italy itself, prevented me long ago from re- 
suming to do what little I could, as an individual, in that 
land which it is an honour even to have visited. 

u Ever yours, truly, 
"Noel BvroV 



LETTER DLXXXIX. 

TO MR. BOWHISC. 

•Genoa, May 12, 1823 

"SIR, 

" I have great pleasure in acknowled; 
and the honour 



your letter, 
hich the Committee have done me ; — I 
shall endeavour to deserve their confidence by every 
means in my power. My first wish is to go up into the 
Levant in person, where 1 might be enabled to advance, 
if not the cause, at least the njcans of obtaining informa- 
tion which the Committee might be desirous of acting 
upon ; and my former residence in the country, my fami- 
liarity with tbe Italian language, (which is there univer- 
sally spoken, or at least to the same extent as French in 
the more polished parts of the continent,) and my not total 
Ignorance of the Romaic, would afford me some ail\ .ul- 
lages of experience. To tins projc it the only objection 
IS of a domestic nature, and I shall try to get over it;— 
if I fail in this, I must do what I can where I am ; but it 
will be always a source of regret to me, to think that 1 

might perhaps have done more fur the cause lie put. 

"Our last uiformation of Captain Blaquicrc is from 
Anconn, where be embarked with a fair wind for Corfu, 
pn the 15fh ult.; he is now probably at his destination 
My last letter from him personally was dated Rome ; he 
bad been refused a passport through the Neapolitan ter- 
ritory, and returned to strike up through Romagna for 
Ancona: little time, however, appears to have Urn lost 
by the delay. 

" The principal material wanted by the Greeks appears 
lobe, best, a park of field artillery — light, and fit for moun- 
tain-service; secondly, gunpowder; thirdly, hospital or 
medical stores. The readiest mode of transmission is. I 
brnr, by Idra, addressed to Mr. Negri, the minister. J 



meant to send up a certain quantity of the two latter 
—no great deal — but enough for an individual to show 
his good wishes for the Greek success ; but am pausing, 
because, in case I should go myself, I can take them with 
me. I do not want to limit my own contribution lo this 
merely, but tnpjre especially, if I can get to Greece my- 
self, I should devo(e whatever resources I can muster of 
my own, to advancing the great object. I am in corre- 
spondence with Signor Nicolas Karrellas, (well known to 
Mr. Hobhouse,) who is now at Pisa; but his latest ad- 
vice merely staled, that the Greeks are at present em- 
ployed in organizing their internal government, and the 
us adiiiuustraiioii j this would seem to indicate 
security, but the war is bow ever far from being terminated. 
" The Turks are an obstinate race, as all former wars 
have proved them, and will return to the charge for years 
to come, even if beaten, as it is to be hoped they w ill be. 
But in no case can the labours of the Committee b. said 
to be in vain, for in the event even of the Greeks being 
subdued and dispersed, the funds which could be em- 
ployed in succourmg ami gathering together the remnant, 
so as to alienate in part their distn sees, and enable them 
to rind or make a country, (as so many emigrants of other 
nations have been compelled to do,) would bless 'both 
those who gave and those who took,' as the bounty both 
of justice and of mercy. 

" With regard to the formation of a brigade, (which Mr 
Hobhouse hints at in his short letter of this day's receipt, 
enclosing the one to which I have the honour to reply,) 
I would presume to suggest — but merely as an opinion, 
resulting rather from the melancholy experience of the 
brieades embarked in the Columbian service, than from 
any experiment yet fairly tried in Greece — that the at- 
tention of the Committee hail better perhaps be directed 
to the employment of officcrsuf experience than the enrol- 
ment of raw British soldiers, which latter are apt to bo 
unruly, and not very serviceable, in irregular warfare, by 
the side of foreigner. A small body of good officers, 
especially artillery ; an engineer, with quantity (such as 
the Committee might deem requisite) of stores, o( the 
nature which Captain Blaquicrc indicated as most wanted 
would, I should conceive, be a highly useful accession. 
Officers, also, who had previously served in the Mediter- 
ranean, would be preferable, as some knowledge of Italian 
is nearly indispensable. 

" It would also be as well that they should be aware 
that they arc not going ' to rough it on a beef-steak and 
bottle of port,'— but that Greece— never, of late years, 
very plentifully stocked for a mess — is at present tho 
country of all kinds ofpriwiboiu. This remark may seem 
superfluous; but I have been led to it, by observing that 
many foreign officers, Italian, French, and even Germans, 
(but i'iuit of the latter,) have returned in disgust, imagin- 
ing either that Ihey were going up to make a parly ol 
pleasure, oi to enjoy full pay, speedy promotion, and a 
,rv moderate degree of duty. They complain, 



having been ill received by the Government or inhabi- 
tants ; but numbers of these complaints were mere adven- 
turers, attracted by a hope of command and plunder, anil 
disappointed of both. Those Greeks I have seen stre- 
nuously denv the charge of inhospitably, and declare that 
they shared their pittance to the last crumb with their 
foreign volunteers. 

"I need not suggest to the Committee the very great 
advantage which loust accrue to Great Britain from the 
success "of the Greeks, and. their probable comnn n-ij 
relations with England in consequence; because 1 feel 
pot -n -Hi. '.I that the Best object of the Committee is theii 
BMASCtPATtc-K, without any interested views. But the 
consideration might weigh with the English people in 
general, in their present passion for every kind of specu- 
lation, — they need not cross the American seas, for one 
much better worth their while, and nearer home. Tbe 
resources, even for an emigrant population, in tlic Greek 



LETTERS, 1S23. 



213 



island alone, are rarely to be paralleled ; and (he cheap- 
ness of every kind, of not only necessary, but luxury, (that 
is to say, luxury of nature,) fruits, wine, oil, &e. in a state 
of peace, are far beyond those of the Cape, and Van Die- 
man's Land, and the other places of refuge, which the 
Eng'ish population are searching for over the waters. 

W I beg that the Commit lee will command me in any 
and every way. If I am favoured with any instructions, 
I shall endeavour to obey them to the letter, whether con- 
formable to my own private opinion or not. I beg leave 
to add, personally, my respect for the gentleman whom I 
have die honour of addressing, 

"And am, sir, your obliged, &c 

"P. S. The best refutation of Gell will be the active 
exertions of the Committee ; — I am too warm a contro- 
versialist ; and I suspect that if Mr. Hobhouse have taken 
him in hand, there will be little occasion for me to ' en- 
cumber him with help.' If I go up into the country, I 
will endeavour to transmit as accurate and impartial an 
account as circumstances will permit. 

"I shall write to Mr. Karrellas. I expect intelligence 
from Captain Blaquiere, who has promised me some early 
intimation from the seat of the Provisional Government. 
I gave him a letter of introduction to Lord Sidney Osborne, 
at Corfu ; but as Lord S. is in the government service, o( 
course his reception could only be a cautious one." 



LETTER DXC. 



TO MR. BOWRINU. 



"Genoa, May 21, 1823. 

"sir, 

"I received yesterday the letter of the Committee, 
dated the 14th of March. What has occasioned the de- 
lay, I know not. It was forwarded by Mr. Galignani, 
from Paris, who stated that ho had only had it in his 
charge four days, and that it was delivered to him by a 
Mr. Grattan. I need hardly say that I gladly accede to 
the proposition of the Committee, and hold myself highly 
honoured by being deemed wormy to be a member. I 
have also to return my thanks, particularly to yourself, for 
the accompanying letter, which is extremely flattering. 

"Since I last wrote to you, through the medium of Mr. 
Hobhouse, I have received and forwarded a letter from 
Captain Blaquiere to mc, from Corfu, which will show 
now he gets on. Yesterday I fell in with two youn^ 
Germans, survivors of General Normann's band. They 
arrived at Genoa in the most deplorable state — without 
food — without a sou — without shoes. The Austrians 
had sent them out of their territory on their landing at 
Trieste : and they had been forced to come down to Flo- 
rence, and had travelled from Leghorn here, with four 
Tuscan Hires (about three francs) in their pockets. I 
have given them twenty Genoese scudi, (about a hundred 
and thirty-three livres, French money,) and new shoes, 
which will enable them to get to Switzerland, where they 
say that they have friends. All that they could raise in 
Genoa, besides, was thirty sous. They do not complain 
of the Greeks, but say that they have suffered more since 
their landing in Italy. 

"I tried their veracity, Istly, by their passports and 
papers ; 2dlv, by topography, cross-questioning them about 
Arta, Argos, Athens, Missolonghi, Corinth, Sue; and, 
3*:lly, in Romaic, of which I found (one of them at least) 
knew more than I do. One of them (they are boUi of 
good families) is a fine, handsome young fellow of three- 
and-twenty — a Wirtembergher, and has a look of Sandt 
about him — the other a Bavarian, older, and flat-faced, and 
less ideal, but a great, sturdy, soldier-like personage. The 
Wirtembergher was in the action at Arta, where the 
Philhellenists were cut to pieces after killing six hundred 
Turks, they themselves being only a, hundred and fifty in 



number, opposed to about sLx or seven thousand ; only 
eight escaped, and of them about three only survived; so 
that General Nermann l posted his ragamuffins where 
they were well peppered— not three of the hundred and 
fifty left alive— and they are for the town's end for life.' 

" These two left Greece by the direction of the Greeks. 
When Churschid Pacha overrun the Morea, the Greeks 
seem to have behaved well, in wishing to save then- allies, 
when they thought that, the game was up with themselves. 
This was in September last, (1822:) they wandered from 
island to island, and got from Milo to Smyrna, where the 
French consul gave them a passport, and a charitable 
captain a passage to Ancqna, whence they got to Trieste, 
and were turned back by the Austrians. They complain 
only of the minister, (who has always been an indifferent 
character ;) say that the Greeks fight very well in their 
own way, but were at Jtrst afraid io fire their own cannon 
— but mended with practice. 

"Adolphe (the younger) commanded at Navarino for 
a short time ; the other, a more material person,' the bold 
Bavarian in a luckless hour,' seems chiefly to lament a fast 
of three days at Argos, and the loss of twenty-five paras 
a day of pay in arrear, and some baggage at Tripolit2a ; 
but takes his wounds, and marches, and battles in very 
good part. Both are very simple, full of naivete, and 
quite unpretending: they say the foreigners quarrelled 
among themselves, particularly the French with the Ger- 
mans, which produced duels. 

" The Greeks accept muskets, but throw away bayonets, 
and will not be disciplined. When these lads saw two 
Piedmontese regiments yesterday} they said, 'Ah, if we 
had had but these two, we should have cleared the Morea. J 
in that case die Piedmontese must have behaved better 
than they did against the Austrians. They seem to lay 
great stress upon a few regular troops — say that the 
Greeks have arms and powder in plenty, but want 
victuals, hospital stores, and lint and linen, &c. and 
money, very much. Altogether, it would be difficult to 
show more practical philosophy than this remnant of our 
* puir lull folk' have done ; they do not seem the least cast 
down, and their way of presenting themselves was as 
simple and natural as cculd be. They said, a Dane here 
had told them that an Englishman, friendly to the Greek 
cause, was here, and that, as they were reduced to beg 
their way home, they thought they might as well begin 

ith me. I write in haste to snatch the post. — Believe 
me, and truly, " Your obliged, &c. 

P. S. I have, since I wrote this, seen them again. 
Count P. Gamba asked them to breakfast. One of them 
means to publish his JournaJ of the campaign. The 
Bavarian wonders a little that the Greeks are not quite 
the same with them of the time of Themistocles, (they 
were not then very tractable, by-the-by,) and at the diffi- 
culty of disciplining them ; but he is a ' bon homine' and a 
tacticia, and a little like Dugald Dalgetty, who would 
insist upon the erection of l a sconce on the hill of Drum- 
snab,' or whatever it was ; — the oilier seems to wonder at 
nothing.' 1 



LETTER DXCI. 

TO MR. CHURCH, 
American Consul m Genoa. 

"Genoa, May, 1823. 
B The accounts are so contradictory, as to what mode 
11 be best for supplying the Greeks, that I have deemed 
it better to take up. (with the exception of a few supplies,) 
what cash and credit I can muster, rather than lay them 
out in articles that might be deemed superfluous or unne- 
cessary. Here we can learn nothing but from some of 
the refugees, who appear chiefly interested for themselves. 
My accounts from an agent of die Committee, an English 
gentleman lately gone up to Greece, are hitherto favour- 



214 



LETTERS, 1823. 



able, but he had not yet reached the seat of the Pimp 
sional Government, and I am anxiously expecting further 
advice. 

"An American has a better right than any other, to 
miggest to other nations the mode of obtaining that liberty 
winch is the glory of his own." 



LETTER DXCII. 

TO -M. II. BEVt.E, 
Rue (Jc Rldiellea, Pari*. 

1 < ■■ rjOOj May 29, 1823. 

"At present, that I know to whom I am indebted for a 
very Battering mention in the 'Rome, Naples, and Flo- 
rence, in 1R17, by Mons, Stendhal, 1 it is In that 1 should 
return my thanks (however undersired <>r undesirable) to 

JMons. Beyle, wiili uh 1 had the honour of being ac- 
quainted at Milan in 181G. You only did me too mucl 
honour in what you were pleased to say in that work; 
but it has hardly given me less pli a ure than the praise 
■ > h.-cniTic at length aware [which I have done by 
mere accident) that 1 am indebted l"<r it to oik.' of who.-,' 
pood opinion I was really ambitious. So many changes 
have taken place since that period in the Milan circle, 
that I hardly dare recur to it ; — some dead, some banish* 
ed, and some in the Austrian dungeons. Poor Pellico! 
I trust that, in his iron solitude, his Muse is consoling 
him in part — one day to delight us again, when both she 
and her poet are restored lo freedom. 

" Of your works I have only seen ' Rome. &C.' the 
Lives of Haydn and Mozart, and the brochure on Racine 
and Shakspeare. The 'Histoirc de la Peinture, 1 I have 
not yet the good fortune to possess. 

"There is one part of your observations in die pamphlet 
which I shall venture to remark upon; it regards Walter 
Scott. You say that 'his character is little worthy of 
enthusiasm,' at the same time that you mention his pro- 
ductions in the manner they deserve. I have known 
Walter Scott long and well, and in occasional situations 
which call forth the real character — and I can assure you, 
that his character is worthy of admiral ion ; — that of all 
men he is the most open, the most honourable} the most 
iumalAe. Willi his politics, I have nothing lo do; they 
differ from mine, which renders it difficult for me to speak 
of them. But he is perfectly sincere in them ; and sin- 
cerity may he humble, but she cannot be servile. I pray 
you, therefore! to correct or soften that passage. You 
may, perhaps, attribute this oflieiousness of mine to a 
false affectation of candour, as 1 happen to be a writer 
also. Attribute it to what motive you please, but believe 
the truth. I say that Waller Scott is as nearly a thorough 
good man as man can be, because I know it by experience 
to be the case. 

"If you do me the honour of an answer, may I request 
a speedy one? because il is possible (though not yet 
decided) that circumstances may conduct me once more 
to Greece. My present address is Genoa, where an 
answer will reach me in a short tune, OJ he forwarded to 
me wherever I may he. 

"I beg you to believe me, with a lively recollection 
of our brief acquaintance, and the hope of one day re- 
newing it. " Your ever obliged, 

" and obedient humble sen-ant, 

"Noel Byron." 



LETTER DXCIII. 

TO LADY * * * *. 

"May 17,1823. 
■ My voyage to Greece will depend upon the Greek 
Committee (in England) partly, and partly on the instruc- 



tions which some persons now in Greece on a private 
may be pleased to send me. I am a member, 
lately elected, of the said Committee ; and my object ni 
going up would be to do any little good in my power ; but 
as there some ^roj and cons on the subject, with regard to 
how far the intervention of strangers may be advisable, I 
know no more than 1 tell few ; but we shall probably hear 
Bomethiog soon from England and Greece, which may b« 

' 1-IY<". 

"With regard to the late person (Lord Londonderry) 
whom you hear that I have attacked, I can only say that 
i bad minister's memory/ is as much an object of inves- 
tigation as las conduct while alive, — for his measures do 
not die with him like a private individuals notions. He 
r of ItLiton, ; and, wherever I find a tyrant or a 
villain, I wtfl mark Ann. I attacked him no moie than I 
li a I been wont to do. As to the Liberal, — it was a pub- 
lication set up for the advantage of a persecuted author 
and a very worthy man. But it was foolish in mo to 
engage in it ; and so it has turned out — for I have hurt 
■ doing much good to those for w hose bene- 
fit u was intended! 

"Do not deferul me — it will never do — you will only 
make yourself enemies. 

"Mine are neither to be diminished nor softened, but 
they may be overthrown ; and there are events which 
nin\ occur less improbable than those which have hap- 
pened m our time, that may reverse the present state of 
things — nous vcrrons. * * * * 

" I send you this gossip that you may laugh at it, 
whirh is all it is good for, if it is even good for so much. 
[ shall he delighted to see you again ; but it will be melan- 
choly, should it be only for a moment. 

■ Ever vours, 

"N.B." 



LETTER DXCIY. 

TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTOIT. 



'Albaro, June 2, 1823. 



* MY PEAR LADY B 



* I am superstitious, and have recollected that memorials 
with a point are of less fortunate augury: I will, there- 
fore, request you to accept, instead of the pin,* theenclosec 
chain, which is of so slight a value that you need nut 
hesitate. As you wished for something worn, I can only 
say, that it has been worn oftencr and longer than the 
other. It is of Venetian mamuacturc ; and the only 
peculiarity about it is, that it could only be obtained at, or 
from, Venice. At Genoa they have none of the same 
kind. I also enclose a ring, which I would wish Alfred 
to keep; it is too large to wear; but is formed of lava 
and so far adapted to the fire of his years and character. 
Too will perhaps have the goodness to acknowledge the 
receipt of this note, and send back the pin, (for good lock's 
sake,) which I shall value much more for having been a 
night in your custody. 

"Ever and faithfully your obliged, &c. 

U P. S. I hope your nerves are well to-day, and will con- 
tinue to flourish." 



LETTER DXCV. 

TO MR. BOWRINQ. 

"July 7, 1823. 
"We sail on the 12th for Greece. — I have had a letter 
from Mr. Blaquicre, too long for present transcription 



* He had previously prt*enUsd her with * breutpio wa la loin* 
■mill wneo of NtpoUoo. 



LETTERS, 1823. 



215 



but very satisfactory. The Greek government expects 
me without delay. 

"In conformity to the desires of Mr. B. and other cor- 
lespondems in Greece, I have to suggest) with all defer- 
ence to the Committee, that a remittance of' n 
thousand pounds only 1 (Mr. B.'s expression) would be • t 
(he greatest service to the Greek Government al present. 
1 have also to recommend strongly the attempt of a loan, 
for which there will be offered a sufficient security b\ 
deputies now on their way to England. In the menu 
time, I hope that the Committee will be enabled to do 
something effectual. 

" For my own part, I mean to carry up, in cash or 
credits, above eight, and nearly nine thousand pounds 
sterling, which I am enabled to do by funds I have in Italy, 
and credits in England. Of this sum I must necessarily 
reserve a portion for the subsistence of mvself and suite ; 
the rest I am willing to apply in the manner which seems 
most likely to be useful to the cause — having, of com se, 
some guarantee or assurance, that it will not be misap- 
plied to any individual speculation. 

" If I remain in Greece, which will mainly depend upon 
the presumed probable utility of my presence there, and 
of the opinion of the Greeks themselves as to its propri- 
ety—in short, if I am welcome to them, I shall continue. 
during my residence at least, to apply such portions of 
mv income, present and future, as may forward the object 
— that is to say, what I can spare for that purpose. Pri- 
vations I can, or at least could once, bear — abstinence I 
am accustomed to— and, as to fatigue, I was once a toler- 
able traveller. What I may be now, I cannot tell — but I 
will try. 

1 1 await the commands of the Committee. — Address 
to Genoa — the letters will be forwarded to me, wherever 
I mav be, by my bankers, Messrs. Webb and Barry. Ii 
would have given me pleasure to have had some more 
defined instructions before I went, but these, of course, 
rest at the option of the Committee. 

" I have the honour to be 

" Your obedien', &.c. 

a P. S. Great anxiety is expressed for a printing press 
\nd types, &c. I have not the time to provide them, but 
recommend this to the notice of the Committee. 1 pre- 
sume the types must, parti v at least, be Greek : thev wisfc 
to publish papers, and perhaps a Journal, probably in 
Romaic, with Italian translations." 



Weimar, to offer the sincere homage of one of the many 
millions of your admirers. I have the honour to be, ever 
and most, "Your obliged, 

"Noel Byron." 



NOTES TO THE COUNTESS Gl'ICCTOLI. 

"October 7. 
Pietro has told you all the gossip of die island, — our 
earthquakes, our politics, and present abode in a pretty 
village. As his opinions and mine on the Greeks are 
similar, I need say little on that subject. I was a 
fool to come here ; but, being here, I must see what is to 
be done." 

■ October 

"We are sriil in Cephalonia, waiting for news of a 
more accurate description ; for all is contradiction and 
division in the reports of the state of the Greeks. 1 
hall fulfil the object of my mission from the Committee, 
and then return into Italy. For it does not seem likely 
that, a* an individual] 1 can be of use to them;— ^at least 
no other foreigner has yet appeared to be so, nor does it 
seem Likely that any will be at present. 

u Pray be as cheerful and tranquil as you can ; and be 
assured that there is nothing here that can excite any 
thing but a wish to be with you again, — though we are 
very kindly treated by the English here of all descrip- 
tions. Of the Greeks, I ca n t say much good hitherto, 
and I do not like to speak ill of them, though they do of 
one another." 

"October 29. 

"You may be sure that the moment I can join you 
ajain will be as welcome to me as at any period of our 
ion. PI 'c is nothing very attractive here to 
divide my attention; but I must attend to the Greek 
cause, both from honour and inclination. Messrs. B.and 
T. are both in the Morea, where they have been very 
well received, and both of them wTite in good spirits and 
hopes. I am anxious to hear how the Spanish cause will 
be arranged, as I think it may have an influence on the 
Greek contest. I wish that both were fairly and favour- 
■ led, thai I might return to Italy, and talk over 
with you our, or rather Pietro's, adventures, some of which 
are rather amusing, as also some of the incidents of our 
and travels. But I reserve diem, in the hope 
that we may laugh over them together at no very distant 
period." 



LETTER DXCYI. 



TO GOETHE. 



^Leghorn, July 24, 1823. 

ILLCSTRIOCS SIR, 

" I cannot thank you as you ought to be thanked for the 
lines winch my young friend, Mr. Sterling, sent me of 
yours; and it would but ill become me to pretend to 
exchange verses with him who, for fifty years, has been 
the undisputed sovereign of European literature. You 
must therefore accept my most sincere aciuiowledgments 
ID prone — and in hasty prose too ; for 1 am at present on 
mv voyage to Greece once more, and surrounded bv hurrv 
and bustle, which hardly alluw a moment even to grati- 
tude and admiration to express themselves. 

• I sailed from Genoa some days ago, was dnv 
bv a gale of wind, and have since sailed again and arrived 
here. ' Leghorn,* this morning, to receive on board some 
Greek passengers for their struggling country. 

"Here also I found your hues and Mr. Sterling's leUer, 
and 1 could not have had a more favourable omen, a more 
agreeable surprise, than a word of Goethe, written by his 
own hand. 

°I am returning to Greece, to see if I can be of any 
little uje there : if ever I come back, I will pay a visit to 



LETTER DXCYII. 



TO MR. BOW RING. 



«9bre29, I82& 
" This letter will be presented to you by Mr. Hamilton 
Browne, who precedes or accom] anies the Greek depu- 
tes. He i I' h capable and desirous of rendering any 
nise, and information to the Committee. 
He baa already been of considerable advantage to both, 
of my own knowledge. Lord Archibald Hamilton, to 
whom he is related, will add a weightier recommendation 
than mine. 

"Corinth is taken, and a Turkish squadron said to bo 
beaten in the Archipelago. The public progress of die 
, - O n-iderable, but their internal dissensions stiil 
continue. On arriving at the seat of Government, I shall 
endeavour to mitigate or extinguish them — though neither 
is an easv task. I have remained here till now, partly in 
expectation of the squadron in relief of MissolonghJ, 
partly of Mr. Parry's detachment, and partly to receive 
fromMalta or Zan'te the sum of four thousand pounds 
sterling, which I have advanced for the payment of the 
expected -wjnadron. The bills are negotiating, and will 



216 



LETTERS, 1823- 



\ip cashed in a short timet as they would haw bet q imme* 

in any other mart ; but the miserable 
tnerchanta have tittle money, and no great credit, and are 
pt/Htkalty rii't on ibis occasion; for, although I 
had letters of Messrs. \W1>1>, (one of the strongesl 
how a of the Mediterranean,) and also of Messrs. Ran- 
som, there is no busine ruin i! .> unfair terms except 

through English merchants. These, however, have 
proved both able and willing — and upright, as usual. 
"ColtM.- 1 Stanhope had arrived, and will proceed imme- 
; he shall hare nrj co-operation in all liis endea- 
vours; but from every thing that I can Lead], theforma- 
□' iii of a brigade at present will be extremely diffii ult, to 
Bay ill*- least of it. With regard to the reception of 
i .i ihts, — at least <>!' t-m'i^n niliei-r.--, — I refer you to a 
pas sage in Prince Mavrocordato's recent letter, a copy of 
which is enclosed in my packet sent to the Deputies. Ii 
is my intention to proceed by sea to Napqli di Romania 
as soon as 1 have arranged mis business for the Greeks 
themselves — I mean the advance of two hundred thou- 
sand piastres for their fleet. 

"My tune here has r ! tieen i ntircly lost, — as you will 
perceive by some former documents that any advantage 
from ni\ tin >< proceeding io the Morca was doubtful. We 
have at last moved the Deputies, and I have made a 
strong remonstrance on their divisions to Mavrocordato, 
which, I understand, was forwarded by the Legislative to 
the Prince. With a loan they mmy do much, which is all 
that /, for particular reasons, can say on the subject. 

"I regrel to hear from Colonel Stanhope that the Com- 
mittee have exhausted their funds. Is it supposed that a 
brigade can be firmed without them ? or that three thou- 
sand pounds would be sufficient? It is true that money 
will go farther in Greece than in most countries ; but tin- 
regular force must be rendered a national concern, and paid 
from a national fund ; and neither individuals nor com- 
mittees, at least with the usual means of such as now 
exist, will rind the experiment practicable. 

u I beg once more to recommend my friend, Mr. 
Hamilton Browne, to whom I have also personal obliga- 
tions for his exertions in the common cause, and have the 
honour to be 

"Yours very truly." 



LETTER DXCVIII. 

TO THE GENERAL GOVERNMENT OF GREECE. 

■ I Ii ph. ilonia, November 30, 1823. 
"The affair of the loan, the expectation so lore.' and 
vainly indulged of the arrival of the Greek fleet, and the 
danger to which Missolonghi is still exposed, have 
detained me here, and will si ill detain me till some of them 
are removed. But when tin' money shall be advanced 
for die fleet, I will start for the Evlorea, not knowing, how- 
ever, <>i \vha1 use my pp-senee can he in the present slate 

of dungs. We have heard some rumours of new dis- 
sensions, nay, of the existence of a civil war. With all 
my heart, I pray that these reports may be false or exag- 
gerated ; for 1 can imagine no calamity more serious than 
this ; and I must frankly confess, that unless union and 
order are established, all hopes of a loan will bo vain; 
and aJ' the assistance which the Greeks could expect 
from abvMM — an assistance neither trifling nor worthless 
— will be suspended or destroyed; and, what is worse, 
the great powers of Europe, of whom no one was an 

r-nerny to ( ireere, but seemed to favour her establishment 
nf an independent power, will be persuaded that the 
Greeks are unable to govern themselves, and will, per- 
haps, themselves undertake to settle your disorders in 
such a way as to blast the brightest hopes of yourselves 
and of your friends. 

u Allow rne tc add.once for all, — I desire the well-being 



1 ce, and nothing else ; I will do all I can to secure it , 
hut I rannol const nt. I n vcr will consent, that the Kng- 
lish public, or English individuals, should l*e deceived as 
to the real state of Greek affairs. The rest, gentlemen, 
depends on you. You have fought gloriously; — net 
honourably towards your f«-l!o\v-eitizens and the wurld, 
and it will then no more be said, as has been repeated for 
two thousand years with the Roman historians that Phi- 
lopoamen was the last of the Grecians. Let not calumny 
itself (and it is difficult, 1 own, to guard against it in so 
arduous a struggle) compare the patriot Greek, when 
resting from his labours, to the Turkish pacha, whom his 
victories have extermini 

I pray you in are.pi these my sentiments as a sincere 
proof i,|' my attachment to your real interests, and to 
believe that I am, and always shall be, 

"Yours, fcc." 



LETTER DXCIX. 

TO PRINCE MAVROCORDATO. 

"Cephaloiua, 2, Dec. 1823. 

"PRIHCfej 

"The present will he put into your hands by Colonel 
Stanhope, son of Major General the Ear! of Harrington, 
&c. &c. He has arrived from London in fifty days, after 
having visited all the Committees of Germany. He is 
charged by our Committee to act in concert with me for 
the liberation of Greece. I conceive that his name and 
his mission will be a sufficient recommendation, without 
the necessity of any other from a foreigner, although one 
who, in common whh all Europe, respects and admires 
the courage, the talents, and above all, the probity of 
! Vfavrocordato. 

"I am very uneasy al hearing that the dissensions of 
Greece still continue, and at a moment when she might 
triumph over every thing in general, as she has already 
triumphed in part. Greece is, at present, placed between 
three measures : either to reconquer her liberty, to become 
in e of the sovereigns of Europe, or to return to 
a Turkish province. She has the choice only of those 
three alternatives. Civil war is but a road which leads 
to the two latter. If she is desirous of the fate of Wala- 
chifl and the Crimea, she may obtain it to-morrow; if of 
that of Italy, the day after; but if she wishes to become 
truly Greece, free and independent, she must resolve 
to-day, or she will never again have the opportunity. 
" I am, with all respect, 
" Your Highnesses obedient servant, 
"N.B. 

"P. S. Your Highness will already have known that 1 
have sought to fulfil the wishes nf the Greek Govern 
ment, as much as it lay in my power to do so : but I should 
wish that the fleet so lone and 10 vainly expected were 
arrived, or, al least, that it were on the way; and espe- 
cially that your Highm should approach these parts 
either on board the fleet, with a public mission, or in some 
other manner. 



LETTER DC. 

TO MR. BOWRINO. 



u I0bre7, IKS. 
(< I confirm the above ;* it is certainty mv opinion that 
Mr. Millingen is entitled to the same salary with Mr. 

Tindall, and his service is likely to be harder. 



Hi bi in lodludtti inn letter, forwarded with hi* own, from Mr. Mil- 
lingen, who mi about tojoln, in hla medleel capacity, the Sulfates, near 

«■ l oiiifiliUrr m 1 mi Kvn 

tlemati having mentioned tn bli lettti " u>.>t the retreat ol lha Turk* from 
bef <•■ Mlaflotonsjbl ><■<■* rendered unneeeeaarj the appearauee uf ihe Greek 
Beet," Lord Uvron, in a ii«(bou Uiii p-tMNg*, W)'«, " Bj the special pre- 



LETTERS, 1823- 



217 



* I have written to you (as to Mr. Hobhouse/ur your 
perusal) by various opportunities, mostly private; also by 
the Deputies, and by Mr. Hamilton Browne. 

" The public success of the Greeks has been considera- 
ble ; Corinth taken, Missolonghi nearly safe, and some 
ships in the Archipelago taken from the Turks; but 
there is Dot onlv dissension in the Morea,but civil war, by 
the latest accounts;* to what extent we do not yet know, 
but hope t.iflin : 

"For six weeks I have oeen expecting the fleet, which 
has not arrived, though I have, at the request of the 
Greek Government, advanced — that is, prepared, anu have 
in hand, two hundred thousand piastres (deducing the 
commission and bankers' changes) of my own moneys to 
forward their projects. The Suliotes (now in Acarna- 
nia) are very anxious that I should lake them under my 
directions, and go over and put things to rights in the 
Morea, which, without a force, seems unpracticable ; anJ 
really, though very reluctant (as my letters will have shown 
yon) to take such a measure, there seems hardly any 
l ilder remedy. However, I will not do any thing rashly ; 
and have only continued here so long in the hope of seeing 
things reconciled, and have done all in my power thereto. 
Had I gone sooner, thry would have forced me into one party 
or other, and I doubt as much now ; but we will do our best. 

" Yours, &,c.'' 



LETTER DCI. 



TO MR. BOWKING. 



"October 10, 1823. 

■Colonel Napier will present to you this letter. Of his 
military character it were superfluous to speak ; of his 
personal, I can sav, from my own knowledge, as well as 
from all public rumour, or private report, that it is as ex- 
cellent as his military : in short, a better or a braver man 
is not easily to be found. He is our man to lead a regu- 
lar force, or to organize a national one for the Greeks. 
Ask the army — ask any one. He is besides a personal 
friend of both Prince Mavrocordato, Colonel Stanhope, 
and mvself, and in such concord with all three that we 
should all put together — an indispensable, as well as a 
rare point, especially in Greece at present. 

"To enable a regular force to be properly organized, it 
will be requisite for the loan-holders to set apart at least 
60,000/. sterling for that particular purpose — perhaps 
more — but by so doing they will guaranty their own mo- 
neys, 'and make assurance doubly sure.' They can ap- 
point commissioners to seo that part properly expended — 
and I recommend a similar precaution for" the whole. 

"I hope that the Deputies have arrived, as well as 
some of my various despatches (chiefly addressed to Mr. 
Hobhouse) for the Committee. Colonel Napier will tell 
you the recent special interposition of the gods in behalf 
of the Greeks — who seem to have no enemies in heaven 
or on earth to be dreaded, but their own tendency to dis- 
cord among themselves. But these, too, it is to be hoped, 
will be mitigated, and then we can take the field on the 
DftemnVe, instead of being reduced to the petite giterre of 
defending the same fortresses year after year, and taking 
a few ships, and starving out a castle, and making more 



videnee oftheDeiiv, ihe Mussulmans were seized nub a panic, and Bed 

i hi lea to ihe fleet, which ought to hare heeu here mouths ago, urn! 

u ise to the eoutrary, lately — at ki.it, unce I had the n* 
ready to pav." 

On (mother passage, in which Mr. Millingcn complains that hi* hope 
ofany remnnerau-.n Iron) ihf Gre.kilin ' turned out perfectly chtmeri- 

r 1 Byron remarks, in a noi*. "and will do so, till they obtain a 
lonn. Thevhave not* rap, nor credit (id the inlands) to raise one. A 
medical man mar succeed heller than othcra , Bill «U ibeae penniless 
ofhcershadhetlerhaveilaiditi home. Much money may not be required, 
bn some must." 

• The Legislative and ExeetltWe bodies having heen for sime time at 

■ the latter had ai lenelh reamed to violence, and some aktradlhw 
bad already ukcu place between the factions. 

28 



fuss about them than Alexander in his cups, or Buocta- 
parle in a bulletin. Our friends have done something in 
the way of the Spartans — (though not one-tenth of whist 
is told) — but have not yet inherited their style. 

" Believe me yours, &c» r 



LETTER DCII. 



TO Mil. BOWRING. 



"October 13,1823. 

"Since I wrote to you on the 10th instant, the long* 
desired squadron lias arrived in the waters of Missolonght 
ami intercepted two Turkish corvettes — ditto transports 
— destroying or taking all four — except some of the crews 
escaped on shore in Ithaca — and an. unarmed vessel, with 
passengers, chased into a port on the opposite side of Ce- 
phalouia. The Greeks had fourteen sail, the Turks four 
—but ihe odds don't matter — the victory will make a 
cry goodpuff\ and be of some advantage besides. I ex- 
pect momentarily advices from Prince Mavrocordato, 
who is on board, and has (I understand) despatches from 
the Legislative for me ; in consequence of which, after 
paying the squadron, (lor which I have prepared, and am 
preparing,) I shall probably join him at sea or on shore. 

" I add the above communication to my letter by Col. 
Napier, who will inform the Committee of every thing in 
detail much better than I can do. 

The mathematical, medical, and musical preparations 
of the Committee have arrived, and in good condition, 
abating some damage from- wet, and some ditto from a 
portion of the letter-press being spilt in landing — (I ought 
not to have omitted the press— but forgot it a moment — 
excuse the same) — they are excellent of their kind, but 
till we have an engine sr and a trumpeter (we have chirur- 
geons already) mere 'pearls to swine, 1 as the Greeks are 
quite ignorant of mathematics, and have a bad ear for our 
music The maps, &c. I will put into use for them, and 
take care that all (with proper caution) are turned to the 
intended uses of the Committtee — but I refer you to Co- 
luncl Napier, who will tell you, that much of your really 
valuable supplies should be removed till proper persons 
arrive to adapt them to actual service. 

" Believe me, my dear sir, to be, &c. 

"P.S. Private. — I have written to our friend Douglas 
Kmnaird on my own matters, desiring him to send me 
out all Ihe further credits I can command, — and I have a 
year's income, and the sale of a manor besides, he tells 
me, before me, — for till the Greeks get their loan, it is 
probable that I shall have to stand partly paymaster — as 
far as I am ' good upon Change? that is to say. I pray 
you to repeat as much to him, and say that I must in the 
interim draw on Messrs. Ransom most formidably. To 
say the truth, I do not grudge it, now the fellows have be- 
Sim to fight again— and still more welcome shall they be 
if they will go on. But they have had, or are to have, 
some four thousand pounds (besides some private extra- 
ordinaries for widows, orphans, refugees, and rascals of 
all descriptions) of mine at one 'swoop;' and it is to 
be expected the next will be at least as much more. 
And how can I refuse it if they will fight? — and espe- 
cial lv if I should happen ever to be in their company ? I 
therefore request and require that you should apprize my 
trusty and trustworthy trustee and banker, and crown and 
<=heet anchor, Douglas Kinnaird the Honourable, that ho 
prepare all moneys of mine, including the purchase-mo- 
ney of Rochdale' manor and mine income for the year 
ensuing, A. D. 1824, to answer, or anticipate, any orders 
or drafts of mine for the good cause, in good and lawful 
money ofGreat Britain, &c. &c. May you live a thou- 
sand years ! which is 999 longer than the Spanish Cortc* 
Constitution." 



218 



LETTERS, 1823. 



LETTER DCIII. 

TO THE HONOURABLE MX. DOUGLAS XIXXAIHD. 

"Cephalonia, Dec. 23, 1823. 

"I shall be as saving of mv purse and person as you 
recommend, but you know that it is as well to be in rea- 
diness with one or both, in the evenl of eithei being 
required. 

" I presume that some agreement has been concluded 
with Mr. Murray about ' Werner.' Althou -h the copy- 
right should only be worth Two or three hundred pounds, 
I will tell you what can be done with them. For three 
hundred pounds I ran maintain in Greece, ai more than 
the fullest pay of the 1'rovi i« x<al Government, rations 
included, one hundred armed nun tor three month*. rTou 
may judge of this when I tell you, that the four thousand 
pounds advanced by me to the Gieeks is likely to set a 
fleet and an army in motion for some months. 

u A Greek vessel has arrived from tin - s<[iui -Iron to con- 
vey me to Missolonghi,wh."re Marrocordato now is, and 
has assumed the command, so that I expect to embark 
immediately. Still address, however, to Cephalonia, 
through Messrs. Welch and Barry of Genoa, as usual; 
ami get together all the means and credit of mine you 
can, to faco the war establishment, for it is ' in for a 
penny, in for a pound,' and I must do all that I can for 
the ancients. 

u I have been labouring to reconcile these parties, and 
Jhere is now some hope of succeeding. Their public af- 
fairs go on well. The Turks have retreated from Acar- 
nania without a battle, after a few fruitless attempts on 
Anatoliko. Corinth is taken, and the Greeks have gained 
a battle in the Archipelago. The squad a here, too, 
has taken a Turkish corvette, with some money and a 
;argo. In short, if they can obtain a loan, I am of opin- 
ion thai matters will assume and preserve a steady and 
favourable aspect for their independence. 

H In the mean time I stand paymaster, and what not ; 
and lucky it is that, from the nature of the warfare and 
of the country, the resources even of an individual can 
be of a partial and temporary service. 

"Colonel Stanhope is at Missolonghi. Prohably we 
shall attcmptPatras next. The Suliotes, who an- friends 
of mino, seem anxious to have me with them, and so is 
Mavroeordato. Iff can but succeed in reconciling the 
two parties (and I have left no stone unturned) it wrll be 
something; and if not, we must go over to the Morea 
with the western Greeks — who are the bravest, and at 
present the strongest, having beaten back the Turks — 
and try the etTect of a little physical advice, should they 
persist in rejecting moral persuasion. 

■ Once more recommending to you the reinforcement of 
my strong-box and credit from all lawful sources and re- 
sources of mine to their practicable extent— for, after all, 
it is better playing at nations than gaming at AlmackV 
or Newmarket — and requesting you to write to me as 
often as vou can. " I remain ever, fcc." 



me all the resources of my own we can muster for ihe 
ensuing year, since it is no time to menager pii'sr, or, 
perhaps, prrwrn. I have advanced, and am advancing, all 
thai I have in hand, but I snail require all that can be got 
together — and, (if Douglas has completed the sale of 
Rochdale, that and my year's income for next year ought 
to form a good round sum) — as you may perceive that 
there will be little cash oi their own among the Greeks^ 
(unless they gel the oan ) il is the more necessary that 
those of their friends who have any should risk it. 

« The supplies of the Committee are, some useful, and 
all excellent in their kind, but occasionally hardly practical 
enough, in the present suite of Greece; fur instance, the 
mathematical instruments are thrown a\\a\ — none of the 
Greeks know u problem from a poker — we must conquer 
first, and plan aflerwi i 1. The use of the trumpets too 
may be doubled, unless Constantinople were Jericho, for 
the Hellenists have no ears Bh bugles, and you must send 
us somebody to listen to them. 

■We will do our best — and I pray you bo stir your 
English hearts at hemic to more general exert ion ; for my 
part, I will stick by the cause while a plank remains 
which can be hoiovrably clung to. If I quit it, it will be 
by the Greeks' cundu . and not the Holy Allies or the 
holier Mussulmans — but let us hope better things. 

" Ever v.mrs. 

" »N. B. 

"P.S. I am happy to say that Colonel Leicester Stan 
hope and myself are acting in perfect harmony together — 
he is likely to be of great service both to the cause and to 
the Committee, and is publicly as well as personally a very 
valuable acquisition to our party on every account. He 
came up (as they all do who have not been in the coun- 
try before] with some high-flown notions of the 6th form 
at Harrow or Eaton, &c; but Col. Napier and I set 
him to rights on those points, which is absolntelv neces- 
sary to prevent disgust, or perhaps return; but now we 
can set our shoulders soberly to the wheel, without quar- 
n ling With the mud which may clog it occasionally. 

I can assure you that Col. Napier and myself are as 
decided for the cause as any German student of them all ; 
but like men who have seen tin- Country and human hfe, 

there and ehtewhen . we must be pemitted to view it in 
its truth, with its defects as weD as beauties, — more espe- 
cially as success will remove the former gradually. 

"N.B. 
"P.S. As much of this letter as you please is for the 
Committee, the rest may be ' entre nous.' a 



LETTER DCrV. 



TO MR. BOWRINQ. 



«10 bre 26, 1823 
• Little noed be added to the enclosed, which arrived 
this day, except that I embark to-morrow tor Mi-ssolonghi 
The intended operations are detailed in the annexed 
documents. I have only to request that the Committee 
will use every exertion to forward our views by all its in- 
fluence and credit. 

" 1 have also to request you personally from myself to 
urge my friend and trustee, Douglas Kinnaird (from whom 
I have not heard these four months nearly,) to forward to 



LETTER DCV. 



TO MR. MOORfc. 



"Cephalonia, Dec. 27, 1823. 

"I received ;■ letter from you some time ago. I have 
been too much employed latterly to write as I could wish, 
and even now must write in baste, 

"I embark for Missolonghi to join Mavroeordato in 
four-and-iw. i,tv hours. The state of parties (but it were 
a Ion" storv) has kept me here till nenv; but now that 
Mavroeordato (their Washington or their Kosciusko) is 
employed again, I can act with a safe conscience. I carry 
money to pay 'he squadron, &c, and 1 have influence 
with the SuUotes, supposed sufficienl to keep them in har- 
monv with some of the dissentients ; — for there are plenty 
of differences, bul trifling. 

■ It is imagined that we shall attempt cither Patras or 
the castles on the Straits ; and it seems, by most accounts, 
that the Greeks, — at any rate, the Suliotes, who are in 
affinity with me of 'bread and salt,'— expect that I should 
march with them, and — be it even so! If any thing in 
the way of fever, faugue, famine, or otherwise, should cut 
short the middle age of a brother warbler,— like Garci- 



LETTERS, 1824. 



219 



lasso de la Vega, Kleist, Korncr, KutoflVki, (a Russian 
nightingale — see Bo wring's Anthology,) or Thersand 
or, — or, somebody else — but never mind — I pray you to 
remember me in your ' smiles and wine.' 

" I have hopes that the cause will triumph ; but whether 
it does or no, still ' Honour must be minded as strictly a: 
a milk diet.' I trust to observe both. 

«Ever,&c." 



LETTER DCVI. 

TO THE HONOURABLE COLOXEL STANHOPE. 

"Scrofer, (or some such name,) on board a Cephaoniote. 
" Misticoj Dec. 31, 1823, 
"mv dear stanhope, 

"We are just arrived here, that is, part of my people 
and 1, with some things, &c, and which it may be as well 
not to specify in a letter (which has a risk of being inter- 
cepted, perhaps;) — but Gamba, and my horses, negro, 
steward, and the press, and all the Committee things, also 
some eight thousand dollars of mine (but never mind we 
have more left, do you understand .') are taken by the 
Turkish frigates, and my party and my felt* in another, 
boat, have had a narrow escape last night, (being close 
under their stern and hailed, hut we would not answer, 
and bore away,) as well as this morning. Here we arc, 
with sun and clearing weather, within a pretty little port 
enough: but whether our Turkish friends may not send 
in their boats and take us out (for we have no arms except 
two carbines and some pistols, and, I suspect, not more 
than four fighting people on board,) is another question, 
especially if we remain long here, since we are blocked 
out of Missolonghi by the direct entrance. 

u You had better send my friend George Drake (Draco,) 
and a body of Su'Jotes, to escort us by land or by the 
canals, with all convenient speed. Gamba and our Bom- 
bard are taken into Pairas, I suppose; and we must take 
a turn at the Turks to get them out : but where the devil 
is the fleet gone ?— the Greek, I mean ; leaving us to get 
in without the least intimation to take heed that the Mo- 
Blems were out again. 

"Make my respects to M avrocordato, and sav, that I 
am here at his disposal. 1 am uneasy at being here; not 
so much on my own account as on that of a Greek boy 
with me, for you know what his fate would be: and 1< 
would sooner cut him in pieces, and myself too, than have 
him taken out by those barbarians. We are all very 
well. "N.B. 

"The Bombard was twelve miles out when taken; at 
least so it appeared to us, (if taken she actually be, for it 
is not certain ;) and we had to escape from another ves- 
sel that stood right between us and the port." 



LETTER DC VII. 



TO MR. MCIR. 



"Dragomestri, Jan. 2, 1824. 

" MV DEAR MUIR, 

K I wish you many returns of fie season and happiness 
therewithal. Gamba and the Bombard, (there is a strong 
reason to believe) are carried into Patras by a Turkish 
frigate, which we saw chase them at dawn on the 31st; 
we had been close under the stern in the night, believing 
her a Greek till within pistol-shut, and only escaped by a 
miracle of all the Saints, (our captain says,) and truly I 
am of his opinion, for we should never have got away of 
ourselves. They were signalizing their consort with 
lights, and had illuminated the ship between decks, and 
were shouting like a mob ; — but then why did they not 



fire? Perhaps they took us for a Greek brtllot, and were 
afraid of kindling us — they had no colours flying even at 
dawn nor after. 

" At daybreak my boat was on the coast, but the wind 
unfavourable for the port; — a large vessel with the wind in 
her favour standing between us and the Gull* and another 
in chase of the Bombard about 12 miles off or so. Soon 
after they stood (i. e. the Bombard and frigate,) appa- 
rently towards Patras, and a Zantiote boat making sig- 
nals to us from the shore to get away. Away we went 
before- the wind, and ran into a creek called Scrofes, I 
believe, where I landed Luke* and another (as Luke's 
life was in most danger,) with some money for them- 
selves, and a letter for Stanhope, and sent them up the 
country to Missolonghi, where they would be in safety, as 
the place where we were, could be assailed by armed 
boats in a moment, and Gamba had all our arms except 
two carbines, a fowling-piece, and some pistols. 

"In less than an hour the vessel in chase neared us, 
and we dashed out again, and showing our stern (our 
boat sails very well,) got in before night to Dragomestri, 
where we now are. But where is the Greek fleet? I 



do n't know- 



do v 



on ? I told our master of the boat that 



I was inclined to think the two large vessels (there were 
none else in sight,) Greeks. But he answered 'thev are 
too large — why don't they show their colours ?' and his 
account was confirmed, be it true or false, by several boats 
which we met or passed, as we could not at any rate 
have got in with that wind without beating about for a 
long time ; and as there was much property and some 
lives ro risk (the boy's especially) without any means of 
defence, it was necessary to let our boatmen have their 
own wav. 

a I despatched yesterday another messenger to Mis- 
solonghi for an escort, but we have yet no answer. We 
are here (those of my boat) for the fifth day without tak- 
ing our clothes oiT, and sleeping on deck in all weathers, 
but are all very well, and in good spirits. It is to be sup- 
posed that the Government will send, for their own sakes, 
an escort, as 1 have 16,000 dollars on board, the greater 
part i* >r their service. I had (besides personal property 
to the amount of about 5000 more,) 8000 dollars in specie 
of my own, without reckoning the Committee's stores, so 
that the Turks will have a good thing of it, if the prize be 
good. 

k I regret the detention of Gamba, &c. but the rest we 
can make up again, so tell Hancock to set my bills into 
cash as soon as possible, and Corgialegno to prepare the 
remainder of my credit with Messrs. Webb to be turned 
into moneys. I shall remain here, unless something ex- 
traordinary occurs, till Mavrocordato sends, and then go 
on, and act according to circumstances. My respects to 
the two colonels, and remembrances to all friends. Tell 
1 Ultima Analise\ that his friend Raidi did not make his 
appearance with the brig, though I think that he might as 
well have spoken with us in or off" Zante, to give us a 
gentle hint of what we had to expect. 

" Yours ever affectionately, 
"N.B. 

" P. S. Excuse my scrawl on account of the pen and 
the frosty morning at daybreak. I write in haste, a boat 
starting for Kalamo. I do not know whether the deten- 
tion of the Bombard, (if she be detained, tor I cannot 
swear to it, and I can only judge from appearances, and 
what all these fellows say,) be an affair of the Govern- 
ment, and neutrality, and, &c, — but she was stopped at 
least 12 miles distant from any port, and had all her papers 
regular from Zante for Katamo> and we also. I did not 
land at Zante, being anxious to lose as little time as 



• A Greek youth whom he had brought with him, In t.it tulle, (Km 
Cephalonbjt. 

» Count DeUftdeciiriii, lo whrnn he givei this name In consequence of • 
bnbii which thai gentleman hud of lulng the phra#e " in uliiina * 
frequently in coimrjaii.m. 



220 



LETTERS, 1824. 



possible, but Sir F. S. came off to invite me, &c. and 
•vwrvbody was as kind as could be, even in Ceph 



LETTER DCVIII. 



TO MR. C. HANCOCK. 



" Dragomeslri, Jan. 2, 1824. 
•dear sir ' ancock,'* 
"Remember me to Dr. Muir and everybody. I have 
wiill the 16,000 dollars with Hie, the rest v.. ,. OB board 
the Rombartla. Her'-; we are — the Bombards taken, or 

at least missing, with all lln- Committee stores, my In. nd 

Gamba, the horses, negro, hull-dog, steward] and domi b- 

ti.s, wiill all our implements of peare and war, also 8000 
n/«i:»rs; but whether she will be lawful prize or 1)0, i> fat 
t£»e decision of the Governor of tin- Seven [stands, I 
have written to Dr. Muir, by way of Kalamo, with all 
particulars. We are in good condition; and what with 
wind ami weather, ami being hunted or so, little sleeping 
on deck, &c. are in tolerable seasoning fur the countrv 
and circumstances. Bui I foresee thai we shall have 
occasion for all the cash I can muster at Zante and else- 
where. Mr. Barnff gave us B000 and (wld dollars ; so 
there is still a balance in my favour. We are not quite 
certain that the vessels were Turkish which chased ; but 
there is strong presumption that thev were, and no news 
to the contrary. At Zante, even body, from the Resident 
downwards, were as kind as could bo, especially your 
worthy and courteous partner. 

"T. -II our friend-; to kri-;Mip their spirits, ami we mav 

yet do well. I disembarked the boy and another Greek, 
who were in most terrible alarm — the boy, at least, from 
the Morea — on shore near Anatoliko, 1 believe, which put 
ttiem in safety; and , as tor me and mine, u, must stick 
hv our goods. 

" I hope that Gamba's detention will oo!y he temporary. 
As for the effects and moneys, — it* we have them, well ; if 
Otherwise, patience. I wish you a happy new year, and 
all our friends the same. " Yours, Sic." 



LETTER DCIX. . 

TO MR. CHARLFS HANCOCK. 

*Missolongty Jan. 13,1824 

* DEAR SIR, 

"Many thanks for yours of the 5th: ditto to Muir for 
his. You will have heard that Gamba and mv vessel got 
out of the hands of the Turks safe and intact; nobody 
knows well how or whv, for there's a mystery in the story 
somewhat melodramatic < 'a pi am Valsamaohi lias, i 
take it, spun a long yarn by this time in ArgOStoti. I 
attribute theiprelease entirely to Saint Dkmisio, of Zante, 
and i he Madonna of th<^ Rock, near Cepholonia. 

"The adventures ol my separate luck were also not 
finished at Dragomestri -, we were conveyed out by some 
Greek gunboats, and found the Leonidas brig-o£war at 
sea to look after us. — But blowing weather coming on, 
we were driven on the rocks twia m 'In- passage- of the 
Scrophes, and the dollars had another narrow escape. 
Two-thirds of the crew not ashore over the bowspirit: 

the rocks were rugged , nough, but water very deep clOSC 

in shore, so that she was, after much swearing an. I some 
exertion, got off again, and away we went with a third of 
our crew, leaving the rest on a desolate tslan '. where they 
might have been now, had not one of the gunboats taken 



" Tliit In nt is, more propcrif, » potlcript tu one whlcfa Dr. Br 
twi'l, by lib oolcr*. written lo Mr. Hancock, with •oiiir pitrUculari 
« ilictr VOJWge: »nJ ihe Doctor hnvltie begun him letter. " Prtgintrn. 
Btajr, iuouck, 1 ' Lord bymu Lliut (jikrotiitm hii mode, of nihirc**.- 

Moore. 



them off] for we were in no condition to take them off 

aim 

- Tell Muir that Dr. Bruno did not show much fight or 
the occasion, for besides stripping to his flannel waistcoat, 
and running about like a rat in an emergency, when I was 
talking to a Greek boy (the brother of the Greek girls in 
ArgostolO and telling him of the fact that there was no 
danger for the passengers, whatever there might be for 
the vessel, and assuring him that 1 could save both him 
and myself without difficulty] (though he can't swim,) as 
ihe water, though deep, was not very rough, — the wind 
not blowing right on shore (it was a blunder of the ' i 
who missed stays,) the Doctor exclaimed, ' Save /uwt, in- 
deed ! by G — d! save me rather — I'll be first if I can' — a 
piece of egotism which he pronounced with such einphatif 
simpfa i v as to set all who had leisure to hear him luugh- 

g, and in a minute after the vessel drove off again after 
twice. She sprung a small leak, but nothing fur- 
ther happened, except that the captain was very nervous 
afterward. 

w To be brief, we had bad weather almost always, 
though not contrary ; slept on deck in the wet generally 
t. i -., ■.. n or eight nights, but never was in better health 
(I speak personally) — so much so, that I actually bathed 
for a quarter of an hour on tin evening of 'he fourth 
instant in the sea (to kill the fleas, and other &c.) and 
was all the better for It. 

■ We were received at Missotoughi with all kinds of 
kindness and honours ; and the sight of the fleet saluting, 
&c. and the crowds and different costumes, was really 
picturesque. We think of undertaking an expedition 
soon, and I expect to be ordered with the Suliotea to join 
the army. 

"All well at present. We found Gamba already 
arrived, and every thing in good condition. Remember 
me to all friends, "Yours ever; 

"N.B. 

"P. S. You will, I hope, use every exertion to realize 
the assets. For besides what I have already advanced, 1 
have undertaken to maintain the Suliotea tor a year, (and 
will accompany them, either as a Chief, or whichever » 
most a.Mi - ahl-- to the Government,) besides sundries. 1 
do not understand Brown's 'letters of credit? I neither 
gave nor ordered a letter of credit that I know of; and 
though of eoitrse, if ymi have dote.- it, I will be responsi- 
bly 1 was not aware of any thing except thai I would 
Save backed his bills, which you said was unnecessary. 
As to orders — I ordered nothing but some red clotit and 
oUetothti both of which I am ready to receive; but if 
Gamba has exceeded my commission, the other things 
must be sen! baek,for I cannot permit any tiling of the kind, 
iiotviH. The servants' journey will of course be paid 

i ir, i! gh thai is exorbitant. As for Brown's letter, I do 

not know any thing more than I have said, and I i 
cannot defray the charges of half Greece and the Frank 
adventures besides. Mr. Uartr must send us some dol- 
lars soon, tor the expenses fall on me for the present. 

"January 14, 1824. 
"P. S. Will you tell Saint (Jew) Geronimo Corgial* 
--noil, at I mean to draw for the balance of my credi' 
with Messrs. Webb and Co. I shall draw for two thou- 
sand dollar*,) that being about the amount, more or less ;) 
hut to facilitate the business, I shall make the draft paya- 
ble also at Messrs Ransom and Co., Pall-Mall East, 
Lond >n. 1 believe I already shewed yon my letters, (but 
it' not, 1 have them to show,) by which, besides the credits 
now realizing, von will have perceived that I am not 
limited to any particular amount of credit with my bank- 
The Ibn tumble Douglas, my friend and trustee, is 
a principal partner in that house, and having the dirccuon 
of my affairs, is aware In what extent my present resour- 
go, and the letters in question were from him. I 
can merely sav»that within the current year, 1824, besides 



LETTERS, 1824. 



221 



the money already advanced to the Greek Government, 
and the credits now in your hands and your partner's 
(Mr. Bart!;) which are all from the income of 1823,1 
have anticipated nothing from that of the present year 
hitherto. 1 shall or ought to have at my disposition 
upwards of one hundred thousand dollars, (including my 
income, and the piirchase-monevs of a manor lately sold,) 
and perhaps more, without infringing on my income for 
1825, and not including ihe remaining balance of 1823. 
" Yours ever, 

"N.B." 



LETTER DCX. 



TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 



" Missolnnghi, Jan. 17, 1824. 

■ 1 have answered, at some length, your obliging letter, 
# and trust that you have received iny reply by means of 
Mr. TinJal. I will also thank you to remind Mr. Tindal 
that I would thank him to furnish you, on my account, 
with an order of the Committee for one hundred dollars, 
which I advanced to him on their account through Signor 
Corgialegno's agency at Zante on his arrival in October, 
as it is but fair that the said Committee should pay their 
own expenses. An order will be sufficient, as the money 
might be inconvenient for Mr. T. at present to disburse. 

"I have also advanced to Mr. Blackett the sum of fifty 
dollars, which I will thank Mr. Stevens to pay to you, on 
my account, from moneys of Mr. Blackett, now in his 
hands. I have Mr. B.'s acknowledgment in writing. 

"As the wants of the Sta'e here are still pressing, and 
there seems very little specie stirring except mine, I still 
stand paymaster, and must again request you and Mr. 
BarfT to forward by a safe channel (if possible) all the 
dollars yon can collect on the bills now negotiating. I 
have also written to Corsialegno for two thousand dollars, 
being about the balance of my separate letter from Messrs. 
Webb and Co., making the bills also payable at Ransom's 
in London. 

" Things are going on better, if not well ; there is some 
order, and considerable preparation. I expect to accom- 
pany the troops on an expedition shortly, which makes me 
particularly anxious for the remaining remittance, as 
'money is the sinew of war,' and of peace, too, as far as I 
can see, for I am sure there would be no peace here 
without it. However, a little does go a good way, which 
is a comfort. The Government of the Morea and of 
Candia have written to me for a further advance from my 
own peculium of 20 or 30,000 dollars, to which I demur 
for the present, (having undertaken to pay the Suhotes as 
a free gift and other things already, besides the loan which 
I have already advanced,) till I receive letters from Eng- 
land, which I have reason to expect. 

" When the expected credits arrive, I hope uSat you will 
bear a hand, otherwise I must have recourse to Malta, 
whicn will be losing time and tailing trouble ; but I do not 
wish you to do more than is perfectly agreeable to Mr. 
BarrT and to yourself. I am very well, and have no 
reason to be dissatisfied with my personal treatment, or 
with the posture of public affairs — others must speak for 
themselves. 

"Yours ever and truly, &c. 

° P. S. Respects to Colonels Wright and Duffie, and 
the officers civil and military ; also to my friends Muir 
und Stevens particularly, and to Delladecima." 



LETTER DCXI. 

TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 

" Missolonghi, Jan. 19, 1824. 
■Since I wrote on the 17th, I have received a letter 



from Mr. Stevens, enclosing an account from Corfu, 
which is so exaggerated in price and quantity, that 1 am 
at a loss whether most to admire Gamba's folly, or the 
merchant's knavery. All that / requested Gamba to 
order was red cloth, enough to make a jacket, and some 
oil-skin fur trousers, &c. — the latter has not been sent— 
the whole could not have amounted to 50 dollars. The 
account is 645! !! I will guaranty Mr. Stevens against 
any loss, of course, but I am not disposed to take the arti- 
cles, (which I never ordered,) nor to pay the amount. I 
will take 100 dollars worth ; the rest may be sent back, 
and I will make the merchant an allowance of so much 
per cent. ; or it" that is not to be done, you must sell the 
whole by auction at what price the tilings may fetch, for I 
would rather incur the dead loss of part, than be encum- 
bered with a quantity of things, to me at present super- 
fluous or useless. Why, I could have maintained 300 
men for a month f >r the sum in Western Greece ! 

" When the dogs, and the dollars, and the negro, and the 
horses, fell into the hands of the Turks, I acquiesced with 
patience, as you may have perceived, because it was the 
work of the elements of waf, or of Providence ; but this 
is a piece of mere human knavery or folly, or both, and I 
neither can nor wilt sdbmil to it. I have occasion for 
every dollar I can muster to keep the Greeks together, 
and I do not grudge any expense for the cause ; but to 
throw away as much as would equip, or at least maintain, 
a corps of excellent ragamuffins with arms in their hands, 
to furnish Gamba and the doctor with blank bills, (see 
list,) broadcloth, Hessian boots, and horsewhips, (the latter 
I own that they have richly earned,) is rather beyond my 
endurance, though a pacific person, as all the world 
knows, or at least my acquaintances. I pray you to try 
to help me out of this damnable commercial speculations 
of Gamba's, for it is one of those pieces of impudence or 
folly which I do n't forgive him in a hurry. I will of 
course see Stevens free of expense out of the transac- 
tion ; — hy-the-way, the Greek of a Corfiote has thought 
proper to draw a bill, and get it discounted at 24 dollars ; 
if I had been there, it should have hcen protested also. 

"Mr. Blackett is here ill, and will soon set out for 
Cephalonia. He came to me for some pills, and I gave 
him some reserved for particular friends, and which I 
never knew any body recover from under several months; 
but he is no belter, and what is odd, no worse ; and as tho 
doctors have had no better success with him than I, he 
goes to Argostoli, sick of the Greeks and of a constipa- 
tion. 

■• I must reiterate my request for specie^ and that speed- 
ily, otherwise public affairs will be at a stand-still here. 
I have undertaken to pay the Suliotes for a year, to 
advance in March 3000 dollars, besides, to the Govern- 
ment for a balance due to the troops, and some other 
smaller matters for the Germans, and the press &c. &c. 
&c. ; so what with these, and the expenses of my suite, 
which, though not extravagant, is expensive with Gamba's 
d — d nonsense, I shall have occasion for all the moneys I 
can muster, and I have credits wherewithal to face the 
undertakings, if realized, and expect to have more soon. 
u Believe me ever and truly yours, &c." 



LETTER DC XII. 
to * + + * > 

" Missolonglii, Jan. SI, 1824. 
"The expedition of about two thousand men is planned 
for an attack on Lepanto ; and for reasons of policy with 
regard to the native Capitani, who would rather be (nomi- 
nally at least) under the command of a foreigner, than 
one of their own body, the direction, it is said, is to bo 
given to me. There is also another reason, which is, that 
if a capitulation should take place, the Mussulmans might 



222 



LETTERS, 1824. 



perhaps, rather have Christian faith will a Frank than 
with a Greek, and so be inclined to accede apoinl or two 
These appear to ho the mosl obvious motives lor sun b an 
appointment, aa Ear as I can conjecture, unless there be 
one reason more, viz. that, ui 

no one else (not even Mavrocordato himself) seems 
i accept such a nomination — and tlrough my 
desires are as far as my desert upon das oeeasion, I do 
not decline it, being willing to Ho as 1 am bidden ; ami 
as 1 pay a considerable part of the clans, 1 may as well 
see what they are likely to do for their DOOnOJ J besides 
I am tired of hearing nothing but talk. + * * * 
"I presume] from the retardment, thai he* is the same 
Parry who attempted the North Pote^ and is (it maj be 
supposed) now essaying tlie South* 



LETTER DCXIII. 



TO MR. CHARLES HAW 0) E. 



"Missolonghi, Feb. 5, 1824. 

*l>r. Muirs letter ami yours o£ the 2Sd reached me 
some days ago. Tell Muir. that I am glad ol bis promo- 
tion for his sake, and of his remaining near us for all our 
sakes: though I cannot hut regret Dr. Kennedy's depar- 
ture, which accounts for the previous earthquakes and 
the present English weather in this climate. With all 
respect to my medical pastor, I have to announce to him, 
that among other firebrands, our firemasier Parry (just 
landed) has disembarked an elect blacksmith, intrusted 
with three hundred and twenty-two Greek Testaments. 
I have given him all facilities m my power for his works 
spiritual and temporal, and if lie can settle matters as 
i with the Greek Archbishop and hieraehy, I trust 
that neither the heretic, nor the supposed skeptic will be 
accused of intolerance. 

B By-the-way, I met with the said Archbishop at Anato- 
Uco (where I went by invitation of the Primates afew d 
ago, and was received with a heavier cannonade than the 
Turks, probably) for the second tune, (I had known him 
here before;) and he and P. Mavrocordato, and the 
Chiefs and Primates and I, all dined together, and I 
.nought the metropolitan the merriest of the party, and a 
very good Christian for all that. But Gamba (we got 
wet through in our way back) has been ill with a fever 
and colic ; and Luke has been out of sorts too, and so 
have some others of the people, and I have been very 
well, — except that I caught cold yesterday with swearing 
too much in the rain at the Greeks, who would not bear 
a hand in landing the Committee stores, and nearly 
spoiled our combustibles; but I turned out in person, and 
made such a row as set them in motion, blaspheming al 
them from the Government downwards-, till they actually 
did some part of what they ought to have done several 
days before, and this is esteemed, as it deserves to be, a 

wonder. 

H Tell Muir that, notwithstanding his remonstrances, 
which I receive thankfully, it is perhaps best that I should 
advance with the troops ; for if we do ool do something 
soon, we shall only have a third year ofdefeti-ive opera- 
tions and another siege, and all that. We hear that the 
Turks are coming down in force, and sooner than usual ; 
and as these fellows do mind me a lutle, it is the opinion 
that I should go, — firstly, because they will sooner listen 
to a foreigner than one of Uieir own people, out of native 
jealousies ; secondly, because the Turks will sooner treat 
or capitulate (if such occasion should happen) with B 
Frank than a Greek; and, thirdly, because nobody else 
seems disposed to take the responsibility — Mavrocordato 
being very busy here, the foreign military men too young 
*>r not of authority enough to be obeyed by the natives, 

' r«i-ry who h jrl been long expected with miliary, &e 



and the Cliicfs (as aforesaid) inclined to obey any one 
; .or rather than, one of their own body. As for me 
I am willing to do what 1 am bidden, and to follow my 
instructions. I neither seek nor shun ihat nor any thing 
may wish me to attempt; and as for personal 
safety, besides that it ought not to be a consideration, 1 
take it Hi. i ; a man is on die whole as safe in one place 
as another ; and, af er ail, he had better end with a bullet 
than bark ir. his body. If we are not taken off With the 
aword, we art.' like to march off with an ague in this mud- 

lia ket ; and to conclude with 1 verv had pun, to the car 
rather than to the eye, better martially t than marsh-ally ; 
— the situation of Missolonghi is not unknown to you. 
The dykes of Holland when broken down are the Deserts 
of Arabia for dryness, in comparison. 

"And now for the sinews of war. I thank you and Mr. 

Barfffbr your ready answer's, which, next to ready money, 

..[ .: I in.-. Besides die assets, and balance, and 

die relics of the Corgialegno correspondence with Leg- 

I and Genoa, (I sold die dog Hour, tell him, but not at 

bis price,) I shall request and require, from the beginning 
of.Mj.reh ensuing, about five thousand dollars every two 
months, i. e. about twenty-five thousand within the cur- 
rent year, at regular intervals, independent of die sums 
now negotiating, I can show- you documents to prove 
thai these are considerably witlun my supplies for the year 

in re ways than one ; but I do not like to tell the Greeks 

exai Ely what I could or would advance on an emergency, 
because, otherwise, they will double and triple their de- 
mands, (a disposition diat they have already sufficiently 
shown;) and though I am willing to do all lean matt 
accessary, yet I do not see why they should not help a 
little, for they are not quite so bare as they pretend to be 
by some accounts. 

Feb. 7, 1824. 

" I have been interrupted by the arrival of Parry, and 
aft) rward by the return of Hesketh, who has not brought 
an answer to mv epistles, which rather surprise me. You 
will write soon I suppose. Parry seems a fine rough 
subject, but will hardly be ready for the field these three 
wei ks; he and I will (I think) be able to draw together 
— at least / will not interfere with or contradict him in his 
own department. lie complains grievously of the mer- 
cantile and enthusymusy part of the Committee, but greatly 
praises Gordon and Hume. Gordon would have givea 
three or four thousand pounds and come out htmsdj\ but 
ECenrn lyoc somebody eke disgusted him, and thus they 
have spoiled part of their subscription and cramped their 
operatijns. Parry says Bowring is a humbug, to which 
I say nothing. He sorely laments the printing and civi- 
Ii/uil' expenses, and wishes that there was not a Sunday- 
school in the world, or any school here at present, save and 
excepl always an academy for artillery ship. 

"lie complained also of the cold, a little to my surprise 
tirstlv, because, there being no chimneys,! have used my 
self to do without ottu-r warmth Uian the animal heat and 
one's cloak, in these parts; and second! y, because I should 
as soon have expected to bent ■ ixacaso Been, as a Srs- 
mastcr (who is lo burn a whole Beet) exclaim against the 
< re. I fully expected that his very approach 
would have scorched up the town like the burning-glasses 
of Archimedes. 

? \\VI1, it seems that I am to be Commander-in-chief, 
and the post is by no means a sinecure, for we are not 
what Major Sturgeon calls 'a set of the most amicable 
officers.' Whether we shall have a 'boxing bout between 
< !aptain Sheers and the Colonel,' I cannot tell ; but, b - 
Cween Suliote chiefs, German barons, Enghsh volunteers, 
and adventurers of all nations, we are likely to form as 
goodly an alUed army as ever quarrelled beneath the sumo 
banner. 

Feb. 8, 1824. 

a Interrupted again by business yesterday, and it is time 

conclude mv letter." I drew some lime since on Mr 



LETTERS, 1824 



223 



BarfF fur a thousand dollars, to complete some monej 
wanted bv the government. The said Government got 
cash on that bill here and at a profit ; but the very same 
fellow who gave it to them, after proposing to give me 
money for o:her bills on Bar:!' to the amount of thirteen 
hundred dollar?, either could not, or thought better of it. 
I had written to BarfT advising him, but had afterward 
to write to tell him of the fellow's having not come up to 
time. You must really send me the balance soon. I 
have the artillerists and my Suliotes to pay, and Heaven 
knows what besides, and as even - thing depends upon 
punctuality, all our operations will be at a stand-still un- 
less you use despatch. I shall send to Mr. BartFnrtn 
you further bills on England for three thousand pound?, 
to be negotiated as speedily as you can. I have already 
stated here and formerly the sums I can command at 
home within the year, — without including my credits, or 
the bills already negotiated or negotiating, as Corgialeg- 
no's balance of Mr. AVebb's letter, — and my letters from 
my friends (received by Mr. Parry's vessel,) confirm 
what I have alrea.iv stated. How much I may require in 
the course of the year I can't tell, but I will take care thai 
it shall not exceed the means to supply it. . 

" Yours every 
"N.B. 
a P. S. I have had, by desire of a Mr. Jerostati, to draw- 
on Demetrius Delladccima (is it our friend in ultima ana- 
lise ?) to pay the Committee expenses. I really do not 
understand what the Committee mean by some of their 
freedoms. Parry and I get on very well hitherto; how 
long this may last, Heaven knows, but I hope it will, for ;i 
good deal for the Greek service depends upon it, but he 
has already had some miffs with Col. S. and I do all I can 
to keep the peace among them. However, Parry is a fine 
fellow, extremely active, and of strong, sound, practical 
talents, by all accounts. Enclosed are bills for three thou- 
sand pounds, drawn in the mode directed, (i. e. parcelled 
out in smaller bills.) A good opportunity occuring for 
Cephalonia to send letters on, I avail myself of it. lle- 
member me to Stevens, and to all friends. Also my 
compliments and every thing kind to the colonels and 
officers. 

"February 9, 1824. 
U P.S. 2d or 3d. I have reason to expect a person from 
England directed with papers (on business) for me to 
sign, somewhere in the islands, by-and-by ; if such should 
arrive, would you forward him to me by a safe convey- 
ance, as the papers regard a transaction wiih regard to 
the adjustment of a lawsuit, and a sum of several thou- 
sand pounds, which I, or my bankers and trustees for me, 
may have to receive (in England) in consequence. The 
time of the probable arrival I cannot state, but the date 
of my letters is the 2d Nov. and I suppose that he ought 
to arrive soon." 



die cause of Greece will be to me one of the happiest 
events of my life. In the mean time, with the hope of our 
again meeting, " 1 am, as ever,&.c." 



LETTER DCXIV. 

TO ANUREW I.ONDO.* 
" DEAR FRIEND, 

"The sight of your handwriting gave me the greatest 
pleasure. Greece has ever been for me, as it must be for 
all men of any feeling or education, the promised land of 
valour, of the arts, and of liberty; nor did the time I 
pawed in my youth in travelling among her ruins at all 
chill my affection for the birthplace of heroes. In addi- 
tion to this, I am bound to yourself by ties of friendship 
and gratitude for the hospitality which I experienced from 
you during my stay in that country, of which you are now 
become one of the first defenders and ornaments. To 
eee myself serving, by your side and under your eyes, in 



LETTER DCXV. 

TO HIS HIGHNESS YUSSCFF PACHA. 

"Missolonghi,23d Jan. 1824. 

" HIGHNESS ! 

"A vessel, in which a friend and some domestics of 
mine were embarked, was detained a few days ago and 
I trj order of your Highness. I have now to thank 
von ; n A f r libera ing the vessel, which, as carrying a 
neutral Rag, and being under British protection, no one 
had a righl to detain; but tor having treated my friends 
with ?o much kindness while they were m your hands. 

" In ihe hope, therefore, that it may not be altogether 
displeasing to your Highness, I have requested the gover- 
nor of this place to release four Turkish prisoners, and 
he has humanely consented to do so. I lose no time 
iherefore, in sending them back, in order to make as early 
a return as I could for your courtesy on the late occasion. 
These prisoners are liberated without any conditions: 
but, should the circumstance find a place in your recollec- 
tion, I venture to beg, that your Highness will treat such 
Greeks as may henceforth fall into your hands with hu- 
manity ; more especially since the horrors of war are 
sufficiently great in themselves, without being aggravated 
by wanton cruelties on eiUier side. 

"Noel Byron. 11 



LETTER DCXVL 



TO MR. BARFF. 



Feb. 2't. 

u l am a good deal better, though of course weakly 
the leeches took too much blood from -my temples the day 
after, and there was some difficulty in stopping it, but I 
have since been up daily, and out in boats or on horse- 
bark. To-day I have taken a warm bath, and live as 
temperately as can well be, without any liquid but water 
and without animal food. 

1 Besides the four Turks sent to Patras, I have ob- 
tained the release of four-and* twenty women and children, 
and sent them at my own expense to Prevesa, that (he 
English Consul -General may consign them to their rela- 
tions. I did this by their own desire. Matters here aro 
a little embroiled with the Suliotes and foreigners, &c. 
but I still hope better things, and will stand by the cause 
as long as my health and circumstances will permit me to 
be supposed useful.* 

" I am obliged to support die Government here for tho 
present." 

[The prisoners mentioned in this letter as having been 
released by him and sent to Prevesa had been held in 
captivity at Missolonghi since the beginning of the Revo- 
lution. The following was the letter which he forwarded 
with them to the English Consul at Prevesa.] 



LETTER DCXVII. 



TO MR. MAYER. 



" SIR, 



* One of the Greek chiefs. 



"Coming to Greece, one of my principal objects wa* 
to alienate as much as possible the miseries incident lo 

• In a letter lo the »ame gentleman, 'tilled January 27, he had alread/ 
•aid, " I hope thru things her* will goon wellaotna tunc <>rothu. I wil 
nick by ihc can** n* long n»a cnw c tin*— first nr atcoiid." 



224 



LETTERS, I8XI. 



a warfare so cruel as the present. When the dictates "1" 
numaniiy are in question, 1 I iw nodifierence between 

Turks and Greeks. It is <■ igh thai those who wan) 

e are mm, in order to claim the pity ami protec- 
tion of the meanest pretender to humane feelings. I 
b&vefbui ■, . I including women and 

chi Iren, who have long pined in distress, far from the 
means of support and the consolations of their home. 
The Government has consigned them tome: I transmit 
them to Prevesa, whither they di in I hope 

you will not object to take care thai I . ma} be restored 
to a place of safety, and that the I low roar of your town 
may accept of my present. The best recompense I can 
hope for would he to til td that I had inspired the Ottoman 

commanders with the Baine sentiments towards those un- 
happy Greeks who may hereailei fall in'" their hands. 
"I beg you to believe me, &c." 



LETTER DCXVIII. 

TO THE HONOURABLE DOUGLAS KINNAIRD. 

"Missol letn, Feb. 21, 1824. 

u l have received nirs of the 2d of November. It is 
essential that the money should he paid, as 1 have drawn 
for it all, and more too, to help thet rreeks. Parry is here, 
and he and I agree very well; and all is going on hope- 
fully fur the present, considering circumstances. 

u We shall have work this year, for the Turks are com- 
ing down in force; and, as for me, I must stand by the 
cause. I shall shordy march (according to order-;) against 
I.epanto, with two thousand men. I have been here some 
time, after some narrow escapes from the Turks, and also 
from being shipwrecked. We were twice upon the rocks, 

but tins you Will have heard, truly or falsely, through other 

channels, and I do not wish to bore you with '.t long story 
"So far I have succeeded in supporting the Govern- 
ment of Western Greece, which would Otherwise have 
been dissolved. If you have received the eleven thou- 
sand and odd pounds, these, with what I have in baud, 
and my income fur the current year, to say nothing of 
contingencies, will, or might, enable me to keep the 

'smews nfwar 1 properly strung. If the deputies be honest 

fellows, and obtain the loan, they will repay the 40001. as 
agreed upon; and even then I shall save little, or indeed 
leas than little, smcc I am maintaining nearly tie' whole 
machine — in this place, at least — at my own cost. But 
lei the Greeks only succeed, and I don't care for myself 

* I have been very seriously unwell, but am getting bet- 
ter, and can ride about again: so pray quiet our friends on 
that score. 

■ It is not true that I ever d'ul, uill, would, could) or 
should write a satire against * iiilbrd. or n hair of his bead. 
1 always considered him as my literary father, and myself 
as )ns 'prodigal sou;' and if I have allowed his 'fatted 
calf to grow to an ox before he kills it on my return, it is 
oulv because I prefer beef to . d. 

* Yours, &c." 



LETTER IK' XIX. 



TO MR. BAHi'F. 



a February 23. 
■My health seems improving especially from riding 
and the warm bath. Six Englishmen will be soon in 
quarantine at Zante ; they are artificers, and have bad 
enough of Greece in fourteen days. If you could re- 
eornrnend ibein to a passage borne, 1 would lb;inl, v.m ; 
they are good men enough, but do not quite understand 
•die little discrepanies in these countries, and ore not used 
shooting and slashing in a domestic quiet way, or 
\*« it forms here) a part of housekeeping. 



" If they should want any tiling during their quarantine, 
you can advance them not more than a dollar a day 
(among them) for that period, to purchase them some 
little extras as comforts, (as they are quite out of their 
element.) I cannot afford them more at present." 



LETTER DCXX. 



TO MR. Ml'KRAY. 



■ Missolonghi, Feb. 25, 1824. 
[ I have heard from ."\lr. I>ouglas Kinnaird that you 
stale ' a report of a satire on Mr. Gi fiord having arrived 
from Italy, said to be written by mc ! but that you do not 
believe it. 1 I dare say you do not, nor anybody else, I 
should think. Whoever asserts thai I am the author or 
abettor of any thing of the kind on Gffibrd lies in his 
throat If any sut h composition exists ii is none of mine. 
You know as well as anybody upon whom 1 have or havo 
not written; and you also know whether they do or did 
not deserve that same. And so much for such matters. 

■ You will perhaps be anxious to hear some news from 
this part of Greece, (which is the most liable to mvasjon*) 
but you will hear enough through public and private 
channels. I will, however, give you the events of a week, 
mingling my own private peculiar with the public, for we 
are her- a little jumbled together at present. 

"On Sunday (the loth, I believe,) 1 had a strong and 
sudden convulsive attack] which left me speechless, though 
not motionless — for some strong nun could not hold me ; 
but whether it was epilepsy, catalepsy, cachexy, or apo- 
plexy, or what other exy or cpsy, the doctors have not 
decided ; or whether it was spasmodic or nervous, &c. ; 
but it was very unpleasant, and nearly carried me off] 
and all that. On .Monday, they put leeches to my tem- 
ples, no difficult matter, but the blood could not be stopped 
till eleven at night, (they had gone too near the temporal 
artery for my temporal safety,) and neither styptic nor 
caustic would cauterize the orifice till after a hundred 
attempts. 

"On Tuesday, a Turkish brig of war ran on shore. 
( in Wednesday, greal preparations being made to attack 

her, though protected by her CODSOrtS, the Turks bumed 
her and retired to Patras. On Thursday a quarrel en- 
sued between the Suliotea and the Frank guard at the 
arsenal: a Swedish officer was killed, and a Sulioto 
severely wounded, and a general fight expected, and with 
some difficulty prevented. On Friday, the officer was 
buried; and Captain Parry's English artificers mutinied, 
under the pretence that their lives are in danger, and are 
for quitting the countrj : — they may. 

" Gil Satuidav we had the smallest shock of an eartli- 
quake winch I remember, (and 1 have fell thirty, slighl or 
smart, at different periods ; they are common m the 
Mediterranean,) and the whole ant ad their 

arms, upon the same principle that the savages beat 
drums, or howl, during an eclipse I the moon; — it was 
a rare scene altogether — if you had but seen the I 
Jol nnieS| who had nevei bet n i hi oJ a cot kn< y wt 
before! — <>r will again, if they can help it — and on Sun- 
day, we heard Uiat the Vizier is come down to Larissa, 
with one hundred and odd thousand men. 

"In coming lure, I had two escapes, one from the 
Turks (one of my vessels was taken, hut afterward re- 
leased,) and U^e other from shipwreck. We drove twice 
on the rocks m ar the Scrophes (islands near the coast.) 

u I have obtained from the Greeks the release of Sight- 
and-twenty Turkish prisoners, men, women, and children, 
and sent them to Patras and Prevesa, at my own charges. 
One little girl of nine yean old, who prefers remaining 
with me, I shall (if I live) send, with her mother, pro- 
bably, to Italy, or to England. Her lame is Halo, or 
She is b verv pretfv, livelv child. All h<n 



LETTER S. 1821. 



225 



brothers were killed by the Greeks, and she herself and 
her mother merely spared by special favour and owing 
to her extreme youth, she being then but five or six years 
old 

*My health is now better, and I ride about again. My 
office here is no sinecure, so many parties and difficulties 
of every kind ; but t will do what I can. Prince Mavro- 
cordalo is an excellent person, and does all in his power, 
but his situation is perplexing in the extreme. Still we 
have great hopes of the success of the contest. You 
will hear, however, more of public news from plenty of 
quarters, for I have little time to write. 

"Believe me yours, &c. &c. 

a N. Bn." 



LETTER DCXXI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



** Missolonghi, Western Greece, March 4, 1834. 

* MV DEAR MOORE, 

"Your reproach is unfounded — I have received two 
>etters from vou, and answered both previous to leaving 
' 'ephalorda. I have not been 'quiet' in an Ionian island, 
but much occupied with business, — as the Greek deputies 
(if arrived) can tell you. Neither have I continued 'Don 
Juan,' nor any other poem. You go, as usual, I presume, 
by some newspaper report or other. 

"When the proper moment to be of some use, arrived, 
I came here; and am told that my arrival (with some 
other circumstances) has been of, at least, temporary 
advantage to the cause. I had a narrow escape from 
the Turks, and another from shipwreck: on my passage. 
On the loth (or 16th) of February I had an attack of 
apoplexy, or epilepsy, — the physicians have not exactly 
decided which, but the alternative is agreeable. My con- 
stitution, therefore, remains between the two opinions, 
like Mahomet's sarcophagus between the magnets. All 
that I can say is, that they nearly bled me to death, by 
placing the leeches too near the temporal artery, so that 
the blood could with difficulty be stopped, even with caus- 
tic. I am supposed to be getting better, slowly, however. 
But my homilies will, I presume, for the future, be like the 
Archbishop of Grenada's — in this case, £ I order you a 
hundred ducats from my treasurer, and wish you a little 
more taste. 3 

"For public matters I refer you to Col. Stanhope's and 
Capt. Parry's reports, — and to all other reports whatso- 
ever. There is plenty to do — war without, and tumult 
within — they 'kill a man a week,' like Bob Acres iti the 
country. Parry's artificers have gone away in alarm, on 
account of a dispute, in which some of the natives and 
foreigners were engaged, and a Swede was killed, and a 
Suliote wounded. In the middle of their fright there was 
a strong shock of an earthquake; so, between that and 
the sword, they boomed otf in a hurry in despite of all 
disuasions to the contrary. A Turkish brig ran ashore, 
&c. &c. &c * 

u You, I presume, are either publishing or meditating ■ 
that same. Let me hear from and of you, and believe me,, 
in all events, " Ever and affectionately yours, 

"N. B. | 

u P. S Tell Mr. Murray that I wrote to him the other 
day, and hope that he has received, or will receive, the 
letter.* 



both received at the same time, and one long after its 
date. I am not unaware of the precarious state of my 
health, nor am, nor have been, deceived on that subject. 
But it is proper that I should remain in Greece ; and it 
were belter to die doing something than nothing. My 
presence here has been supposed so far useful as to have 
prevented confusion from Incoming worse confounded, al 
least for the present. Should 1 become, or be deemed, 
useless or superfluous, I am ready to retire; but m the 
interim I am not to consider personal consequences; the 
rest is in the hands of Providence, — as indeed are all 
tilings. I shall, however, observe vour instructions, and 
indeed did so, as far as regards abstinence, for some time 
past. 

"Besides the tracts, &c. which vou have sent for dis- 
tribution, one of the English artificers (hight Brownbill, 
a tinman) left, to my charge a number of Greek Testa- 
ments, which I will endeavour to distribute properly. The 
Greeks complain that the translation is not correct, nor in 
good Romaic : Bambas can decide on that point. I am 
trying to reconcile the clergy to the distribution, which 
(without due regard to their hierarchy) they might con- 
U ive tu impede or neutralize in the erfed-from their power 
over their people. Mr. Brownbill has gone to the islands, 
having some apprehension fur his life, (not from the priests, 
however,) and apparently preferring rather to be a saint 
than a martyr, although his apprehensions of becoming the 
latter were probably unfounded. All the English artifi- 
cers accompanied him, thinking themselves in danger, on 
account of some troubles here, wluch have apparently 
subsided. 

" I have been interrupted by a visit from Prince Mav 
rocordato and others since 1 began this letter, and must 
close it hastily, for the boat is announced as ready to saiL 
Your future convert, Hato, or Hatagee, appears to mo 
lively, and intelligent, and promising, and possesses an in- 
teresting countenance. With regard to her disposition, I 
can say little, but Millingen, who has the mother (who i3 
a middle-aged woman of good character) in his house as 
a domestic, (although their family was in good worldly 
circumstances previous to the Revolution,) speaks well o( 
botli, and he is to be relied on. As far as I know, I have 

ly seen the child a few times with her mother, and what 
I have seen is favourable, or I should nut take so much 
interest in her behalf. If she turns out well, my idea 
would be to send her to my daughter in England, (if not 
to respectable persons in Italy,) and so to provide for her 
as to 'liable her to live with reputation, either singly or in 
narriage, if she arrive at maturity. I will make proper 
arrangements about her expenses through Messrs. Barff 
and Hancok, and the rest I leave to your discretion and 
to Mrs. K.V, with a great sense of obligation for your 
kindness in undertaking her temporary superintendence. 

"Of public matters here, I have little to add to what 
you will already have heard. We are going on as welt 
i we can, and with the hope and the endeavour to do 
better. Believe me, 

a Ever and truly, &c ,, 



LETTER DCXXH. 

TO DR. KENNEDY. 

"Missolonghi, March 4, 1824. 

a MV DEAR DOCTOR, 

* I nave to thank you for your two very kind letters, 



LETTER DCXXIII. 



TO MR. BARKF. 



• Whi^ji omitted here it but ■ repetition of the various particulars, 
I ill ihat had happened tinea In- uri^nl, which hnvc already 
a*en gotn in the UlUrt to hit other cflrre>p°"dtula. — Moor«. 

29 



•March 5, 1824. 
"If Sisseni* is sincere, he will be treated with, and 
well treated ; if he is not, the sin and the shame may lie 
at his own door. One great object is to heal those inter- 
nal dissensions for the future, without exacting too rigor- 



• This 



was tlie Cnpitano of the rich dittrict about Ga 
lime h<?lc) out against the general Government, 



Slaaenl, " 

■toani, and had foi 

\va« now. at appears by the above letter, making overtures, through 
M. Barff. of adhfi^n. A»a proof hi? sincerity, it was required by Lord 
Byi m thai heibould ■urreijiUr Into the bauds of the Oovernnieul tba 
fortrt-ts of Cliiarenij.— Moore. 



226 



LETTERS, 1824. 



ous an account of the past. Prince Mavrocordato is of 
the same opinion, and whoever is disposed to act fairly 
will he fairly dealt with. I have heard a good deal of Sis- 
seni, but not a deal of good; however, I never judge from 
report, particularly in a Revolution. Personally, I am 
r.i her obliged to him, for he has been very hospitable to 
ntj It i' wis of mine who have passed through his district 
You may therefore assure him that any overture for the 
advantage of Greece and its internal pacification will be 
readily and sincerely met here. I hardly think that he 

would have ventured a deceitful proposition t'> Die through 
you, because he must be sine that in such n case it won!. I 
eventually be exposed. At am rate, ihe healing of these 
dissensions is so important a point, that something must 
bo risked to obtain it." 



LETTER DCXXIV. 



TO MR. BAKFF. 



"March 10. 

* Enclosed is an answer to Mr. Parruca's letter, and I 
hope that you will assure him from me, that I have thine 
and am doing all I can to reunite the Greeks with the 
Greeks. 

"I am extremely obliged by your offer of your country 
house (as for all other kindness) in case that my health 
should require my removal ; but I cannot quit Greece 
while there is a chance of my being of any (even sup- 
posed) utility: — there is a stake worth millions such as I 
am, and while I can stand at all, I must stand by the 
cause. When I say this, I am at the same time aware 
of the difficulties and dissensions, and defects of the Greeks 
themselves; but allowance must be made for them by all 
reasonable people. 

" My chief, indeed nine-tenths of my expenses here are 
solely in advances to or on behalf of the Greeks, and ob- 
jects coiuiected with their independence." 



LETTER DCXXV. 



no more than two hundred dollars until he should receive 
instructions from C. Jerostatti. Therefore I am obliged 
to advance that sum to prevent a positive stop being put 
to the laboratory service at this place, &c. &c. 

U I beg you will mention this business to Count 
Delladecima, who has the draft and every account, and 
that Mr. Bartf, m conjunction with yourself, will 
vour to arrange this money account, and, when received, 
forward the same to Misfiolonghi. 

" I am, sir, yours very truly. 

"So far is written by Captain Parry; but I see that I 
must continue the letter myself. I understand tittle or 
nothing of the business, saving and except that, like most 
of the present affairs here, it will be at a stand-Mill if mo- 
neys be not advanced, ami there are few here su disposed; 
so that I must take the chance, as usual. 

" Von will see what ran be done with I >el!adecima and 
Jerostatti, and remit die sum, that we may have some 
quiet; for the Comnutt-.- have somehow embroiled their 
matters, or chosen Greek correspondents more Grecian 
than ever the Greeks are wont to be. 

"Yours ever, 
"Nl.Bn. 

"P.S. A thousand thanks to Muir for his cauliflower, 
the finest I ever saw or tasted, and I believe, the largest 
that ever grew out of Paradise or Scotland. I have writ- 
ten to quiet Dr. Kennedy about the newspaper, (with 
which I have nothing to do as a writer, please to recollect 
and say.) I told the fools of conductors that their motto 
would play the devil; but, like all mountebanks, they per- 
sisted. Gamba, who is any tiling but lucky, had some- 
thing to do with it; and, as usual, the momenl be had, 
matters went wrong. It will be better, perhaps, in time. 
But I write in haste, and have only time to say, before tho 
boat sails, that I am ever " Tours, 

«N. Bw. 

B P. S. Mr. Findlay is here, and has received his 
money." 



LETTER DCXXVIL 



TO DR. KENNEDY. 



TO SR. PARRUCA. 

"March 10, 1824. 

SIR, 

''I nave (he honour of answering your letter. My first 
wish has always been to bring the Greeks to agree among < 
themselves. 1 came here by the invitation of the Greek 
Government, and I do not think that I ought to abandon 
Rou m ali for the Peloponnesus uniil that Government 
shall desire it ; and the more so, as this part a exposed in 
a greater degree to the enemy. Nevertheless, if my pre- 
senco can really be of any assistance in uniting two or 

more parties, I am ready to go any w here, either as a me- 
diate r, or, if necessary, as a hostage. In these affairs ! 
have neither private views, nor private dislike of any in- 
dividual, but the sincere wish of deserving the name of the 
friend of vour country,and of her patriots. 

" I have the honour, &c." 



LETTER DCXXVL 

TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 

"Missolonghi, 10th March, 1824. 

■IB] 

a .1 sent by Mr. J. M. Hodges a bill drawn on Signor 

C. Jerostatti for'three hundred and eighty-six pounds, on 

account of the Hon. the Greek Committee, for carry in j 

on the service at this place. But Count Delladecima sent 



"Missolonghi, March 10, 1624. 

* DEAR SIR, 

"You could not disapprove of the motto to the Tele- 
graph more than I did, and do; but this is the land of 
liberty, where most people do as they please, and few as 
they ought. 

tt I have not written, nor am inclined to write, for that 
or for any other paper, but have suggested to them, over 
and over, a change of the motto and style. However, 1 
do not think that it will turn out either an irreligious or a 
levelling publication, and they promise due respect to 
both churches and things, i. e. the editors do. 

" If Bainbas would write for the Greek Chronicle, he 
might have his own price for articles. 

11 There is a alight demur about Hato's voyage, her 
mother wishing to go with her, which is quite natural, and 
I have not the heart to" refuse it; for even Mahomet 

made a law, that in the division of captives, the child 
should never he separated from the mother. But this 
may make a difference in the arrangement, although the 
poor woman (who has lost half her family in (he war) is, 
as 1 said, of good character, and of mature age, so as to 
render her respectability not liable to suspicion. She has 
heard, it seems, from Prevesa, that her husband is no 
longer there. I have consigned vour Bibles to Dr 
Meyer; and I hope that the said Doctor may justify 
your confidence ; nevertheless, I shall keep an eve upon 
him. You may depend upon my giving the society as 
fair play as Mr. Wilberforce himself would ; and anv 



LETTERS, 1824. 



227 



other commission for the good of Greece will meet with 
the same attention on my part. 

"I am trying, with some hope of eventual success, to 
reunite the Greeks, especially as the Turks are expected 
in force, and that shortly. We must meet them as we 
uiav, and fight it out as we can. 

" I rejoice to hear that your school prospers, and I 
assure you that your good wishes are reciprocal. The 
weather is so much finer, dial I get a good deal of mode- 
rate exercise in boats and on horseback, and arn willing 
to hope that my health is not worse than when you kindly 
wrote to me. Dr. Bruno can tell you that I adhere to 
your regimen, and more, for I do not eat any meat, even 
fish. B Believe me ever, &c. 

M P. S. The mechanics (six in number) were all pretty 
much of the same mind. Browubill was but one. Per- 
haps they are less to blame than is imagined, since 
Colonel Stanhope is said to have told them, 'that he 
could not positively say Oirir lives were safe.'' 1 should 
like to know where our life is safe, either here or any 
where else ? With regard to a place of safety, at least 
such hermetically-sealed safety as these persons appeared 
to desiderate, it is not to be found in Greece, at any rate ; 
but Missolonghi was supposed to be the place where they 
would he useful, and their risk was no greater than that 
of others." 



LETTER DCXXVIII. 



TO COLONEL STANHOPE. 



« Missolonghi, March 19, 1824. 
K MY dear stanhope, 

"Prince Mavrocordato and myself will go to Salona to 
meet Ulysses, and you may be very sure that P. M. will 
accept any proposition for the advantage of Greece. 
Parry is to answer for himself on his own articles ; if I 
were to interfere with him, it would only stop the whole 
progress of his exertion, and he is really doing all that 
can be done without more aid from the Government. 

" What can be spared will be sent ; but I refer you to 
Captain Humphries^ report, and to Count Gamba's let- 
ter for details upon all subjects. 

"In the hope of seeing you soon, and deferring much 
that will be to be said till then. 

"Believe me ever, &c. 

"P. S. Your two letters (to me) are sent to Mr. BarrT, 
as you desire. Pray remember me particularly to Tre- 
iawney, whom I shall be very much pleased to see again.' 



LETTER DCXXIX. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



"March 19. 

"As Count Mercati is under some apprehensions of a 
direct answer to him personally on Greek affairs, I reply 
(as viju authorized me) to you, who will have the good- 
lier to communicate to him the enclosed. It is the joint 
answer of Prince Mavrocordato and of myself to Signor 
Georgio Sisseni's propositions. You may also add, both 
to him and to Parruca, that I am perfectly sincere in 
desiring the most amicable termination of their internal 
dissensions, and that I believe P. Mavrocordato to be so 
also, otherwise I would not act with him, or any other 
whether native or foreigner. 

1 If Lord Guilford is at Zante, or, if he is not, if Signor 
Tricupi is there, you would oblige me by presenting my 
respects to one or both, and by telling them, that from 
the very first I foretold to Col. Stanhope and to P. Ma- 
vrocodato, that a Greek newspaper (or indeed any other) 
in the present state of Greece might and probably woull 



tend to much mischief and misconst ruction, unless under 
some restrictions, nor have I ever had any thing to do 
with either, as a writer or otherwise, except as a pecu- 
niary contributor to their support on the outset, which I 
could not refuse to the earnest request of the projectors. 
Col. Stanhope and myself had considerable differences 
of opinion on this subject, and (what will appear laugh- 
able enough) to such a degree that he charged me with 
despotic principles, and I him with ultraradicalism. 

"Dr. * *, the editor, with his unrestrained freedom of 
the press, and who has the freedom to exercise an un- 
limited discretion, — not allowing any article but his own 
and those like them to pppear, — and in declaiming against 
restrictions, cuts, carves, and restricts (as they tell me,) 
at his own will and pleasure. He is the author of an 
article against monarchy, of which he may have the 
advantage and fame— but they (the editors) will get 
themselves into a scrape, if they do not take care, 

"Of all petty tyrants, he is one of the pettiest, as are 
most demagogues, that ever I knew. He is a Swiss by 
birth, and a Greek by assumption, having married a wife 
and changed his religion. 

"I shall be very glad, and am extremely anxious for 
some favourable result to the recent pacific overtures of 
the contending parties in the Peloponnese." 



LETTER DCXXX. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



"March 
"If the Greek deputies (as seems probable) have ob- 
tained the loan, the sums I have advanced may perhaps 
be repaid ; but it would make no great difference, as I 
should still spend that in the cause, and more to boot — 
though I should hope to better purpose than paying off" 
arrears of fleets that sail away, and Suliotes that won't 
march, which, they say, what has hitherto been advanced 
has been employed in. But that was not my affair, but of 
those who had the disposal of affairs, and I could not 
decently say to them, ' You shall do so and so, becaus* 

&C. &C. &C. 1 

" In a few days P. Mavrocordato and myselfj with a 
considerable escort, ml nd to proceed to Salona at the 
request of Ulysses and the Chiefs of Eastern Greece, and 
take measures offensive and defensive for the ensuing 
campaign. Mavrocordato is almost recalled hy the new 
Government to the Morea (to take the lead, I rather 
think,) and thev have written to propose to me, to go 
either to the Morea with him, or to take the gener.u 
direction of affairs in Uiis quarter — with General Londo, 
and any other I may choose, to form a council. A. 
Londo is my old friend arid acquaintance since we were 
lads in Greece together. It would be difficult to give \ 
positive answer till the Salona meeting is over,* but I 
am willing to serve them in any capacity they please, 
either commanding or commanded — it is much the same 
to me, as long as I can be of any presumed use to them. 

"Excuse haste ; it is late, and I have been several hours 
on horseback in a country so miry after the rains, that 
every hundred yards brings you to a ditch, of whose 
depth, width, colour, and contents, both my horses and 
their riders have brought away many tokens.* 



LETTER DCXXXL 

TO MR. BARFF. 

"March 26. 
"Since your intelligence with regard to the Greek loan, 



• To [fill ofTer of the Govern men l to nppoint him Govemor-lii-rteral 
of Greece (that la, of the enfranchised part of the Continent, with the 
exception of the Morea and Lite iiiandt,) his bihwit was, l.mi "ho 
was first going io Salon*, mid ilral afterward he would t>£ m thair 
Eommaji Li ; (fiat he could hnve no difficulty in accepting any o lice, 
provided be fuuW nerauade hi until" thai any good wuukf rxmuU from 
U." — Moore. 



t29 

P. Mavrocordato lias shown to me an extract from BOOM 
Borrespondf nee of hi-, by whi h il would appear thai three 
enmnnssh nera are to bo named to uuounl i 

placed in proper hands for the Bervi ■ OJ > i ■ i mtry, and 
thai my aame is among the number. Of (his, however, 
are have as yel only the report. 

■This commission is apparently named by the Com- 
mittee or the contracting parlies in England. 1 am of 
opinion that such a commission will be necessary] but the 
office will be both delicate and difficult. The weather, 
which has lately been equinoctial, has flooded the country, 
and will probably retard our pr o ceeding to Salona for 
some days, till the road becomes more practicable. 

"You were already apprized that P. MavrocoidatQ and 
myself had been invited to a contt -mice b\ I'lysscs and 
the Chiefs of Eastern Greece. I hear (and am indeed 
consulted on the subject) thai incase the remittance of the 
firs) advance of the loan should not arrive immediately, the 
Greek General Government mean to try to mist 
thousand dollars in the islands in the interim, to bt 
from the earliest instalments on their arrival. What 
prospect ol success they may have, or on what condi- 
tions, you can tell better then me: L suppose, if the loan 
be confirmed) something might be dour bj them, but sub- 
ject of course to the usual terms. You can let them and 
me know your opinion. There is an imperious necessity 
for some national fund, and that speedily, otherwise what 
is to be done ? The auxiliary corps of about two hundred 
men paid by me, are, I believe, the sole regularly and pro- 
perly furnished with the money, due to ihem weekly, and 
the officers monthly. It is true that the Greek Govern- 
ment gives their rations, but we have had three mutinies, 
owing to the badness of the bread, which neither najive 
nor stranger could masticate (nor dogs either,) and there 
is still great difficulty in obtaining them even provisions of 
e-*v kind. 

• There is a dissension among the Germans about the 
conduct of the agents of their Committee, and an exami- 
nation among themselves instituted. What the resuh 
may be cannot be anticipated, except that it will end in a 
row, of course, as usual. 

"The English are all very amicable, as far as I know ; 
we get on too with the Greeks very tolerably, always 
making allowance for circumstances ; and we have no 
juarrels with the foreigners. 8 



LETTERS, 1824. 



LETTER DCXXXII. 



***** 



A PRUSSIAN OFFICER. 



■April 1,1824. 



SIR, 



1 have the honour to reply to your letter of this day. 
In consequence of an urgent, and, to all appearance, a 
well founded complaint made to me yesterday evening, I 
gave orders to Mr. Hesketh,* to proceed Eo your quarters 
with the soldiers of Ins guard, and to remove you from 

four house to the Seraglio, because the owner ol V'»ur 

house det tared bun -> If and his Eamirj to be in immediate 

danger from your conduct, and added that it was not the 
first time that you had placed them in similar circum- 
stances. Neither Mr. Hesketh nor myself could imagine 
that you were in bed, as we had been assured of the 
contrary, and certainly such a situation was not content- 
plated. But Mr. Hesketh had positive orders to coo, Inn 
you from your quarters to those of the Artillery Bi i| 
the same time being desired to use no violence, nor does 
it appear that any was had recourse to. This measure 
was adopted, because your landlord assured nic when 1 
proposed to put off the enquiry until the next day, that h 
could not return to his house Without a guard for hi 



• Th« Adjutant. 



protection, and tha* he had left his wife, and daughter 
and familv 'n tho greatest alarm, and on that sj 
putting mem under our immediate protection. Tha 
milted of no delay. As 1 am not aware thu 
.Mi. Hesketh exceeded his orders, I cannot take any 
measures to punish him, hut I have no objection to ex- 
amine minutely into his conduct. You ought to n 
thai entering into his Auxiliary 4 -reek corps now under my 
orders, at your own sole n quest and positive desire, you 
incurred the obligation of obeying the laws ol the country 
ta wall as those of the semee. 

"I have the honour, to be, &c. &c. 

"Noel Bvros." 



LETTER DXXXIII. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



"AprilS. 
* There is a quarrel, not yet settled, between the - 
and some of Cariascachi's people, which has aire.: 

me blows. I keep my people quite neutral; bu* 

rdered them to !"■ "ii their ^uard. 

"Some days ago we had an Italian private soldier 
drummed oul for thieving. The German officers wanted 

to flog him; but I tlatly refused to permit the use of lh" 

sink or whip, and delivered him over to the police. Since 
men a Prussian officer rioted in his lodgings; and I pu*. 
him under arrest, according to the order. This, it ap- 
pears, did not please his German confederation: but I 

shirk by my lexl ; and have given them plainly to under- 
viand, that those who ilo not rhon.se to be ami 
laws of the country and service, may retire ; bu! that m 
all thai 1 have to do, I will see them obeyed by Ebl 
or native. 

- 1 wish something was beard of the arrival of part v f 
the loan, for there is a plenuful dearth of wvry tiling at 
present." 



LETTER DCXXXIV. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



"April 6. 
" Since I wrote, we have had some tumult here with 
the citizens and ( 'anasi a--h's people, and all are under 
arms, our boys and all. They nearly fired on me and fifty 

of tin lad.-,* b\ mistake, as we wen- taking our iimiuI ex- 
cursion into the country. To-day matters area 
subsiding; but about an hour ago, the father-in-law of the 
landlord of the house v. here I am lodged (one of the Pri 

males the said landlord is) was arrested lor high-treason. 

"They are in conclave siill with IVlavrocordato; and 
we have a number of new faces from the lull-, come to 
assist, ihey say. I iunboats and batteries all ready. Stc, 

"The row has had one good effect — it has put them 
on the alert What is to become of the father-in-law, I 

do not know ; nor what In has done, exactly ; but 

' 'T in ft very fine tliinc toW fnttn-r-iiilaw 
1 thrM-Ulled luihaw,' 

as the man in Bluebeard says and sings, I wrote to vou 
upon matters at length, some days ago; the letter, or 
letters, VOU will receive with this. We are desirous lo 
hear more of the loan ; and it is some tunc since 1 have- 
had any letters (at least of an interesting description) from 
England, excepting one of 4th Feb. from Howning (o^no 
great importance.) My latest dates are of 9 s **, or c tie 

6ih 10'" e , four months exactly. I hope you get on well 

in the islands: here most of us are, or have been, more 
• >i less indisposed, natives as well as !■ n igners. M 



1 A coqu of fifty SuWclci, l,n body guard. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JCTRNAL. 



229 



LETTER DCXXXV. 



TO MR. BAIIFF. 



"April 7. 

■The Greeks here of the Government ha e en 

money. As I have the brigade to 

11 in, and the campaign i« apparently n >w to open 

and aa 1 have already speni 30,000 Hollars in three months 

i-iii in one way or other, and more 
th ir public loan has succeeded, so that they oughi not to 
dj-aw from individuals at that rate, I have given them a 



refusal, and — as they would nol take that, — another refusal 
in terms of considerable sincerity. 

"They wish now to try in the i lands for a few thou- 
sand dollars on the en uing loan. II' you can serve them, 
perhaps you will (in the way of information, u' any rate,) 
an) 1 will see thai you have fair plav, but still I do not 
pou, excepl io act as you please. Almost everv 
thing depen Is upon the arrival, and the speedy arrival, of 
a portion oi the 1 lan to keep peace among themselves. 
If they can but have Sense to do thi-, I think that they 
will be a match and belter for any force that can be 
brought against them fur the present. We are all doing 
a^ well a.» we can." 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 



BEGUN NOVEMBER 14, ISIS. 



■ Tf this had been begun ten years a?n, and faithfully 
kept!!! — heigho! there are too manv things! wish never 
to have remembered, as it is. "Well, — I have had my 
share of what are called the pleasures of this life, and 
have seen more of the European and Asiatic world than 
I have made a good use of. They say ' virtue is its own 
reward, 1 — it certainly should be paid well for its trouble. 
Ai five-and-twenty, when the better part of life is over, 
one should be something; — and what am J ? nothing bul 
five-and-twenty — and the odd months. What have I 
seen? the same man all over the world, — ay, and woman 
too. Give me a Mussulman who never asks qui ■ n 
and a she of the same rai e who saves one the in 

them. But fir mis same plague — yeliow-fei i r- 

id delay. I should have been by tii 1 

second time close to the Euxine. If I can overcome the 
i do n't so much mind your pesulence ; and, at any 
rate, the spring shall see me there, — provid< d I 
marry myself nor unmarry any one else in the interval. I 
— I do n't know what I wish. It i 
at myself seriously to wishing without attainui j it 
— and repenting' ' begin to believe with the . 
Magi, thai do pray for the nation, and not 

■ my [ rinciple, this would nol 
bi i TV patriotic. 

; - No more n flections. — Let me see — las) i 
finished ( Z ■■>'. -. © >n I Ti rkish Tale. I 

the composition ofil kepi me alive — for it was written 
to drive my thoughts from the recollection of— 

' Dear, tacred name, rest ever imreYeal'd.' 

i [iv hand would tremble to wri e il 
Tliis afternoon I have burned the scenes of i 
1 comedy. I ha re ■ rate i lea i ■'■ • ■ 
e, or rather a tale, in prose; — but what romance 
could equal the events — 

' qaxqt.e ir*e vldi, 

Et quorum pan micnt fuL' 

To-day Henry Byron called on me with my little 
cousin Eliza. She ■■ up a beauty and a plague ; 

but. in the mean time, it h the prettiest child! dark eyes 
and eyelashes, black and lon2 as the wing of a raven. I 
think she is prettier even than my niece, Geoigiana, — vet 



» TbeBrMoof Abydot. 



T do n't like to think so neither ; and, though older, she is 
not so clever, 

"Dallas called before I was up, so we did not meet. 
Lewis, too— who seems out of humour with every thing. 
What can be the matter? he is not married — has he lost 
Ins own mistress, or any other person's wile? Ho 
too, came. He is going to he married, arid he is the kind 
of man who will he the happii r. He has talent, cheer* 
fulness, every thing thai can make him a pleasing com- 
panion ; and bis intended is handsome and young, and all 
that. Ru' I never see any one much improved by matri- 
mony. All my coupled contemporaries are bald and 

■ in rued. W. and S. have both lost their hair and 
good-humour ; and ihe last of the two had a good deal to 
lope. But ii do in much signify what falls i*ff' a man's 
temples in that 

"Mem. I must gel a toy to-morrow for Eliza, and send 

the device for thi ...•■ wlf and * * + * *. .Mem. 

too, to call on the Siacl and Lady Holland to-morrow 

and on * *, who has advi cd me (withoul sei ing it, by- 

the-by) nol to pul ish ' Zuleika ;* I believe he is richf, 

aught him that not to prinl is 

seen il bul II" Igson 

and Mr. Giffbrd. I never in m a composition, 

save to Hodgson, ashi l i a borrible 

— bettei [Tint, and they who 

: ead, and, if lliey do n't like, you have the sa-'is^ 

faction <■' have, at least, jmrdiased the 

right oi 

K I have dcclhi ! presenting the Debtor's Petition, being 
sick of | I have spoken thrice ; 

but I doubt my ever becoming an orator. Mv firs) was 
liked ; the i I ■ ■ bird — I do n't know whether thev 
oi not. I have never yel set to il con amort , 
t xcuse to onesi It" lor laziness, or 
inability, or both, and his is mine. ( Company, villanous 
company, hath been 'he spoil of me :' — and then, I have 
'drunk medicines, 1 not to make me love others, but cer- 
tainly enough to hate myself. 

"Two r I saw the tigers sup at Exeter 

'Change. Except Veu eMon i — who 

ess of the 
hyaena for her keeper amused me most Such a conver- 
sazl 'ii*' ! There was a ' hippo] ... amua,' like Lord Lii i r« 
pool in the face : a.id the l Ursine SloUY liath tlie very 
voice and manner of my valet — but the tiger talked too 



530 



EXTRACTS FROM A JO V R N AL, 1813. 



much. The elephant look and gave me my monej again 
— look off my hat — opened a door — tnmked a whip — and 
behaved m well) that I wish he was my butler. The 
handsomest animal on earth is on-' of the pan here ; bui 
the poor antelopes were dead. I should hate to see one 
here : — the sight of the camel made me pine again for Asia 
Minor. 'Oh (juando te aspiciam?' 



1 Nov. 1G. 

11 Went last night with Lewis to see the first of Antony 
and Cleopatra. It was admirably got up and v 
— a salad of Shakspeare and Dryden. l.'leopalra strikes 
me as the epitome of lier sex — fond) lively, sad, tender, 
teasing, humble, haughty, beautiful, the devil ! — coquetti ih 
totlie last, as well with the 'asp' as with Antony. Afei 
doing all she can to persuade him thai — but why do the} 
abuse him for cutting off that poltroon Cicero's head } . 
Did not Tully tell Brutus it was a pitv to have spared 
Antony? and did he not speak the Philippics? and are 
not ' words things T and such ' words 1 very pestilent 
'things' too? If he had had a hundred heads, thev 
I'd (from Antony) a rostrum (his was Stuck up 
there) apiece — though, after all, he might as well have 
pardoned him, for the credit of the thing. But to resume 
— Cleopatra, after securing him, says, ' yet go 1 — ' it is your 
interest,' &c. ; how like the sex ! and the questions about 
Octavia — it is woman all over. 

"To-day received Lord Jersey's invitation to Middle- 
ton — to travel sixty miles to meet Madame de StaeJl ! I 
once travelled three thousand to get among silent people; 
and i Ins same lady writes octavos and talks folios. I have 
read her books — like most of them, and delight in the 
last : so I won't hear it, as well as read. ****** + 

" Read Burns today. What would he have been, if a 
patrician ? We should have had more polish — less force 
—just as much verse, hut no immortality — a divorce and 
a duel or two, the which had he survived, as his potations 
must have been less spirituous, he might have lived as long 
as Sheridan, and outlived as much as poor Brinsley. 
What a wreck is that man! and all from bad pilotage ; 
for no one had ever better gales, though now and then a 
little too squally. Poor dear Sherry ! I shall never forget 
the da\ he, and Rogers, and A! *e, and I passed toge- 
ther; when he talked, and ye listened, witlmul one yawn, 
from six till one in the morning. 

"Got my seals ******. Have again forgot a 
plaything for nui petite cousine Eliza; but I must send 
for it to-morrow. 1 hope Harry will bring her to me. I 
sent Lord Holland the proofs of the last 'Giaour,' and 
the ' Bride of Abydos. 1 He won 1 ! like the latter, and I 
don't think that I shall long. It was written in four 
nights to distract my dreams from * *. Were it not 
thus, it had never been composed ; and had I not done 
something at that time, I must have gone mad, by eating 
my own heart — bitter diet! Hodgson likes it better than 
the ' iiaour, but nobody else will, — and he never liked the 
Fragment. I am sure, had it not been fir Murray, that 

would never have been published, though the circum- 
stances which are the groundwork make it * * * 
heigh-ho! 

" To-night I saw both the sisters of * * ; nn I led ! 
the youngest so like ! I thought I should have sprung 
aen.ss the house, and am so glad no one was with me in 
Lady Holland's box. I bale those likenesses — the m ck- 
bird, but not the niyhtingyJe — so like as to remind, so dif- 
ferent as to be painful. One quarrels equally with the 
points of resemblance and of distinction. 

"Nov. 17. 
" No letter from * * ; but I must not complain. The 
respectable Job savs, 'Why should a Itvtnj man com- 
plain?' I really do n't know, except it be that &dead man 
can't ; and he, the said patriarch, did complain, never- 



rhel< ill hi friends were tired, and his wife reconv 

mendi ous prologue , ' I !urse — and ■'■■ 

inn. , 1 impose, when bu little relief is to be found in 
i ;, ... .i mosi kind letter from Loi 
id i in • The Bride ol /* '• ''*m ' « bu h hi ik< a 
i i : .. li. i i,, is von [i»»od-iiatured in both,from 
whom [ do n't deserve an) quarter. Yet 1 did think, at 
be time, that my cause of enmitj proceeded frum Hol- 
land-hou e, and am glad [was wrong, and wish I had not 
i een in sui ha burr) with ti a) confounded satire, of which 
I ■.,:■■ i . n Qie memi <*\ . — but people, now 

hey can't gel it, make a fuss, I verity believe, out of con- 
tradiction. 

"George l^Ilis and Murray have been talking some- 
thing about Scott and me, George pro Scotoj — and « ry 
right too. If they wan; to depose him, I only wish the) 
would not Bel me upas a competitor. Even if I had my 
choice] I would rather be the earl of Warwii k than all the 

■ ever made! Jill.eyand Gltl'ord 1 lata 

the monarch-ms era in pot i** and prose. The British 
Critic, in their Rokebi H oeed a com- 

parison, which I am sun- my friends never h 
W. Scott's sol, to. 1 

like ill'- man — and admire Ins works to what Mr. 1 traham 
rails vntusymusy. All such stuff can only vex him, and 
do me no good. Many hate his politics, — (I hate all 
politics;) and, here, a man's poliues are like the G reek 
soul — an etSutXoVj besides God knows what other soul; 
but their estimate of the two generally go together. 

"Harry has not brought ma petite cousins. I want us 
to go to the play together ; s\n_- baa bet n but once. 

Another short note from Jersey, mviimj; lingers and me 

on i he 23d. I must Bee my agent to night 1 wonder 
when thai Newstead business will be Finished. I 
me more than words i" part with i< — and to Hon j 
with it! What matters it what I do? or what bei 

of me? — hui let m.' ii-im.im'h r lob's saving, and console 
myself with being* a Living man. 1 

I wish I could settle to reading again; rny life is 
monotonous, and yet desultory. I lake up books, and 
fling them dow n again. I began a comedy, and burned it 
because the scene ran into reality ; a novel, for the same 
reason. In rhyme, I can keep more away from facts; 

but the thought always runs through, through 

yes, yes, through. I have had u letter from Lady Mel- 
bourne, the best friend I ever had in my life, and tin. 
cleverest of women. 

"Not a word from * *. Have they set out from * *1 
■ <r has mv last precious epistle fallen into the Lion's jaws? 
If so — and this silence IwOkfi suspicious — I inns, , 
1 my musty morion 1 and 'hold OUt my iron. 1 I am out of 

practice, hut I won't begin again at Manton'a now. Be- 
sides, 1 would nol return his shot. I was OOCS t ■ 

'afer-splitter ; but then the bullies ofsodetj i 
necessary. Ever since I began to feel thai 1 had a bad 

cause to sup| , Ihavi [efl off the exert i 

a What strange tidings from that Anakim of anarchy — 
Buonaparte! elver since [defended my bust of him at 
i i ai i ■■■■ against the rascally time-servers, when the war 
broke out in 1806, be has been a 'Hlros de Roman of 

mine, on llie Continent ; I don't want him here. Hut I 

do n i like those same flights, leaving of a runes, fee. &c. 
I am sure when I fought for Ins bust at school, I did not 
think he would run away from himself. Hut I should 
not wonder it he banged them vet. To be beal by men 
would be something ; bu) by three stupid] legitimate-old- 
dynasty boobies of regular-bred sovereign — < »-none-a- 
rie !— O-hone-a-rie ! It must be, as Gobbet savs, his 
marriage with the thick-lipped and thick-headed Autri- 
brood. He had better have kepi to her who was 
kept b) Barras. 1 nevei knew anj good t >nn ol youi 
young wife, and legal espousals, toanj but your 1 sober- 
blooded boy,' who 'eats fish' and driukeUi 'no sack. 
Had he not the whole opera? all Paris ? all France 1 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1313. 



231 



But a mistress is jtKt as perplexing — lhat is, one — two or 
more art- manageable by division. 

" I have begun, or had begun a song, and flung it into 

the lire. It was in remembrance of Mary Dull! mv rirsi 
of flames, before most people begin to bum. I wonder 
what (he devil is the matter with me ! I can do nothing, 
an I — fortunately (here is nothing to do. It has lately 
been in my power to make two persons (and their con- 
nexion- ) comfortable, pro tempore^ and one happy ex tem- 
pore, — I rejoice in the last particularly, as it is an excel- 
lent man. I wish there had been more inconvenience 
gratification to mv self-love in it, for then there 
had be< >i more merit. We are all selfish — and 1 believe, 
I of Epicurus ! I believe in Rochefoucault about 
men, and in Lucretius, (not Busby's translation) about 
yourselves. Your bard has made you very nonchalant 
and blest; but as he has excused us from damnation, I 
do n't envy you your blessedness much — a litde, to be 
sure. I remember last year, * * said to me at * *, ' Have 
we not passed our last month like the gods of Lucretius T 
And so we had. She is an adept in the text of the 
original (which I like too;) and when that booby Bus. 
sent his translating prospectus, she subscribed. But, the 
devil prompting him to add a specimen, she transmitted 
him a subsequent answer, saving, that, 'after perusing it, 
her con ;cience would not permit her to allow her name 
torenu n on the list of suhscribblers.' * * * 

Last night, at Lord Holland's — 
Mackintosh, the Ossulstones, Puvsegur, &c. there — I 
v\ a- ir; mg to recollect a quotation (as / think) of Siael's, 
from some Teutonic sophist about architecture. ' Archi- 
tecture,' says this Macoronica Tedescho, 'reminds me of 
frozen music' It is somewhere — but where ? — the demon 
of perplexity must know and won't tell. I asked Moore, 
and he said it was not in her ; but P - r said it must 

be hers, it was so like. * * * * 

* * * * H. laughed, as 

he does at all l De l'AHemagne, — in which, however, I 
think he goes a little too far. B., I hear, contemns it too. 
But there are fine passages; — and, after all, what is a 
work — ■any — or every work — but a desert with fountains, 
and, perhaps, a grove or two, every day's journey ? To 
be sure, in Madame, what we often mistake, and 'pant 
for,' as the 'cooling stream,' turns out to be the ' mirage 
(entice, verbiage;) but we do, at last, get to something 
like the temple of Jove Amnion, and then the waste we 
have passed is only remembered to gladden the contrast. 
******** 

"Called on C * *, to explain * * * * She is verv 
beautiful, to my taste, at least ; for on coming home from 
I recollect being unable to look at any woman 
but her — they were so fair, and unmeaning, and blonde. 
The darkness and regularity of her features reminded me 
of m\ • Jannat al Aden.' But this impression wore off; 
and now I can look at a fair woman without longing for a 
Houn. She was very good-tempered, and every thing 
was explained. 

"To-day, great news — 'the Dutch have taken Hol- 
land, 1 — which, I suppose, will be succeeded bv the actual 
explosion of the Thames. Five provinces have declared 
i I young Stadt, and there will be inundation, conflagra- 
tion, constirpation, consternation, and every sort of nalion 
and nations, fighting away up to their knees, in the dam- 
nable ijuags of this will-o'-the-wisp abode of Boors. It 
is said v Bemadotte is among them, too ; and, as Orange 
will be there soon, they will have (Crown) Prince Stork 
and King Log in their Log^cry at the same time. Two 
to one on the new dynasty ! 

"Mr. Murray has offered me one thousand guineas for 
the 'Giaour' and the 'Bride of Abvdos.' I won't — it is 
too much, though I am strongly tempted, merely f. .r the 
say of it. No bad price for a fortnight's (a week each) 



* Lady Caroline Lamb. 



what ? — the gods know — it was intended to be called 
Poetry, 

" I have dined regularly to-day, for the first time since 
Sunday last — this bemg Sabbath, too. All the rest, tea 
and dry biscuits — sixprr dxem. I wish to God I had not 
dined now ! It kills me with heaviness, stupor, and horri- 
ble dreams ; — and yet it was but a pint of bucellas and 
fish. — Meat I never touch, — nor much vegetable diet. I 
wish I were in the country, to take exercise, — instead of 
being obliged to cool by abstinence, in lieu of it. I should 
not so much mind a little accession of flesh, — my bones 
can well bear it. But the worst is, the devil alwavs came 
with it, — till I starve him out, — and I will not be the slave 
of any appetite. If I do err, it shall be my heart, at least, 
that heralds the way. Oh my head — how it aches ! — the 
horrors of digestion! I wonder how Buonaparte's dmner 
agrees with him ? 

"Mem. I must write to-morrow to 'Master Shallow, 
who owes me a thousand pounds,' and seems, in his letter, 
afraid that I should ask him for it ; — as if I would ' — I 
don't want it (just now, at least,) to begin with; and 
though I have often wanted that sum, I never asked for 
the repayment of 10/. m my life — from a friend. His bond 
is not due this year ; and I told him when it was, I should 
not enforce it. How often must he make me say the 
same thing / 

" I am wrong — I did once ask * * * to repay me. But 
it was under circumstances that excused me to him, and 
would to any one. I look no interest, nor required secu- 
rity. He paid me soon, — at least, his padre. My head! 
I believe it was given me to ache with. Good even. 

"Nov. 22,1813. 

" ( Orange Boven !' So the bees have expelled the beai 
that broke open their hive. Well, — if we are to have 
new De Witts and De Ruyters, God speed the little ro 
public! I should like to see the Hague and the village 
of Brock, where they have such primitive habits. Yet, I 
don't know, — their canals would cut a poor figure bv the 
memory of the Bosphorus : and the Zuyder Zee look 
awkwardly after 'Ak Degnity.' No matter, — the bluff 
burghers, puffing freedom out of their short tobacco-pipes, 
might be worth seeing; though I prefer a cigar, or a 
hooka, with the rose leaf mixed with the milder herb of 
the Levant. I do n't know what hberty means, — never 
having seen it, — but wealth is power all over the world ; 
and asashilling performs the dutv "fa pound (besides sun 
and sky and beauty for nothing) in the Easr, — that is the 
country. How I envy Herodes Atticus ! — more than Pom- 
ponius. And yet a little tumult, now and then, is an 
agreeable quickener of sensation ; such as a revolution, a 
battle, or an aventure of any lively description. I think I 
rather would have been Bonneval, Ripperda, Alberoni. 
Hayreddin, or Horuc Barbarossa, or even Wortley Mon- 
tague, than Mahomet himself. 

"Rogers will be in town soon! — the 23d is fixed for our 
Middleton visit. Shall I go ? umph ! — In this island, where 
one can't ride out without overtaking the sea, it do n't 
much matter where one goes. 

****** 

" I remember the effect of the Jirst Edinburgh Review 
on me. I heard of it six weeks before, — read it the day 
of its denunciation, — dined and drank three bottles of 
claret, (with S. B. Davies, I think,) — neither ate nor slept 
the less, but, nevertheless, was not easy till I had vented 
my wrath and mv rhyme, in the same pages, against every 
thing and every body. Like George, in the Vicar of 
Wakefield, 'the fate of my paradoxes' would allow me to 
perceive no merit in another. I remembered onlv the 
maxim of my boxing-master, which, in my youth, was 
found useful in all general riots, — ' Whoever is not for vou 
is against you — mill away right and left,' and so I did;— 
like Ishmael, my hand was against all men, and all mens 
ancnt me. I did wonder, to be sure, at mv own success— 
' And marvel* so much wilis all ha owu, 1 



232 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 



asHobhouse sarcasticall) i; ol romebody, (not unlikely 

I as we are old frii nds i) bul w< re il I me ovei 

again, I would" no/. I have Bince redde' 1 the cau fm) 

couplets, and it is nol feet '' ' ' '"''' 

it was believed I alluded to poor Lord Carlisle's 
nervous di del in one of the lines, I thank Heaven! 
dnl not know it — and would lint, could not, if I had. I 
must naturally be lit last person lo be pointed on defei la 
or maladies, 

■ R igers is silent,— and, it i o' ■■ re. When he 

talks well; and, ■ last •. his 

I ofexpre Bon i- pun as hi i' ' ''' Ifyou enter 

his bouse— his drawing-room— his library— you 

self say, this is not thedwelling ofa common mind. There 

i aoti m, a coin, a book, thrown aside on hischimni y- 

pj , , hi ol hi table, thai 'I'"-* nol bespeak an almosl 
fa ,. 1 1 .. , i 1 . ,ii«t i, the possessor. But this very deli- 
cacy must be tin- misery of his existence, oh the jar- 
rings Ins disposition must have et untered through lift ' 

"Southey I have not seen much of. His appearance 
i / ; ami he is the only ens in ■ i nlire mi n "i letters. 
.Ail 'In' others have some pu ' author- 
ship. His manners are mild, bul nol ' 1 a man of 

tin' world, ami his talents oftlil first Ol I Hi 
perfect t 'tins poetry there are various opinions: there is, 
perhaps, i nuch ofil lor the prescnl generation j — pos- 
terity "ill probably select. He] at passages equal to any 
thing. At present, he bas a party, bul no puiae— except 
f ,i ins prose writings. The life "i' Nelson i- beautiful. 

" * * is a litterateur, the Oracle .if the < loleries, of ilie 
**s, L* W*, (Sidney Smith's ' Tory Virgin,') Mrs. 
w I'nioi. (she, ai lias', is a swan, and might frequent a 
purer stream,} Lad} B • *,' and all the Blues, with Lady 
Caroline al their head — but 1 saynothing ofisr— 'look 
in her face, and you forgel them all,' and every di 
oh that face!— by 'te, Diva potens I lypri,' I would, to be 
bel ivc 'I by that woman, build and bum anothei Ti " . 

" .Moure has a peculiarity of talent, or rather talents, — 

'iv. music, voice, all Ins own,' ami an expression in 

. i which never was, nor will be, possessed by another. 
Bul he i- capable of still higher Rights in poetry. i;> -t !n- 
ny, whal hum ,whal — every thing in Ihe'Po 

Tin re is nothing Moore may i lo, if be will bul sari; 

ously set about it. In society, he is genttc Ly,gende 

and altogether more [.leasing than any individual "ith 
whom] am acquainted. For his honour, principle, and 



' speaks ' trumpet- 
■and that one I daily 



iiuli'iii'iulence, his conduct to * * 
In -gueil. 1 He has but one fault- 
I o p' -he is not lure. 

■ Nov. 23. 
"Ward— I like Ward.f By Mahomet! 1 b _in t.. 
think I like everybody; a disposition nol to I"' encou- 
raged ; a sort of social gluttony, thai swallows every thing 
set hefore it. But 1 like Ward. He is pi././o".' ; atnl,ii 
my opinion, will siand very high in the House and every 
where else — if he applies regularly. By-the-by, I dine 
with him lo-ni..rrow, whii'h inai, have some iuflueiiee ..t. 
myopinion. It is as well not to trust >■ 

I have beard many a host libelled by his guests, 
with his burgundy yet recking on their rascally lips. 
****** 
"I have taken Lord Salisbury's box at Covent-garden 
for the season; — and now I must go and prepare to join 
Ladj Holland and party, in theirs, at Drury-lane, guests 
sera. 

" Holland does n't think die man is Junius ; but that the 
vet unpublished journal throws great tight on the obscuri- 
ties of that part of George the Seconds reign. — What is 
this to George the Third's? I don't know what to think. 
Why should Junius !..■ yel dead I [fsuddenlj apoplexed, 
would he rest in his grave without sending his EiowXov lo 



• It WRtthui Hint tip, iiip-.irnU, npillcd LhiiWord. 
I TIib pracat Lui-d Liuiiluy. 



shout iii 'I ins was X.T.Z. Esq. 

buried ini ' ' '• l; ' I ;llr '■•'• monum 

church-wardens? Print a new edition of his letiers,ye 
1 ksellers!' Impossible; the man must be alive, and 

II never die without the disclosure. 1 like him; he was 
hater. 

•Came home unwell and went to bed,— not so sleepy 
as might be desirable. 

" Tuesday morning. 

■1 awoke fr.nii a dream — well! and have not others 
dreamed.' — Such a dream! but Bhedid not overtake mo. 
I hi s the dead would rest, however, fjgh! how my 
blood chilled— and I could not wake — and— and— heigho! 

•Shn.loiA Is i 

Hi.v,i H ■ tO "■■ ■ "I It.. t.. "'I, 

... I SI. 'Ii.m.S.IIkI * '■, 

Ar.i.'.l nil in , :■ vmllow " V 

[do not liki — [hate its 'for igone conclusion. 

Ay, "hen Ihi 
mind us of — no matter — Inn. if I dream thus again, I will 
try whether all sleep hi ns. Since I rose, 

I Ve !"■' hi nsiderable bodilj pain also; bul il i 

and now, hi i LordOgl I I up for II j 

"A note from Mountnorris — I dine with Ward; Can- 
ning is to be there, Frere, and Sharpe, perhaps Giftord. 
I am to In one of ' the five,' (or rather sL\,) a.> Lady * * 

said, a little sneeringly, yi 1 '■ - Ito 

miit, particularly Ci ng, and — Ward, when In- likes, 

1 wish I may be well e gh io li ten to these intellectuals. 

"No letters to-day; so much the better, there arc no 
answers. I must not dream aj n i life even reality. 
[ will go out of doors, and see whal thefogv 
Jackson has been lure : the boxing world much as usual ; 

imt tin- Clul treases. I shall dine at Cribs lb-morrow: 

I like energy, even animal energy, of ail kinds : and 1 have- 
need of both mental and corporeal. I have not dined out, 
nor, indeed, al all, lately; have heard no mu 
nobody. Now for a plunge — high life and low liib. 
'Amanl alb rna ' !amo 

« I have burned my Roman, as I did the first 
and slo till of my comedy— and, for ought 1 see, the 
pleasure of burning isquite as great as that of printing. 

These l.i^t two would nol have d •. 1 ran into rtrilitu*. 

more than imt ; and some would have been recognised 
and others guessed at. 

"Redde the Ruminator, a collection of Essays, by a 
strange, imt able, old man (Sir E Igerton Bridges) and a 

half- wil, I v ig one, author of a Poem on the Highlands, 

ttildi A nil,..!'. ' The word 'sensibility,' (always 
my aversion) occurs a thousand tunes in di 
ami, it seems, is lo In- an excuse fir all kinds ol discon- 
tent. This young man can know nothing of life; and, if 
he cherishes the disposition which runs Ihrorj 

., !,, come " ■ est nid, perhaps, nol 
after all, which he seems determined to be. God help 
him! no one should be a rhymer who could be any 

thing In Her. And tins 1- whal annoys I, to see Scott 

and .Moore, and Campbell and HogerS, who might all 

have been agents and leaders, now mi i ators. For, 

though they * have other ostensible avocations, these 

last are reduced to a s,r, in.larv consideration. **,too, 
frittering away Ins time among dowagers and unmarried 
s-irls. If it advi serious affair, it were some, 

excuse; but, with the unmarried, that is a hazardous spo* 
eolation and iresome enough, too; and, with the v< 
uis not much worth trying, — unles one in s 

thousand. 

" If I had any views in this country, they would proba 

blv be parliamentary. But 1 have no i mbition s 

if anv, it would be 'aut Ctesar aut nihil.' My ho] 

limited to the arrangement of my atfairs, and settling 

either in Italy or die East, (rather th. last,) and drinking 

deep of the languages and literature of both. Past events 

[have unnorved me; andaDIcan now do is to make lite 



EXTKACTSFRO.M AJOL'HNAL, 1813. 



233 



an amuscme f, and look on, while others play. After all 
.—even the highest game of crowns and sceptres, what is 
It? Vide Napoleon's last twelvemonth. It has com- 
pletely upset my system of fatalism. I thought, if crushed, 
he would have fallen, when ' fractUS iliabatur orbis,' and 
not have been pared away to gradual insignificance ; — thai 
all this was not a mere jeu of the gods, hut a prelude to 
greater changes and mightier events. Hut men never 
beyond a certain point; — and here we are, retro- 
grading to 'he dull, stupid, old system,— ba ance of Kurope — 
upon lungs 1 noses, instead of wringing them 
otf ! Give me a republic, or a despotism of one, rather 
than the rei umenl ofone, two, three. A republic ! 

— look in the in ttory of the Eartlx — Rome, Greece, Ve- 
nice, Prance, II tlland, America, our short (eheu!) Com- 
monwealth, and compare it with what they did under 
masters. The Asiatics are not qualified to be republicans, 
but they have the liberty of demolishing despots, — which 
is the next thing to it. To be the first man — not the Dic- 
tator — not the Sylla, but the Washington or the Aristides 
— die leader in talent and truth — is next to the Divinity; 
Franklin, Penn, and next to these, either Brutus or Cas- 
sius— even Mirabcau-*-or St. Just. I shall never be any 
ir ratlier always be nothing. The most I can hope 
is, tiiat some will sa ■, ' He might, perhaps, if he would.' 

" IS, midnight. 

u Here are two confounded proofs from the printer. I 
have looked at the one, but, for die soul of me, I can't look 
over that 'Giaour again, — at least, just now, and at diis 
hour — and yet there is no moon. 

" Ward talks of going to Holland, and we have partly 
discussed an ensemhle expedition. It must be in ten days, 
if at all, if we wish to be in at the Revolution. And why 
not ? * * is distant, and will be at * *, still more distant, 
till spring. No one else, except Augusta, cares for me — 
no ties — not rammels — andiamo dunque — se torniamo,bene 
— se nan ch J titiporta'* Old William of Orange talked of 
dying in ' the las' ditch' of his dingy country. It is lucky I 
can swim, or I suppose I should not well weather the first. 
But let us see. I have heard hyenas and jackals in the 
ruins of Asia ; and bull-frogs in the marshes, besides 
wolves and angry Mussulmans. Now, I should like to 
listen to the shout of a free Dutchman. 

"Alia! Viva! For ever ! Hourra ! Huzza ! — which is 
the most rational or musical of these cries? 'Orange 
Boven,' according to the Morning Post. 

« Wednesday. 24th. 

'* No dreams last night of the dead nor the living — so — 
I am ' firm as the marble, founded as the rock' — till the 
next earthquake. 

" Ward's dinner went off well. There was not a dis- 
agreeable person there— unless / offended any body, 
which I am sure I could not by contradiction, f'ir I said 
little, and opposed nothing. Sharpe (a man of elegant 
mind, and who has lived much with the best — Fox. Home 
Tooke, Windham, Fitzpatrick, and all the agi'alors of 
other times and tongues) told us the particulars of his last 
interview with Windham, a few days before the fatal 
operation, which sent 'that gallant spirit to aspire the 
skies.' Windham, — the first in one department of oratory 
and talent, whose only fault was his refinement beyond 
the intellect of half his hearers, — Windham, half his lite 
an active participator in the events of the earth, and one 
of those who governed nations, — he regretted, and dwelt 
much on that regret, that ' he had not entirely devoted 
himself to literature and science!'. !' His mind certainly 
would have carried him to eminence there, as elsewhere ; 
—but I cannot comprehend what debility of that mind 
could suggest such a wish. I, who have heard him, 
cannot regret any thing but that I shall never hear him 
again. What ! would he have been a plodder ? a metaphy- 
sician ? — perhaps a rhymer? a scribbler? Such an 
exchange must have been suggested by illness. But he 
is gone, and Time ' shall not look upon his like a^ain.* 
30 



8 I am tremendously in arrear with my letters, — except 
to * * and to her my thoughts overpower me, — my words 
never compass them. To Lady Melbourne I write with 
most pleasure — and her answers, so sensible, so tactujue 
— I never met with half her talent. If she had been a few 
years younger, what a fool she would have made of me, 
ha.i sh? thought it worth her while, — and 1 should have 
lust a valuable and most agree able _/ He mi. Mem. — amis- 
tress never is Dor ean be a friend. While you agree, you 
are lovers; and, when it is over, any thing but friends. 

'■ I have not answered W. .Scott's last letter, — but I will. 
I regret to hear from others that he has lately been unfor- 
tunate in pecuniary involvements. He is undoubtedly 
the monarch of Parnassus, and die most English of bards. 
I should place lingers next in the living list — (I value him 
in ire as the last • •(ihebest school) — Moore and Campbell 
b'lth third — Southey and Wordsworth and Culcndjje— 
the rest, i/t -okXot — thus: 




There is a triangular 'Gradus ad Pamassum!' The 
names are too numerous fur the base of the triangle. Poor 
Thurlow has gone wild about die poetry of Q,ueen Bess's 
reign — e'esf donunase. I have ranked die names upon my 
triangle more upon what I believe popular opinion than 
any decided opinion of my own. For, to me, some of 
\] i Lasl Erin sparks — 'As abeam o'er the face of 
the waters 9 — ' When he who adores thee' — ' Oh blame not' 
— and ' nli l<rr:i:!it' "..I his name' — are worth all the Epics 
that ever were composed. 

"* * thinks the (Quarterly will attack me next. Let 
them. I have been ' peppered so highly' in my time, both 
\\.i . a, iliit it must be cayenne or aloes to make me taste. 
I can sincerely say that I am not very much alive now to 
criticism. Bui — in tracing this — I rather believe that it 
proceeds from my not attaching that importance toauthor- 
ship which many do, and which, when young, I did also. 
'One gets tired of every thing my angel,' says Valmont. 
The c angels' are the only things of which I am not a little 
sick — but I do think the preference of writers to agents — 
the mighty stir made about scribbling and scribes, by them- 
selves and others — a sign of effeminacy, degeneracy, 
and weakness. Who would write, who had any thing 
better to do? 'Action' — 'action' — 'action' — said Demos- 
thenes: 'Actions — actions, 1 1 say, and not writing, — least 
of all rhvine. Look at the querulous and monotonous lives 
of the ' genus ;' — except Cervantes, Tasso, Dante, Ariosto, 
Kleist, (who were brave and active citizens,) JEschylus, 
Sophocles, and some other of the antiques also— what a 
worthless, idle brood it is ! 

" 12, Mezza notte. 
" Just returned from dinner, with Jackson (the emperor 
of Pn«ilism)and another of the select, at Cribb's the cham- 
pion's. I drank mure than I like, and have brought away 
some three bottles of very fair claret — for I have no 
headach. We had Tom Cribb up after dinner ;-vw 



234 



E XTR ACT S PROM A JO U BS A L, 



1S13 



facetious, though somewhat prolix. He don't like his 
Bhuation— wanta to light again-pray Pollux (or I astor, 
ifhe was the miller) he ma)-: Tom lias been a .-ai...r— a 
coat-heaver— and some other genteel professions, before 

l„. ,,„,!. i„ n„. eestus, Tom has be. n in a lion at sea, 
and is now only three-and-thirty. A gr« at man. baa a 
wife and a mistress, and conversations «■< U— bating some 

,,: I i . 1 1 - .![■:> ii i ion 1 I ihi ' pirate. ' ""' 

i friend of ndne; I have soen someof his bosl 

. ,, ,nage. He i ■"' ■""': ' f"i 



a in , !— for Mrs.* * isonalim 

i th, champion, Tnii ' ' told ,— Tsmbavin-! 

an opinio 'm> morals, passed her off as a legal buou i 

Talking of her, he said/she was I - 1 »"""'" 

—from which 1 imm diately inferred she could net be Ins 
wife, and so it turned out 
"These panegyrics don't belong to matrimony; torn 
true,' a man do n't think it necessary to saj o;a 

the lesshesaysthe better.' ' * * * isth 1I3 man ■ 

1 1 1 heard harangue upon his vn«Vs virtui ;ani 
I listened to both with great credence and patience, and 

stuffed my handkerchief into my mouth, when 1 1 >••■ 

yawning irre istible. By-the-*y, lam yawning now— 
, I night to thee.- Nuiiipuv- 

" Thursday, S61I1 November. 
« Iwoke a little feverish, but no headachi — no dreams 
neither— thanks to stupor! Two letters, one from * * * *, 
the other from Lady Melbourne— both excellent m their 
r < spective styles. * * * *'s contained also a very prettj 
lyric on 'concealed griefs'— if not her own, yet very like 
her. Why did she not say that the stanzas were, 01 wi re 
not of her composition?— I do not know whether towisb 
them hera or not. I have no great esteem for poi Ileal 

perrons, particularly wo n:— they have so much of the 

hi practice, as Well as tthica. 
« 1 hav been thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff. 
U.e.vv.-n odd thai I should have been so utterly,.! 
fond of that girl, at an age when 1 could 1. ilher fei as- 
sion nor know the meaning of the word. Andtln 
—My mother used always to rally me about this childish 
amour; and, at last, many years' after, when I * is sixteen, 
she I ild meoneday,'Oh'.Byrorr,I have had a letter from 

Edinl h, from Miss Aberoromhy, and your old sweet. 

rtaryDuffismarriedtoaMr.Co».' And what was 
inv rnswer ? I really caiinol explain or account for my 
; at that moment; but they nearly threw mo into 

convulsions, and alarmed my mother so much, il.a , al 11 1 
s , .„ better, she general!] ai ided the subject — to?«e — 
herself wi h tellin il tool] h n acquaintance. 
Now, what could ibis he ? I had nover seen her since hei 
,n idler's faux-pas ai Abi rdeen had been the cause ol hei 
removal to her grandmothi is al Banff; we were both the 
merest children. I had and have been attached fifty tunes 

that period; yet I oiled all we said to each other, 

all our caresses, her featuri ,mj re ilessness, sleepless- 
maid (q write lor me to 

hor, which she id, to quiel Poor Nancy 

thought 1 was wild, and, as 1 could not write for myself] 

became my secretary, [remember, I u walks, and 

the hap| -• of sitting by Mary, in the children's apart- 
ment, at their house nol tar from the Plainstones at Aber- 
deen, while her less sister 11, -In plj.. „ I with ihl 

we sat gravely making love, in our way. 

•How the'deucc did all this ur so early 1 where 

could it originate ? I certainly had no sexual ideas for years 
afterward ; and yet my misery, my love for that girl were 

60 violent, that I som ie« doubt if I have ever been 

really attached since. Be that as it may, hearing of her 
marriage several years af er was like a thunder-stroke — it 
nearly ohoked me — to tho horror of my mother and the 
astonishment and almost incredulity of every body. And 
it is a phenomenon in my existence (tor 1 was not eight 
wars old) which has puzzled, and will puzzle me to the 
Inteethour of it; and lately, I know not -why, the recollec- 



tion (not the attacliment) has recurred as forcibly as ever 
ider if she can have the least remembrance of it 01 
. , or remember her pitying sister Helen for not bavins 
an admiri r loo .' How very prettj is the perfect im 
her in my memory — her brown dark hair, an 
her very dress! I should be quite grieved to 
the reality, however beautiful, would destroy, or at 
confuse, the features of the level) Peri whi. t 
„, h.r. and still lu.-s in my imagination, at the di 
of more than sixteen years. 1 am now twenty-foe and odd 



i . k my mother told the circumstances (on m 
ing ol hei marriage) to the Parkynsies, and 
the Pigot famil) men ioned u In her answer 

to Miss. A., who was well acquainted with mj ch 
,„ m n alt, and had sent the news on purpose for me, — and, 

thank s to n i 

•• .\ tl to the beginning, the conclusion has often occu- 

n. That the 

cla „;, ,! mow a~ well a- 1, and my m 

me so, in more than a whisper. Hut, the mon I 
;,.„„.,_ , L ,. more i .„„ bewildered to assign an] 
for this prei ocii) o) affi ction. 

■ Lord Ho! vited me to dinner to-day; but three 

days' due;, pvo A destroy me. So, without eating al 
all -in. ■■ yesterday,! went to mj box at I ovent-garden. 






i s;., w ♦ * * * looking very pretty, though quite a differ- 
ent style of beauty from the other two. She has thi 
, ,, . h i the world, out ol which she pretends not to 
see, and the longest eyelashes! evet 5aw,since Leilas 

and i .a rs 'i Ii in i in ains of the light, she has 

much beauty, — just enough, — but is, I think, midumtt. 
***** 
"I have been pondering on the miseries of separation, 
hovi seldom we see those we love! yet we five 
in in iments, when met. 1 hi on . thing I i 
, . shsi nee is the reflection that no rm 
personal estrangement, from ennui or disagreenwn 
take place;— and when | |.le meet hereafter, even 

u.anv i -bailees inav have taken place in the mean time 

still— unless th.-y an- tired of each other — they an ready 
to reunite, and do not blame each other for die circum- 
stances that severed them. 

" Saturday, 27lh, (I believe — or rather am in rlcnibt, 
which is the ne plus ulna of mortal faith,) 

"I ha-.e missed a day; and, as the Irishman said, oi 
Joe Miller says for bun, 'have earned a loss,' or fry the 
toss. Every thing is Bottled for Holland, and nothing but 
a cough, or a caprice ofm] follow-fravellerls, can slop us. 
Carriage erdered — funds prepared— and, probably, a gale 
of wind into the bargain. Wimzwrti — I believe, with 
t'lvni o' the Clow, or Robin Hood, 'By our Mary (dear 
name!) that art both Mother and May, 1 think il nevel 
was a man's lot to dii iy.' Heigh (bt 

ind so forth ! 

"To-night 1 went with youn - Henry Fox to see 'N - 

jahad' — a drama, which the Morning Post bathlaid to my 

charge, bul of which 1 ca ven guess the author. I 

wonder what they will next inflict upon me. They can- 
not well sink below- a Melodrama ; but that is better than a 
Satin-, (at bast, a personal one,) with which I stand truly 
i. and in atonement of which I am resolved to 

Criticisms, abuses, anil even praises lor 

bad pantom -s never composed by me, — with ven a 

contradictory aspect. 1 suppose die root ol tins n 
mv loan to the manager of my Turkish drawings for his 
dresses, to which he was more welcome than to my name. 
I suppose the real author will soon own it, as il has suc- 
ceeded ; if not, Job be my model, and Lethe my beverage ! 
„ f * t + ), u;i received the portrait safe ; and, in an 
swer, the only remark she makes upon it is, ' indeed il is 
like'— and again, ' indeed it is like.' * * * With her 
the likeness ' covered a multitude of sins ;' for I happeu 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 



235 



to know that this portrait was not a flatterer, but dark and 
sieni, — even black as the mood in which my mind was 
scorching last July, when I sate for it. All the others of 
me — like most portraits whatsoever — are, of course, more 
■ agreeable than nature. 

"Redde ih* Ed. Review of Rogers. He is ranked 
highly — but where he should be. There is a summarj 
view of us all — Moore and me among the rest ; and both 
(the ,/&•*< justly) praised; though, by implication (justly 
, ... a a i our ra mo/able friend. Mackin- 
tosh i nil' writer, and also of the critic on the Stael. His 
grand essay on Burke, I hear, is for the next number. 
Bui I know nothing of the Edinburgh, or of any other 
Review, but from rumour ; and I have long ceased — in- 
deed, I could not, injustice, complain of any, even though 
I were to rate poetry in general, and my rhymes in par- 
ticular, mora highly than I really Jo. To withdraw my- 
stlf from myself [oh that cursed selfishness!) has ever 
been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling 
a: all; and publishing is also the continuance of the <duu: 
object, by the action it affords to the mind, which else 
recoils upon itself. If I valued fame, I should Hatter re- 
ceived opinions, which have gathered strength by tunc, 
and will yet wear longer than any living works to the con- 
trary. But, fur the soul of me, I cannot and will not give 
the lie to my own thoughts and doubts, come what may. 
If I am a fool, it i-, at least, a doubting one ; and I envy 
no one the cei tainty of his self-approved wisdom. 

"All are inclined to believe what they covet, from a 
lottery-ticket up to a passport to 'Paradise; in which, from 
description, I see nothing very tempting. My restless- 
ness tolls me I have something within that'passeth show.' 
It is for Him, who made it, to prolong that spark of celes- 
tial fire which illuminates, yet burns, this frail tenement; 
but I see no such horror in a 'dreamless sleep,' and I have 
eption of any existence which duration would not 
render tiresome. How else 'fell the angels,' even accord- 
ing to your creed ? They were immortal, heavenly, and 
happy as their apostate A'odiel is now by his treachery. 
Time must decide ; and eternity won't be the less agree- 
able or more horrible because one did n >t expect it. In 
the mean time, I am grateful for some good, and tolerably 
patient under certain evils — grace a Dieu et mon bon 
euiperainent. 

u Sunday, 28th. 



« Monday, 29th. 



"Tuesday, 30th, 

■Twodavs missed in my log-book; hiatus haud de- 
flendus. They were as little worth recollection as the 
rest; and, luckily, laziness or society prevented me from 
notching them. 

a Sunday, I diced with Lord Holland in St. Jame ;':> 
square. Large party — among them Sir S. Romilly and 
Lady ltv. : General Sir Somebody Bent ham, a man of 
and talent I am told ; Horner — the Horner, an 
Edinburgh Reviewer, an excellent speaker in the 'Ho- 
,' very pleasing, too, and gentlemanly in 
company, as far as I have seen — Sharpe — Phillips of 
( Lord Iohn Russell, and others, * good men 

and true.' Holland's society is very good; you always 
imi one or other in it worth knowing. Stuffed my- 
self with sturgeon, an I exceeded in champaign and wine 
in general, but not to confusion of head. Wnenl do dine, 
I gorge like an Arab or a Boa snake, on fish and vegeta- 
H no meat. I am always better, however, on my 
tea and biscuit than any other regimen, — and evexiViai 
sparingly. 

" Why does Lady H. always have that damned screen 
b rween the whole room and the fire ? I, who bear cold 
uo better than an antelope, and never yel found a sun 
quite done to my taste, was absolutely petrified, and could 
not even shiver. Ail the rest, too, looked as if they were 



just unpacked, like salmon from an ice-basket, and se| 
down to table for tiiut day only. When she retired, I 
watched their looks as I dismissed the screen, and every 
cheek thawed, and ever) nose reddened with the antici- 
pated glow. 

" Saturday, I went with Harry Fox to Nourjahad"; and, 
I believe, convinced him, by incessant yawning, that it 
was not mine. I wish the precious author would own it 
and release me from his fame. The dresses are pretty, 
hut not in costume — Mrs. Home's, all hut the turban, and 
the want of a small dagger, (if she is a Sultana,) perfect. 
L never saw a Turkish woman with a turban in my life — 
nor did any one else. The Sultanas have a small poniard 
at the waist. The dialogue is drowsy — the action heavy 
— the scenery fine — the actors tolerable. I can't say much 
for their seraglio ; Teresa, Phannio, or * * * * were 
worth them all. 

B Sunday, a very handsome note from Mackintosh, who 
isarare instance of thi tfe ._,n of very transcendent talent 
and great good-nature. '1 o-day, (Tuesday,) a very pretty 
billet from M. la Barenne de Stael Holstein. She is 
pleased to be much pleased with my mention of her and 
her iast work in my notes. I spoke as I thought. — Hci 
works are my delight, and so is she herself, for — half an 
hour. I do n't like her politics — at least, her hating 
dta:ig'.d them ; had she been qualis ab inccpto, it were 
nothing. But she is a woman by herself and has done 
more than ail the rest of them together, intellectually,— 
she ought to have been a man. She jlatters me very pret- 
tily in her note ; — but I kwtv it. The reason that adula- 
tion is not displeasing is, that, though un'.rue, it shows 
one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to 
induce people to lie, to make us their friend : — that is their 
concern. 

" * * is, I hear, thriving on the repute of a pun (which 
was mine at Mackin osh's dinner some time back) on 
Ward, who was asking 'how much it would take to re- 
tvhig him?' I answered that, probably, he ' must first, 
before he was Te-wfdggea\ be m^wardedl This foolish 
quibble, before the S.aei and Mackintosh and a number 
of conversationers, has been mouthed about, and atlas! 
settled on the headof* *, where long may it remain ! 

"George* is returned from afloat to get a new ship. 
He looks thin, but better than 1 ex\ ected. I like George 
much more than most people like their heirs. He is a line 
fellow, and every inch :i sailor. I would do any thing, 
but apostatize, to get him on in his profession. 

u Lewis calied. 1' is a good and good-humoured man, 
but pestilently prolix, and paradoxical, and personal. If 
he would but talk hail* and reduce his visits to an hour, 
he would a-id to his populari y. As an author, he is very 
good, and his vanity is ouverte 3 like Erskine's, and yet not 
offending. 

" Yesterday, a very pretty letter from Annabella,! 
which I answered. What an odd situation and friend- 
ship is ours! without one spark of love on either side, and 
produced by circumstances which in general lead to cold- 
ness on one side, and aversion on the other. She is a 
very superior woman, and very little spoiled, which is 
strange in an heiress — a girl of twenty — a peeress that is 
to be, in her own right — an only child, and a smrtnte, who 
has always had her own way. She is a poetess — a ma- 
thematician — a i . :u ; and yet, withal, very kind, 
generous, and gentle, \\nh very little pretension. Any 
other head would be turned with half her acquisitions, 
and a tenth of her advantages. 

" Wednesday, December 1, 1813. 
"To-day responded to La Baronne de Stael Holstein 
and sent to Leigh Hum (an acquisition to my acquaint- 
ance — through Moore — of last summer) a copy of the 
two Turkish Tales. Hunt is an extraordinary character 
and not exactly of the present age. He reminds me more 

• 1-.. ,-■■.,. ■■:■■, :dLord Byron. 

. ..I-... .vHi.l i.udy Byroo 



236 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 



of the Pvm and Hampden times — much talent, great in- 
dependence of spirit, and an austere, yet not repulsive] 

aspect. If he- goes on quaUi <•!> incepto, I know few men 
who will deserve more praise or obtain it. 1 masl go and 
see him again ; the rapid succession of adventun inc< 
lasr summer, added to some serious uneasiness and busi- 
ness, have interrupted our acquaintance ; bul he is a man 
worth knowing; and though, for hi> own sake, I wish him 
oat of prison, 1 like to study character in such situations. 
He has been unshaken, and will continue so. I don't 
think him deeply versed in life ; — he is the bigot of virtue] 
'not religion,) and enamoured of the beauty of that 
'empty name, as the last breath of Brutus pronounced, 
and ever)- day proves it. He is, perhaps, a little opinion- 
ated, as all men who are the centre of cm://,*, wide or nar- 
tow — the Sir Oracles, in whose name two or three are 
gathered together — must be, and as even Johnson was ; 
hut, withal, a valuable man, and less vain than success 
and even the consciousness of preferring l lhe right to the 
expedient 1 might excuse. 

"To-morrow there is a party of pterpU at the 'blue' 
Miss * * *s. Shall I go? urn! I do n't much affect 
your brae-bottles ; but one ought to be civil. There « ill 
be,' I guess now,' (as the Americans Bay,) the Stalls and 
Mackintoshes — good — the * * *s and * * *s — not so 
good — the* **s,&c. &c — good for nothing. Perhaps 
that blue-winged Kashmirian butterfly of book-learning, 
Lady * * * *, will be there. I hope so; it is a pleasure 
to look upon that most beautiful of faces. 

" Wrote to Hodgson ; he has been telling 'hat 1 .* 

I am sure, at least, J did not mention it, and I wish he 
had nut . He is a good fellow, and I obliged myself ten 
times more by being of use than I did htm ; and there 's 
an end on 't. 

"Baldwin is boring me to present their King's B< rich 
petition. I presented Cartwright's last fear; and Stan- 
hope and I stood against the whole House, and mouthed 
it valiantly — and had some fun and a little abuse lor our 
opposition. But 'I am not f uY vein 1 for this business. 

Now, had * * been here, she would have made me do it. 

There is a woman, who, amid all her fascination, always 
orged a man to usefulness or glory. Had she remained, 
she had been my tutelar genius. * * + 

" Baldwin is very importunate — but, poor fellow, 1 1 
can 1 ! get out, I can't get out — said the starling.' — Ah, I 
am as bad as thai dog Sterne, who preferred whining 
over 'a dead ass to relieving a living mother 1 — villain — 
hypocrite — slave — sycophant! but / am no better. Here 
I cannot, stimulate myself to a speech for the sake of 
these unfortunates, and three words and half a smile of 
* *, had she been lure to urge it, (and urge it she infalli- 
bly would — at least, she always pressed me on senatorial 
duties, and particularly in the cause of weakness,) would 
have u tide me an advocate, if not an orator. Curse on 
Rochefoucault for being always righl ! In him a lie were 
virtue,— or, at least, a comfort to his readers. 

"George Byron has not called to-day ; I hope he will 
be an admiral, and, perhaps, Lord Byron into lh« bar- 
nun. If he would bin marry, I would engage never to 
marry, myself, or cut him out of the hi irship. He would 
be happier, and 1 should like nephews better than sons. 

"I snail soon be six-and-tvrenty, (January £2d, 1814.) 
*$ there any thing in the future thai can possibly console 
us for not being always (ircnti/-Jii >■ ? 
' Oh Gioveniu I 
Oh Primnvern ! giuvt niu ildl' anno. 

Oh Gioveniu i prlnuTer* daDa viu.' 



■Sunday, Doc.fi. 
"Dallas's nephew (son to the American Attorney- 



1 wo or (hire words are here prratch«| out in ihc OMOUKript, bat 
Bi*lm t «ri..f thi .Miic.ce evidently is, thai Mr. Hodp >n (to whom the 

B""^ 5™!*' Iwibeen revealing la some friend, llteiecrtlof Lord 
•wo • kmdiMwto him.— Movit. 



general) is arrived in this country, and tells Dallas that 
my rhymes are very popular in the United States. These 

Brsl tidings thai have ever sounded 
my ears — to be redds on the banks of the Ohio! The 
greatest ph asure I ever derived, of this kind, was from an 
extract, in * !ooke the actor 1 ! Life, from Ins Journal, sta- 
ting,thal in die reading-room of Albany, near Washing- 
ton, he perused English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 

To be ['"polar :n a rising and far country has a kind of 
lit !<'■', \'i\ ihlbr-nt from the ephemeral erli'it 

and [ete-ingj buzzing and party-nig compliments of the 
well-dressed multitude. lean safely sav that, daring my 
reign in the sprang of 1812, I re<rreited nothing but in* 
duration of si\ weeks instead of a fortnight, and was 
1 eartily glad to resign. 

" 1 .ast rught I supped with Lewis ; — and, as usual, 
though I neither exceeded in solids nor Minds, have been 
half dead ever since. My stomach is entirely destroyed 
by long abstinence, and the rest will probably follow. Let 

it — I only wish (lie jiain over. The 'leap in the dark' is 

the least to be dreaded. 

"The Duke of * * called. I have told them forty 
times that, except to half-a-dozen old and specil i 
quamtances, 1 am invisible. His grace i^ a good, noble, 
ducal person ; but 1 am content to think so at a distance, 
and so — 1 was not at home. 

"(Jail called. — Mem. — to ask some one to speak to 
Raymond in favour of his play. We are old fellow- 
travellers, and, with all his eccentricities, lie has much 
strong sense, experience of the world, and is, as far as I 
have se.-n, a eood-natured, philosophical fellow. I show- 
ed him Sk'gofa letters on the report of the Turkish girft 
nrctiturc at Athens soon after it happened. He and Lord 
Holland, Lewis, ami Moore, and Rogers, and Lady -Mel- 
bourne have seen it. Murray has a copy. I thoi 
had hern unfasten, and wish it were; but Sligo arrived 
only some days after, and the rumours are thf subject of 
his letter. That I shall preserve — it is as veil. Lewis 
and Gait were- both horrified; and L. wondered I did not 
introduce the situation into 'the Giaour.' He may won- 
der — he might wonder more at that production's being 
written at all. But to describe the feelmga of thai titua- 
tion were impossible — it is try even to recollect 'hem. 

"The Bride of Abydos was published on Thursday 
the second of I >eeember ; but how tf is liked on 

I knownot. Whether it succeeds or not is no fault of 
the public, against whom I can have no complaint. But 
I am much more indebted to the tale than I can ever be 
to the most partial reader ; as it wrung my thoughts from 
reality to imagination — from selfish regrets to vivid re- 
collections— and recalled me to a country replete with 
the brightest and darkest, but always most Busty ■ 
of my memory. Sharps tailed, but was not let in, which 
I regret, 

****** 

"Saw * * yesterday. 1 have not kept my appoint- 
menl at MTiddleton, which lias not pleased I 
and my projected voyage with * * will, perhap 
him less. But I wish to keep well with boih. They are 
instruments that don't do, in concert; but, surely, their 
separate tones are very musical, and I won't give up 
either. 

"It is well if I do n't jar between these great discords 
At present, I stand tolerably well with all, but I cannot 
adopt their dislikes;— so many sds. Holland's is the 
first ; — every thing distingue is welcome there, at 
lainly the ton of his society is ihe best. Then there ■ 
M**. de start's — there I never •.">, though I might, had I 
courted it. It is composed of the * *a and the * * 
family, with a strange sprinkling, — orators, dandies, and 
all kinds of liho, from the regular Grub-street uniform, 

down to the azure jacket of the IMtt'ratrur. To -, , * I 
and * * sitting togeiher, at dinner, always reminds me of 
the grave, where all distinctions of friend and foo are 
levelled; and they — the Reviewer aed Reviewl* the 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1913. 



237 



Rhinoceros and Elephant, the Mammoth and Megalonyx 

— all will lie q li ■ r. They now sit toge hi r, as 

silent, bm not so quiet, a> if they were already immured. 

* * * * * " * 

K I did not go to the Berry's the other night. The 
woman of much talent, and both are handsome, 
and must have been beautiful. To-night asked to Lord 
H.'b — shall I go? urn! perhaps. ^ 

"Morning, two o'clock. 
a Went to Lord H.'s, — party numerous — milady in 
perfect good-humour, and consequently perfect. Noonc 
le, or perhaps so much so, when she will. 
Asked for Wednesday to dine and meet the Stael ; — 
asked particularly, I believe, nut of mischief, to sec the 
first interview afer the notej with which Cocinne pro- 
fesses herself to be so much taken. I dor,'; much like 
always talks of myself or nerselfj an,! I am not 
(except in soliloquv, as now) much enamoured of either 
subject — especially one's Works. What (he devil shall 
I say about 'De I'AUemagne ? I like it prodigi 
but unless I can twist my admiration into some fantastical 
expression, she won't believe me; and I know, by expe- 

l shall be overwhelmed with fine things about 
fee. &c. The lover, Mr. Rocia, was there to- 
night, an 1 Campbell said ' it was the only proof he had 
Been of her good taste. 3 Monsieur L'Amant is remark- 
ably handsome ; but I do n't think more so then her book. 

"Campbell looks well — seemed pleased, and dressed to 
v A blue coat becomes him, so does his new 
wig. He really looked as if Apollo had sent him a birth- 
day suit, or a wedding-garment, and was witty and lively. 
* * * He abused Corirme's book, which I regret ; 
because, firstly, he understands German, and is conse- 
quently a fair judge ; and. secondly, he is first rate, and 
consequently, the best of judges. I reverence and admire 
him : but I won't give up my opinion — why should I ? I 
read her again and again, and there can be no affectation 
in tins. I cannot be mistaken (except in taste) in a book 
i and lay down, and take up again; and no book 

can be totally bad, which finds one, even one reader, who 
. erely. 

"Campbell talks of lecturing next spring; his last lec- 
tures were eminently successful. Moore throught of it, 
but give it up, I don't know why. * * had been prating 
dignify to him, and such stuff; as if a man disgraced 
himself by instructing and pleasing at the same time. 

'Introduced to Marquis Buckingham — saw Lord ■ rower 
— he w going to Holland; Sir J. and Lady Mackintosh 
and Homer, G. Lamb, with, I know not how many, (R. 
i ,, one — a clever man,) grouped about the room. 
I I lenry Fox, a fine boy, and very promising in mind 

an I manner] — he ive-nl away to I" ■■'. before I had time to 
talk Eo him. I am sure I had rather hear him than all 
the tavern*. 

" M 'ii lav, Dec. 6. 
* Murray tells me that Croker asked him why die 
Hilt of Abydos? It is a cursed 
.1 question, being unanswerable. She is not a 
bride, only altout to be one ; but for, &c. &c. &c. 

"I don't wonder at his finding out the Bull; but the 
n * * * is too late to do any good. I was 
a great fool to make it, and am ashamed of not being an 
k Irishman. * * * 

'Campbell last night seemed a little nettled at some- 

r other — 1 know not what We were standing in 

. -saloon, when Lord H. brought out of the other 

room a vessel of some composition similar to that which 

is used in Catholic churches, and, seeing us, he exclaimed, 

.. for you. 1 Campbell answered- 
'Carry it to Lord Byron — he « uscdto'it} 

u Now, this comes of ' bearing no brother near the 
throne.' I, who have no throne, nor wish to have one 



now — whatever I may have done — rim at perfei t pe< w 

lib all liie poetical fraterni ■■ or, at least, if 1 
any, il is not poetically, bjl personally. Surely, the field 
of ili >ug ;i is infinite ; - wha d ■■■■ tl signil ■ ■■■■■■: 
or behind in a race where there is no goal ? The temple 
of Fame is like that of the Persian^ die Universe ; — our 
altar, the tups of moun ains. I should be equally i on- 
lent with Mount Caucasus or Mount Anything; and 
those who like il may have Mont Bianc or Chitnborazo 
without my envy of their elevation. 

u I think 1 may now speak thus; fori have just pub- 
lished a Poem, an I am qui e ign rant whethei il is likely 
to betiked or not. I have hitherto heard little in its com- 
nen lation, anil no one can downright abuse it to one's 
■ ■ ept hi print. It can't be good, or 1 should not 
have stumbled over the threshold, and blundered in my 
very title. But I begun it with heart full of * * *, and 
my head of orient ahtic*, (I can't call them isms,) and 
wrote on ra| idly, 

"This journal is a relief. When I am tired — as I 
am — out come this, and down goes every thing. 
But I can'l read it over ;— and God knows whal contra- 
lictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself, 
(bul 1 f at- one lies more to one's self than to any one 
else,) every Rage should confute, refute, and utterly 
abjure its predecessi r. 

"Another scribble fr im Martin Baldwin the petitioner: 
I have m i hi r head nor nerves 'o present it. That c in- 
founded supper at Lewis's has spoiled my digestion and 
mj phi uithropv. I have no more charity than a cruet 
<f vinegar. Would I were an ostrich and dieted on 
fire-irons, — or any tiling that my gizzards could get the 
better of. 

"To-day saw W. His uncle is dying, and W. don't 
much affect our Dutch determinations. I dine with him 
on Thursday, provided Condi is not dined upon, or pe- 
remptory v bespoke by the posthumous epicur s, before that 
day. I wish he may recover — not for our dinner's sake, 
but to disappoint the undertaker, and the rascally reptiles 
that may well wait, since they uill dine at last. 

■ Gell called — he of Troy- -after I was out. Mem.— 
to return his visit. But my Mems. are the very land- 
marks of firgrtf dness : — something like a lighthouse, with 
a ship wrecked under the nose of its lantern. I never 
look al a Mem. without seeing that I have remembered to 
forget. Mem. — I have forgotten to pay Pitt's taxes, and 
I shall be surcharged. 'An I do not turn rebel 
when thou an king" — oons ' I b ilieve my very biscuit b 
leavened with that impostor's imposts. 

"L*. M", returns from Jersey's to-morrow; — I must 
call. A Mr. Thomson has sent a son?, which I must 
applaud. I hate annoying them with censure or silence.* 
and yet 1 hate U tiering. 

"Saw Lord Ulenbervie and his Prospectus, at Mur- 
i i'- of a new Treatise on Timber. Now here is a 
man moi u sfnl than all the historians and rhymers ever 
planted. For, by preserving our woods and Ibresis, he 
for all the history of Briiam worth 
reading and all the odes worth nothing. 

"Reddca good deal, but desultorily, Myhead is cram- 
med with the m «sl useless lumber. It is odd that when I 
do read, I can only hear the chicken broth of — an 
but novels. It is manv a year since I have looked into 
one. (though they are sometimes ordered, by way ■ 
run-in, but never taken,) 'ill 1 looked yesterday at the 

worst parts of the M .nk. These descriptions ought to 
have been written by Tiberias at Caprea — they are forced 
— the phUtred ideas of a ja ted voluptuary. It is to me 
inconceivable how they could have been composed bj a 
man of only twenty — hia aga when he wrotethem. They 
have no nature — ill i 1 "- boiu cream of cantharides. I 
should have suspected BufTon of writing them on the 
death-bed of his detestable dotage. I had never redde 
this edition, and merely looked at them from curiosity 



233 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, IF13. 



am! recoUeclion of the noise thej made, anil tl 

ili v have left to Lewis. But they could do DO harm 

except * * *, 

« t Sailed t] is eyening on my aj enl -mj bu 
usual. Oui ti "i_ ■■ .1 (ventures an ih< i nlj inhi 
of niir family Uial have noi diminished. * + * * 

a l shall now smoke [wo cigars, and u ,,-t ms to bed. 
The cij-ars do ri*I keep well here. Thei get a old .1 
a 1 ■, ■■ .a ini/ti in [he sun of Africa. The 

Havana are ihe best;— but neither are so pleasant as 
u hooka or chibouque. The Turkish tobacco is mild, 
ami their horses mure — two things as m j * ■ v shoujd be. 
I ;n;i si. far obliged i" tlii Journal, thai it preserves me 
from verse, — at least from keeping it I have jusl thrown 
a Poem into the fire (which il has relighted to mi greal 
comfort,) and have I oul ol mj head the plan of 

another. I wish I co ut rid of thinking, or, 

at least, the confusion ol thought 

ruesday, Dec. 7. 
"Went to bed, and slept dreamlessly, bui not refresh- 
ingly. Awoke and up an hourbefore being called; bui 
dawdled three hours in pressing. When one subtracts 
from lift infancy (*vhi h 1 ■ ■ ating, and 

Bwilling — buttoning and unbutloning^how much remains 
of downright existence ? The summer uf a dormouse. * 
****** 

" Redde 'lie paper- and t >ed and soda-watered, and 
found oul thai the fire was badly lighted. Ld. Glenbervie 
wants me to go to Bi ighton urn ' 

" This morning a very pretty billet from the Stae"l 
about meeting her*at Ld. ll.'s to-morrow. She ha 
written, I dare say, twenty such tins morning to 

, all equally flattering to each. So mm h the bi ttei 
for her and those who believe all she wishes them, 01 thej 
wish t" believe. She has been pleasi .1 to be pi a e I with 
my slight eulogy in the note annexed to the 'Brio; 
I hi 1 is :■- be accounted foi in. several ways : — firs \. a 
women like all, or any praise j secondly, this was unfex- 
because 1 have, never courted her: and, thirdly, 
as Scroti says, those who have been all tlteir livi 
larlj praised, b} re ulai critics, like a little variety, am 
,1. ■■ lad vi hen apj one goes otfl of his" way to saj a civi 
thing; and, fourthly, she is a.very good-natured creature, 
which is the best reason, after all, and, perhaps the onlj 
one. 

" A knock — knocks single and double. Bland called. — 
He lys Dutch spci6ty (he has been in Holland) is 
second-hand French; bui the women are like women 
everywhere else. This isabon ; I should like to see 
them a little unlike; bui that can't be expected. 

"Went out — came home — this, that, and the other — 
and ' all is vanity, saith the preacher, 1 and 30 say I, 'is part 
sf his congregation. Talking of vanity — whose praise 
do I prefer .' w hy, Mrs. [nchbald's, and thai of the 
Americans. The first; because hei ' Simple Story' and 
'Nature and Art' are, to m , true to their title* ; and con- 
sequently, Her short 1 1 to R igers aboul the 'Giaour 1 

1 me more than any thing, except the ESdinbui h 
Review. I like the American , beca e / happened to 
be in .fw", while the I n |li h : ' 1 tl and Scotch Review- 
ers were red le in America, It' 1 could have had a speech 
againsl die Slai < V, ■ ■< -'- . in Aj and an Epitaph on a 
Dog, in Europe^ [i.e. in the Morning Post,) my u tea 
Mui'it/twt would certainly liave 'Il placed stars enough to 
overthrow the Newtonian systi m. 

"Friday, Dec in. 181 1 
"lam ermuyS beyond my usual tense of thai | 
verb, whieh I am ahvays euiipifaimu; ; ami 1 do n'l find 
that society much mends the matter, lam too lazj to 
shoot myself — and it would annoy Augusta, ami perhaps 
* * ; but it would be a good thing for Georj»e, on tl 
other side, and no bad one for me ; but I won't be 
tempted. 



■' I have bad the kin ; ni Moore. I 'o think 

thai man is the be: I evei 

is feel- 
ings. 
"Dined on v. li Lord H.'s — the Staffords, 

, . . 

icr. &r. — and was in the Marquis and 

H arch km 
. 

■ ndered i; improper, ( suppose, brought il about. 
But, it' 11 was 10 ill, 1 w« 1, - r il did not occur 

be&re. She is handsome, and musi have been beautiful 
— and her maimers ari ? * * 

"The StaCI was a ol '' labli , and less 

loquaciou We are nov 

i tie whether I 

bad res 1 ■ . ! ra as wi ■ ■■ v ; 

, efore she told C. L. 'c ■ ■■ 

i have 
oOt, and so— s US*! 

■ 
" Murray prospers, as far a ■ 
: -my Fragment. J 

— :u\ mind is a 5ra jmertt 
" Saw Lord G ! ney,&c.inthe square. Took 

leave of Lord Gr. whoisgoinglo Holland and Germany, 
tie tells me, that he carries with him a para 
and 'Giaours,' &c. for Ihe readers of Berlin, who, it 

■ 1 ,, and : . . . 

I 'in ' — ! avelbeen Gi turn al! thu time, when I I 
myself oriental ? * * * 

. irrow ; and ret 1 
i 
read it, and endeavoui author. I hate 

, v. ith 1 a-. 1! ; bui a comedy 1 lake to be the 
1 ,l_v. 
•'Gal. first part 

of 'the Bride 1 and some story of his — wh< I 
or no-,, I know iin^iinn I ,.imi._ ■ - 1 1 ti il . He is almosrtthe 
last person \ >n v, bom at erary lar- 

ceny, and T am noi cona i ,,i ' any 

;enus. A- to originality, all pretensions are ludi- 
crou . — ' there is nothing new under the sun.' 

lay. + * * * 
[nvited bui to a par"., bui did noi go ; — right, R I 

to go to Lady * ""son Monday; — right again. Il* I 
must Critter away mylife, I would ratherdo it alone. I 
was much tempted ; — C * * looked i i Turki h with her 
I turbai and her regular dark and clear featun s. Not 
that she and / evef were, or could I"-, an) thing ; but I 
love anj aspect thai reminds me of die 'children of tlio 
sun.' 
To dine to-day with Rogers and Sharpe, for which I 
ime appetite, n 
ceding forty-eight hours. I wish I « 
.1 together. 

rati Dec. 11. 
tt Sunday, I tec. i:. 
"By Gait's answer, I find it is somi nal liff, 

and 11 "■ work with which mj late composition coin- 

■ides. Tt is siii. more singular, for mine is drawn from 
■ 
"I have smt an excuse to M. de Stael. 1 do noi reel 

h for dinner to-day ; and I will noi go to 

Sheridan's on Wednesday. Not that I do aol admire 
ami prefer his unequalled conversation ; but — '.hat 'hut 1 

IllllSt OIlK |ir in- .: ih'e In li^n ;ii' - 1 • at>N"t Ui i'< 

ridan was m good talk al Rog' rs's the othi i ni -hi, but I 
onlystayed till nine. All the world are to 1" a 
o-night,and [am noi »rry to escape any part of it. I 
only go oul to ■-■ I me a fresh appetite for boing alone. 

Went out — did not go to the Stael's, but to Ld . Holland's. 
Party numerous — conversation general. Stayed late — 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1814. 



239 



made a blunder— got over il — ame home ami went to 
bed, not having eaten. B but Jnwa, which 

is the great point with me. 



"Monday, Dec. 13,1813. 

"Called at three places— .read, and got ready to leave 

tow,, to-morroiv. Murray has had a letter from bis 

Bibliopole of gdmburgh, whi i saj - ' he is lucky in 

'., poef-^omething as il one was apack- 

h .rscor'ass, or .... thing I let .- his :'or, like Mrs.Paca- 

v.ood, who replied to some inquiry afer the Odes on 

Razor,, ' Caw.sir, we keeps a Poet.' The same dlus- 

irious Edinburgh bookseller on e sent an order for books, 

, s , an I c ry, wi h this a prei able p is script-^ 1 lie 

H , M and Cookery are much wanted.' Such is fame, 

and afer all. quite as g 1 as any other'life mothers 

"1 is much the same to divide purchasers with 
Hannah Glasse or Hannah More. 

"Some editor of some Magazine has announced to 

Murray his intention of abusing the thing ' without read- 

mg it' So much the better; ifhe.redde it first, he 

abuse it more. 

"Allen (Lord Holland's Allen— the best informed and 

one of the ablest men I know— a perfect Magliabecchi— 

,a Helluoof 1 ks, andan observer of men) 

has lent m< a quantity of Buros's unpublished, and never- 
to-be-published, Letters. Tbey are full of oaths and 
obscene songs. What an antitheticaj mind !— tenderness, 
roughness— delicacy, coarseness-sentiment, sensuality- 
soaring and grovelling, dirt and deny— all mixed up in 
that one compound of inspired clay ! 

" It seems strange ; a true voluptuary will never aban- 
don his mind to the grossness of reality. It is by exalting 
the earthly, the material, the pJtysiowi of our pleasures, 
by veiling these ideas, by forgetting them altogether, or, 
at least, never naming them hardh, to/me's self, that we 
alone can prevent them from disgusting. 

******* 

"Dee. 14, 15, 16. 
« Mu< h dune, but nothing to record. It is quite enough 
to set down my thoughts; my actions will rarely bear 
retrospection. 



qung Babyloniam of , ality — solburstouta'laughir.g. 

ti ..... really odd ' ly * " tfit <rce'l— Lady * * and 

l .'.—Mrs.* M m 

,he next, the like, and stilliiearer * **»**! What 

who I w all their histories, it 

was as ,| the house had bet n divided between your pub- 
lic and your understood courtesans ; but the Intrigu - 

much outnumbered the regular mercenaries. On die 
Other side were only Pauline and far mother, and, next 
box to her, three of inferior note. Now, where lay the 
difference between far and mamma, ami Lady ' ' and 
rjau 'hh i ' excepl thai tht two last may enter Carleton 
and any other h me, and the two first are limited to the 

opera and b house. How I do delight in obsen mg 

life as it really is! and myself afer all, the worst of any. 
But, no matter, I must avoid egotism, which, just now, 
would be no vanity. . , , 

«] have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished 
rhapsodv, called « The Devil's Drive,} the notion of which 
I took from Porson's ' Devil's Walk.' 

"Redde'some Italian, and wrote two _ Sonnets on 
* * *5 I never wrote but one sonnet before, and that 
was not in earnest, and many years ago, as an exercise— 
and I will never write another. They are the most 

puling, petrifying, stupidly plat ; compositions. Ide- 

tesl the Petrarch s «'h, ihat I would not be the man 

even to hav< obtained his Laura, which the metaphysical. 

whinins dotard never could 

° * * * * * * 



"Dec. 17,18. 

"Lord Holland told me a curious piece of sentimentaUt) 

in Sheridan. The other nigh! we were all delivering our 

respective and various opinions on him and other hommet 

,„»,and mine was this. 'Whatever Shendan has 

eD to do, has been, jwewett 

;, , f i - :,i.i I. He has written thefesl comedy, (School 

, bi.) the h sf drama, (in my mind; farbefore thai 

lam| ti, the Beggar's Opera,) the best farce, 

(the Cntte— it is onlv too good for a fane.) and the best 
Address, (iMonolosue on Garrick,) and, to crown all, 
delivered the very best Oration (the famous Begum 
ever conceived or heard in this country. Some- 
body told S. this the next day, and on hearing it, he burst 
into tea ! 

'■Poor Brinsley! if they were tears of pleasure, 1 
would rather have said thes,- few, but most sincere words, 
than have written the Iliad, or made his own celebrated 
ipic. Nay, hisown comedy never gratified me more 
o hear that he had derived a moment's gratification 
from any praise of mine, humble as it must appear to 
•my elders and my betters.' 

w .nt to my box at Covent-garden to-night ; and my 
delicacy fell a little shocked at seems S * * *'s mistress 
(who to mv certain knowledge, was actually educated, 
from her birth, for her profession) siuing with her mother, 

■ athree-piledb d, h d-Major to die army,' .„ a 

private box opposite. Ifell rather indignant ; I 

my eyes round the house, in the a > ! bos tome,and the 
next and the next, were Ihe roost distinguished old and 



"Jan. 16,1814. 
* * * * * * 

"To-morrow I h-ave town for a few days. I saw 
Lewis to-dav, who hasjust returned from Oatlands, where 
he has been squabbling with Mad. de Stael about him- 
self Clarissa Harlowe, Mackintosh, and me. My homage 
has never been paid in that quarter, or we would have 
agreed still worse. I don't talk— I can't flatter, and 
won't listen, except to a pretty or a foolish woman. She 
bored Lewis with praises of himself till he sickened— 
found out that Clarissa was perfection, and Mackintosh 
the first man in England. There I agree, at least, one of 
Ihe first— but Lewis did not. As to Clarissa, I leave to 
those who can read it lo judge and dispute. I could not 
do the one, and am, Cfflisequendy; not qualified for the 
other. She told Lewis wisely, he being my friend, that 1 
was affected, in the first place, and that, in the next place, 
I commuted the heinous offence of sitting at dinner with 
my eyes shut, or half shut. * * * I wonder if I 
really have tins trick. I must cure myself of it, if true. 
nsibly acquires awkward habits, which should be 
broken in time. If this is one, I wish I had been told of 
il before. It would not so much signify if one pas always 
to be checkmated by a plain woman, but one may as well 
see some of one's neighbours, as well as the plate upon 
the table. 

» I should like, of all things, to have heard the AmabtKan 
eclogue between her and Lewis,— both obstinate, clever 
odd, garrulous, and shrill. In fact, one could have heard 
nothing else. But they fell out, alas!— and now they 
will never quarrel again. Could not one reconcile thi m 
for the ' nonce ?' Poor Corinne,— she will find Ihat some 
of her fine sayings won't suit our fine ladies and gentle- 
men. 

" I am setting rather into admiration of * *, the young- 
est sister of * *. A wife would be my salvation. 1 am 
sure the wives of my acquaintances have hitherto done 
me little «ood. * * is beautiful, but very young, and, I 
think, a fool. But I have not seen enough to judge ; be- 
sides, 1 hate an esprit in petticoats. That she won't love 
me is very probable, nor shall I love her. But, on my 



t Tlir.e imnK» art r<!l left blank 1" ' 
I Sec Pool", p. I 7 ?. 
\ Set Pocrufi V- 193. 



240 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1814. 



system, and the modern system in general, that do n't 
The business (if it came to business) would 
probably be arranged between papa and me. She would 
have her own waj ; I am goobVnumoured to won 
docile; and, if I did not fall in love with her, which 1 
should try to prevent, we .should he a vei 
couple. As to conduct, that she musl look to. * * * * * 
Huij/' I love, I shall he jealous; — and for thai reason I 
will noi be in love- Though, after all, I doubl my temper, 
and fear I should not be bo patient as becomes the 
- tee of a married man in my station, ***** 
Divorce rums the poor /em me, and dc > i paltry 

compensation. I do fear mv temper would lead rne into 
some bf our oriental tru-ks of vengeance, or, at any rate, 
nto a summary appeal to the court of twelve pacts. So 
I '11 none on V °ut e'en remain single and solitary; — 
&ough I should like to have somebody now and then, to 
yawn w nil one. 

" Ward, and, after him, * *, has stolen one of mj 
buffooneries about Mde. de StaeTs Metaphysics and the 
I i I passed it, by speech and letter, as their own. 

As Gibbet says, 'they are the mosl of a gentleman 61 
any on tin- road. 1 AN', is m sad enmity with the Whigs 

about this review of Kox, (if lie did review him ;) — all 
the epigrammatists and essayists are at him. I hate 
" '■/,, and wish he may beat them. As for me, by the 
of indifference, I have simplified my publics mio 
an utter detestation of all existing governments ; and, as it 
ia the shortest and most agreeable and summary feeling 
imaginable, the first moment of a universal republic would 

rerl me into an advocate for single and uncontradicted 

despotism. The fact is, riches are power, and povertv 
i ivery, all over the earth, and one sort ofestablishmenl 
is do better, nor worse, for a people than another, 1 shall 

adhere i y party, because it would not he honousnl le 

to act otherwise ; but, as to opinions, I do n't think poli- 

rrtfl an opinion. Conduct is another thing: — if V"U 
nli a party, go on with them. I have no consis- 
tency, except in politics, and thai probably arises from 
u.y indifference on the subject altogether. 

"February 18. 

"Better than a month since I last journalized: — most 
of it out of London, and at Notts., but a busy one and a 
ml, at least three weeks of it. On my return, I find 
all the newspapers in hysterics, and town in an uproar, 
0D tin avowal and republication of two stanzas on Prin- 
cess ' fharlotte's weeping at Regency's speech to Lauder- 
dale in 1812, They are daily at it still; — some of the 
abuse good, all of it hearty. They talk of a motion in 
our House Upon II — be it so. 

" i tot up — read the Morning Post containing the battle 
of Buonaparte, the destruction of the Custom-house, and 
a paragraph on ine as long as my pedigree, and vitupera- 
tive, as usual. * * * 

"Hobhouse is returned to England. He is my best 
friend, the most lively, and a man of the most sterling 
talents extant, 

"'The Corsair' has been conceived, written, published, 
Stc. since I last took up this Journal. They tell me it 
has great success; — it was written con amore, and much 
from esutencs, Murray is satisfied with its progress : and 
if" the public are equally so with the perusal, il. 
end of the matter. 

" Nino o'clock. 
"Been to Hanson's on business. Saw Rogers ami 
had a note from Lady Melbourne, who says, it is sail 
that I am ' much nut of spirits.' I wonder if I really an 
or not? I have certainly enough of 'that perilous stuff 
which weighs upon the heart, 1 and it is better they should 
believe it to bo the result of these attacks than of Un- 
real cause ; but — ay, ay, always 6u£, to the end of the 
chapter. * " * 



" Hobhouse has told me ten thousand anecdotes al 
i, all good and true. M) friend II. is the most 
entertaining of companions, and a t boot. 

Kedile a little — wrote notes and letters, and am alone, 
which, Locke says, is bad company. 'Be not solitary, Ik> 
-I'm! — the idleness is troublesome ; but I can't 
bi i i much to regret in the ■ u le, 1 he more I see 
of men, (he less 1 like them. If I could but say so of 
women too, all would be well. Why can't I? I am 
now Btt-and-twonty ; my passions have had.enot 
.ill them: ni) affections nine than enough to wither 

■ i.i . i : ■ .—ami yet — always //'/ and but — ' K\c..l- 
: you are a fishmongi 
1 They fool tne to the top of my bent.' 

"Midnight. 
"Began a letter, which I threw int.. the tire. R.-dile 

— but to bale purpose. Did not visit Hobhot 

1 promised and ought. No matter, the l«-*s i*. mine. 
Smoki d cigars. 

u Napoleon ! — this week will ate. All seem 

against bun; but I believe and hope he will win — at 
.i beat back the invaders. What right have we to 
prescribe sovereigns I i I ranee? Oh for a republic! 
■ Brutus, th<.u sic pest.' Hobhouse abounds in oonnV 
Mental anecdotes of this extraordinary man; all in favour 
of his intellect and courage, but against bis bonhomnnc. 
No wonder ; — how should he, who knows mankind well, 
do other than despise and abhor them. 

" The greater the equality, the more impartially evil is 
distributed, and becomes lighter by the division among so 
many — th< red ire, a i public ! 

"More notes from Mad. de 5ta< I unanswered — and 
so ll iey shall remain. I admire her abilities, but really 
her society is overwhelming — an avalanche thai buries 
one in glittering n msensc — all snow and sophistry. 

u Shall I go to Mackintosh's on Tuesday .' ton! — I did 
not go to Marquis Lonsdowne's, nor to Miss Berry's 
thougfl both are pleasant. So is Sir Jameses, — but I 
doni know — I believe one is not the better for parties; 

al least, unless some ngtUOUe is there. 

" I wonder how the deuse any body conk! make Buch a 
world; fur what purpose dandies, lor instance, were or- 

dained — and kings — and fellows of colleges — and women 
of ' a certain age' — and many men of any age — and 
myself, most of all! 

' Dlreene priscoet nniu* nb Inaclu*, 
Nil Interest, Mil pauper, •■! iij!"iiji4 

De genie i sub dm moreria, 
VkUmi ml uleenunUi » li el. 

Omnes eodcin cogiinur.' 

"Is there any thing beyond? — who knows? He that 
can't tell. Who tells that there uf He who 
know. And when shall he know? perhaps, when ho 

don't expect, and, generally, when be do n't wish it. In 
ibis last respect, however, all are not alike : it depends a 
'nuni deal ujion education, — something upon nerves and 
habits — hut most upon digestion. 

"Saturday, Feb. 19. 
" Just returned from seeing K-'an in Richard. By 

love, he is a soul! I. lie— nature — truth — without ex- 

aggen nor diminution. Kemble's Hamlet is perfeol . — 

but 1 1. unlet is not Nature. Richard is a man ; and Kean 
i^ Richard. Now to my own concerns. 

* * * * * 

■ Went to Waite's. Teeth all right and white ; but he 
says that I grind them in my sleep and chip the edges. 
That same sleep is no friend of mine, though I court him 
sometimes lor half the £4, 

■ February 90. 
"Got up and tore out two leaves of this Journal — I 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, UUA. 



241 



&vn\ know why. Hodgson just railed and gone. He 
has much bonkommit with bfa other good qualities, and 

mora talent than he has yet had credit fur beyond his 
Circle. 

"An invitation todtne at Holland-house tn meet Kean. 

Ho la worth meeting; and I hope, by getting into good 

he will be prevented from falling like Cooke. Hn 

er now on the stage, and off he should never be 

[ess. 'l upid and underrating criticism upon 

him in on ■ vspapers. 1 thought that, last night, 

thuii-'h great, he rather underacted more than the first 

tune. This may be the effect of these cavils ; but I hope 

he has more sense than to muni them. He cannot expect 

to maintain his present eminence, or to advance still 

without the envy of his green-room fellows, an 1 

the nibbling of their admirers. But, if he don't heat 

then a!(, why, then — meat hath no purchase in 'these 

COSter-m nger days.' 

"I wish that I had a talent for the drama; 1 wonld 
write a tragedy now. But no.— it is gone. Hodgson 
talks of one, — he will do it well; — and I think Moore 
should trv. He has wonderful powers, and much variety ; 
besides, he has lived and felt. To write so as to bring 
home to the heart, the heart must have been tried, — but, 
. ceased to be so. While you are under the influ- 
ence of passion -s you only feel, but cannot describe them. 
— any more than, when in action, you could turn round, 
and tell the story to your next neighbour ! When all is 
over, — all, all, and irrevocable, — trust to memory — she is 
then but too faithful, 

" Went out, and answered some letter^ yawned now 
and then, and redde the Robbers. Fine, — but Fiesco is 
better; and Allien and Monti's Aristodemo best. They 
are more espial than the Tedeschi dramatists. 

"Answered — or, rather, acknowledged — the receipt of 
young Reynold's Poem, Sane. The lad is clever, but 
mucb of his thoughts are borrowed, — whence, the Review- 
ers may find out. I hate discouraging a young one; and 
I think, — though wild, and more oriental than he would 
be, had he seen the scenes where he has placed his Tale, 
— that he has much lalent, and certainly, fire enough. 

'Received a very singular epistle ; and the mode of its 
nice, though Lord H.'s hands, as curious as the 
letter itself. But it was gratifying and pretty. 

"Sunday, F.-h. 21. 
"Here I am, alone, instead of dumig at L'>rd H.'s, 
where 1 was asked, — but not inclined to go any when . 
iusg savs I am growing a toup garoUf — a solitary 
hobgoblin. True ; — ' I am myself alone.' The last week 
has been passed in reading — seeing plaj s — now and then. 
visiters — sometimes yawning and sometimes sighing, bus 
DO writing — save of letters. If I could always read, I 

should never feel the wan) of society. Do I regret it ? — 
uiu!— 'Man delights nut me,' and only one woman — at a 
lime. 

"There is something to me very softening in the pre- 
sence of a woman, — some strange influence, even if one 
m not in love with them, — which I cannot at all account 
f"r, having no very high opinion of the sex. But yet, — I 
feel in better humour with myself and every thing 
else, if there is a woman within ken. Even Mrs. Mule, 
mv fire-lighter, — the most ancient and withered of he 
kind, — and (except to myself) not the best tempered — 
always makes me laugh, — no difficult task when I am 
* i 1 the vein.' 

" IJeJgho ! I would I were in mine island ! — I am not 
well ; and yet L look in good health. At times, I fear, 
•I am not in my perfect mind ;' — and yet my heart and 
head have stood many a crash, and what should ail them 
DOW ? They prey upon themselves, and [ am sick — siek 
— 'Prithee, undo this button; why should a cat, a rat, a 
dog, have life, and Otou no life at all? Six-and-twentv 
years, as they call them: — why, I mijjht and should have 

31 



been a Pasha by this time. ' I 'gin to be a weary of the 
sun.' 

" Buonaparte is tint yet beaten ; but lias rebutted 
Blucher, and repiqued Swarlzenburg. This it is to have 
a head. If lie again wins, ' Vai vie is!' 

"Sunday, March 6. 

"On Tuesday last dined with Rogers, — Mad*, de 
si;,, I, Mackintosh, Sheridan, Er.-kme, and Payne Knight, 
Lady Donegal! and Miss R. there. Sheridan told a 
,,:v good story of himself and M e .de Recamier's hand- 
kerehii t; Erskine a few. stories of himself only. She is 
going to write a big book about England, she says; — I 
believe her. Asked by her how I liked Miss * * 's thing, 
called * *, and answered (very sincerely) that I thought 
u very bad for fter, and \\f>r>e than any of the others. 
Afterward thought it possible Lady Donegal!, being Irish, 
might he a Patroness of * *, and was rather sorry for 
my opini m, as I hate putting people into fusses, either 
with themselves, or their favourites: it looks as if one did 
it on purpose. The party went off very well, and the 
fish was very much to my gusto. But we got up too 
soon after the women ; and Mrs. Connne always lingers 
so long after dinner, that we wish her in — the drawing 
room. 

"To-day C. called, and, while sitting here, in came 
Men vale. During our colloquy, C. (ignorant that M. 
was the writer) abused the ' mawkishness of the Quar- 
terly Review of Grimm's Correspondence.' I (knowing 
the secret) changed the conversation as soon as I could; 
and C. went away, quite convinced of having made the 
most favourable impression on his new acquaintance. 
Menvale is luckily a very good-natured fellow, or God 
he knows what might have been engendered from such a 
malaprop. I did not look at him while this was going on, 
hut I fell like a coal,— for I like Menvale, as well as the 
article in question. * ***** * 

* Asked to Ladv Keith's to-morrow evening — I think 1 
will go; but it is the first party invitation t have accepted 
this ' season, 1 as the learned Fletcher called it, when that 
youngest brat of Lady * * 's cut my eye and cheek open 
with a misdirected pebble — 'Nevermind, my lord, the 
sear will De gone before the season f as if one's eye was 
of no importance in the mean time. 

■ Lord Erskine called, and gave me his famous pamph- 
let, with a margins) note and corrections in his handwri- 
ting. Sent it to he bound superbly, and shall treasure it. 

ft Sent my hue print of Napoleon to be framed. It is 
framed ; and the emperor becomes his robes as if he had 
been hatched in them. 

B March 7. 

tf Rose at seven — ready by half past eight — went to 
Mr. Hanson's, Berkelev-square — went to church with 
his el li I dao-diter. Mary Anne, (a good girl,) and gave 
her away to the Karl of Portsmouth. Saw her fairly a 
countess — congratulated the family and grocm (bride) — 
drank a bumper of wine (wholesome shems) to their 
felicity, and all that, — and came home. Asked to stay 
to dinner, but could not. At three sat to Phillips for 
fai • . Called on Lady M. — I like her so well, that I 
always stay too long, (Mem. — to mend of that.) 

'Passed the evening with Hobhouse, who has begun a 
Poem, which promises highly; — wish he would go on 
with it. Heard some curious extracts from a life of 
Morosini, the blundering Venetian, who blew up the 
Acropolis at Alliens with a bomb, and be d — d to him! 
Waxed sleepy,— just come home, — must go to bed, and 
am engaged to meet Sheridan lo-rnorrow at Rogers's. 

"Queer ceremony that same of marriage — saw many 
abroad, Greek and Catholic — one, at Aome, many years 
ago. There be some strange phrases in the prologue, 
(the exhortation,) which made me t*irn away, not to laugh 
in the faco of the surpliceman. Made one blunder, wher 



242 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1811. 



I joined the hands of the happy — rammed their left 
hands, by mistake, into one another. Corrected il — 
bustled back to the altar-rail, and said 'Amen.' Ports- 
mouth responded as if he had got the whole by heart; 
and, if any thing, was rather before the priest. It is now 
midnight, and * * * 

"March 10, Trior's Day. 
"On Tuesday dined with Rogers — Mackintosh, Sheri- 

dan, Sharpe — much talk, and good — all, exe.-pi i.i;> "'•■■n 
little prattlement. Much of old times — Home Tooke, — 

the Trials, — evidence of Sheridan,— and anecdotes of 
those times, when /, alas! was an infant* If 1 had been 
a man, I would have made an English Lord Edward 
Fitzgerald. 

'•Set down Sheridan at Brookes^ — where, by-ttie-by, 
he could doI have well s<-t down himself] as he ami I were 
the only drinkers. Sherry means in stand for Westmin- 
ster, as Cochrane (the stock-jobbing hoa\er) must vacate. 
Brougham is a candidate. I fear for poor dear Sherry. 
Both have talents of thi highest order, but the yc 
has^da charaeter. We shall Bee, it" lie livi to Shi 
age, how he will pass over ih'- red-hot ploughshares of* 
public life. I do ifi know why, but I hate to see the old 
ones lose ; particularly Sheridan, notwithstanding all his 
mtclianceU. 

"Received many, and the kindest, thanks from Lady 
Portsmouth, plre and 7«<rf,for inv uuUch-mairing. I do n't 
regret it, as she looks the countess well, and is a vi 
girl. It is odd how well she carries her new honours. 
She looks a different woman, and high-bred, too. I had 
no idea that I could make so good a peeress. 

"Went to the play with Ilobhouse. Mrs. Jordan 
superlative in Hoyden, and Jones well enough in Kop- 
pington. What playt! what wit!— helas! Congreve 
and Vanbrugfa are vour only comedy- Our society is too 
insipid now for the like copy. Would not go to Lady 
KeiiiTs. Hobhouse thought it odd. I wonder ta should 
hkr parties. If one is in love, and wants iu break a com- 
mandment and covet any thing that is there, they do very 
well. But to go out among the mere herd, without a 
motive, pleasure, or pursuit — '.-.death! 'I 'II none of it.' 
He told me an odd report : that / am the actual < Sonrad, 
the rentable Corsair, and thai part of my travels a 
posed to have passed in privacy. Urn! people sometimes 
hit near the truth ; but never the whole truth. H. do n't 
know what I was ab nit the year after he left the Levant ; 
nor dor, ;,,| V ,,[],. — n ,, r — Iir , r — no r — however, it is a lie ; 
but, 'I doubt the equivocation of the liend that lies' like 
truth !' 

" 1 shall have letters of imporlanee to-morrow. Whi^h, 
**,**, or * *? heigho! — * * is in my heart. + * in my 
head, * + in my eve, and the angle one. Heaven knows 
where. All write, and will he answere I. ' Since 1 have 
crept in favour with myself I must maintain it ;' hut 1 
never 'mistook my person, 1 tho i ■'" I think others have. 

8 * * called to-day in great despair about his rnistcess, 
who has taken a freak of * * *. lie began a letter to 
her, but was obliged to atop short — ! finished it for him, 
and he copied and sent it. [f fa holds out and keeps to 
my instructions of affected mdiflerence, she will lowei bet 
colours. It' she do n't, he will, at least, gel rid of her, 
and she dotfl seem much worth keeping. But the poor 
lad is in love — if that is the case, she will win. When 
they once discover their power, Jinita I la mu&ica. 

w Sleepy, and must go to bod. 

a Tuesday, March 16. 
"Dined yesterday with R., Mackintosh, and Sharp' 
Sheridan could not come. Sharpo told several very 
amusing anecdotes bf Henderson, the actor. Stayed till 
late, and came home, — having drank so much tru, iimt I 
did not get to sleep till six this morning, R. says I am 
to be in tfiis Quarterly — cut up, I presume, as the\ 'hate 



us youth.' JV'importc. As Sharpe was passing by the 
doors of some Debating Society (the Westminster Fo- 
rum) in Ins way to dinner, he saw rubricked on the 
ScoWs name and mine — ' Which the bus' poet ' 
the question of the evening ; and I suppose all the Tem- 
plars and vovitl-bes took our rhymes m vain, in the course 
of the controversy. Which had the greater show bf 
hands, I neither know nor care ; but I feel the coupling i f 
the names as a compliment, — though I think Scott de~ 
si rves better company. 

+ * * * * 

« W. W. called— Lord Erskine, Lord Holland, fee, &c. 
Wrote to* * the Corsair report. She says she dn n't 
wonder, since ' I Sonrad is so Kfe.' It is odd that one, who 
knows me bo thoroughly, should tell me this to my face. 
However, if sfc do n't know, nobody can. 

"Mackintosh is, it seem-, the writer of the defensive 
letter in the Morning Chronicle. If so, it is very kind, 
and more than I did for myself. 

***** 

"Told Murray to secure for me Bandello's Italian 
Novels 'i the sale to-morrow. To me they will be nulu, 
Kedde a satire on myself] called c Ann-Byron, 1 and told 

Murrav to publish it if he liked. The ODJecl of tfafej 
author is to prove me an Atheist and a systematic con- 
spirator against law and government. Some of the versa 
is good ; the prose I do n't quite understand. He asserts 
that my ' deleterious works* have had an ' eflcct upon eivfl 

society, which requires, &c. &c. &c* and his own poetry. 

It is a lengthy poem, and a long preface, « ith an harmo- 
nious alienage. Like the fly in die fable, I seem to have 
i.'ot upon a wheel which makes much dusl : bul 
the said lly, I do not lake it all lor my own ii ih 

•'A letter from lifllu, which I answered. I .-hall be in 
love with Iier again, if I do n't lake care. 

***** 

8 1 shall begin a more regular system of reading soon 

" Thursday, March 17. 
"I have been sparring with Jackson for exercise this 
morning; and mean to continue and renew my acquaint- 
ance with the muffles. My chest, and arms, and wind 

are in vcrv ;• I ph 'ht, and 1 am not m Mesh. 1 used to 

be a bard hitter, and my arms are very long for my height 
(o feet 8 J inches.) At any rate, exercise is good, and 
this the severest of all ; fent ing and the broadsword never 
fatigued me half so much. 

"Redde the 'Quarrels of Authors' (another sort of 
.vparring) — a new work, by that most entertaining and 
researching writer, I r aeli. They seem to he an irritable 
-et, ami I wish myself well out of it. '1 '11 nol march 
through Coventry with them, that 's flat.' What ihe 
devil had I to do with scribbling? Ii is too late to inquire, 
nnd all regret is useless. But, an* it were to do again, — 
I should write again, I suppose. Such is human nature, 
it l.at my share of it; — thought shall think better of 
myselfjif] have sense to --'op now. if I have b sgfa, 
and that wife has a son — by anybody' — [will bring up 

ii heir in the most anti-poetical way — make him a 

lawyer! or a pirate, or — anything. Hut if lie writes tooj 
I shall he sure he is none of mine, and cut him on" with a 
hank token. Must write a letter — three o'clock. 

"Sunday, March 20. 
R I intended to go to Lady Hardwickeis, but won't, I 

il v iv h mi the day with a bias towards going to partus ; 
but, as the evening advances my stimulus fails, and 1 
hardly ever go out — and, when I do, always regret it. 
This might have been a pleasant one ; — at hast the 
is a very superior woman. Ladv Lansdowne's to- 
morrow — Lady Heathcote's Wednesday. Urn! — I must 
spur myself into going to some of them, or it will look like 
rudeness, and it is better to do as other people do— con 
found theiu! 



EXTRACTS KllOM A JOURNAL, 1814. 



243 



"Redde Maelhavel, parts of Chardin, and Sismondi, 
and Band el lo, — by starls. Redde the Edinburgh, 44, 
just come out. In the beginning of the article on ' Edge- 
worth's Patronage,' I have gotten a high compliment, I 
perceive. Whether this is creditable lo me, I know not ; 
but it does honour to the editor, because lie once abused 
me. Many a man will retract praise; none but a high* 
I mind will revoke its censure, or eon praise the 
man it has once attacked. I have often, since mv return 
tu England, heard Jeffrey most highly commended bv 
those who know him for things independent of his talents. 
I admire him for Otis — not because he has praised me (I 
have been so praised elsewhere and abused, alternately, 
that mere habit has rendered me as indifferent to bodi as 
* man at twenty-six can be to any tiling,] but because he 
is, perhaps, the only man who, under the relations in which 
he and I stand, or stood, with regard to each other, would 
have had the liberality to act thus ; none but a great soul 
dared hazard it. The height on which he stands lias not 
made him giddy ; — a little scribbler would have, gone on 
cavilling to the end of the chapter. As to the justice of 
his panegyric, that is matter of taste. There are plenty 
lo question it, and glad, too, of the opportunity. 

"Lord Erskine called to-day. He means to carry 
us reflections on the war — or rather wars — to the 
at day. 1 trust Uiat he will, Must send to Mr. 
Murray to get the binding of my copy of his pamphlet 
finished, as Lord E. has promised me to correct it, and 
add some marginal notes to it. Any thing in his hand- 
writing will be a treasure, which will gather compound 
interest from years. Erskine has high expectations of 
Mackintosh's promised History. Undoubtedly it must be 
a classic, when finished. 

"Sparred wiih Jackson again yesterday morning, and 
shall to-morrow. I feel all the better for it, in spirits, 
though my arms and shoulders are very stiff from it. 
Mem. — to attend die pugilistic dinner. Marquis Huntley 
is in the chair. 

****** 

"Lord Erskine thinks that ministers must be in peril of 
going out. So much the better for him. To me il is the 
Bome who are in or out; — we want something more than 
a change of ministers, and some day we will have it. 

B I remember, in riding from Chrisso to Castri (Dcl- 
phos) along the sides of Parnassus, I saw six eagles in 
die air. El is uncommon to Bee so many together; and 
it was the number — not the species, which is common 
enough — thai excited my attention. 

H rhe lasl bird I ever fired at was an eaglet, on the 
of the Gulf of Lepanto, near Vostitza. It was 
only wounded, and 1 tried to save it, the eye was so 
but it pined, and died in a few days; and I never 
dij since, and never will, attempt the death of anothe: 
bud. I wonder what put these two things into my head 
jus) now? I have been reading Sismondi, and there is 
nothing there- that could induce the recollection. 

"I am mightily taken with Braccio di Montone, Gio- 
1 raleazzo, and Eccellino. But the iast is not 
Bracciaferro, (of the same name,) Count of Ravenna, 
whose history I want to trace. There is a fine engraving 
in Lavater, from a picture by Fuseli, of Ouit Ezzelin, 
over tin- body of Meduna, punished by him for a hitch in 
her constancy during his absence in the Crusades. He 
was right — but I want to know the story. 



"Tuesday, March 22. 
■ Last night, party at Lansdowne-house. To-ni^ht, 
party at Lady Charlotte Greville's — deplorable waste of 
time, and something of temper. Nothing imparted — 
nothing acquired — talking without ideas — if any thing 
like thought in my mind, it was not on the subjects on 
which we were gabbling. Heigho! — and in this way 
Uaif London pass what u called life. To-morrow there 



is Lady Heathcote's — shall I go? yes — to punish myself 
for not having a pursuit. 

" Let me see — what did I see ? The only person who 
much struck me was Lady S * * d's eldest daughter, 
Lady C. L. They say she is not pretty. I do n't knov' 
— every thing is pretty that pleases; but there is an ai. 
of soul about her — and her colour changes — and there is 
that shyness of the antelope (which I delight in) in hei 
manner so much, that I observed her more than I did any 
other woman in the rooms, and only looked at any tiling 
else when f thoughl she might perceive and feel embar 
rassed by my scrutiny. After all, there may be some 
tning of association in this. She is a friend of Augus- 
ta's, and whatever she loves, I can't help liking. 

" Her mother, the marchioness, talked to me a little ; 
and I was twenty tunes on the point of asking her to 
introduce me to sajillr, but 1 stopped short. This comes 
of that affray with the Carlisies. 

u Earl Grey told me, laughingly, of a paragraph in tho 
last MoniteUTi which has stated, among other symptoms 
of rebellion, some particulars of the sensation occasioned 
in all our government gazettes bv the 'tear' lines, — only 
amplifying, in its restatement, an epigram (bv-lhe-by, no 
epigram except in the Greek acceptation of the word) 
into a roman. I wonder the Couriers; &c. &c. have not 
translated tiiat part of the Monileur, with additional 
comments. 

"The Princess of Wales has requested Fuseli to 
paint from 'the Corsair ;' leaving to him the choice of any 
passage for the subject: so Mr. Locke tells me. Tired, 
jaded, selfish, and supine — must go to bed. 

" Roman, at least Romance, means a song sometimes, 
as in the Spanish. I suppose this is the Moniteur's 
meaning, unless he has confused it with ' the Corsair.' 

u Albany, March 28. 

"This night got into my new apartments, rented of 
Lord Althorpe, on a lease of seven years. Spacious, and 
room for my books and sabres. In the house, too, another 
advantage. The last few days, or whole week, have 
been very abstemious, regular in exercise, and yet very 
unwell. 

"Yesterday, dined uk-ft-tite at the Cocoa with Scrope 
Davies — sate from six till midnight — drank between us 
one bottle of champai.m and si\ of claret, neither of 
which wines ever affect me. Offered to take Scrope 
home in my carriage ; but he was tipsy and pious, and I 
wasobliged to leave him on his knees, praying to I know 
not what purpose or pagod. No headache, nor sickness 
'Liit night nor to-day. Got up, if any thing, earlier than 
usual — sparred with Jackson oil swlurem, and have been 
much better in health than for many days. I have heard 
nothing more from Scrope. Yesterday paid him four 
ihonsan I eight hundred pounds — a debt of some stand- 
ing, and which I wished to have paid before. My mind 
is much relieved by the removal of that debit. 

K Augusta wants me to make it up with Carlisle. I 
have refused every body else, but I can't deny her any 
thing ; so J must e'en do it, though 1 had as lief 'drink up 
Lisel — eat a crocodile. 1 Let me see — Ward, the Hol- 
lands, the Lambs, Rogers, £cc. &.c. — every body more or 
less, have been trying for the last two years to accommo- 
date this couplet quarrel to no purpose. I shall laugh if 
Augusta succeeds. 

"Redde a little of many things — shall get in all my 
books to-morrow. Luckily, this room will hold them — 
with 'ample room and verge, &c. the characters of hell to 
trace.' I must set about some employment soon ; my 
heart begins to eat itself again. 

"April 8. 

" Out of town six days. On my return, find my poor 

little pagod, Napoleon, pushed off his pedestal; tho 

thieves are in Pans. It is his own fault. Like Milo- ha 

would rend tiiu oak ; but il c'.oscd again, wedg^-d lire 



244 



EXTRACTS FROM A J OU R N A L, 1816. 



h^uds, arid now ihe beasts — lion, hear, down to the dirti- 
est jackal] — may all Lear him. That Muscovite winter 
ivedg€fi his arms; ever since, he has foughl with hid t '• « it 
and teeth. The last may still leave their marks ; and'I 

guess now' (as the Yaukies say) that he will 

them a pass. He is in their rear — between them and 

their homes. Query — will they ever reach them / 

"Saturday, April 9, 1814. 

" T mark this day ' 

"Napoleon Buonaparte lias abdicated th- throne of the 
world. 'Kxcelk-nt well.' Methinka Sytia did Letter; 
for be revenged, and resigned in the height of his sway, 
n I with the slaughter of ins (bes — the finest instance of 
glorious contempt of the rascals upon record. Diocletian 
riil well loo— Amurath not amiss, had he become aught 
except a dervise — Charles the Fifth but so, so — but Na- 
poleon, worst of all. What! wait till they were in his 
capital, and then talk of Ins readiness to give up what is 
already gone ! ! 'What whining monk art thou — what 
.ioly cheat/' *Sdeath! Dionysius at Corinth was yeta 
king to this. The 'Isle of Elba' to retire to! Well— if 
it had been Caprea, I should have marvelled less. 'I see 
men's minds are but a parrel of their fortunes.' I am 
utterly bewildered and confounded. 

" I do n't know — but I think /, even J. (an insect com- 
pared with tins creature,) have set my life on casts not a 
millionth part of this man's. But, after all, a crown may 
be not worth dying for. Yet, to outlive IjmIi (or this ! ! ! 
Oh that Juvenal or Johnson could rise from the dead \ 
'Expende — quot libras in duce stiinmo invenies /' I 
know they were light in the balance of mortality; but I 
thought their living dust weighed more carats. Alas! this 
imperial diamond hath a Haw in it, and is now hardly fit to 
stick ui a glaziers pencil ; die pen of the historian won't 
rale it worth a dtirat. 

"Psha! 'something too much of this.' But I won't give 
him up even now ; though all his admirers have, * like the 
Thanes, falTn from him.' 



u April 10. 
U I do not know that I am happiest when alone ; but 
this 1 am sure of, that I never am long in the society . \. n 
■ >f her 1 love, (God knows too well, and die Devil probably 
inn.) without a yearning fur the company of mv lamp 
and my utterly confused and tumbled-over library. Even 

in the iUv, I -< ml away mv carnage oftener than I use or 

abuse it, Par esempiof—l bave not Btirred out of these 

for these four days past: but I have sparred for 

exercise (windows open) with Jackson an hour daily, to 

attenuate and keep up the ethereal part of me. The 
more violent the fatigue, the botti r mj spirits for die rest 
of the day ; and then, my evenings have that calm m 

nessof languor, which I most delight in. To-da\ I have 
boxed one hour — written anode to Napoleon Buonaparte 
—Copied It — eaten six biscuits — drunk four but 

soda-water — redds away the rest of my time — besides 

giving | r * * a world of advice about this 

his, who is plaguing him into a phthisic and inb 

teihoiisn.-ss. I am a pretty fellow truly to lecture about 
' the sect. 1 No matter, my counsels are all thrown away 

1 April 19, 1814. 
"There is ice at both poles, north and south — al 
extremes are the same — misery belongs to the highest 
and the lowest only, — to the emperor and the beggar, 
when unsixpenced and unthroned. There is, to be sure, 
a damned insipid medium — an equinoctial line — no one 
knows where, except upon maps and measurement. 

1 Ami nil our ytxterdays have lighted fool* 
'llu. n ay tu dusty death.' 

I will keep no further journal of that same hesternal 
torchlight ; and, to prevent me from returning like a 
i\op, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining 
[eaves of this volume, and write, in ipecacuanha, — 'that 
the Hourbons are restored!!!' 'Hang up philosophy.* 
To bo sure, I have long despised myself and man, but I 
never spat in the face of my soecies before — ' O fool ! I 
shall go mad.'" 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 



IN SWITZERLAND. 



"September IS, ]S16. 
11 Yesterday, September I7tli, I set OUJ with Mr. Hob- 
iuse on an excursion of some days to the mountains. 

"September 17. 
"Rose at five ; left Diodati about seven, in on-' of the 
country carriage-., (a char-a-banc,) our servants on horse- 
back. Weather very tine ; the lake calm and clear : 
Mont Blanc and the Aiguille of Argentines both verv 
distinct; the borders of the lake beautiful. Reached 

Lausanne before sunset ; stopped and slept at , 

Went to bed at nine ; slept till tive o'clock, 

"September 18. 
" Called by my courier ; got up. Hobhouse w alked on 
Before. A mile from Lausanne, the road oversowed bv 



the lake ; got on horseback, and rode till within a mile of 
Vevay. The coll young, hut went very well. Overtook 
Hobhouse, and resumed the carriage, which is an open 
one. Stopped at Vevay two hours, (the second time I 
had visited it;) walked to the churcn; view from the 
churchyard superb: wnhin it General Ludlon (the regi- 
cideV) monument — black marble — long inscription — 
Latin, but simple ; he was an exile two-and-thii 
— one of king Charles's judges. Near him Broughtnn 
(who read Kmg Charles's sentence to < Sharles Stuart) is 
buried, with a queer and rather canting but still a republi- 
can inscription. Ludlow r s house shown; it retains siill 
its inscription—' Omne solum forti palria.' Walked 
down to the lake side ; servants, carriage, saddle- horses 
— all set off and left us ptantt's ft, by some mistake, and 
ww walked on after them towards Clarens ; Hobhouse 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 181fi. 



245 



ran on before, and overlook them at last. Arrived the 
■second tune (first lime was by water) ai Clarens. Wenl 
to ChiUon through scenery worthy o\' I know not whom ; 
wenl over the Castle of ChiUon again. On our return 

met an English party in a carriage ; a la ly in it fast 
av ,-,|, — faai , ( , , «j in the mosl anli-n ircotic spot in the 
world— excellent ! I remember ai Chamouni, in the pi rj 
ey a of M ml Blanc, hearing another woman. English 

claim to In r party. ' Did you ever sec any thing 
more rural? — as it' it was tfighgate, or Hampstead, or 

id, or Hayes — * Rural P.quoiha? — Rocks, pines, 

i glaciers, clouds, and summits of eternal snow far 

, m — .in ■ ' rural!' 
".U'i.t a slight and short dinner we visited the Chateau 
de Clarens;* an English woman has rented it recently 

not let when 1 saw ii first ;) the roses are gone 
with their summer \ die family out, but the servants de- 
sired OS to walk over the interior of ihe mansion. Saw 
on the table of the saloon Blairs Sermons, and s< 
else ( I forget who's) sermons, and a set of noisy children. 
Saw all worth seeing, and then descended to the ' Bosquel 
de Julie,' Sac. &c. ; our guide full of Rousseau, whom lie 
i ii ally confounding with St. Preux, and mixing the 
man and tlie book. Went again as far as ChiUon to 
revisil the fitde torrent from (he hill behind it. Sunset 
in Have to get up at five to-morrow 

to cross the mountains on horseback ; carriage to be sent 
round; lodged at my old cottage — hospitable and com- 
fortable; tired with a longish ride on the colt, and the 
subsequent jolting of the char-a-banc, and my scramble 
in the hot sun. 

■Mem. The corporal who showed the wonders of 
: was as drunk as Blucher ; he was deaf also, and 
thinking every one else so, roared out the legends of the 
casde so fearfully. — However, we saw things from the 
gallows to the dungeons,f (the potence and the cuch/jts,) and 
returned to Clarens with more freedom than belonged to 
tfie fifteenth century. 

"September 19. 

"Rose at five. Crossed the mountains to Montbovon 

on horseback, and on mules, and, by dint of scrambling, on 

foot also ; the whole route beautifiU as a dream, and now 

to me almost as indistinct. I am so tired ; — for though 

I have no! the strength I possessed but a few 

y - ears ago. At Montbovon we breakfasted ; afterward, 

on a steep ascent, dismounted; tumbled down; cut a 

anger open ; the baggage also got loose and fell down a 

ravine, till stopped by a targe tree; recovered baggage ; 

horse tired and drooping; mounted mule. At the ap- 

i of the summit of Dent JumentJ dismounted again 

with Hobhouse and all the party. Arrived at a lake m 

the verv bosom of the mountains; left our quadrupeds 

with a shepherd, and ascended farther; came to some 

mow in patches, upon which my forehead's perspiration 

fell like rain, making the same dints as in a sieve ; the chill 

of 'in wind and die snow turned me giddv, but I srram- 

bled on and upwards. Hobhouse went to the highest 

; I did not, but paused within a few yards (at an 

opening of the clid.) In coming down, the guide tumbled 

three times; I fell a hughihg, and tumbled too — the 

i ickily soft, though steep arnl slippery: Hobhouse 

aUn fell, but nobody hurt. The whole of the mountain 

superb. A shepherd on a very steep and high cliff play- 

mhisng»;§ very different from Arcadia^ where I 

law the pastors with along musket instead of a crook, 

and pistols in their girdles. Our Swiss shepherd's pipe 

veet, and his tune agreeable. I saw a cow i 
am told tl'at they often break their necks on and over the 
crags. Descended toM nlbovon; pretty scraggy village, 
with a wild river and a wooden bridge. Eiobhouse wen 



* S« Child* Harold, Cmiu III, Stanu », ftc. 33d Note to Child. 
Harold, Canto 111. t Pritoner of < uUloo, Note 3d, &c. 

i Uiiit Ut Jiinio . % AUiifrtJ, Acl 1. Scene 'it. 



to fish— caught one. Our carriage not come ; our horse* 
mules, &c. knocked up ; ourselves fatigued. 

8 The view from the l.ighest points of to-day's journey 
c imprised on one bide the greatest part of Lake Leman ; 
on uie other, the valleys and mountain of the canton oi 
Fribourg] an m inun< use plain, w ith the lakes of Neu£ 
chatel ami Moral, and all which the borders of the Lake 
of Geneva inherit , we had both sides of the Jura before 
us in one point of view, ivuji Alps in plenty. In passing a 
ravine, the guide recommeni ■ a quickening 

of pace, as the bt'Jiies fall with grval rapidity and occa- 
sional damage ; the advice is excellent, but, like most good 
advice, impracticable, the roa I bi ing so rough thai aei her 
mules, nor mankind, nor horses, can make any violent 
progress. Passed without frai tures or menace thereof. 

'• The music of the cow's bells* (tor their wealth, like the 
patriarch's, is cattle) iu the pastures, which reach to a 
height fai above am mounrains in Britain, and the shep- 
herds shouting to us from crag to crag, and playing on 
"Jieir reeds where the steeps app tared almost inaccessible. 
a ith the surrounding scenery, realized all that 1 have ever 
in ard or imagined of a pastoral existence: — much more so 
than Greece or Asia Minor ; (or there we are a little too 
mico^f the sabre and musket order, and if there is a crook 
in one I. an I, vi»u are >ure to see a gun in the other: — but 
this was pure and unmixed — solitary, savage, and patri- 
archal. As we went, they played the 'Rans des Vaches 1 
and other airs, by way of farewell. I have lately repeopled 
my mind with nature. 

"September 20. 

"Up at six; off at eight. The whole of this day's 
journey at an average of between from 2700 to 3000 feet 
above the level of die sea. This valley, the longest, nar- 
rowest, and considered the finest of the Alps, little traversed 
by travellers. Saw the bridge of La Roche. The bed of 
the river very low and deep, between immense rocks, and 
rapid as anger ; — a man and mule said to have tumbled 
over without damage. The people looked free, and happy, 
and rich (which last implies neither of the former:) the 
cows superb ; a bull nearly leaped into tlie char-a-banc — ■ 
'agreeable companion iu a postchaise ;' goats and sheep 
very thriving. A mountain with enormous glaciers to the 
right — the Khtzg;erberg; farther on, the Hockthorn — nice 
names — so soft! — Stockltorn, I believe, very lofty and 
scraggy, patched with snow only; no glaciers on it, but 
some good epaulettes of clouds. 

"Passed the boundaries, out of Vaud and into Berne 
canton; French exchanged for bad German; the district 
famous for cheese, liberty, property, and no taxes. Hob- 
house went to fish — caught none. Strolled to tlie river ; 
saw boy and kul; kid followed him like a dog; kid could 
not gel ovi r a few e, ami bleated piteouslv; tried mvself, 
to help kid, but nearly overset both sell* and kid into the 
river. Arrived here about six m the evening. Nine 
o'clock — going to bed ; not tired to-day, but hope to sleep, 
nevertheless. * 

u September 21. 
"Off* early. The valley of Simmenthal as before. En- 
trance to the plain of Thoun very narrow ; high rocks, 
wooded to the top ; river ; new mountains, with tine glaciers. 
Lake of Thoun ; extensive plain with a girdle of Alps. 
Walked down to the Chateau de Schadao; view along 
the lake; crossed the river in a boat rowed by women, 
Thoun a very pretty town. The whole day's journey 
Alpine ami proud. 

•September 22. 
"Left Thoun in a boat, which carried us the length ol 
the lake in three hours. The lake small; bill the banks 
fine. Rocks down to the water's edge. Landed at New- 
bause; passed Interlachen; entered upon a range ot 
scenes beyond all description, or previous conception. 



• M aufred Act I. Scene *d 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOVRNAL, 1816. 



2-16 

iwla'rek;insmp.Ton-two brothers-one rr, 
Ker^meptoce for it. After a variety., 
SmTwi e as rodt. Arrived „< Ihe 6 

torrents;™ of. ^ '""'' ''""'^ 7 s , uu. o 

rfvigible descent. Lodged a. the curate's. 

,. v; , ;ll , ; heard an avalanche fall, ike thunder; 

E^rfecdon.andbeaudful.Iw. 

warned to carr^ my c ! I was going to give ithun, 

llectedthatit was > sword-suck, and I though 

g mighl I- attracted towards him, keptu 

,„ ., ,,..,1 ,1,-al in.- bored ",th ,., as « was too 

■ p ^U.ehorsewasstupKl.andBtooQ^h 
, . p ,,. Sot in, not very wet, the cloak being 

2h Hobl se wet through; Hobhouse took refug, 

J ,,,.,... sen. man, umbrella, and cloak (from di, 
curate^whenlarrivedjafterhirn. Swisscuj* 

, od indeed-much better than mosl Engl. . vicar 

i, Is immediately opposite the torrent 

The torrent is in shap, goverth, ,. kjbfa .die tm 

of awl,,,.- horse streaming in the wmd, such a, itn I. 

be C aived would be lhatofihe'pale bora 

Dead > I* y ' ■ 1 '—"'*™ s 

h e ,»ht (nine hundred feet) gives ,. a wave or curve, 
3oing her^ or condensa'uon. here wonderful and md 

• .. . . ° ■ .i • i .. ,1... ..h..'.- I i:i» 1 lis L 



wMe «h7rf.i •;'■- ' r "" k ' 

. J don. by . 

winter. 

■ September 34 

■ Set off at seven; up a- Gve. I 
„,„„. r ,i,e mountain Wctte.horn on ihe right: a 

feeideck, ..,- .-..* « j ■;,•;;: 

and fin Switzerland, fi ink tta 

wo bu d 
; edabtUe;onl) four 
, R, then '" Ihe town ol Bnentz; rh.mtcd. in 

EM? 

£3 , j right's rest; I shall go down and* 

dancing. 

« September 25. 
• The whole town of Brientz were appar, 

, ,1,-r iii the i„- below; prett) muse andeiceUein 

waWig: n. but peasants; the dancing * belter 



Bcribabl 



^condensation .here wonderful and * ^' ™^ a, , uld, 

I drink, upon die whole, that today has been r'^X ma» * bi. FV' ' s ''' '"'' 



better than any of U„s present excursion 

« Septemb, i 

iBefore ascending the mountain, went to di 

r'venm. rung) again ; the sun upon it, for. g. 

of die 1 r part of aU colours, but pruKyaUj 

purple and gold; the g<*3 

Lw anv tin.,, ukc d.« ; i. . ""; JvaUe" 

oended Wenge Main ; at noon re ached av alley 

on the summit ;lefl -, took id! ,,, 

went to die summit, seven d and feet (English feet 

» •- W,i -.I,.-,..,, Ul tnved • Ubo« 

the valley we left in the morning. On one side, ou, tnev, 

ctpriS ,: gfrau,withallhe, *«-!*■« * 

Dentd'Argent,sh g tike truth ; Aen die L.tdeGian^ 

(1|1 Kl..i,.:ii.gWr:)a,»ld.eGr l -at(i,a...,(.» , Gro 
Eigher.) andlalt, not least, the Wetterhorn. Ttehe^ta 
of Uie Jungfrau is 13,000 fee. above the sea, 11£H abov 

S* valley! she is the highest of ttus ge. B*ardthe 

avalanches faffing every five minutes nearly. From 
whence we stood, on the Wengen Alp4 we had all dies. 

in view on ones.de; on .he other, the clouds rose ft 

,1 ,osi» valley, curling up perpendicular , 

hk , ,|!.! foam of the ocean nf hell, durn.^ a spring ud. 

i, was white and sulphury, and «surabl} deep m 

appearance. The side we asce. lwas(ol c ne) no 

ofTJredp.tou,a ;1 ■ "' 

we kiked .1 -.mi upon .he other side upon a bolting sea 
of cloud, dasfitog against die crags or. which we _etood, 

lequite perpendicular.) Stayed 

, ; „ 1 , r „l'a„h„ii,:i lescend;q 

cloud on that side of the tain In^ W d,< i masses 

of snow, I made a snowball and pelted Hobhouse , 

«Go, down 'i horses again; eal something; re- 

d; heard .he aval hes still ; came tea morass 

Hobhouse dismounted logo, over well;! ired to pass 
mv horse over; .he horse sunk op to the chin, and of 
c?„™ he and I were to *e. mud together; tenured, bu, 

"""oft; laughed, and rode on. Arriv, ,l a. the I „.,, del- 

wald dned, mounted ag , nd fde to ,«ta In - 

:, l; , ( „: r _|,Ue' a fr»,„ ,„„,„■ ,.§ Starlight, l»auufid, 

but a devil of a path! Never mindj go. safe .n, a little 
li..l„„in«, but .he whole of the daj as fine in poin. of 
ff« the day on which Parad>se was made. Passed 



I. One man with his | >" his mouth, but 

IS well as. *«.««■ .her .la,,.,., in pair. 

. . and verj | I. 1 wen. -bed, but he 

,,!,, rTnued below late and early. Bnenft but a 

..„:,,. R« ly- Embarked on thelake of Bnent«; 

™^edbythewome long boa. ; presently we pu. .to 

I another woman jumped m. It seem, it ■ dte 
cWmhere tor the boats to be mam **;«*» 

I,,.",,,,. ,„,,, andd ■n.nour bark, all .hew en 

took an oar, and bul one man. 

"Go. to lnlerlacl.cn in three hoors ; pretty lake ; not 
„ bl „. as that of Thoun. Dined al Interlachen. G,rl 

LTrne. >Ao« t and made „ sp, *ch ,,,. .erne,,, 

o?v, hi know nothing; I do not know wheberthe 

Led pretty, bu. as the i u,„ was, I hope so. 

t -embarked on the lake ol Thoun; fe <*2*«* 
, lH . „. iv; s.:,,t our horses round; found people on the 

„„,, bl gup. rockwidigunpowder^eyWewtf 

n ne,r our boa'only telling us a „„„„„■ M.«= , -.-.ner. 

ttmitebutth. ,ht have broken our r,,»ldlcs Got 

,,,. ,,,,„, mtlR .e,.,. ,,,,;.!»■ -a.h.r has been tolerable 

L ™ h0 le day . But as .be wdd part of our tour is 

,,„.... „.l..n te ; „,allu,e,es,rahle,- 

';;;, I|[V1 . been most lucky to warmih and deem 
atmosphere. 



•September 26. 
• Betoe out of the mountains, my journal must be as 

„,, u my ioumey. From Tl to Berne,good road, 

KedZrtlies, industry, property,^ all sortaj f token. 

F' Berne to Fnbourg;d - 

' ,< athotics; passed I of I le; Sw« 

bea the French in o f die lab w« »g«ns' '"« 

p reDC h republic Bough, a dog. The „.„:,, ,,a,. of 
thi, tour has b, , D on boi leback, on too,, and on mule. 

« September 88. 
. Saw ,],„ ,„,• planted in honour of the b. 
Mora. ; three hundred a,„l forty yeart old ; a got 
decayed Led Fril g, but Brsl saw die cathedral; 

Kwer Overtook u,eba» e a,eof,he,ni,,s,.t .a 
•l>app,, who are removmj to Nor.nandv, aften.ard a 
coach with a quandty of nuns in ... Proceeded along 
Z Lksof th lake'of Neufchatel; very pleas.ng and 



•MitifrvMl Aein.SeeneW 
t Ibid, Acl 11. Secue 2*1. 



I Manfred , AclI.Scfne2. 
JlUd, Acl II. Scoue 3d. 



;S^,^,^" , s^ S o„ l ^ r s^„56. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



247 



soft, but not so mountainous — at least, the Jura, not ap- 
pearing so, after the Bernese Alps. Reached YVerduii 
in the dusk; a long line of large trees on the border of 
the lake; fine and sombre; the Auberge nearly full — a 
German Princess and suite ; got rooms. 

"September 29. 
"Passed through a fine and flourishing country, but not 
mountainous. In the evening reached Auboune, (the 



entrance and bridge something like that of Durham,) 
which commands by far the fairest view of the Lake of 
Geneva ; twilight; the moon on the lake; a grove uu the 
height, and of very noble trees. Here Tavernier (the 
eastern traveller) bought (or built) the chateau, because 
the site resembled and equalled that of Erivan, a frontier 
city of Persia ; here he finished his voyages, and I this 
little excursion, — for I am within a few hours of Diodati 
and have little more to see, and no more to say." 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 



IN ITALY. 



B Ravenna, January 4, 1821. 

Bt A sudden thought strikes me.' Let me begin a 
Journal once more. The last I kept was in Switzerland, 
in record of a tour made in the Bernese Alps, which 1 
made to send to my sister in 1S16, and I suppose that she 
has it still, for she wrote to me that she was pleased with 
it. Another, and longer, I kept in 1813-1814, which I 
gave to Thomas Moore in the same year. 

"This morning I gat me up late, as usual — weather 
bad — bad as England — worse. The snow of last week 
mehing to the sirocco of to-day, so that there were two 
d — d things at once. Could not even get to ride on 
horseback in the forest Stayed at home all the morning 
— looked at the fire — wondered when the post would 
come. Post came at the Ave Maria, instead of half-past 
one o'clock, as it ought. Gahgnani's Messengers, six in 
number — a letter from Faenza, but none from England. 
Very sulky in consequence, (for there ought to have been 
letters,) and ate in consequence a copious dinner; for 
when I am vexed, it makes me swallow quicker — but 
drank very little. 

"I was out of spirits — read the papers — thought what 
fame was, on reading, in a case of murder, that 'Mr. 
Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge, sold some bacon, flour, 
cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to some gipsy 
woman accused. He had on his counter (I quote faith- 
fully) a booh) the Life of Pamela, which he was tearing 
for waste paper, &c. &c. In the cheese was found, &c. 
and a leaf of Pamela wrapped round tlie bacon.' What 
would Richardson, the vainest and luckiest of living 
authors (i. e. while alive) — he who, with Aaron Hill, 
used to prophesy and chuckle over the presumed fall of 
Fielding (the prose Homer of human nature) and of 
Pope (the most beautiful of poeis) — what would he have 
said could he have traced his pages from their place on 
the French prince's toilets (see Boswell's Juhnson) to the 
grocer's counter and the gipsy-murderess's bacon!!! 

" What would he have said i what can any body say, 
save what Solomon said long before us ? After all, it 
is but passing from one counter to another, from the book- 
scllt t's to the other tradesman's — grocer or pastry-cook. 
For my part, I have met with most poetry upon trunks ; 
so that I am apt to consider the trunk-maker as the sex- 
ton of authorship. 



" Wrote five letters in about half an hour, short and 
savage, to all my rascally correspondents. Carriage 
came. Heard the news of three murders at Faenza and 
Forli — a carabinier, a smuggler, and an attorney — all last 
night. The first two in a quarrel, the latter by preme- 
ditation.* 

" Three weeks ago — almost a month — the 7th it was— 
I picked up the Commandant, mortally wounded, out of 
the street ; he died in my house ; assassins unknown, but 
presumed political. His brethren wrote from Rome last 
night to thank me for having assisted him in his last 
moments. Poor fellow ! it was a pity ; he was a good 
soldier, but imprudent. It was eight in the evening when 
they killed turn. We heard the shot ; my servants and I 
ran out, and found him expiring, with five wounds, twe 
whereof mortal — by slugs they seemed. I examined him, 
but did not go to the dissection next morning. 

"Carriage at 8 or so — went to visit La Contessa G.— 
found her playing on the piano-forte — talked til] ten, when 
the Count, her father, and the no less Count, her brother, 
came in from the theatre. Play, they said, Alrieri's 
Filippo — well received. 

"Two days ago the King of Naples passed through 
Bologna on his way to congress. My servant Luigi 
brought the news. I had sent him to Bologna for a 
lamp. How will it end ? Time will show. 

"Came home at eleven, or rather before. If the road 
;md wrather are conformable, mean to ride to-morrow. 
High time — almost a week at this work — snow, sirocco, 
one day — frost and snow the other — sad climate for Italy. 
But the two seasons, last and present, are extraordinary. 
Read a Life of Leonardo da Vinci by Rossi — ruminated 
— wrote this much, and will go to bed. 

"Januarys 1821. 
"Rose late — dull and drooping — the weather dripping 
and dense. Snow on the ground, and sirocco above in 
the sky, like yesterday. Roads up to the horse's belly 
so that riding (at least for pleasure) is not very feasible. 
Added a postcript to my letter to Murray. Read the 
conclusion, for the fiftieth time (I have read all W. Scott's 
novels at least fifty times) of the third series of ' Tales of 
my Landlord, 1 — grand work — Scotch Fielding, as well as 



1 Sue Letter 465, tic. 



248 



EXTRACT© KfiOM A JOURNAL. 



great English |K>et — wonderful man! I long to get drunk 
with him. 

'■ I lined versus six o' the clock. Forgot that there was 
a plumpuddingj (I have added, lately, ruling to my 
'family of vices, 1 ] and had dined before I knew it. 
Drank half a bottle of some sorts of spirits — probably 
spirits of wine i for, what they rail brandy, rum, &c. &c, 
here is nothing but spirits of wine, coloured accordingly. 
Did "<<,' r,it two apples, which were placed, by way of 
dessert. Fed the two cats, the hawk, and the tame (but 
not tamed) crow. Read Mitford's Historj of Greece— 
Xenophon's Retreat of the Ten Thousand, Dp to this 
present moment writing, 6 minutes before 8 o' the clock 
— French hours, not Italian. 

" Hear the carriage — order pistols and great coat, as 
usual — necessary articles. Weather cold — carriage opt n, 
ami inhabitants somewhat savage — rather treacherous 

and highly inflamed by politics, Fine fellows, I h - 

good materials for a nation. Out of chaos God made a 
world, and out of high passions comes a people. 

''Clock strikes— going out to make love. Somewhat 
perilous, but not disagreeable. Memorandum — a new 
screen put up to-day. It is rather antique, but will do 
with a little repair. 

" Thaw continues — hopeful that riding may be practi- 
cable to-morrow. Sent the papers to All 1 — grand events 
coming. 

"11 o' the clock and nine minutes. Visited La Con- 
tessa G. Nata G. G. Found her beginning my letter of 
an wer to the thanks of Aleesio del Pinlo of Rome for 
' his brother the late Commandant in his last 
mom. nts, as I had begged her to pen my reply for the 
purer Italian, I being an ultra-montane, little skilled in 
the set phrase of Tuscany. Cut short the letter — finish 
it another day. Talked of Italy, patriotism, Alfi-ri, 
Madame Albany, and other branches of learning. Also 
Sallust's Conspiracy of Catiline, and the war of Jugurtha. 
At 9 came in her brother, II Conte Pietro— at 10, her 
father, Conte Ruggiero. 

"Talked of various modes of warfare — of the Hun- 
garian and Highland modes of broadsword exercise, in 
both whereof I was unit a moderate ' master of fence.' 
Settled thai Uie It. will break out on the 7th or 8th of 
March, ui which appointment I should trust, had it not 
been settled that it was to have broken out in October, 
1820. But those Bolognese shirked the, Romagnuoles. 

"'It is all one to Ranger.' One most not be parti- 
cular, but take rebellion when it lies in the way. Came 
home— read the ' Ten Thousand' again, and will go to 
bed. 

"Mem.— Ordered Fletcher (at four o'clock this after- 
noon) to copy out 7 or 8 apophthegms of Bacon, in which 
I have detected such blunders as a schoolboy might de- 
tect, rather than commit. Such are the sages! What 
must they be, when such as I can stumble on their mis- 
takes or ruistatements ? I will go to bed, for I find that I 
grow cynical. 



and cry, neither of which is now a very easy ruttter — at 
: a player to produce in me. 
B Thought of the state of women under ihe .< 
Greeks — convenient enough. Present suite, a remnant 
of the barbarism of the chivalry and feudal ages — artih- 
cial and unnatural. They ought to mind home — and hn 
well fed and clothed — but not mixed in society. Well 
educated, too, in religion — bul to read neither poetry n ir 
politics — nothing bul books of piety and cookery. Music 
— drawing — dancing — also a little gardening and p 
ing now and then. I have seen them mending the roads 
in Epirus with good success. Why not, as well as hay- 
makihg and milking J 

"< lame home, and read Mitfbrd again, and played wiih 
m i iii" — gave him his supper. Aladc another read- 
ing to the epigram, but the turn the same. To-night at 
the theatre, there being a prince on his ihrt ne m the last 
scene of the comedy, — the audience laughed, and asked 
him for a Co ititui n. This shows the state of lb 
lie mind here, as well &s thfr assasinations. Ft won't do. 
There must be a universal republic, — and there ought 
to be. 

"The crow is lame of a leg — wonder how it happened 
— some fool trod upon his toe, I suppose. The falcon 
pretty brisk — the cats large and noisy — the monkeys I 
have not looked to since the cold weather, as they Buffer 
by being brought up. Horses must be gay — get a ride as 
soon as weather servos. Deused muggy Still — an Italian 
winter is a sad thing, but all the oilier seasons are charm- 



" January 6, 1821. 
a Mist — thaw — slop — rain. No stirring out on horse- 
back. Kead Spenee's Anerd- .t.'S. |'.>p.- ;i \\w- [', 11, ,w — 

always thought him so. Corrected blunders in nine apo- 
phthegms of Bacon — all historical— and read MiHords 

Greece. Wrote en epigram. Turned to a pass i 

Guinguene— ditto, in Lord Holland's Lope de v*ega 
Wrote a note on Don Juan.* 

"At eight went out to visit Heard a little music — 
like music. Talked with Count Pietro G. of the Italian 
comedian Vestris, who is now at Home — have seen him 
often act in Venice — a good actor — very. Somewhat of 
a mannerist ; bul excellent in broad comedy, as well as in 
sentimental pathetic. He has made me frequently laugh 



"What Is the reason thai I have been, all mv lifetime, 
more or less etinuyt / and thai, if any thing, I am rather 
less SO now than 1 was al twenty, as tar as my r< l 
lion serves? I do not know how to answer this, bul pre- 
sume that it is constitutional — as well as the waking in 
low spirits, which I have invariably done for man-. 
Tetnperanee and exerci > . which 1 have practised at 

times, and for a long tun together vigoroustj and vio- 
lently, made 1 i i tic or no difference. Violent pa --ions did ; 
— when unrler their immediate Influence — it is odd, bul— 
1 was in agitated, bul not in depressed spirits. 

K A dose of salts has the effect of a temporary inebria 
lion, like light champaign, upon me. Entwine and spirits 
make me sullen and savage to ferocity — silent, however, 
and retiring, and not quarrelsome, if not spoken to. Swim- 
ming also raises my spirits, — but in general they are low, 
and get daily lower. That is hopeless : for I do not think 
I am so much cnnuy£ as I was at nineteen. The proof 
is, that then I must game, or drink, or be in motion of 
some kind, or I was miserable. At present, I can mope 
in quietness; and like being alone better than any com- 
pany — except the lady's whom I serve. But I feel a 
something, which makes me think that, if I ever reach 
near to old age, like Swift, ( I shall die at lop' first. 
Only I do not dread idiotism or madness so mueh as he 
did. On the contrary, 1 think some quieter stages of both 
must be preferable to much of what men think the pos 
session of their senses. 



' Doo Juan, note 9tlt to Canto V 



* January 7, 1821, Sunday. 
"Still rain — mist — snow— drizzle — and ail the incal 
culable combinations of a climate, where heat and cold 
struggle for mastery. Read Spence, and turned over 
Roscoe, to find a passage I havi not found. Read the 
4th vol. of W". Scott 1 ! second series of * Tales of my 
Landlord. 1 Dined. Head the Lugano Gazette. Read 
— I forget what. At 8 went to conversazione. Found 
there the Countess Gellrude, Belli V. and her husband. 
and others. Pretty black-eyed woman thai — <mly twenty- 
two — same age as Teresa, who is pr< 

"The Count Pietro G. took me aside to say that the 
Patriots have had notice from Forli (twenty miles off) 
that to-night the government and its party mean to strike 
I a stroke — ihat the Cardinal here has had orders to make 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 



249 



several arrests immediately, and that, in consequence, 
llie Liberals are arming, ami have posted patrols m the 
sweets, to sound the alarm and aive notice to Indu for it. 

"He asked mo'what should be done.'— I answered, 
•fight for it, rather than be taken in detail ;' and offered 
if any of them are in immediate apprehension of arrest, 
... th.-m in my house, (which is defensible,) and to 
defend them, with my servants and themselves, (we have 
arms and ammunition,) as long a^ we rai.-.ir to try to 
get them awav under cloud of night. On going home, I 
aim the pistols which I had about me— but he 
refused, but said he would come off to me in case .-1 an i- 
dents. 

"It wants half an hour of midnight, and rains;— as 
Gibbet says, 'a line main for their enterprise — dark as 
I i blows like die devil.' If the row don't happen 
turn, it must soon. I thought that their system of shoot- 
ing people would soon produce a reaction — and now it 
seems coming. I will do what I can in the way of com- 
bat, though allude out of exercise. The cause is a good 
one. 

" Turned over and over half a score of books fir the 
passage m question, and can't find it. Expect 10 hear 
the drum and the musketry momently (tor they swear to 
right)— but 1 hear nothing, as yet. save the 
plash of lie' rain and the gusts "f the wind a: intervals. 
Don't like to go to bed. because I hate lo be waked, and 
would rather sit op for die row, if there is to b/s one. 

'Mended tie- lire— have got die arms — and a book or 
two, which I shall turn over. I know little of their num- 
bers, but think the Carbonari strong enough to beat the 
troops, even here. With twenty men this house might 
be defended fir twenty-four hours against any force to be 
brought astainst it, noie in this place, for the same time 
and, in such a time, the country would have nonce, and 
would rise,— if ever they unll rise, of which there is some 
doubt. In the mean time, I may as well read as do any 
thing else, being alone. 

" January 3, 1821, Monday. 
•Rose, and found Count P. G. in my apanments. Sent 
awav the servant. Told me that, according to the best 
information, the Government had not issued orders for thi 
arrests apprehended; that die attack in Forli had not 
taken place (as expected) by the SanfedisU— the oppo- 
nents of the Carbonari or Liberals— and that, as yet, they 
are still in apprehensinn onlv. Asked me for son..- arms 
of a better sort, which I gave him. Settled that, m case 
of a row, the Liberals were to assemble Acre, (with me,) 
and ihat he had given the word to Vincenzo G. and others 
of die Chiefs f<» that P>"T" se - He himself and lather are 
souio to the chase in the forest; but V. G. is to come to 
me lid an express to be sent off to him, P. G. it any thin;; 
occur?. Concerted operations. They are to seize— but 

no matter. . . , ., , ■ . a- 

"I advised them to attack in detail and in ditteren' 
parties, in different ptaca, (though at the same lime,) so 
as to divide the attention of the troops, who, though few, 
vet beino disciplined, would beat any body of people (not 
trainedfin a regular fight— unless dispersed in small 
parti, s, and distracted with different assaults. Offered to 
I, i Ihem assemble here, if they choose. It is a strongish 
post— narrow street, commanded from within — and tena 
hie walls. * * * 

"Dined. Tried on a new coat. Letter to Murray, with 
corrections of Bacon's Apophthegms and an epigram— the 
latter not for publication. At eight went to Teresa. 



Countess G. 



* Al nine and a half 



„ ..,11 Conte P. and Count P. G. Talked of a cer- 
tain proclamation lately issued. Count R.G. had been 
with * * (the * +,) to sound him about the arrests. He, 
* * is a trimmer, and deals, at present, his cards with bolh 
hands If he don't muid, they'll be full. * * pretends (I 
doubt him-tAet, do n't,— we shall see) that there is no 
such order, and seems staggered by the immense exertion, 

32 



i ,t the N capolitans, and the fierce spirit of the Liberals here. 
The truth is, ihat * * cares (or little but his place (which 
is a good one) and wishes to play pretty with both parties. 
He has changed his mind thirty tines these last llj-ee 
moons, to my° knowledge, for he corresponds with me. 
But he is not' a bloody fellow— only an avaricious one. 

■It seems that, just at this moment (as Lydia Languish 
says) there will be no elopement after all. I wish that I 
had known as much last night— or, rather, this morning— 
1 should have gone to bed two hours earlier. And yet I 
ought not to complain: fir, though it is a sirocco, and 
heavy rain, I have not yrmint (or these two days. 

'■Came I — read'Hisl iry of Greece— before dinner 

had read\\ alter Scott's Rob Roy. Wrote address (o the 
letter in answer to Alessio del Pinto, who has thanked me 
tor helping his brother (the late Commandant, murdered 
here last month) in his last moments. Have told him I 
only did a duty of humanity— as is true. The brother 
lives at Rome. 

"M mded the fire with some ' sgobole,' (a Romagnuolo 
word,) ami gave the falcon some water. Drank some 
Seli/er-water. Mem.— received to-day a print, or etching 
of the story of Ugolino,bv an I alian painter— different, of 
course, from Sir Joshua Reynolds's, and I think (as far as 
ecolleclion goes) no worse, for Reynolds is not good in 
history. Tore a button in my new coat. 

"I v, under what figure these Italians will make in a 
regular row. I sometimes think that, like the Irishman's 
gun, (somebody had sold hun a crooked one,) they will 
only do for ' shooting round a corner ;' at least this sort of 
shooting has been the late tenor of their exploits. And 
yet, there are materials in this people, and a noble energy, 
if well directed. But who is to direct diem ? No matter. 
Out of such times heroes spring. Difficulties are the hot- 
beds of high spirits, and Freedom the modier of the few 
virtues incident to human nature. 

"Tuesday, January 9, 1821. 

« Rose — the day fine Ordered the horse--, but Lega 
(my secretory, an Italianisni for steward or chief servant; 
coming to tell me iha' the painter had finished the work 
in fresco, for tV t ^ui he has been employed on lately, I 
went to see it oefore 1 set out. The painter has not 
copied badly die prmts from Titian, &c. consideruig all 
things. * * * * * * . 

" Dined. Read Johnson's ' Vanity of Human Wishes, 

all the examples and mode of giving them sublime, as 

well as the la t. r part, with the exception of an occasional 
couplet. I do not so much admire the opening. I remem- 
ber an observation of Sharpe's (the Conversationist, as he 
was called in London, and a very clever man,) that the 
first line of tins poem was superfluous, and that Pope (the 
verv best ofpoets / think) would have begun al once, only 
changing the punctuation — 

1 Survey mankind from China lo Peru 1' 

The former line, 'Let observation,' &c. is certainly heavy 
and o«eless. But 't is a grand poem — and so true .'—true as 
the 10th of Juvenile himself. The lapse of ages changes 
jj| things— time — language — the earth — the bounds of the 
sea— the stars of the sky, and every tlung ' about, around, 
and underneath' man, except man himself, who has always 
been, and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The infinite 
variety of lives conducts but to death, and the infinity of 
wishes leads but to disappointment. All the discoveries 
which have vet been made have multiplied little but exist- 
ence. An extirpated disease is succeeded by some new 
pestilence; and a discovered world has brought little to 
the old one, except the p— first and freedom afterward— 
the latter a fine thine, particularly as they gave it to Eu- 
rope in exchange for slavery. But it is doubtful whether 
'the Sovereigns' would nol think tlie>s( die best present 
ofthe two to their subjects. 

« At eioht went out— heard some news. They say Uio 
kin- of Naples has declared, by couriers from Florence, 



250 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 



to the Powers (as they call now those wretches with Troy, 
crowns) that his Constitution was compulsive, &c. &c. 
and that die Austrian barbarians are placed again on jm 
pav, and will inarch. Let them— 'they come like sacri- 
fices in their trim,' the hounds of hell!* Let it still be a 
hope to see their bones piled like those of the human 
,! at Morat, in Switzerland, which I have seen. 

"Heard smile music. At nine Ihe usual visitors — news, 
tear, or rumours of war. Consulted with P. G. &c. &c. 
They mean to insurrect here, and are u> honour me with 
a call thereupon. I shall not fall back-; though I don'l 
think them in force or hearl sufficient to make much of it. 
But onward!— it is now the limi to ai I, and whal signifies 
self, if a single spark of that which would be worth) of the 
past can be bequeathed unquenchedly to the future .' li is 
11 . i one man, nor a million, but the spirit of liberty, whii h 
must be spread. The waves which dash upon the shore 
are, one by one, broken, but yel the ocean conquers, never- 
theless. It overwhelms tlieArmada.it wears the reel,, 
and, if the Siyfunions are to be believed, u lias not only 
destroyed, but made a world. In lik.- manner, whatever 
the sacrifice of individuals, the great cause will gather 
strenoth, sweep down what is rugged, and fertilize (for 
sea-weed is manure) what is cultivable. And so, the mere 
selfish calculation ought never to be made on such occa- 
sions; and, at present, it shall not be computed by me 
was never a good arithmetician of chances, and 
commence now. 



I 

shall not 



T is false — we do care about ' the authenticity c«" 
Ihe tale of Troy.' [hnvestood upon that plain d 

an a month, in 1810; and, if any thm dimini 
i liv pleasure, il was that the blackguard Br; 

impu I its veracity. It IS true 1 read 'limner Tra- 

eetied,' (the first twelve 1 Its,) because Hobhouse and 

others bored me with their leaned localities, and 1 love 
qujzrii g. Bui I still venerated the grand origin 
truth o{ history (in ihe material fads) and of] 
wise, it would have given me no delight. Who will per- 
suade me, when 1 reclined upon araightj t b, thai il did 

not contain a hero?— its very magnitude proved Ihis. Mi n 
do not labour over Ihe ignoble and petty dead— end why 
should not Ihe dead be Hbiner'sdead .' The secret of Tom 
Campbell's defence t>{ inaccuracy in costume and 
tinn is, that his Gertrude, &c. has ii" more localit) in com- 
mon with Pennsylvania than with Pi nmanmaur. It is 
notoriously full ofgrossly false scenery, as all Americans 

declare, tl gh the) praise parts ofthe Poem. It is thus 

out, like a snake, 10 
thing wined happens, even accidenlly, to stumble upon u. 



"January 10, 1821. 

« Day fine — rained only" in the morning. Looked over 
accounts. Read Campbell's Poets— marked errors of Tom 
(the author) lor correction.! Dined— went out— music— 
Tyrolese air, with variations. Sustained the cause ofthe 
original simple air against the variations of the Italian 
school * * * . * 

"Politics somewhat tempestuous, and cloudier daily. 
To-morrow being foreign post-day, probably something 
more will be known. 

"Came homi — read. Corrected Tom Campbell's slips 

ofthe pen. A :■ I work, though— style affected— but his 

defence of Pope is glorious. To be sure, it is Ins mm 
cause too,— but no matter, it is very good, and does him 
great credit. 



■Midnight 

" I have been turning over different Lives of the Poens. 
I rarely read their works, miles an occasional Bight over 
the classical ones, Pdpe,Dryden, Johnson, Gray, and those 
who approach them nearest; (I leave the rant of ihe rest to 
the rant of Ihe day,) and — I had made several reflections, 
but 1 feel sleepy, and may as well go to bed. 

"January 11,1821. 

"Head the letters. Corrected the tragedy and ihe 
'Hints lioin Horace.' Dined, and got into better Spirits. 
Went out — returned — finished letters, five in number. 
Read Poets, and an anecdote in Spence. 

"All 1 writes to me thai the Pope, and Duke of Tuscany, 
and King of Sardinia have also been called to Congress; 
hut the Pope will only deal then- by proxy. So the inti i- 
ests of millions are in the hands of about twenty coxcombs, 
at a place ci'led I.eiliach! 

"1 shunid almost regret that my own affairs wenl well, 
when tlunc of nations are in peril. If the interests of man- 
kind coilM I ssetitially liellercd, (particularly of these 

oppressed Italians,) I should not so much mind my own 
s-ina' peculiar.' God grant us all belter tunes, or more 
philosophy. 

"In rf-ading, I have just chanced upon an expression of 
Tom CwnpbeU'a ;— speaking of Collins, he says that ' no 
reader .»vcs any more about the clurracleristic manners of 
his E'« gues than about the authenticity of the tale 



"January 12, 1821. 
"The weather still so humid and impracticable, that 
London, in its most oppressive fbgs,weMasummer-bowei 
to tins mist and sirocco, which has now lasted, (hut with 
one day's interval,) checkered with snow or heavy ram only, 
since the 30th of December, 1820. It is so far lucky that 
I have a literary turn; but it is very tiresome not to tie 
able to stir out, in comfort, on any horse but Pegasus, for 

so many .lavs. The roads are eye,, w an I 

weather, by the long splashing, and the heavy soil, and the 
growth of lie- waiers. 

"Read the Poets— English, that is to SB) — out ..I 
Campbell's edition. There is a good deal of taffeta in 
some of Tom's prefatory phrases, hut his work is good as 
a whole. I like him best, though, in bis own poetry. 

"Murray writes that they wan; load tlietragedi 'I U b- 
rino Kaliero ; more fools they— il was written for thi 
I have protested against this piece of usurpation, (which, 
it seems, is legal for managers over any pruned work, 
against the author's will,) and I hope they will not attempt 
iu "Why don't they bring out some of the nine: 
aspirants for theatrical celebrity, now incumbering their 
shelves, instead oflugging me out of die library 7 I liavo 
written a tierce protest against any such attempt, but 1 
till would hope that it will not be nece sary.and that they 
rill see, at once, that il is not intended for the stage. It 
is too regular— the time, twenty-four hours— the change 
of place not frequent— nothing meto-dramatic— no sur- 
pri.es, no starts, nor trap-doors, nor opportunities 'for 
tossing their heads and kicking their heels'— and no tote— 
the grand ingredient of a modern play. 
■■ i have found the seal cut on Murray's letter. It 

,s meant for Walter Scott— or Sir \\ alter— he is the first 

poet knighted suae sir Richard BUv kmore. But it does 
not do him justice. SeottV^erticularly » 

is a very intelligent countenance, and llns seal says 

nothing. 

"Scott is certainly the most wonderful writer oft! 
His novels are anew Uterature in themselves, and his 
poetry as good as an) —if not better (only on an erroneous 
system)— and only ceased to he so popular, because the 
vulgar learned were tired of hearing ' Aristidcs called the 
Jusf and Waller Scott the Best, and ostracised him. 

" I like him, too, fir his manliness of character, for the 
extreme pleasantness of his conversation, and hi 
nature towards myself, personally. May he prosper'— 
for he ,1,-erves it. 1 kia.w no reading to which I tall 
will, such alacrity as a work of \V. Scon's. 1 shall give, 
the seal, with his bust on it, to Madame la I taltessa Q. 
Ihis i rening, who will be curious to have tlie cthgies of a 



Cnild.- Hn.old, 3d Canto, linn. 63, mid notf 1*. 

t >si Jlem imtu 9 lO C»lili< 5. 



man so celebrated. 

« How strange are mv thoughts !— The reading of the 
song of Milton? ' Babrina fair ' has brought back upon me 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 



251 



—I know iv it how or why — the happiest, perhaps, days of 
my life (always excepting, here and there, a Harrow holy- 
day in the two latter summers of my stay there,) when 
living a". Cambridge with Edward Noel Long, afierwaid 
of the Guards, — who, after having seryed honourably in 
the expedition to Copenhagen, (of which two or three 
ndrels yet survive in plight and pay,) was 
drowned early in 1809, on Ins passage to Lisbon with his 
regimen) in the St. George transport, which was run foul 
otj in the night, by another transport. We were rival 
swimmers — find of riding — reading — and of conviviality. 
We had been at Harrow together; but — there, at least — 
his was a less boisterous spirit than mine. I was always 
cricketing — rebelling — fighting — rowing, (from rmv, not 
4.»o*-rowing, a different practice,) and in all manner of 
in. in is; while he was more sedate and polished. At 
Cambrid ge. — both of Trinity — my spirit rather softened, 
or his roughened, for we became very great friends. The 
description of Sabnna's seat reminds me of our rival 
hats in diving. Though Cam's is not a very ' translucent 
wave.' it was fourteen feet deep, where we used to dive 
for, and pick up — having thrown them in on purpose — 
and even shillings. I remember, in particu- 
lar, there was the stump of a tree (at least ten or twelve 
i tep) in the bed of the river, in a spot where we 
bathed most commonly, round which I used to cling, and 
' wonder how the devil I came there.' 

'■Our evenings we passed in music (he was musical, 
and played on more than one instrument, flute and violon- 
cello,) in which I was audience; and I think that our 
chief beverage was soda-water. In the day we rode, 
bathed, and lounged, reading occasionally. I reineml.iT 
our buying, with vast alacrity, Moore's new quarto, (in 
1803,) and reading it together in the evenings. 

" We only passed the summer together ; — Long had 
gone into the Guards during the year I passed in Notts, 
away from college. Hvi friendship and a violent, though 
pure, love and passion — which held me at the same period 
— were the then romance of die most romantic period of 
my life. 

****** 

u l remember that, in the springof 1809, H * * laughed 
at my being distressed at Long's death, and amused him- 
self with making epigrams upon his name, which was 
susceptible of a pun — Long, short, &c. But three years 
after lie had ample leisure to repent it, when our mutual 
friend, and his, II * *'s, particular friend, Charles Mat- 
thews, wa drowned also, and he, himself, was as much 
affected by a similar calamity. But /did not pay him 
be ■ in puns and epigrams, for I valued Matthews too 
much, myself, to do so ; and, even if I had not, I should 
have respected his griefs. 

"Lord's father wrote to me to write his sons epitaph. 
I promised, — but I had not the heart to complete it. He 
was such a good, amiable being as rarely remains long in 
this world; with talent and accomplishments, too, to 
make him the more regretted. Yet, although a cheerful 
companion, lie had strange melancholy thoughts some- 
times. I remember once that we were going to his 
s, I think, — I went to accompany him to the door 
merely, in some Upper or Lower Grosvenor or Brook 
street, [forget which, but it was in a street leading out of 
s. me square*— he told me that, the night before, he 'had 
i[i a pistol — not (mowing or examining whether it 
was loaded or no — and had snapped it at his head, leavino 
it to chance whether it might, or might not, be chan id 
The letter loo, which he wrote me, on leaving college to 
pin the Guards, was as melancholy in its tenor as it 
could well be on such an occasion. But he showed 
nothing of this in his deportment, bein? mild and gentle; 
— and yet widi much turn for the ludicrous in his disposi- 
tion. We were both much attached to Harrow, and 
sometimes made excursions there together from London, 
to revive our schoolboy recollections. 



"Midnight. 

8 Read the Itahan translation by Guido Sorelli of the 
German Grillparzer — a devil of a name, to be sure, for 
posterity ; but they must learn to pronounce it. With 
all the allowance for a translation, and, above all, an Italian 
translalion (they are the very worst of translators, except 
from ihe Classics — Annibale Caro, for instance — and 
there the bastardy of their language helps them, as, by 
way of looking legitimate, they ape their father's tongue) 
— but with every allowance for such a disadvantage, the 
tragedy of Sappho is superb and sublime ! There is no 
denying it. The man lias done a great thing in writing 
that play. And who is he? I know him not ; but ages 
will. 'T is a high intellect. 

" I must premise, however, that I have read nothing of 
Adolph Milliner's, (the author of 'Guilt,') and much less 
of Goethe, and Schiller, and Wietand than I could wish. 
I only know them through the medium of English, French, 
and Italian translations. Of the real language I know 
absolutely nothing — except oalhs learned from postillions 
and officers in a squabble. I can swear in German po- 
tently, when I like — ' Sacramen' — ■Vcrflutcher — Huiids- 
fott' — and so forth ; but I have little of their less energetic 
conversation. 

"I like, however, their women, (I was once so despe- 
rately in love with a German woman, Constance.) and all 
that I have read, translated of their writings, and all that I 
have seen on the Rhine of their country and people — all, 
except the Austrians, whom I abhor, loathe, aivl — I cannot 
find words for my hate of them, and should be sorry to 
find deeds correspondent to my hate ; for I abhor cruelty 
more than I abhor the Austrians — except on an impulse, 
aiid then I am savage — but not deliberately so. 

" GriXparzer is grand — antique — not so simple as the 
ancients, but very simple for a modern — too Madame de 
Stael-utA now and then — but altogether a great and 
goodly writer. 

K January 13, 1821, Saturday. 

"Sketched the outline and Drams. Pers. of an intended 
tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I have for some lime 
meditated* Took the names from Diodorus Siculus, (I 
know the history of Sardanapalus, and have known it 
since I was twelve years old,) and read over a passage in 
the ninth vol. octavo of Miiford's Greece, where he 
ra'hcr vindicates the memory of this last of the Assy 
nans. 

" Dined — news come — the Powers mpan lo war with 
the peoples. The intelligence seems positive — let it be 
so — they will be beaten in the end. The king-times are 
fast finishing. Tin re will be blood shed like water, and 
rears like mist ; but the peoples will conquer in the end 
I shall not live to see it, but I foresee it. 

" I carrii d Teresa the Italian translation of Grillparzer's 
Sappho, which she promises to read. She quarrelled 
with me, because I said that love was not the loftiest theme 
for true tragedy ; and, having the advantage of her native 
language, and natural female eloquence, she overcame my 
fewer arguments. I believe she was right. I must put 
more love into ' Sardanapalus' than I intended. I speak, 
of course, if the times will allow me leisure. That if 
hardly be a peacemaker. 

"January 14, 1821. 

" Turned over Seneca's tragedies. Wrote the open- 
ing lines of the intended tragedy of Sardanapalus. Rode 
out some miles info the forest. Misty and rainy. Re- 
turned — dinpd — wrote some more of mv tragedy. 

" Read Diodorus Siculus — turned over Seneca, and 
some other books. Wrote some more of the tragedy. 
Took a glass of croj. Afler having ridden hard in rainy 
weather, and scribbled, and scribbled again, the spirits 
(at leastmine) need a little exhilaration, and I do n't like 
laudanum now as I used to do. So I have mixed a glass 
of iirong waters and single waters which I shall now 



252 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 



proceed to empty. Therefore and thereunto I conclude 
this day's diary. 

"Tin- effeel "f nil wines and spirits upon rue is, how 
ever, strange. It »«//«, hut n makes me gtoomy— gloomi 
at the very moment of their effect, and not gay hardly 
ever. But it composes for a ttm. , „l v . 

"January 15, 1S21. 
"Weather tine. Received visit. Rode out into the 
forest— fired pistols. Returned homi — dined— dipped 

tnio a volume of Milfor.l'sl m ■<■< ■■■ — wrote pari of a scene 

of ' Sardanapalus.' Went out— heard some m ■— 

heard some politics. More ministers from the other 
Italian powi re gone to Congress. War seems certain— 
•n dial case, it will be a savage one. Talked o 
mis important matters with one of the initiated. At ten 
and half returned home. 

"1 have just thought of something odd. In the y 

1814, Moore (' (he poet,' pa aectll and he deserves 

it) and I were going together, in the same carriage, to 
dine with Karl Grey, the ( lapo Politico of the remaining 
Whigs. Murray, the magnificent, (the illustrious pub- 
lisher of that name,) hail just sent me a Java gazette I 

know not why or wherefore. Pulling il out, l>\ waj of 
curiosity, we found it to contain a dispute (the said Java 
gazette) on Moore's merits and mine. I think, if I had 
been there, that I could have saved them the trouble of 
disputing on the subject. But, there is feme fur you at 
six-and-twenty ! Alexander had conquered India 'at the 
same age ; but I doubt if he was disputed about, or his 
conquests compared witli those of Indian Baci hus,al Java. 

"li was great fame to be named with Moore ; greater 

to be compared with him; greatest — pleasure, at least 

to be tilth him ; and, surely, an odd coincidence, that we 
should be dining together while they were quarre 

about os In Aoinl the i i|miiiim iial line. 

" Well, the same evening 1 met Lawrence, the painter 

and heard one of Lord Guv's daughters (a tine, tall 
spirit-looking girl, with much of the patrician thomugk- 
bred l«uk of her father, which I dote upon) play on the 
harp, so modestly and ingenuously, that she looked musk. 
Well, I would raih.-r haie had my talk with Lawrenct 
(who talked delightfully) and heard the girl, than have had 
all the fame of Moore and mo put together. 

■ The only pleasure of fame is that it paves the wav to 
pleasure; and the more intellectual our pleasure, "the 
better for the pleasure and for us too. It was,however 
agreeable to have heard our fame beforo dinner, and a' 
girl's harp after. 

"January 16,1821. 

■ Read— rode— fired pistols— relumed — dined— wrote 
—visited—heard music— talked nonsense— and went 
home. 



etling 



" Wrote part of a Tragedy— advance in Act 1st with 
'all deliberate speed.' Bought a blanket. The weather 
is still muggy as a London May— mist, mizzle, the air 
replete with Scotticisms, which, though fine in the descrip 
tions of Ossian, are somewhat tiresome, in real, prosaic 
perspective. Politics still mysterious. 

'January 17. 1821. 

"Rode i' the forest— fired pistols — d I. Arrived a 

packet of hooks from England and Lombardy— English, 
Italian, French, and Lain,. Read till eight— wenl out. 
"January 18, 1821. 

"To-day, the post arriving late, did not ride. Read 
letters — only two gazettes, instead of twelve now due. 
Mad. Lega write to that negligent Galignani, and added 
a posiseript. Dined. 

"At eight proposed to go out. I.ega came in with a 
letter about a bill unpaid at Venice, which I iliouj.i paid 
months ago. I Hew into a paroxysm of rage, which 
almost made me faint. I have not been well evei ince. 
di erveit for being such a fool — hut il tea provoking— a 
set of scoundrels! It is, however, but Bve-and- iventj 
pounds. 



'January 19, 1821. 

"Rode. 'Wiuter's wind somewhat more unkind than 
ingratitude itself, though Shakespeare says oil,, rw 
least, I am so much more accustomed to meet wnb 
ingratitude than the north wind, that I thought the latter 
rper of the two. I had met with both in the 
course of the twenty-tour hours, so could judge. 

"Though! of a plan of education for mv daughter 

Allegra.who.. light to begin soon with her studies. Wrote 
a letter — afterward a postscript. Rather in low spirits — 
certainly hippish — liver touched — will take a dose of sails. 
I have been reading the Life, by himself and daugh- 
ter, of Mr. R. L. Edgewonh, the father oflfa Mi ■ 
Edgeworth. It is altogether a great name. In 1813, 1 
recoiled lo have met diem in the fashionable world of 
London (of which 1 dlen formed an Hem, a li anion, the 
segment of a circle, die unit of a million, the nothing of 
something) in the assemblies of the hour, and at a break- 
fast of Sir Humphry and I.adv Daw's, to which I was 

invited for the n le. [hadbeenthi lion of 1812* Mm 

ill and Mariano- de Steel, with 'the Cossack,' 
low an Is the end of lrj 13, were die exhibitions of the suc- 
edblg year. 

"I il ght Edgeworth a fine old fellow, of a clareiv, 

elderly, red complexion, but active, brisk, and endless. He 
was seventy, but did not look Hftv — no, nor forry-eighl 
even. I bad seen poor Filzpatnek not very long before 
man of pleasure, wn, oliwjiicnce, all (lungs. He tot- 
tered — but still talked like a gentleman, though feebly. 
Edgeworth bounced about, and talked loud and lone ; but 
he seemed neither weakly nor decrepit, and hardly old. 

"He began by telling 'that he had given Dr. Parr a 
dressing] who had taken him lor an Irish bog-trotter,' &c. 
&e. Now I. who know Dr. Parr, ami who know (not by 
experience — for I never should have presumed so far as 
to contend with him — but by hearing him with others, and 
.' ithers) that il is not so easy a matter to ' dress him, 1 
thought Mr. Edgeworth an assertor of what was not 
true. He could not have stood before Parr an instant. 
For the rest, he seemed intelligent, vehement, vrraciouB 
and full of life. He bids fair for a hundred vears. 

"He was not much admired in London, and I remem- 
ber a'ryghlc inline' and conceited jest which was rife 
among the gallants of the day, — viz. a paper had been 
presented fir die reartl of Mrs. Siddons to tile stage, (sbo 
having lately taken leave, totlte loss of aj'es, — for nothing 
ever was, or can be, like her,) to which alt men had been 
called lo subscribe. Whereupon, Thomas Moore, of 
profane and poetical memory, did propose thai a similar 
paper should be suoscribed and arcwnscribed 'for die 
recall of Mr. Edgeworth lo Ireland.'* 

" The fact was — every body cared more about her. 
She was a nice little unassuming - J. anin. DesnsMookms 
bodie,' as we Scotch say — and, if nol handsome, eerlainly 
not ill-loi.l in 11 ver anon was as quiet as her- 
self. One would iwvrr have guessed she could write tier 

mime; whenas hex lather talked, not as if he could write 
nothing else, hut as if nothing else was worth writing. 

■ \ for Mrs. Edgeworth, I forget— xcepl that I think 
she was the youngest of the party. Altogether] they 
were an excellent cage of the kind ; and succeeded for 
two months, till the landing of Madame de Stacl. 

" To turn from them to their works, I admire them ; 
but they exi ite no feeling, and they leave no love — except 
for some Irish steward or postillion. However, the im- 
pression of intellect and prudence is profound — and may 
be useful. 

" January' 20, 1821. 

" Rode — fired pistols. Read from Grimm's Corre- 
spondence. Dined — went out — heard music — returned — 
i\role a letter to the Lord Chamberlain to rei|tiesl him to 
prevent the theatres from representing the Doge, which 



In lliO. I rather think he wnt misinformed ; — whoever merit there 
may In: in (he)eat, 1 ha, e uot, a» far a) 1 tau recoiled, the eh^liUsi diuai 
ink.— Moore. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 



25» 



the Italian papers say tha' they arc going to act. This i~ 
preti . work — what! without asking my consent, and eveu 
in opposition to it ! 

"January 21, 1821. 

B Fine, clear, frosfv dav — that is to say, an I aliaa frosr, 
for their win . leyond snow ; for which rea- 

iwtoska'e (or skait) — a I 1 ' 
English accomplishment. Rode out, as usual, and fired 
pistols. G d '' iting— bro four common, and rather 
sma'l, bottles, in four shots, al fourteen paces, with a com- 
mon pair of pistols and indifferent powder. Almost a* 
good wafcrin* or shooting — considering tlie difference of 
powder 'and pistols— as when, in 1809,1810,1811,1813, 
IS] t, 1 s 1 4. it was my luck t<> split walking-sticks, wafers, 
haif-crowns, shillings] ani even (lit- eye of a walking-stick, 
at twelve paces, with a single bullet — and all by eye and 
ion; for mv hand is not steady, and apt to change 
with the verv weather. To the prowess which 1 here 
no?c, Joe Man ton and others can bear testimony ; — for the 
former taught, and the latter have seen me do, these fea 3. 

B Dined — visited — came home — read. Remarked on j 
an i tecdote in Grimm's Correspondence, which Rays that 
' R'-'nard el la pin part des poetes comiqnes etaient sens 
hi.^-.ix ef melanc j'.iques ; et que M. de Voltaire, qui est 
tres gat, n'a jamais fait que des tragedies — et que lacome- 
die ^aie est le seui genre ou il n'ait point reussi. C'es'. 
que cehri qui rit et celui qui fait rire sont deux homines 
fort diderens.' — Vol. vi. 

" Ar this moment I feel as bilious as the best comic 
writer of them all, (even as Regnard himself, the next to 
Moliere, who has written some of the best comedies in 
any language, am] who is supposed to have committed 
suicide,) and am not in spirits to condnue ray proposed 
tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I have, for some days, 
cea=ed to compose. 

" To-morrow is mv birthdav — that is to saw at twelve 
o 1 the clock, midnight, i. e. in twelve minutes, I shall have 
completed thirty and three years of age !! ! — and I goto 
my bed with a heaviness uf heart at having lived so long, 
and to so little purpose. 

B It is three minutes past twelve. — (, T is the middle of 
night by the castle clock,' ani I am now thirty-three \ 

1 F.heu, fugftCM, Puiiliume, P>s limine, 
Labntitur a ii ii i ;' — 

but T do n't regret them so much fur what I have done, as 
for what I might have done. 

" Through litVs roml.todim tnddirtT, 
I have draeK'd to ihree-and-lhiny. 
What fcjTe lh«e year* left 10 me? 
Nutliiii"— -except thirty-three. 

1 ■ rv 28, 1821.* 



1891. 

HERE LIES, 
INTERRED IN THE ETERNITY 

OF THE PAST, 

PROM WHENCE THBRB IS NO 

RESURRECTION 

FOR THE DATS — WHATEVER THERE MAY B" 

FOR THE Dt'ST — 

THE THIRTY-THIRD YEAR 

OP AN ILL-SPENT LIFE, 

WHICH, AFTER 

A LINGERING DISEASE OF MANY MONTHS, 

SUNK INTO A LETHARGY, 

AND EXPIRED, 

VANUABY32D, 1921, A. D. 

LEAVING A SL'CCESSOR 

INCONSOLABLE 

FOR THE VfiHV LOSS WHICH 

OCCASIONED ITS 

EXISTENCE. 



u Fine dav. Read- 



1 .i:Miary 23, 1821. 
-'n 1 I pistols, and returned 



Dined — read. Went out a* eight — made the usual visit. 
Heard of n (thins bin war, — * the cry is still, They come. 1 
The Car 1 , seem to have no plan — nothing fixed among 
hemsclvjes, how, when, or what to do. In thai case, they 
will make nothing of this project, so often postponed, and 
never put in action. 

"Came home, and gave some necessary orders, in rase 
of circumstances requiring a change of [dace, [shall 
act arcording to what mav seem proper, when I hear 
decidedly what the Barbarians mean to do. At present, 
they are building a bridge of boats over the Po, which 
looks very warlike. A few davs will probablv show. I 
think of retiring towards Ancona, nearer the northern 
frontier; that is to say, d" Teresa and her father are 
obliged to retire, which is most likely, as all the family are 
Libera!-;. If not,] shall sav. But my movements will 
depend upon the lady's wishes, f jr mvselij il is much the 
same. 

"I am somewhat puzzled what to do with my little 
. an i mv effects, which are of some quantity and 
value, — ajid neither of them do in the seat of war where 
I think of going; Bui there is an elderly tad* who will 
take cha r ge of her, and T. says tha* the Marchese C. will 
undertake to hold the chattels in safe keeping. Half the 
city are getting their atfairs in marching trim. A pretty 
Carnival! The blackguards might as well have waited 
'il! Lent. 

"January 24, 1821. 

"Returned — met some masques in the Corso — ' Vive 
la bagatelle !*— -the Germans are on the Po, the Barbari- 
ans at the gate, and their ina-ters in council at Leybach, 
(or whatever the eructation of the sound may syllable 
into a human pronunciation,) and lo ! they dame and 
sing, and make merry, 'for to-morrow thev mav die.' 
Who can say that the Arl xju as are not right? Like 
rhe Lady Baussiere, and my old friend Barton — I 'rode 
on. 1 

"Dined — (damn this p<-n!) — beef tough — there is no 
beef in Italy worth a curse; unless a man could eat an 
old os with the hide on, singed in the sun. 

" The pr ncipal persons in the events which may occur 
in a few davs, are gone out on a shooting party. If it were 
like a ' hxeldand hunting, 1 a pretext of the cha^e for a 
grand reunion of counsellors aud chief;, it would be all 
very well. But it is I or less than a real 

snivelling, popping, small-sho', wa?er-hen waste of powder 
ammunition, and sho T , f»r their own special amusement : 
— a rare set of fellows for 'a man to risk his neck with, 
as 'Marbhad Wells' says in the B'ack Dwarf. 

" If thev gather, — ' whilk is to be doubted," — they will 
not muster a thousand men. The reason of this is, tha*. 
the populace are not interested, — only the higher ami 
middle orders. I wish 'hat ihe peasantry were: they art 
a fine savage ra^e o( tw»-legged leopards. But the 
Bolognese won't — 'he Romagnuole, can't without them. 
Or, if they try — what then ? They will try, and man can 
do no more — and. if he would but try his utmost, much 
might be done. The Dutch, for instance, against tho 
Spaniards — Oieit, the tyrants of Europe — since, the slaves 
— and. lately, the freedmen. 

v The year 1820 was not a fortunate one for the indi- 
vidual me, whatever it mav be for the na.ions, I lost a 
lawsuit, af er two decisions in mv favour. The project v{ 
lending money on an Irish mortgage was finally rejected 
bv my wife's trustee after a year's hope and trouble. The 
Rochdale lawsuit had endured fifteen years, and always 
prospered till I married ; since winch, every thing has 
none wrong — with me, at least. 

" In the same year, 1820, the Countess T. G. nata G* 
Gh in despite of a!) I said and did to prevent it, would 
separate from her husband, II Cavalier Commendatore 
Gh &c. &c. &c. and all on the account of L P. P. clerk 
of this parish.' The other little petty vexations of the 
year — overturns in carriages — the murder of people before 
ones door, and dying in one's beds — the cramp in swim- 



254 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 182\. 



mm;; 



cohcs — indigestions and bilious attacks, &c. &e 



1 M-tny small article* make up* sum, 
And bey ho fur Caleb Uviotcm, oh 1' 

"January 25, 1821. 

"Received a letter from Lord Sidney I >sb i 
m cretary of the Seven Islands— a fine fellow— c ■ 
dished in l n and five yearn ago, and came abroad to 
h and to renew. He wrote from Ancona, in bis 
way back to Corfu, on some matters it!" our own. !!■■ i> 
son of tiit-- late Duke of Leeds by a second marriage, II. 
wants me to go to Corfu. Why not? — perhaps I may. 
nexi spring. 

"Answered Murray^ letter — read — lounged. Sera - 
ed this additional page of life's log-book. I tae da no 
is over, of .1 and of me ; — but ' which is best, life or death, 
the gods only know,' as Socrates said to bis judges, on 
the breaking up of the tribunal. Two thousand years 
since thai sage's declaration of ignorance have not 

enlightened us more upon this important | it; for, 

Lispensau'on, no one can knon 
whether he is mtre. of salvation — even tl" - mosl i i 
— since a single slip of faith may throw him on bis ba< l 
like a skater, while gliding smoothly to his 
Now, therefore] whatever the ceraintyoffaith in the facts 
may be, Uie certainty of the individual as to his happiness 
or misery is no greater lltan it was under Jupiter. 

"It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a 
grand peut&tre' — but still it is a grand 1 one. Everj b dj 
clings to it — the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of 
human bipeds is still persuaded thai he is immortal. 

"January 26, 1821. 

•Finedav — a few mares 1 tails portending change, bui 
clear, upon the whole. Rode — fired pistol — good 
Bhooting. Coming back, met an old man. Charity — 
purchased a shilling's worth of salvation. If that was to 
be bought, I have given more to m ure in 

this life — sometimes for vice, but, if not more 

wtderoWy, for virtue — than I now possi I 
never in my life gave a mistress so much as I have some- 
times given a poor man in honest distress ; — but, no mat- 
ter. The scoundrels who have all along persecuted me* 

(with the help of -■ * who lias crowned their rlK.rts) wili 

triumph ; — and, when justice is done torn.-, it will be when 
this hand that writes is as cold as the hearts winch have 
slung me. 

u Returning, on the bridge near the mill, met an old 
woman. I asked her age — she said, l 'J'r, erocU I asked 
my groom (though myself a decenl I al an) what the devil 
her three crosses meant He said, ninety yeai ,and tho 
ahehad five years more to boot!! [repeated hesam< 
three times, not to mi take— ninety-five years!!! — and 
she was yet rather active — heard my question, for she 
answered it — saw me, for she advanced towards me ; and 
did not appear at all <leerei.it, though certainly touched 
with vears. Told her to come to-morrow, and will exa- 
mine her myself. 1 love pi imena. tf she feninety- 

L raold,shj mu i recollect tho Cardinal Alberoni, 

who was legate hero. 

- "On dismounting, found Lieutenant E. just arrive.! 
from Faenza. Invited him to dme with me to-morrow, 
Did not invite him for to-day, because there was a small 
turbos (Friday, rasl regularly and religiously,) which I 
wanted to eat -,.:\ mj self Site it 

"Went out— found Teresa as usual— music. The 
gentlemen, who make revolutions, and are gone on a 
ahooting, are not yet returned. They don't return till 
Sundav— thai is to say, they have been out tor five daj 
buffooning, while the interests of a whole country are at 
stake, and even they themselves compromised. 

"it is a difficult part to play amongsuch a set of assas- 
sins and blockheads — but, when the scum is skimmed off, 



or hash id may come of it. If this country 

could but be freed, « hai it foi thi accom- 

plishment of that desire 1 for the extinction of tha 
of Ages ' Lei us hope. They ha d these thou- 

u i. The verj revo vemen ■ ices may 

brhig it — u is upon (he dice. 

"If the Neapolitans have but a singli 
among them, they wi ...... ,,t - [| ie 

Holland, i 
Philip Lmerica bea thi I •nglish ; 
Circeci beal Kei « ■ - md Fr in :i beal Eur ipe, til] she 
took a tyrant; South America beats her old vultures "ui 
of their nest; and, if these men are but firm in 
selves, there IS nothing to --•hake them from without. 

"January 28. 1881. 

"Lugano < fazette did not come. Letters from \ • nice. 

It appears that the Austrian brutes have seized my three 

or four pounds of English powder. The scoundrels! — 1 

m in ball for that powder. Bode out ull 

twilight 

!■ red the subjects of tour tragedies to be written, 
(life and circumstances permitting,) to wit, 

< '.mi. a meta hj a al iubj< ■ 
m the Btyle of Manfrea, bui in live acts, perhaps, with the 
chorus; Franceses of Rimuu, in five acts; and I am not 
sure that I would not try Tiberius. I think that I could 
extract a something, of my tragic, at least, out of 'he 

■_ uis sequestration and old age of the tyrant — and even 

out of his sojourn at Caprea 1>\ s..f ening the ititaUs, 
and exhibiting the despair which must have led to those 
very vicious pleasures. For none but a powerful and 

" 13 nun I overthrown would have had recourse 10 such 

solitary horrors, — being also, at the same time, o/t/, and 
the master of the world. 

" ^M'-mirrunda. 
B \\ hat is poetry?— The feeling of a Former world 
and Future. 

" Thai 
8 "Why, at the very height of desire and human plea- 
sure, — worldly, so 1 1 - amorous, ambitious, or even avari- 
cious, — does there mingle a certain sense ol doubt and 
sorrow — a rear of whal is to come — a doubt of what is — 
a retrospect to the | i- r . leading to a prognosticate d of 
the future. (The best of the Future Is the 

Past.) Why is this? or these?— I know not, 
that on a pinnacle we arc most susceptible of gid 
and that we never fear falling excepl from a precipice— 
the higher, the more awful, and the more sublime; and, 
then fore, I am not sure that fear is not a pleasurable sen- 
sation : at least, Hope is ; and u hot Hopt is then 1 
a deep leaven of Fear / and whal s< n ation 
fulasHope? and, ifitwerenoi for Hope, when 
the Future be? — in bell. 1 

f us know; and as for the Past, what 
predominates in memorj '■ Ho Ergo, in all 

human affairs, it is Hope — Hope — rlopi Callow 

i; »h I never counted them, to any gh n 01 

■ 1 possession. From whatever place we com- 
mence, we know where il all must end. And yet, what 

good is there in knowing it ? li ctbes fftl make in Q 

or wiser. During the greatesl horrors of the greatest 
pla m ■ (Athens and Florence, fori sample — see Thucy- 
: I -Maehiav-Ili.) men were more cruel and profli- 
gate than ever. It is all a mystery. I feel most things 
but I know nothing, except — — — 



•Child* IWold, Canto IV. Stama 131, and Note to the Two] " TKit marked, with iropalkui .trokei of the pea, Ijr biimelf fa it* 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 



1821. 



255 



• Thou _ / wi the tragedy of Cain : — 

Wen Death mi evil ' cfiioel 

Fool! livens i live — as liiy fattier (ires, 
And thy ton's ions shall livt Cor evermore. 

" Past midnight. One o' the clock. 

" I have been reading W. F. Schlegel (brother to the 
other of the nam') till now, and I can make out nothing. 
He evidently shows a great power of words, but there is 
nothing to be taken hold of. He is like Hazlitl, in Eng- 
lish, who talks jntajiUs — a red and white corruption rising 
up, (in little imitation of mountains upon maps,) but con- 
taining nu.hing, and discharging nothing, except their own 
humours. 

'•I dislike him the worse, (lhat is, Schlegel,) because 
lie always seems upon the verge of meaning ; and, lo. he 
goes down like sunset, or melts iike a rainbow, leaving a 
rather rich confusion, — to which, however, the above com- 
parisons do too much -honour. 

"Continuing to read Mr. F. Schlegetl. He is not such 
a fo il as I took him tor, that is to say, when he speaks of 
the X irto. But still he speaks of things aUoverOie world 
with a kind of authority that a philosopher would disdain, 
and a man of common sense, feeling, and knowledge of 
his own ignorance, would be ashamed of. The man is 
evidently wanting to make an impression, like his brother, 
—or like George in the Vicar of Wakefield, who found 
out that all tiie good things had been said already on the 
right side, and therefore 'dressed up some paradoxes' 
upon the wrong side — ingenious, but false, as lie himself 
says — to which 'the learned world said nothing, nothing 
at all, sir.' The ' learned world,' however, has said some- 
thing to the brothers Schlegel. 

"It is high time to think of something else. What they 
say of the antiquities of the North is best. 

"January 29, 1821. 

" Yesterday the woman of ninety-five years of age was 
with me. She said her eldest son (if now alive) would 
have been seventy. She is thin — short, but active — 
nears, and sees, and talks incessantly. Several teeth 
-eft — all in the lower jaw, and single front teeth. She is 
very deeply wrinkled, and has a sort of scattered gray 
heard over her chin, at least as long as my mustachios. 
Her head, in fact, resembles the drawing in crayons of 
Pope the poet's mother, which is in some editions of his 
works. 

" I forgot to ask her if she remembered Albcroni, (legate 
hen-,) but will ask her next nine. Gave her a louis — 
ordered her a new suit of clothes, and put her upon a 
weekly pension. Till now, she had worked at gathering 
wood run! jiiiir-nuis in tin- forest, — pretty work at ninetv- 
five years old ! She had a dozen children, of whom some 
are alive. Her name is Maria Monfanari. 

" All a company of the sect (a kind of Liberal Club) 
called the ' American!' in the forest, all armed, and sing- 
ing, with all their might, in Romagnuole — l Son tutu 
Boidat' per la liheria,' ('we are all soldiers for liberty. 1 ) 
They cheered me as I passed — I returned their salute, 
and rode on. This may show the spirit of Italy at pre- 
sent. 

■ My to-day's journal consists of what L omitted yes- 

To-day was much as usual. Have rather a 

better opinion of the writings <>f the Schlegels than I had 

f .ur-anil-twenty hours ago; and will amend it still farther, 

if fusible. 

B They say that the Piedmonlese have at length risen 
—$a ira ! 

"Read Schlegel. Of Danfe he says that ( at no time 
has the greatest and most national of all Italian poets 
ever been much the favourite of his countrymen.' T is 
There have been more editors and commentators 
(and imitators, ultimately) of Dante than of all their poets 
put together. Not a favourite ! Why, they talk Dante — 
write Dante — and think and dream Dante at this moment 



("1821) to an excess, which would be ridiculous, but that 
■ rves it. 

"In the same style this German talks of gondolas on 
the Arao — :l precious fellow to dare to speak of Italy ! 

B He says also that Dante's chief defect js a want, in a 
word, of gentle feelings. Of gentle feelings! — and Fran- 
cesca of Rimini — and the father's feelings in Ugolino — 
and Beatrice — and ' La Pia !' Why, there is a gentleness 
in Dante beyond a!! gentleness, when he is tender. It is 
true that, treating of the Christian Hades, or Hell, there 
is not much scope or site for gentleness — but who hut 
Dante could have introduced any ' gentleness' at all into 
HeUf Is there any in Milton's? No — and Dante's 
Heaven is all love, and glory, and majesty. 

" I o'clock. 

" I have found out, however, where the German is right 
— it is about the Vicar of Wakefield. 'Of all romances 
in miniature, (and, perhaps, this is the best shape in which 
romance can appear,) the Vicar of Wakefield is, I think, 
the most exquisite.' He thinks ! — he might be sure. But 
it is very well for a Schlegel. I feel sleepy, and may as 

U get me to bed. To-morrow there will be fine wea- 
ther. 

' Truit oo, and think to-morrow will repay.' 

B January SO, 1821. 

" The Count P. G. this evening (by commission from 
the C 1 .) transmitted to me the new words for the n«xt six 
months. * * * and * * *. The new sacred word is 
* * * — the reply * * * — the rejoinder * * *. The 
former word (now changed) was * * * — tfiere is also 
+ * * — * * * j Things seem fast coming to a crisis — 
cu ira .' 

" We talked over various matters of moment and move- 
ment. These I omit ; — if they come to any thing, they 
will speak for themselves. After these, we spoke of 
Kosciusko. Count R. G. told me that he has seen the 
Polish officers in the Italian war burst into tears on hear- 
ing his name. 

Something must be up in Piedmont — all the letters 
and papers are stopped. Nobody knows any thing, and 
the Germans are concentrating near Mantua. Of' the 
decision of Laybach, nothing is known. This state vf 
things cannot last long. The ferment in men's minds at 
present cannot be conceived without seeing it. 

"January 31, 1821. 
" For several days I have not written any tiling except 
a few answers to letters. In momeniary expectation of 
an explosion of some kind, it is not easy to settle down to 
the desk fur the higher kinds of composition. I could do 
it, to be sure, for, last summer, I wrote my drama in the 

ery bustle of Madame la Contcsse G.'s divorce, and all 
its process of accompaniments. At the same time, I 
also had the news of the loss of an important lawsuit in 
England. But these were only private and personal 
business ; the present is of a different nature. 

I suppose it is this, but have some suspicion that it 
mav be laziness, which prevents me from writing ; espe- 

iallv as Rochefoucault says that ' laziness ofien masters 
them all' — speaking of the passions. If this were true, 
it could hardly be said that 'idleness is the root of all evil, 1 
since this is supposed to spring from the passions only ; 
ergo, that which masters all the passions (laziness, to wit) 
would in so much be a good. Who knows ? 

"Midnight. 
"I have been reading Grimm's Correspondence. He 
repeats frequently, in speaking of a poet, or of a man of 
genius in any department, even in music, (Gretry, for in- 
stance,) that he must have ' une ame qui se tourmente 



t In l he original MS. Li.tit w atchwurj* arc blotted over lo as lo It 
.illegible. 



256 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 185.. 



un esprit violent.' How far this may be true, I know 
not ; but if it were, I should be u poel [ pet eccellenza;' 
for I have always bad ( une Bine, 1 which not only tor- 
mented itself but ever} bod} < ' e in contact with it; and 
mi 'esprit violent, 1 winch has almost left me without any 
1 esprit' at all. As to defining what a poet should \"\ it is 
not worth while, for what are they worth I what have they 
done? 

"Grimm, however, is an excellent critic and literary 
historian. EQs ents forms the annals of the 

literary part of that age of Frame, with much of her 
politics, and still more of her 'way of !il»-.' He is a. 
valuable, and far more entertaining that Muratori or 
Tiraboschi — I had almost said, than Guingenl — bul tht re 
w.' should pause. However *t is a great man in its line. 

"Monsieur fc>t. Lambert has 

* El lorsqn'h «.•* rrenrdu la Inmiftre est ravie, 
II u'n plus, t-n mourant, ft ptnfra que la vie/ 

This is, won) tnr word, Thomson's 

' And dying, nil we cui mien ii brattii,' 

without, the smallest acknowledgment from the Lorraine 
of a poet M. St. Lambert is dead as a man, and (for 
any thing I know to the contrary) damned as a poet, by 
this time. However, his Seasons have good things, and, 
it may he, some of his own. 

"Februarys, 1821. 
"I have been considering what ca»i be the reason why 
I always wake at a certain hour in the morning, and 
,i .■ i . in very bad spirits— I may say, in actual despair 
and despondency, in all respects — even of that which 
: in.- over night. In abnui an hour or two, this 
goes offj and 1 compose either to sleep again, or at least, 
to quiet. In England, five years ago, I had the same 
kind of hypochondria, but accompanied with bo violent s 
durst that 1 have drank as many as fifteen bottles ofsoda- 
water in one night, after going to bed, and been still thirsty 
-—calculating] however,some lost from the bursting out 
an I eff rvescence and overflowing of the soda-water, in 
drawing the corks, «>r striking off the reeks of the bottles 
from mere thirsy impatience. At present, I have nut the 
thirst ; but the depression of spirits is no less violent 

"I read in F.dgew orl'i's Memoirs of something similar 
(except that bis thirst expended itself on sniull beer) in the 
case of Sir F. B. Delaval; — hut then he was, at least, 
twenty years older. What is it? — liver? In England, 
T\e Man (the apothecary) cured me of the thirst in three 

days, and it had lasted as many years. I suppose that il 

is all hypochondria. 

"What I feel most growing upon me are lozinesss ami 
a disrelish more powerful than indifference. If I rouse, 
it is info fury. I presume that 1 shall end (if not earlier 
by accident, or some smh termination) like Swift — 'dying 

BJ top.' I « fees I do not contemplate this with so much 

horror as he anpari ntly did for some years before it ha[»- 
pened. But swift had hardly begun Ufe ai the very period 
(thirty-three'* ) when I foe] quite an old sort of feeL 
"Oh! there is an organ playing in the street — a wait?., 

too! I must leave off to listen. Tiny are playing a 

waltz, which I have heard ten thousand tunes at the halls 
in London, between 1812 and lSlj. Music is a strange 
tiling. 

"February 5, 1821. 

* At last, 'the kiln's in a low.' The Germans are 
ord»red to march, and Italy is, for the ten thousandth lime, 
to become a field of battle. Last night the news came. 

" This afternoon, Count P. G. came tome to consul! 
upon divers matters. Wo rode out together. They Nave 
sent ofi" to the C. for orders. To-morrow tin' decision 
ought to arrive, and then something will be done. Returned 
— (lined — read — went on' — talked over matters. Made 
n purchase, of some amis for the new enrolled Americani, 



' S>« Journtl, January 6, iKSl. 



who are all on tiptoe to march. Gave orders (or somo 
Aorncssand pox manteaus i" cessary for the boo i 

i some of Bowles^ dispute about Pope, with ai. 
the replies and rejoinders. Perceive that my name lias 
been tugged into the controversy, but have not time to 
state what 1 know of the subject On some 'piping day 
of pcaoe' it is probable that I may resume it. 

"February 9, 1821. 
'Before dinner wrote a tittle; also, before I rode out, 
Count P. G. called upon me, to lei me know the result of 
the meeting of the C. at F, and at B. * * returned tale 
last night. Every thing was combined under the idea thai 
the Barbarians would pass the Po on the 16th mst. 
Enstead of this, from some previous information or other* 
n I-'-. they tuu t hasten" d their inarch and actually pniroorl 
two days ago ; so that all that can be done at present m 
l\omai;na is, to stand on the alen and wail for the advance 
of the Neapolitans. Every thing was ready, and the 
Neapolitans had sent on their own insunictions and inteo* 
tions, all calculated for the tenth and e2evenXA, on which 
days a general rising was to take place, under the suppo- 

■iii. ■!! ili.'il lln' li.ii i ;n i.u-.'. .- '■■■ '■ ■ ■ 

the 16th. 

" As it is, they have but fifty or sixty thousand troops, a 

a number with which they might as well attempt to cun- 
quer the world as secure ImK in itspresenl state. The 

artillery marches lust, and alone, and there is an idea ol 
an attempt to cut part of them off. All this "ill much 
depend upon the first steps of the Neapolitans. JSens, the 
public spirit is excellent, providi d ii \« kept up. This will 
be seen by the event. 

"It is probable that Italy will bedeUverJpd from the Bar- 
barians if the Neapolitans will bul stand firm, and are 
nniled among themselves. Jin, th"\ appear so. 

"February 10, 1821 
Day passed as usual — nothing new. Barbarians still 
in march — not well equipped, and, of course, not well 
received on their route. There is some talk of a commo- 
tion at Paris. 

'• Rode out between four and six — finished my letter to 
Murray on Bowles's pamphlets— add) d postscript. Passed 
the evening as usual — out ull eleven — and subsequently 
at home. 

^February 11,1821. 
" Wrote — had a copy taken of an extract from Pet ran I fa 
I, .tiers, with reference to the conspiracy of the Doge, M. 
Paliero, containing the poet's opinion of the matter. Heard 
a heavy firing of cannon towards Comacchio — the Barba- 
rians rejoicing for their principal pig's birthday, which is 
to-morrow — or Sain! da\ — 1 toryel which. Received a 
ticket for the first ball to-morrow. Shall not go to the 
first, but mtend going to me second, as also to the \ 

"February 13,1821. 
"To-day read a little in Louis Bs Hollande, hut have 
written nothing since the completion of the letter on the 

Pope c on'ro-.i r-v. Polities are (jtule misty for t 1 . 
sent. The Barbarians still upon their march. It is not 
easy to divine what the [talians will now do. 

"Was elected vesterday* Socio' of the Carnival ball 
society. This is the fifth carnival that I have passed. 

In the four former, I racketed a good deal. In the pre- 
sent, I have been as sober as Lady Grace herself. 

"February 14, 1841. 

"Much as usual. Wrote, before riding out, pan of a 
scene of 'Sardanapalus.' The first act nearly finished. 
The rest of the day and evening as before — partly w ithoul , 
in conversazione — partly at ho 

"Heard the particulars of the late fray atRussi, a town 
not far from tins. It is exactly the fact of Romeo and 
Giutietta — not Romeo, as the Barbarian writes it. Two 
families of Contadini (peasants) are at feud. At a hall, 
the younger part of the families forget their quarrels, anJ 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1S2I. 



257 



dance together. An old man of one of them enters, and 
reproves the young men for dancing with the females of 
the opposite family. The male relatives of the latter 
resent this. Both parties rush home, and arm themselves. 
They meet directly, by moonlight, in the public way, and 
fight it out. Three are killed on Lhe spot, and six wounded, 
most of them dangerously, — pretty well for two families, 
methinks — and all/act, of the last week. Another assas- 
sination has taken place at Cesenna, — in all about forty 
in Romagna within these 'ast three months. These people 
retain much of die middle ages. 

"February 15. 1821. 
"Last night finished the first act of Surdanapalus. To- 
night, or to-morrow, I ought to answer letiers. 

"February 16, 1821. 

"Last night H Confe P. G. sent a man with a bag full 
of bayonets, some muskets, and some hundreds of car- 
tridges to my house, wi hout apprizing me, though I had 
seen him not half an hour before. About ten davs agu, 
when there was u, be a rising here, tin* Liberals and my 
bn.-thren C'. asked me to purchase some arms for a cer- 
tain fen of our ragamuffins. I did so immediately, and 
ordered ammunition, &c. and they were armed accord- 
ingly. Well — the rising is prevented by the Barbarians 
marching a >veek sooner than appoin'cd; and an order is 
issued, and in force, by the Government, ' that all persons 
having arms concealed, &c. &a shall be liable to,' &c. 
&c. — and what do my friends, the patriots, do two days 
afterward? Why, they throw back U|w>n my hands, and 
into my house, these very arms (without a word of warn- 
ing previously) with wliich I had furnished them at their 
own request, and at my own peril and expense. 

" It was lucky that Lcga was at home to receive them. 
If any of the servants had (exept Tita and F. andLega) 
'hey would have betrayed it immediately. In the mean 
time, if they are denounced, or discovered, I shall be in a 
scrape . fc 

"At nine went out — at eleven returned. Beal the 
crow for stealing the falcon's victuals. Read 'Talcs of 
my Landlord' — wrote a letter — and mixed a moderate 
beakei of water with other uigredients. 

■February 18, 1821. 

"T>.» news are that the Neapolitans have broken a 
bridge, and slain four pontifical carabiniers, whilk cara- 
biniers, wished to oppose. Besides the disrespect to 
neutrality, it is a pity that the first blood shed in this Ger- 
man quarn-l should be Italian. However, the war seems 
begun in good earnest; for, if the Neapolitans kill the 
Pope's carabiniers, thpv will not be more delicate towards 
the Barbarians. If it be even so, in a short time, 'there 
will be news o' thac craws,' as Mrs. Alison Wilson says 
of Jenny Biane's 'unco cockernony' in the Tales of my 
Landlord. 

" In turning over Grimm's Correspondence to-day, I 
found a thought of Tom Moore's in a song of Maupertms 
to a lemale Laplander. 

1 Ft tons lea Henx, 
Oil «oni seaytux. 
Fool 1b Zone brulnnlt.' 

This is Moore's— 

' And those «•-*• mskc my climate, wherever I roam.* 

But I am sure that Moore never saw it; for this song 
was puhhslird in Grimm's Correspondence in 1813, and 
I knew Moore's by heart in 1812. There is also another 
out an antithetical coincidence. 

'Lesoletlliiil, 
Des Jours sum emit 
Hieiiid'. it n — >pn dflitint ; 
Mais ces long* Joiiri 
S.- [-..Hi trop courU, 
I'RMies pre* des Christine.* 

This u the OwtiglU, rtjucr.W, of the last itanza of the 

33 



ballad on Charlotte Lynes, given in M.ss Seward's Me- 
moirs ot Darwin, which is pretty — I quote from memory 
of these last fifteen years. 

' For my first in'rhi 1 'II so 

To UluM regions of SHOW, 
Where the sun lor six months ne'er shiiieu ; 

And think, even thin, 

He loo loon Ciiine Again, 
To disturb me wltb fair Charlotte Lynes.* 

"To-day I have had no communication with my Car- 
bonari cronies; but, in the mean lime, my lower apart- 
ments are full of their bayonets, fusils, cartridges, and 
what not. I suppose thai they consider me as a depot, 
to be sacrificed, in case of accidents. It is no great matter, 
supposing that Italy could be liberated, who or what is 
sacrificed. It w a grand object — the very poetry of poli- 
tics. Only think — a free Italy!!! Whv, there has been 
nodiing like it since the days of Augustus. I reckon the 
times ofCsse&r (Julius) free; because the commotions 
left every body a side to take, and the parties were pretty 
equal at the set out. But, afterward, it was all Pretorian 
and legionary business — we shall see, or at least, some 
will see, what card will turn up. It is best to hope, even 
f the hopeless. The Dutch did more than these fellows 
have to do, in the Seventy Years' War. 

"February 19,1821. 

"Came home solus — very high wind — lightning — 
moonshine — solitary stragglers muffled in cloaks — women 
in mask — white houses— clouds hurrying over the sky, like 
spilt milk blown out of the pail — altogether very poetical. 
It is still blowing hard — the tiles flying, and the house 
rocking — rain splashing — lightning flashing — quite a fine 
Swiss Alpine evening, and the sea roaring in the distance. 
Visited — conversazione. All the women frightened 
by the squall: they toon'* 1 20 to the masquerado because it 
lightens — the pious reason! 

"Still blowing awav. A. has sent me some news to- 
day. The war approaches nearer and nearer. Oh those 
scoundrel sovereigns ! Let us but see them beaten — let 
the Neapolitans but have the pluck of the Dutch of old, or 
nf the Spaniards of now, or of the German Protestants, the 
Scotch Presbyterians, lhe Swiss under Tell, or the Greeks 
under Themistocles — all small and solitary nations, 
(excep! the Spaniards and German Lutherans,) and there 
is yet a resurrection fur Italy, ar> 1 a hope for the world. 

"February 20,1821. 

u The news of the day are, that the Neapolitans are full 
of energy. The public spirit Acre is certainly well kept 
up. The ' Americani* (a patriotic societv here, an under- 
branch of the 'Carbonari') give a dinner, in Vie Forest in 
a few days, and have invited me, as one of the C It 
is lobe in Vic F'irest of Boecacio's and Dry dens 'Hunts- 
man's Ghost ;' and, even if I had not the same political 
feelings, (to say nothing of my old convivial turn, which 
every now and then revives,) I would go as a poet, or, at 
least, as a lover of poetry. I shall expect to see the spectre 
of'Ostasio* degli Onesti' (Dry den has turned him into 
Guido Cavalcanti — an essentially different person, as may 
be found in Dante) come ' thundering for his prey'f in the 
midst of the festival. At any rate, whether he does or no, 
I will get as tipsy and patriotic as possible. 

"Within these few days I have read, but not written 

"February 21, 1821. 
*As usual, rode — visited, &c. Business begins to 
thicken. The Pope has printed a declaration against the 
patriots, who, he says, meditate a rising. The conse- 
quence of all this will be, that, in a fortnight, the whole 
country will be up. The proclamation is not yet published, 
but printed, ready for distribution. * * sent me a copy 
privately — a sign that he does not know what to think. 



* To Bocraclo, tlm nnme is, I thiok, Nestogio. 
t 3m L)ou Juan, t UlO 3d, 1U5 «ud lOfi. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 



258 

When he wants to be well with the patriots, he sends to 
me some civil message or other. 

« For my own part, it seems to me, that nothing but the 
most decided success of the Barbarians can prevent a 
general and immediate rise of the whole nation. 

"February 23, 1821. 
•Almost ditto with yesterday— rode, &c— veiled— 
wrote nothing— read Roman History. 

•Had a curious letter from a fellow, who inform me 
that the Barbarians are ill-disposed towards inc. Ho is 

probably a spy, or an impostor. But be it 80,0] u he 

says. They cannot bestow their hostility on one who 
loathes and execrates them more than 1 do, or who will 
oppose their views with more zeal, when the opponunuj 
oners. 

•February 24,1821. 
•Rode, &c. as usual. The secret intelligence arrived 
JUS morr.bg from the frontier to the &. is as bad as pos- 
sible. The plan has missed— the chiefs are betrayed, 
military as well as cavil— and the Neapolitans not only 
have not moved, but have declared to the 1'. government, 
and to the Barbarians, diat they know nothing ol the 
matter!!! , 

« Thus the world goes ; and thus the Italians are always 
lost for lack of union among themselves. What is to be 
done lure, between the two fires, and cut off from the N». 
frontier, is not decided. My opinion was, better to rise 
than be taken in detail ; but how it will be settled now, I 
cannot tell. Messengers are despatched to the delegates 
of the other cities to learn their resolutions. 

"I always had an idea that it would be bungUd ; but was 
willing to hope, and am so still. Whatever I can do by 
money, means, or person, I will venture freely for their 
freedom; and have so repeated to them (some oT the 
Chiefs here) half an hour ago. I have two thousand rive 
hundred scudi, better than five hundred pounds, in the 
house, which I offered to begin with. 

"February 25,1821. 
"Came home— my head aches— plenty of news, but too 
tiresome to set down. 1 have neither read, nor written, 
nor thought, but led a purely annual life all day. I mean 
to Iry to write a page or two before I go to bed. But, as 
Squire Sullen says, 'My head aches consumedly: Scrub, 
bring me a dram!' Drank some Imola wine, and some 
punch. 

Log-book continual 



"February 27, 1821. 

"1 have been a day without continuing tie- log, because 
lcocld not find a blank book. At length I re acted this. 

" Rode, &r. dined — wrote down an additional stanza 

for the 6th canto of D. J. which I had composed in bed 
this morning. Visited {Arnica. We are invited on the 
ni"ht of the Vcglione, (next Domenica) with the Mar- 
chess Clelia Cavalli and the Countess Spinclh Kusponi. 
1 promise! to go. Last night Uiere was a row at the ball, 



of which I am a 'socio.' The vice-legale had the impu- 
dent insolence to introduce (Am of bis servants m mask— 
without tickets, too! and in spile of remonstrances. The 
consequence was, that die young men of die ball look it 
up, and were near throwing the vice-legate out of die win- 
dow. His servants, seeing ihc scene, withdrew, and he 
after them. His reverence Munsignorc ought to know 
that these are not limes for the predominance of priests 
ant decorum. Two minutes mure, two steps tanner, and 
[he whole city would have been in arms, and the govern- 
ment driven out of it. 

"Such is the spirit of the day, and these fellows appca. 

not to perceive it. As far as the simple fact went, th. 

young men were right, servants being prohibited always 

at these festivals. , 

■Yesterday wrote two notes on the 'Bowles and Kope 

nroversy.and sent them off to Murray by die post. The 

old n an whom 1 relieved in the tores! [she a ninety- 
four years of age") brought me two bunches ..1 nolels. 
■Nam v.ia gaudel morula Boribus.' 1 was much | 
with the present. An Englishwoimn would have pre- 
sented a pair of wonted stockings, at least, in the month 
of February. Both excellent tbuigs; but the former are 
moreelegant. The present,*! this season, reminds one 
of Gray's stanza, omitted from his elegy. 

' Here KatUu-'d ..ft. the airlift of the rear, 

By hnuds „n«cen, are ■bowers of Yiulela fouod ; 
Thr redtirsou love* lo build and warble here, 
And little tbotaupi liRhlly priul the ground.' 

As fine a stanza as any in bis elegy. I wonder that he 
could have the heart to omit it. . 

"Last nighl I suffered horribly— ffom an indigestion, I 
believe. I neuer gup— that is, never at home. But, last 
nighl I was prevailed upon by die Countess Ganibas 
persuasion, and die strenuous example of her broiher, to 
swallow, at supper, a quantity of boiled cockles, and to 

dilute them,no< reluctantly, with some Imola « V\ hen 

1 cam.- home, apprehensive of the consequences, I swal- 
lowed three or foa> glasses of spirits, which men (the 
renders) call brandy, rum, or Hollands, but which gods 
would cntiile spirits of wine, coloured or sugared. All was 
pretty well till I got to bed, when I became somewhat 
swollen, ami considerably vertiginous. I got out, and 
mixing some soda-powders, drank them off. This brought 
on temporary relief. I relumed to bed; but grew sick 
anil st.rrv once and again. Took moie soda-water. At 
last I fell into a dreary sleep. Woke, and was ill all day, 
till I had galloped a few miles. Query— was it the 
cockles, or what I look to correct them, that caused die 
commotion? I think both. I remarked m my illness the 
complete inerlion, inaction, and destruction of my chiet 
mental facullies. I tried to rouse them, and yet could not— 
and this is the Soul .' ! ! I should believe that it was mar- 
ried 10 die body, if dley did Dot sympathize so much with 
each odier. Ifme one rose, "hen the other fell, it WOUSJ 
be a sign dial they longed for the natural slate ol divorce, 
But, as"il is, they seem lo draw together like poslhorses 
"Let us hope die best— it is the granu possession. 



" la uulUter paper-book. 



* Sm Journal. Jan. OS 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



(kXTRACTED FROM VARIOUS JOURNALS, MEMORANDUMS, &c. &c.) 



On the first leaf of his " Scriptores Graci" is in his 
schoolboy hand, the following memorial : — " George Gor- 
don Byron, Wednesday, June 26th, a. d. 1805, 3 quarters 
of an hour past 3 o'clock in the afternoon, 3d school, — 
Calvert, monitor, Tom Wildman on my left hand, and 
Long on my right. Harrow on the Hill." On the same 
leaf, written five years after, appears this comment: 

" Kheu fugnces, Puslhume I Poslhume I 
Labuuluraoiii. 

1 B. January 9lh, 1809. — Of the four persons whose 
names are here mentioned, one is dead, another in a dis- 
tant climate, all separated, and not five years have elapsed 
since they fat together in school, and none are yet twenty- 
one years of age. 

In some of his other school books are recorded the date 
of his entrance at Harrow, the names of the boys who 
were at that time monitors, and the list of his fellow- pupils 
under Doctor Drurv, as follows: 

"Byron, Harrow on the Hill, Middlesex, Alumnus 
Scholar Lyonensis primus in anno Domini 1801, Ellison 
Duce." 

" Monitors, 1801 . — Ellison, Royston, Hunxman, Rash- 
leiifh, Rokebv, Leigh." 

" Drury's Pupils, 1S04. — Byron, Drury, Sinclair, Hoare, 
Bolder, Annesley, Calvert, Strong, Acland, Gordon, 
Drummond." 

****** 

"For several years of mv earliest childhood, I was in 
Aberdeen, but have never revisited it since I was ten 
years old. I was sent, at five years old or earlier, to a 
school kept by a Mr. Bowers, who was called ' Bo<Uy 
Bowers,' by reason of his dapperness. It was a school 
for both sexes. I learned little there except to repeat by 

rote the first lesson of Monosvllables ('God made man' infant passion for Mary Duff,) "I differed not at all from 
— ■ Let us love him 1 ) by hearing it often repeated, without other children, being neither tall nor short, dull nor witty, 
acquiring a letter. Whew rer proof was made of my °f m >' ag^ hut rather lively — except in my sullen moods, 
progress at home, I repeated these words with the most I an( l men I was always a devil. They once (in one of 
rapid fluency ; but on turning over a new |ea£ I continued \ m Y silent rages) wrenched a knife from me, which I had 
to repeal them, so that the narrow boundaries of my first snatched from table at Mrs. B.'s dinner, (I always dined 
year's accomplishments were detected, my ears boxed, ' earlier,) and applied to my breast ; — but this was three or 
(which they did not deserve, seeing it was by ear only f°"r years after, just before the late Lord B.'s decease. 



■Grammar School' (Scotia" t 'Schule;' Aherdomce, 
' Squeel,') where I threaded all the classes to the fourth, 
when I was recalled to England (where I had been 
hatched) by the demise of mv uncle. I acquired this 
handwriting, which I can hardly read myself, under the 
fair copies of Mr. Duncan of the same city: I don't 
think he would plume himself much upon my progress. 
However, I wrote much better then than I have ever 
done since. Haste and agitation of one kind or another 
have quite spoiled as pretty a scrawl as ever scratched 
over a frank. The grammar school might consist of a 
hundred and fifty of all ages under age. It was divided 
into five classes taught by four masters, the chief teaching 
the fourth and fifth himself. As in England, the fifth, 
sixth forms, and monitors, are heard by the head masters." 
****** 

a I doubt sometimes whether, after all, a quiet and 
unagitated Ufe would have suited me; yet I sometimes 
long for it. My earliest dreams (as most boys' dreams 
are) were martial ; but a little later they were all for love 
and retirement, till the hopeless attachment to M * * * 
Q * * * began and continued (though sedulously con- 
cealed) very early in my teens; and so upwards for a 
time. Thut threw me out again 'alone on a wide, wide 
sea.' In the year 1804, 1 recollect meeting my sister at 
General Haicourt's in Portland-place. I was then one 
things and as she had always till then found me. When 
we met again in 1805, (she told me since) my temper and 
disposition were so completely altered that I was hardly 
to be recognised. I was not then sensible of the change; 
but I casi believe it, and account for it." 

****** 

"In all other respects," (he says, after mentioning his 



thru [ had acquired my letters,) and my intellects con- 
to a new preceptor. He was a very devout, clever 
little clergyman, named Ross, afterward minister of one 
of the kirks, (.East, I think.) Under him I made asto- 
nishins progress, and I recollect to this day his mild man- 
ners and good-natured pains-taking. The moment I 
could read, my grand passion was history^ and, why I 
know- not, but I was particularly taken with the battle 



Mv ostensible temper has certainly improved in later 
years ; but I shudder, and must, to my latest hour, regret 
the con^eijiieni.-i* nf it and my passions combined. One 
event — but no matter — there are others not much better 

to think of also— and to them I give the preference 

" But I hate dwelling upon incidents. Mv temper is 
now under management — rarely lovrl, and, when !oud, 
never deadly. It is when silent, and I feci my forehead 



near the Lake Regillus in the Roman History, put into a "d m y cheek paling, that I cannot control it ; and then 
my hands the first. Four years a^o, when standing on 
the heights of Tusculum, and looking down upon the little 
round lake that was once Regillus, and which dots the 
immense expanse below, I remembered my young enthu- 
siasm and my old instmcter. Afterward I had a very 
serious, saturnine, but kind young man, named Paterson, 
for a tutor. He was the son of my shoemaker, but a 
good scholar, as is common with the Scotch. He was a 
rigid Presbyterian also. With him I began Latin in 
Ruddiman's grammar, and continued till I went to the 



but unless there is a woman (and not any or every 
woman) in the way, I have sunk into tolerable apathy." 
****** 
" My passions were developed very early — so ear'? 
that few would believe me if I were to stale the period 
and the facts which accompanied it. Perhaps this was 
one of the reasons which caused the anticipated melan- 
choly of my thoughts, — having anticipated Ufe. My 
earlier poems are the thoughts of one at least ten years 
older than the age at which thoy were written, — I do n't 



260 



DETACHKD THOUGHTS. 



mean for their solidity, but their experience. The first 
tWO Cantos of Childe Harold wen- completed at tw l ntv- 
two; and they are written as if by a man older than I 
shall probably ever be." 

****** 

"My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It 
was the ebullition of a passion for my first cousin, Mar- 
gsret Parker, (daughter and granddaughter of the two 
Admirals Parker,) one of the most beautiful of evanes- 
cent beings. I have long forgotten the verses, but it 
would be difficult for me to forget her — her dark eyes — 
her long eyelashes — her completely Greek cast of tare 
and figure! I was then about twelve — she rather older, 
perhaps a year. She died about a year or two afterward, 
in consequence of a fall, which injured her spine, and 
induced consumption. Her sister Augusta (by some 
thought still more beautiful) died of the same malady ; 
and it was, indeed, in attending her, that Margaret met 
with the accident which occasioned her own death. Mv 
sister told me, that when she went to see her, shortly 
before hardeith, upon accidentally mentioning my name, 
Margaret coloured through the paleness of mortality to 
the eyes, to the great astonishment of mv sister, who 
(residing with her grandmother, Lady Holdemess, and 
seeing but little of me, for family reasons) knew nothing 
of our attachment, nor could conceive why mv name 
should affect her at such a time. I knew nothing of her 
illness, being at Harrow and in the country, till she was 
gone. Some years after, I made an attempt at an elegy 
— a very dull one.* 

"I do not recollect scarcely any thing equal to the 
transpurrtU beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of 
her temper, during the short period of our intimacy. She 
looked as if she had been made out of a rainbow — all 
beauty and peace. 

"My passion had its usual effects upon me — I could 
not sleep — I could not eat — I could not rest; and although 
I had reason to know that she loved me, it was the texture 
of my life to think of the time which must elapse before 
we could meet again — being usually about twelve hours 
of separation! But I was a fool then, and am not much 
wiser now." 

****** 

"When I was fifteen years of age, it happened that, in 
i cavern in Derbyshire, I had to cross in a boat, (in which 
wo people only could lie down,) a stream which flows 
under a rock, with the rock so close upon the water as to 
admit the boat only to be pushed on by a ferryman (;i 
sort of Charon) who wades at the stern, Btooping all tin- 
time. The companion of my transit was Mary Anns 
Chaworth,with whom I had been long in love and never 
told it, though .«/«had discovered it without. I recollect 
my sensations, but cannot describe them, and ii is as well. 
We were a party, a Mr. W. two Miss W.'s, Mr. and 
Mrs. CI— ke, Miss R. and my M. A. C. Alas! win 
do I say my? Our union would have healed feuds in 
which blood had been shed by our fathers, it would have 
joined lands broad and rich, it would have joined at leasi 
one heart, and two persons not ill matched in years, (she 
is two years my elder,) and — and — and — wliat has been 
the result?" 



•When T was a youth, I was reckoned a good actor. 
Besides 'Harrow Speeches', (in which I shone,) 1 enacted 
Penrnddock, in the 'Wheel of Fortune,' and Tristram 
Fickle in Allinshaiii's farce of the 'Weathercock,' for 
three nights, (the duration of our compact,) in some 
private theatricals at Southwell, in 1806, with great 
applause. The occasional prologue for our volunteer 
play was also of my composition. The other performers 
were young ladies and gentlemen of the neighborhood, 



' See preceding McmorniidK, on f«g* 329. 



and the whole went off with great effect upon our good* 
natured audience." 

+ *****. 

■ When I first went up to college, it was a new and a 
heavy-hearted scene for me: firstly, I so much disliked 
leaving Harrow, that though it was lime, (1 being seven- 
teen,) it broke my very rest for the last quartet with 
counting the days that remained. I always lated Harrow 
till the last year and a half, but then I liked it. Secondly, 
I wished to go to Oxford and not to Cambridge. Thirdly, 
I was so completely alone in this new world, that it half 
broke mv spirits. Mv companions were nut unsocial, 
but the contrary — lively, hospitable, of rank and fortune, 
and gay far beyond my gayety. I minded with, and 
dined and supped, &C. with them : but, 1 know not how, 
ii was i'iie of the deadliest and heaviest feelings of my 
life to feel that 1 was no longer a boy." 

"From that moment" (lie adds) "I began to grow old 
in my own esteem, and in mv esteem age is not estima- 
ble. I took my gradations in the rices With great promp- 
titude, but they were not to my taste ; for my early pas- 
sions, though violent in the extreme, were concentrated, 
and hated division or spreading abroad. I could have 
left or lost the whole world with, or for, that which I 
loved ; but, though my temperament was naturally burn- 
ing, I could not share in the commonplace libertinism of 
(be place and time without disgust. And yet this very 
disgust, and my heart thrown back upon itself, threw me 
into excesses perhaps more fatal than those from which I 
shrunk, as living upon one (at a time) the passions which 
spread among many would have hurt only myself." 
****** 

"Till 1 was eighteen years old (odd as it may seem) I 
had never read a Review. But while at Harrow, my 
general information was so great on modern topics as to 
induce a suspicion that I could only collect so much tnfor- 
mat ion from Reviews, because I was never san reading 
but always idle, and in mischief, or at play. The truth is, 
that I read eating, read m bed, read when no one else 
read, and had read all sorts of reading since I was five 
years old, and yet never met with a Review, which is the 
only reason I know of why I should not have read them. 
Bui it is true ; for I remember when Hunter and Curzon, 
in 1804, told me this opinion at Harrow, J made them 
laugh by my ludicrous astonishment in asking them, 
1 ll'httt is a Review?' To he sure, they were then less 
common. In three years more, I was better acquainted 
with that same ; but the lirst I ever read was in I80&-7. 

"At School I was (as I have said) remarked for the 
extent and readiness of my gewrul information ; but in all 
Other respects idle, capable of great sudden exertions, 
(such as thirty or forty Greek hexameters, of course with 

such prosody as it pleased God,) bul of firo continuous 

drudgeries. Mv qualities were much mure oratorical and 
martial than poetical, and Dr. Drury, my grand patron, 
(our head master,) had a great notion that I should turn 
out an orator, from mv fluency, my turbulence, my voice, 
my copiousness of declamation,and my action. I remem- 
ber that my first declamation astonished him into some 
unwonted (for he was economical of such) and sudden 
compliments, before the declanners at our first rehearsal. 
My first Harrow verses, (thai ts, English, as exercises,) 
a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of vEschy- 
lus, were received by him but coolly. No one had th« 
least QOtion that I should subside mtO poesy. 

"Peel, the orator and statesman, ('that was, or is, or is 
to be,') was my form-fellow, and we were both at the i"|i 
of our remove, (a public-school phrase.) We were on 
;ood terms, but his brother was my intimate friend. There 
vere always great hopes of Peel, among us all, masters 
ind scholars — and he has not disappointed them. As a 
icholar he was greatly mv superior; as a declaimer and 
actor, I was reckoned at least his equal ; as a schoolboy 
out of school, I was always in scrapes, and he nevtr ; and 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



261 



in urAW, he always knew his lessc and I rarely, — but 
when 1 knew it, I knew it nearly as well. In general 
information, history, &c. &c. I think I was his superior, as 
well as of most boys of my standing. 

" The prodigy of our school-days wasGcorge Sinclair, 
(son of Sir John ;) he made exercises for half the school, 
(litrrally,) verses at will, and themes without 11. * * * 
He waa a friend of mine, and in the same remove, and 
used at turns to beg me to let him do my exercise, — a 
request always most readily accorded upon a pinch] or 
when I wanted to do something else, which was usually 
once an hour. On the other hand, he was pacific and I 
savage ; so I fought for him, or thrashed others for him. 
or thrashed himself to make him thrash others, when n 
was necessary) as a point of honour and stature, that he 
should so chastise ; or we talked politics, for he was a 
great politician, and were very good friends. I have 
some of his letters, written to me from school, still.* 

"Clayton was another school-monster of learning, and 
talent, and hope ; but what has become of him I do not 
know. He was certainly a genius. 

"My school friendships were with me passions, (for I 
waa always violent,) but I do not know that there is one 
winch has endured (to be sure some have been cut short 
bv death) till now. That with Lord Clare began one of 
tli,- earliest and lasted longest — being only interrupted by 
distance — that I know of. I never hear the word ' Clare 
without a beating of the heart even now, and I write it 
with the feelings of 1803-4-5 ad infinitum." 

"At Harrow I fought my way very fairly. I think I 

lost but one battle out of seven ; and that was to H : 

— and the rascal did not win it, but by the unfair treat- 
ment of his own hoarding-house, where we boxed — I had 
not even a second. I never forgave him, and I should be 
sorry to meet him now, as I am sure we should quarrel. 
My most memorable combats were with Morgan, Rice, 
Rainsford] and Lord Jocelyn, — but we were always 
friendly afterward. 1 was a most unpopular boy, but/ed 
latterly, and have retained many of my school friendships, 
and all my dislikes — except to Doctor Butler, whom I 
treated rebelliously, and have been sorry ever since. 
Doctor Drurv, whom I plagued sufficiently too, was the 
best, the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend I ever had — 
and I look upon him still as a father. 

"P. Hunter, Cur/on, Long, and Tatersall, were my 
principal friends. Clan-, Dorset, C*. Gordon, De Bath, 
Claridee, and J M , Win 2 tie Id, were my juniors and favour- 
ites, whom I spoiled by indulgence. Of all human 
brings, 1 was, perhaps, at one time, the most attached to 
poor YVingtield, who died at Coimbra, 1811, before I 
relumed to England." 

***** 
"I have been thinking over, the other day, on the vari- 
ous comparisons, good or evil, which T have seen published 
of myself in different journals, English and foreign. This 
was suggested to mo by accidentally turning over a 
foreign one lately, — f>r I have made it a rule latterly neve? 
to search for any thing of the kind, but not to avoid the 
perusal if presented by chance. 

"To begin, then: I have seen myself compared per- 
sonally or poetically, in English, French, German, (as 
interpreted to me,) Italian, and Portuguese, within these 
nine years, to Rousseau, Goethe, Young, Are tine, Timon 
of Athens, Dante, Petrarch, ' an alabaster vase, lighted up 
wii I mi.' Satan, Shakspeare, Buonaparte, Tiberius, wEschy- 
lus, Sophocles, Euripides, Harlequin, the Clown, Stem- 
hold and Hopkins, to the phantasmagoria, to Henry the 
Eighth, to Chenier, to Mirabeau, to young R. Dallas, 
(the schoolboy,) to Michael Angelo, to Raphael, to a 
petit-maitre, to Diogenes, to Childe Harold, to Lara, to 
the Count in Beppo, to Milton, to Pope, to Dryden, to 
Burns, to Savage, to Chatterton, to 'oft have I heard of 



thee, my Lord Biron, 1 in Sliakspeare, to Churchill the 
poet, to Kean the actor, to A.rien,4tc. &c. &c. 

"The likeness to Alheri was asserted very seriously by 
an Italian who had known hnn in his younger days. It 
nf course related merely to our apparent personal dispo- 
sitions. He did not assert it to me, (for we were not men 
good friend?,) but in society. 

"The object of so many contradictory comparisons 
must probably be like something different from them all; 
hut what that is, is more than /know, or anybody else." 
***** 

"My mother, before I was twenty, would have it that I 
was like Rousseau, and Madame de Stael used to say so 
too in 1SI3, and the Edinburgh Review has something of 
the sort in its critique on the fourth Canto of Childe 
Harold. I can't see anv point of resemblance: — he 
wroie prose; I verse: he was of the people; 1 of the 
aristocracy:* he "as a philosopher; I am none: he 
published his first work at forty ; I mine at eighteen: his 
first essay broughl him universal applause ; mine the 
contrary: he married his housekeeper ; I could not keep 
house with my wife: he thought all the world in a plot 
HL'am-M him ; my hltle world seems to think me in a plot 
against it, if I may judge by their abuse in print and 
coterie: he liked botany; I like flowers, herbs, and trees, 
but know nothing of their pedigrees: he wrote music; I 
ii i ni my knowledge of it to what I catch by ear — 1 never 
could learn anv thing by study, not even a language — it 
was all by rote, and ear, and memory : he had a bad 
memory; I ha/l, at least, an excellent one, (ask Hodgson, 
the poet — a good judge, for he has an astonishing one:) 
he wrote with hesitation and care; I with rapidity, and 
rarely with pains: he could never ride, nor swim, nor 
'was cunning of fence;' / am an excellent swimmer, a 
decent, though not at all a dashing, rider, (having staved 
in a rib at eighteen in the course of scampering,) and 
was sufficient of fence, particularly of the Highland 
broadsword, — not a bad boxer, when I could keep my 
temper, which was difficult, but which I stiove to do ever 
since I knocked down Mr. Purling, and put his kneepan 
out (with the gloves on,) in Angelo's and Jackson's 
rooms, in 1806, during the sparring, — and I was besides a 
verv fair cricketer— one of the Harrow eleven, when we 
played against Eton in 1805. Besides, Rousseau's way 
of life, his country, his manners, his whole character, 
were so very different, thai I am al a toss to conceive how 
such a comparison could have arisen, as it has done three 
several times, and all in rather a remarkable manner. I 
forgot to say that he was also shortsighted, and that 
hitherto my eyes have been the contrary, to such a 
decree, that in the largest theatre of Bologna I distin- 
guished and read some busts and inscriptions [tainted near 
the stage from a box so distant and so darkly lighted, that 
none of 'he company (composed of young and very 
bright-eyed people, some of them in the same box) could 
make out a letter, an I ihou-jht it was atnek, though I had 
never been in thai theatre before. 

"Altogether, I think mvself "justified in thinking the 
comparison no) well founded. I don't say this out of 
pique, for Rousseau was a great man. and the thing, if 
true, were flattering enough; — but I have no idea of 
being pleased with a chimera." * * * * 

***** 
"t have been thinking of an odd circumstance. My 
daughter, (1) my wife, (-2) my half-sister, (3) my mother, 
(4) my skier's mother, (5) my natural daughter, (6) and 
mvself, (7) are, or were, all only children. My sister's 
mother (Lady Conyers) had only my half-sister by that 
second marriage, (herself, too, an only child,) and my 
father had onlv me, an only child, by his second marriage 
with my mother, an only child too. Such a complication 
of only children, all tending to one family, is singula! 



*Se« C^UIU.oUl. Canto I. Nole 19. 



262 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



enough, and looks like fatality almost. But the fiercest 
animals have the fewest numbers in their litters, as lions, 
tigers, and even elephants, which arc mild in compari- 
son."* 

***** 
"I have a notion (he savs) that gamblers are as happy 
as many people, being always tooted, Women, wine, 
t.un -, llie table, — even ambition, sate now and then; but 
every turn of the card and cast of the dux keeps the 
gamester alive ; besides, one can j/ame ten times longer 
than <me can do any tiling else. I was very fund of n 
when young, that is to say, of hazard, for 1 hate ail card 
games, — even faro. When macco (or whatever they 
spell it) was introduced] I gave up the whole thing, tor I 
loved and missed the rattle and dash of the box and dice, 
and the ^l"ni.u> uncertainty] not only of good luck or bad 
luck, but of any luck at all, as one had sometimes to throw 
often to decide at all. I have thrown as many as fourteen 
mams running, and earned u\T all the cash upon the table 
occasionally ; but I had no coolness, or judgment, or cal- 
culation. It was the delight of the thing that pleased me. 
I'pon the whole, I left oil" in time, without being much ;i 
winner or loser. Since une-and-twenty years >>t " ai-e I 
Wave played but Utile, and litwi never above a hundred, or 
two, or threw " * * * 

"LIST OF HrHTUKlCAL WHITERS WHOSE WORKS I 
HAVE PERUSED IN DIFFERENT LANGUAGES. 

11 History of England. — Hume, Rapin, Henry, Smollet, 
Tindal, Belsham, Bisset, Adolphus, Hotingshed, Frois- 
sart's Chronicles, (belonging properly to Prance. j 

" Scotland. — Buchanan, Hector Boethius, both in the 
Latin. 

tt Ireland. — Gordon. 

" Rome. — Hooke, Decline and Fall by Gibbon, Ancient 
History by Rollin, (including an account of the Carthagi- 
nians, &c.) besides law, Tacitus, Kutropius, Cornelius 
Ni-pos, Julius Ciesar, Arrian, Sallust. 

8 Greece. — Mitfurd's Greece, Leland's Philip, Plutarch, 
Potter's Antiquities, Xenophon, Thucydides, Herodotus. 

" France. — Mezeray, Voltaire. 

" Spain — I chiefly derived my knowledge of old Spanish 
I Eistory from a hook called the Atlas, now obsolete. The 
modern history, from the intrigues of Alheroni down to 
the Prince of Peace, I Learned from its connexion with 
European politics. 

"Portugal. — From Vertot ; as also his account of the 
Siege of Rhodes, — though tho last is his own invention, 
the real facts being totally different. — So much for his 
Knights of Maha. 

8 Turkey. — I have read Knolles, Sir Paul Rycaut, and 
Prince Caiitenur, besides aiuore modern history, ai'.o- 
nymous. Of the Ottoman History I know every event, 
from Tangralopi, and afterward Othman I. to the peace 
of Passarowite, in 1718, — the battle ofCutzka,in 1739, 
and the treaty between Russia and Turkey, in 1790, 

" Russia. — Tooke's Lite of I 'atherine 11. Voltaire^ 

Czar Peter. 

"Sweden. — Voltaire's Charles XII also Norberg's 
Charles XII. — in my opinion the best of the two. — A 

translation of Schiller's Thirty Years' War. which con- 
tains the exploits of (!ir-la\ns Adolphus, l>r--iiles Hartes 

Life of the same Prince. I have somewhere, too, read 
an account of Gustavus Vasa, the deliverer of Sweden, 
but do not remember the author's Dame 

"Prussia. — I have seen, at least, twenty Lives of Fre- 
derick II. the only prince worth recording in Prussian 
annals. Gillies, His own Works, and Thiebault, — none 
very arousing. The last is paltry, but chrumstantiaj, 

" Denmark I know little of. Of Norway I understand 
the natural history, but not the chronological. 

"Germany. — I have read long histories of the house 

* Sat LcUer 538. 



of Suahia, Wene. s!ans, and, at length, Rodolph of Hape- 
burgh and his thwk-lipped Austrian descendants. 

" Switzerland. — Ah! William Tell, and the battle of 
Morgarten, where Burgundj was slain. 

"Italy. — Davila, Gmcciardini, the Guelphs and Ghibet- 
lines, the battle of Pavia, Massanieuo, the revolutions of 

\a]il''s, k- . ^e. 

" Jlimii'stan. — Orme and Cambridge. 

" Ann Vndrews 1 American War. 

"Africa. — Merely from travels, as Mungo Park, Bruce. 

" BIOORAPBT. 

"Robertson's Charles \ — Csssar, Sallust, (Catiline 
and JugurthaA Lives of Marlborough and Eugene] 
Tekrli, Ronnard, Buonaparte, all the British Poets, both 
by Johnson and Anderson, Rousseau's Confi ssions, Life 

of l>i unwell, British I'lu'areli, I In ish N epos, < Campbell's 
Lives nf the Admirals, Charles X 11. CzOT Peter. ' 

rine II. Henry Lord Kaimea, MarmoDlel, Tcignmouth's 

Sir William Jones, Life of Newton, Beiisaire, with thou- 
Bands OOt tO he delailed. 

"LAW. 

" Blackstone, Montesquieu. 

"philosophy. 
"Paley, Locke, Bacon, Hume, Berkeley, Drummond, 
Beattie, and Bolingbroke. Hohbes I detest. 

"geography. 

"Strabo, Cellanus, Adams, Pinkerton, and Guthrie. 

" POETRY. 

"All the British Classics, as before detailed, with most 
of the livini: ports, Scott, Sotithey, &c. — Some French, 
in the original, of which the Cid is my favourite. — Little 
Italian. — (jrreek and Latin without number ; — moss las) i 
shall give up in future. — I have translated a good deal 
from both languages, verse as well as prose. 

"eloquence. 
'Demosthenes, Cicero, Quiimlian, Sheridan, Austin's 
Chironomia, and Parliamentary Debates, from the Re- 
volution to the year 1742. 

"divinity. 

"Bbir, Porteus, Tillotson, Hooker, — all very tiresome. 
I abhor books of religion, though I reverence and love my 
God, without the blasphemous notions of sectaries, or 
belief in their absurd and damnable heresies, mysteries, 
and Thirty-nine Articles. 

"miscellanies. 

"Spectator, Rambler, World, &c. &c. — Novels by tho 
thousand. 

"All the books here enumerated I have taken down 
from memory. I recollect reading them, and can quote 
passages from any mentioned. I have, of course, omit led 
several in my catalogue; but the greater part of the above 
I perused before the age of fifteen, Since I left Harrow 
I have become idle and conceited, from scribbling rhyme 

and niakiii'.' love to wmnen. " B. — Nov. 30, 1807. 

K I have also read (to my regrel al present) above tour 
thousands novels, including the works of< lervantea, Field- 
ing Bmollet, Richardson, Mackenzie, Sterne, Rabelas% 

and Rousseau, &<:. &c. The book, in mv opinion, BOSt 
useful to a man who wishes to acquire the reputation of 

being well read, with the least trouble, is, 'Burton's Ana- 
tomy of Melancholy, 1 the most amusing and instructive 
medley of quotations and classical anecdotes I ever 
pemaed. But a superficial reader must take < are, or Ins 
intricacies will bewilder him. If however, he has patience 
to go through his volumes, he will be more unproved fir 
literary conversation than by the perusal of any twenty 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



263 



other works with which I am acquainted, — at least, in the 
English language. 1 ' 

In the same book that contains the above record of his 
studies, he has written our, also from memory, a "List 
of the different poets, dramatic or otherwise, who have 
distinguished their respective languages by their produc- 
tions." After enumerating the various poets, both ancient 
and modern, of Europe, he thus proceeds with his cata- 
logue through other quarters of the world : — 

" Arabia. — Mahomet, whose Koran contains most 
sublime poetical passages, far surpassing European 
poetry. 

"Persia. — Ferdousi, author of the Shah Nameh, the 
Persian Iliad, — SaJi, and Hatiz, the immortal Hafiz, die 
oriental Anacreon. The last is reverenced beyond any 
bard of ancient or modern times by the Persians, who 
resort to his tomb near Shiraz, to celebrate his memory. 
A splendid copy of his works is chained to his monument, 

"America. — An epic poet has already appeared in that 
hemisphere, Barlow, author of die Columbiad, — not to be 
compared with the works of more polished nations. 

K Iceland^ Denmark, Norway^ were famous for their 
Skalds. Among these Lodburg was one of the most dis- 
tinguished. His Death-Song breathes ferocious senti- 
tsents, tut a glorious and impassioned strain of poetry. 

"Hindustan is undistinguished by any great bard, — at 
least, the Sanscrit is so imperfectly known to Europeans, 
wc know not what poetical relics may exist. 

" The Birman Empire. — Here the natives are passion- 
ately fond of poetry, but their hards are unknown. 

a China. — I never heard of any Chinese poet but die 
Emperor Kicn Long, and his ode to Tea. What a pity 
their philosopher Confucius did not write poetry, with his 
precepts of morality! 

" Africa. — In Africa some of the native melodies are 
plaintive, and the words simple and affecting ; but whether 
their rude strains of nature can be classed with poetry, as 
the son^s of the bards, the Skalds of Europe, &c. &c. I 
know not. 

"This brief list of poets I have written down from 
memory, without any book of reference ; consequently 
some errors may occur, but I think, if any, very trivial. 
The works of the European, and some of the Asiatic, I 
have perused, either in the original or translations. In my 
list of English, I have merely mentioned the greatest; — 
to enumerate the minor poets would be useless, as well as 
tedious. Perhaps Gray,Goldsmith,andCollins, might have 
have added, as worthy of mention, in a cosmopolite account. 
But as for the others, from Chaucer down to Churchill, 
thev are 'voces et prceterea nihil ;' — sometimes spoken of, 
rarely read, and never with advantage. Chaucer, not- 
withstanding the praises bestowed on him, I think obscene 
and contemptible: — he owes his celebrity merely to his 
antiquity, which he does not deserve so well as Pierce, 
Plowman, or Thomas of Ercildoune. English living 
poets I have avoided mentioning; — we have none who 
will not survive their productions. Taste is over with 
us ; and another century will sweep our empire, our 
literature, and our name, from all but a place in the 
annals of mankind. "Byron." 

"November 30, 1807. 

****** 
"Knolles, Canlemir, DeTot%Lady M. W. Montague, 
Hawkins's Translation from Mignot's History of the 
Turks, the Arabian Nights, all travels, or histories, or 
Sooks upon the East I could meet with, I had read, as 
well as Rycaut, before I was ten years old. I think the 
Arabian Nights first. After these, I preferred the history 
of naval actions, Don Quixote, and Smollet's novels, par- 
ticularly Roderick Random, and I was passionate for the 
Roman History. When a boy, I could never bear t" 
read any poetry whatever without disgust and relur . 
once." 



" When I belonged to the Drurv-lane Committee, and 
was one of the Sub-committee of Management, the num- 
ber of plays upon the shelves were about Jive hundred. 
Conceiving that among these there must be some of merit 
in person and by proxy I caused an investigation. I dc 
pot thirst that of those which I saw, there was one which 
coulJ be conscientiously tolerated. There never were 
such things as most of them ! Maturin was very kindly 
recommended to me by Waller Scott, to whom I had 
recourse, firstly, in the hope that he would do something 
for us himself, and secondly, in my despair, that he would 
point out to us any young (or old) writer of promise. 
Maturin sent his Bertram and a letter without his ad- 
dress, so that at first I could give him no answer. When 
1 at last hit upon his residence, I sent him a favourable 
answer and somediing more substantial. His play suc- 
ceeded; but I was at that time absent from England. 

"I tried Coleridge too; but he had nothing feasible in 
hand at the time. Mr. Sotheby obligingly offered ail ids 
tragedies, and I pledged myself, and notwithstanding 
many squabbles with my Committed Brethren, did get 
4 Ivan' accepted, read, and the parts distributed. But, lo! 
in the very heart of the matter, upon some tepidness on 
the part of Kean, or warmth on that of the author, 
Sotheby withdrew his play. Sir J. B. Burgess did also 
present four tragedies and a farce, and I moved green- 
room and Sub-committee, but they would not. 

"Then the scenes I had to go through! — the authors,' 
and the authoresses, and the milliners, and the wild Irish- 
men, — the people from Brighton, from Blackwail, from 
Chatham, from Cheltenham, from Dublin, from Dundee, 
— who came in upon me ! to all of whom it was proper 
to give a civil answer, and a hearing, and a reading. 
Mrs. Glover's father, an Irish dancing-master of sixty 
years, called upon me to request to play Archer, dressed 
in silk stockings, on a frosty morning, to show his legs 
(which were certainly good and Irish for his age, and had 
been still better,) — Miss Emma Somebody with a play 
entitled ( The Bandit of Bohemia,' or some such title or 
production, — Mr. O'Higgins, then resident at Richmond, 
with an Irish tragedy, in which the unities could not fail 
to be observed, for the protagonist was chained by tho 
leg to a pillar during the chief part of the performance. 
He was a wild man of a salvage appearance, and the 
difficulty of not laughing at him was only to be got over 
by reflecting upon the probable consequences of such 
cachinnation. 

K As I am really a civil and polite person, and do hato 
giving pain when it can be avoided, I sent them up to 
Douglas Kinnaird,— who is a man of business, and suffi- 
ciently ready with a negative, — and left them to settle 
with him; and as the beginning of next year I went 
abroad, I have since been little aware of the progress of 
the theatres. 

****** 

" Players are said to be an impracticable people. They 
are so: but I managed to steer clear of any disputes with 
them, and excepting one debate with the elder Byrne 
about Miss Smith's pas de — (something — I forget the 
technicals,) — I do not remember any litigation of my 
own. I ased to protect Miss Smith, because she was 
like Lady Jane Harley in the face, and likenesses go a 
great way with me. Indeed, in general, I left such things 
to my more bustling colleagues, who used to reprove me 
seriously for not being able to take such things in hand 
without buffooing with the histrions, or throwing things 
into confusion by treating light matters with levity. 

****** 
B Then the Committee! — then the Sub-committee! — 
we were but few, but never agreed. There was Peter 
Moore who contradicted Kinnaird, and Kinnaird who 
contradicted every body: then our two managers, Rae 
and Dibdin ; and our Secretary, Ward ! and yet we were 
all vary zealous and in earnest to do good and so forth. 



264 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



* * * * furnished us with prologues lo our revived old 
English plays; but was not pleased with ma f>r compli- 
menting him as 'the Upton' of our theatre, (Mr. Upton is 
or was the poet who writes the songs for Asllcy's,) and 
almost gave up prologuing in consequence. 

****** 

"In the pantomime of 1815-16, there was a repre- 
sentation of the masquerade of 1814 given by ' us youth' 
of Watier's Club to Wellington and Co. Douglas Km- 
naird and one or two others, with myself] pul on masques, 
and went on the stage with the bt troXXoty to see the 
effect of a theatre from the stage: — it is very grand. 
Douglas danced among the figuranti too, and tbeywere 
puzzled to find out who we were, as being more than 
thiir number. It was odd enough that Douglas Kinnaird 
ami I should have been both at the real masquerade, and 
afterward in the mimic one of the same, on the stage of 
the Drury-lane theatre." 

****** 

"In 1812," he says, "at Middleton, (Lord Jersey's,) 
iniung a goodly company of lords, ladies, and wits, &c. 
there was * * * 

* Erskine, too! Erskine was there ; good, but intoler- 
able. He jested, he talked] he did every thing admirably, 
but then he would be applauded for the same thing twice 
over- He would read his own verses, his own paragraph, 
ami tell his own story, again and again ; and then ' the 
Trial by jury ! ! !' I almost wished it abolished, for I sat 
next him at dinner. As I had read his published speeches, 
there was no occasion to repeat them to me. 

B C * * (the fox-hunter,) nicknamed ' Cheek C * *, 
and I, sweated the claret, being the only two who did so. 
C * *, who lores his bottle, and had no notion of meet- 
ing with a ' bon-vivanf in a scribbler, in making my eulogy 
to somebody one evening, summed it up in — l By G— d, 
he drinks like a man!' 

"Nobody drank, however, but C * * and I. To be 
■We, there was little occasion, for we swept off what was 
on the table (a most splendid board, as may be supposed 
at Jersey's) verv sufficiently. However, we carried our 
liquor discreetly, like the Baron of Bradwardine." 

****** 
"At the opposition meeting of the Peers, in 1812, at 
Lord Granville's, when Lord Grey and he read to us the 
correspondence upon Moira's negotiation, I sat next to 
the present Duke of Grafton, and said, ' What is to be 
done next V — ' Wake the Duke of Norfolk,' (who was 
snoring away near us,) replied he: 'I don't think the 
negotiators have left any tiling else for us to do this turn.' 
"In the debate, or rather discussion, afterward in the 
House of Lords upon that very question, I sat immedi- 
ately behind Lord Moi a, who was extremely annoyed at 
Grey's speech upon the subject; and, while Grey was 
speaking, turned round to me repeatedly, and asked me 
whether 1 agreed with him. It was an awkward question 
to mi | who had not heard both sides. Moira kept repeal- 
ing to me, ' It was not so, it was so and so,' &c. I did 
not know very well what to think, but I sympathized with 
the acuteness of his feelings upon the subject." 

"The subject of the Catholic claims was, it is well 
known, brought forward a second time this session by 
Lord WeUesleY] whose motion f<>ra future consideration 
of the question was carried by a majority of one. In 
reference to this division, another rather amusing anec- 
dote is thus related. 

"Lord * * affects an imitation of two very different 
Chancellors, Thurlow and Loughborough, and can indulge 
in an oath now and then. On one of the debates on the 
Catholic question, when we were either equal or within 
one, (I forget which,) I had been sent for in great haste 
oo a ball, which I quitted, I confess, somewhat reluctantly, 
to emancipate five millions of people. I came in late, 
and did not go immediately into the body of the House, 



but stood just behind the woolsack. * * turned round, 
and, catching my eye, immediately said to a peer, (who 
had come to him for a few minutes on the woolsack, as is 
the custom of his friends,) ' Damn them ! they 'II have it 
now, — by G — d! the vote that is just come in will give 
it them.' " 

****** 

u When I came of age, some delays, on account of 
some birth and marriage certificates from Cornwall, 
occasioned me not to take my seat for several weeks. 
When these were over and 1 had taken the oaths, the 
Chancellor apologized to me for the delay, observing 
that these forms were a part of his duty.' I begged 
hiin to make no apology, and addict, (as he certainly had 
ihown no violent hurry,) 'Tour Lordship was exactly 
like Tom Thumb' (which was then being acted) — ' You 
did your duty, and you did no more.' 1 " 

****** 
I have never heard any one who fulfilled my ideal of 
an orator. G rattan would have been near it, but for his 
harlequin delivery. Pilt I never heard. Fox but once, 
and then he struck me as a debater, which to me seems 
as different from an orator as an improvisatore, or a ver- 
sifier from a poet. Grey is great, but it is not oratory. 
Canning is sometimes very like one. Windham 1 did 
not admire, though all the world did; it seemed sad 
sophistry. Whit bread was the Demosthenes of bad 
taste and vulgar vehemence, but strong, and English. 
Holland is impressive from sense and sincerity. Lord 
Lansdowne good, but still a debater only. Grenville I 
like vastly, if he would prime his speeches down to an 
hour's delivery. Burdett is sweet and silvery as Belial 
himself, and I think the greatest favourite in Pan htno- 
nium, at least I always heard the country gentlemen and 
the ministerial devilry praise his speeches up stairs, and 
run down from Bellamy's when he was upon his RUB. I 
heard Bob Milnes make his second speech ; it made no 
impression. I like Ward — studied, but keen, and some- 
times eloquent Peel, my school and form-fellow, (we 
sale within two of each other,) strange to say, 1 have 
never heard} though 1 often wished to do so; but from 
what I remember of him at Harrow, he is, or should be, 
among the best of them. Now, I do not admire I\Ir. 
Wilherforce's speaking; it is nothing but a How of words 
— ' words, words alone.' 

B I doubt greatly if the English have any eloquence, 
properly so called; and am inclined to think that the Irish 
had a <:reat deal, and that the French will have, and have 
had in Ivlirabeau. Lord Chatham and Burke are the 
nearest approaches to orators ui England. I don't know 
what Erskine may have been at the bar; but in the 
House, I wish him at the bar once more. Lauderdale is 
shrill, and Scotch, and acute. 

****** 

"But among all these, good, bad, and indifferent, I 
never heard the speech which was not loo long for the 
auditors, and not very intelligible, except here and (here 
The whole thing is a grand deception, and as tedious and 
tiresome as may be to those who must be often present 
I heard Sheridan only once, and that bnerlv, but I liked 
his voice, his manner, and his wit ; and he is the onlv one 
of them I ever wished to hear at greater length. 

" The impression of Parliament upon me was, that its 
members are not formidable as speakers, but very much 
so as an awlience ; because m so numerous a body there 
may bo liitle eloquence, (after all, there were but («>« 
thorough orators in all antiquity, and I suspect still fouxr 
in modern limes,) but there must be a leaven of thought 
and good sense sufficient to make tlieiu know what is 
right, though they can't express it nobly. 

"Home Tooke and Koscoe both are said to have 
declared that they left Parliament with a higher opinion 
of its aggregate integrity and abilities than that with 
which they entered it. The general amount of both id 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



265 



most Parliaments is probably about .he same, as a so the 
number of .peefter. and their talent. I except orator, of 
course, because thev are things of ages, and not of scp- 
SSor tr.enn.al reunions. Nei.her House ever struck 
me with more awe or respect .hat. .he same number of 
Turks in a divan, or of Methodists » a bar.™ 
done. Whatever diffidence or nervousness I fell land 1 
felt bod, in a great degree) arose from the number rather 
than the quality of .he assemblage, and the ,1, ough a he 
of me pMk without .ban the persons „,l„n- .,,.,„, 
(as all know) .hat Cicero himself, and probably the M< *■ 
dah, could never have al.ered ,he vote of a s,n do ord 
of the bedchamber or bishop. I though, our House dull, 
but the other animating enough upon great days. 



"In society I have met Sheridan frequently : he was 
superb ! He had a sor. of liking for me, and never at- 
tacked me, a. leas, to my lace, and he dul every body 

el=e—hi«h names, and wits, and orators, some o ni 

poets also. I have seen him cut up \\ hi hi. ad, qua 
Madame de Stael, annihilate Colman, and do little less 
by some o.hers (whose names, as fr.ends, 1 set not down) 
of gold fame and ability. 

"The last ..me I met him was, I think, a, Sir Gilbert 
Elliot's, where he was as quick as ever— no, it was nol 
the las. time ; the last time was at Douglas Kinnairds. 

-I have met him in all places and parties— at White- 
hall with the Melbourne's, at the Marquis of Tavistock's, 
at RobinsVi me auctioneer's, a. Sir Humphrey Davys, a 
Sam Rogers's,-!,, short, in most kinds nl company, and 
alwavs found him very convivial and delig ituil. 

" I have seen Sheridan weep two or ihree times. It 
may he .hat he was maudlin; but this only renders u 
mo're impressive, for who would see 

• From MurltornwH'. eyes lb. «=«™ <•< a<**& Bow, 
And Swift expire ■ dnttlltr and a »ho« I' 

Once I saw him cry at Robins's the auctioneer's, afo 
8 ,,lend.,l dinner, full of great names and high spirits. 1 
had .he honour of sitting next to Sheridan. Ins OCCa- 
non of his .ears was some observation or other upon the 
V u i, r r, of the slurdiness of the Whigs in resisting office 
and keeping to their principles: Sheridan turned round: 
. ar „ is ,-asv for my Lord G. or Earl G. or Marquis B. 
or Lord 11. with thousands upon thousands a year, some 
of,, either pracntly derived, „, inhenUd rn smeeure or 

acquisitions (from the public , -y, to boast of *ar 

patriotism and ke.p aloof from temptation ; but tfiey do 
„„, know fro,,, what templalion those have kept aloof 
who had equal pride, a, least equal talents, and nol un- 
equal passions, and nevertheless knew not tn the course 
of their lives what it was to have a shilling of their own. 
And in savins this he wept. 

. I have m„re than once heard him say, ' that he never 
had a shilling of his own.' To be sure, he contrived to 
extract a good many of other people's. 

« In 1815, 1 had occasion to visit my lawyer in than 
cerv-lan.-: he was with Sheridan. After mutual greet- 
ini &C. Sheridan retired first. Before recurr,,,, to my 
nvn business, I could no, help inquiring that of Sheridan. 
i)h,' replied, he attorney, 'the usual dung! to stave ofl 
„„ action from his wine-merchant, my client — 'Wei 
sa.J 1 'and what do vol. mean to do ?'— ' Nothing a. all 
for the present,' said he: 'would you have us proceed 
a-ainst old Sherry ? what would be the use of it? and 
here he began laughing, and going over Sheridan s good 
mfts of conversation. 

-Now from personal experience, I can vouch that my 
attomev is by no means the tenderest of men, or par- 
ticularly accessible to any kind of impression out of the 
..atute or record ; and ye, Shendan in half ar. hour, had 
found the way .0 soften and seduce him in such a manner 
,hat I almost think he would have thrown his client (an 
honest man, with all the laws, and some justice, on He 
ude) out of the window, had he com. in at the moment. 



"Such was Sheridan! he could soften an attorney! 
There has been nodiing like it since the days of Orpheus. 
One day I saw him lake up Ins own 'Monody on 
Garrick.' He lighted upon the Dedication ,o the Dow- 
ager Ladv * *■ On seeing ,', he flew .mo a rage, and 
% imed, Hha> i, must be a forgery, .ha. he had never 
dedicated ai.v Hung of his to such a d-d canting, &c. 
Sec fcc —and so went on for ha.f an hour abusing his 
ov. o dedication, or a. leas, the object of it. If all writers 
were equally sincere, it would ba ludicrous. 

-Hetold me that, on .he night of the grand success 
,.,- | , school foi Scandal, he was knocked down and put 
into the watchhouse for making a row in the stree., and 
bein« found intoxicated by the waichmen. 

« When dvinn, he was requested to undergo an opera 

„„n ' He replied, that he had already submitted to tut., 

wh.ch were enough for one man's lifetime. Being asked 

wh ai ,h,v were, he answered, 'having his hair cut, and 

sitting for his picture. 1 , 

"1 have met George Colman occasionally, and thought 
him extremely pleasant and convivial. Sh °^ J""" 
monr, or rather wit, was always saturnine, and sometime. 
savage; he never laughed, (at leas, that / saw, and I 
watched hnn,) but Colman did. If I had to choose and 
could not have both a, a time, I should say, ' Let mebegm 
the evening with Sheridan, and Blush .1 with Colman. 
Sheridan for dinner, Colman for supper ; Sheridan tor 
claret or port, but Colman for every thing, from the 
madeira and champaigne a. d.nner, the claret with a 
layer of port between the glasses, up to the punch of the 
:,.h,,and down,., the grog, or gin and water of day- 
break ;-all these I have threaded with both the .same. 
Sheridan was a grenadier company of life-guards, but 
Colman a whole reguneiit— of light infantry, to be sure, 
but still a regiment." 

* * * * * 

"Sheridan's liking for me (whether he was not mystify- 
in. me, I do not know, bu. Lady Caroline Lamb and others 
.id me that he said the same both before and after he 
knew me) was founded upon ' English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers.' He .old me that he did not care about 
poetry, (or about mine-at leas,, any but that poem of 
mine,) but he was sure from that and other symptoms, 1 
should make an ora.or, if I would bu, take to speaking 
and ™ w a parl.au, n: .nan. He never ceased harping 
upon this to me to the last; and I remember my old 
tutor, Dr. Drurv, had the same notion when I was a buy ; 
but .t never was rev turn of inclination to try. I spoke 
once or twice, as all young peers do, as a kind of mtro. 
,,,„.„„„ mt0 public life ; but dtssij a'lon, shyness, haughty 
and reserved opinions, together with the short tune I lived 
,n England after mv majority, (only about hve years in 
all) prevented mo from resuming the experiment As 
far as ., wen,, i, was not discouraging, particularly my 
&■* speech; (1 spoke three or four limes in al ,) but just 
after it, my poem ofCbflde Harold was published, and 
nohodv ever though, about my proas afterward,nor indeed 
d,d I ;' it became to me a secondary and neglecled object, 
though I someumes wonder to myself if I should havo 
succeeded ■ 



■ When .he bailiff (for I havo seen most kinds of life) 
came upon me in 1815 to seize my chattels (be.ng a peer 
„f parliament, my person was beyond him,) being curious 
(asis mv hab,,,) I firs, asked him,' What extents e sewhero 
I J for government? upon which he showed me one 
upon one home only t • sen »,y th.^lpou^ Nextl 
asked him, if lie had nothing for Sheridan ? oh - &hen - 
dari '' said he ; ' ay, I have this,' (pulling out a pocket-book, 
T-) ^bui,mvlord,I have been in Sheridan's house a 
rwelvemomh a. a .,me-a civil gentleman-knows how to 
deal will, us; &c. &c fcr. Our own business was .her. 
I discussed, which was none of the easiest for me at that 
m l But the man was civil, and (what I valued mora) 



266 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



communicative. I had met many of his brethren, years 
before, in atfairs of my friends, (commoners, that is,) but 
this was the first (or second) on my own account. A 
civil man ; feed accordingly : probably he anticipated as 
much." 



B I have hoard that when Grattan made his first speech 
in ihe English Commons, it was tor sum-- minutes doubt- 
ful whether to laugh at or cheer him. The debut of his 
predecessor Flood had been a complete failure im.l. -i 
nearly similar circumstances. But when the ministerial 
part of our senators had watched Pit! (their thermome- 
ter) fur the cue, and saw him nod repeatedly Ins Stalely 
nod of approbation, they took the bint from their hunts- 
man, and broke out into the most rapturous cheers. 
Graltan's speech, indeed, deserved them ; it was a chrj- 
(Fcruvre. I did not hear that speech of Ins, (being then 
at Harrow,) but heard most of his others on the same 
question — also that on the war of 1815. I differed from 
his opinions on die latter question, but coincided in the 
general admiration of his eloquence. 

"When I met old Courtenay, the orator, at Rogers the 
poet's, in 1811-12, I was much taken with the portly 
remains of his fine figure, and the still acute quickness 
of his conversation. It was he who silenced Flood in the 
English House by a crushing reply to a hasty tMb&t of 
the rival of Grattan in Ireland. I asked Courtenay (for 
I like to trace motives) if he had not some personal pro- 
vocation ; for the acrimony of his answer seemed to me, 
as I had read it, to involve it. Courtenay said k he had ; 
that, when in Ireland, (being an Irishman,) at the bar of 
the Irish House of Commons, Flood had made a personal 
and unfair attack upon himself, who, not being a member 
of that House, could not defend himself, and that some 
years afterward] the opportunity of retort offering in the 
English Parliament, he could not resist it. lie certainly 
repaid Flood with interest, for Flood never made any 
figure, and only a speech or two afterward, in the English 

House of Commons. I must except, however, his speech 
on Reform in 1790, which Fox called 'the beal In- ever 
heard upon that subject. 1 ■ 

****** 

B Iwas much struck with the simplicity of Grat tan's 
manners in private life: they were odd, but they were 
natural. Curran used to take him orF, bowing to the 
very ground, and 'thanking God thtit he had no pecu- 
liarities of gesture or appearance, 1 in a way irresistibly 
ludicrous and * * used to call him a * sentimental harle- 
quin.' 



tion, was Scrope Bcrdmore Davies. Hobhouse is also 
pery good ID that line, though it is of less consequence to a 
man who lias other ways of showing his talents than in 
company. Scrope was always ready and often witty — 
Hobhouse as witty, but not always so ready, being mora 
diffident. 8 



" Lewis is a good man, rhymes well, (if not wisely.) 
but is a bore. He seizes you by the button. One night 
of a rout, at Mrs. Hope's, he had fastened upon me, not- 
wr&slanding my symptoms of manifest distress (for I 
was in love, and had just nicked a mmute when neither 
mothers, nor husbands, nor rivals, nor gossips, were near 
inv then idol, who was beautiful as the statues of the 
gallery where we stood at the time) — Lewis, I say, had 
seized upon me by the button and the heart-strings, and 

pared neither. W. Spencer, who likes fun, and do n't 
dislike mischief) saw my case, anti coming up to us both, 
took me by the hand, and pathetically bade me farewell ' 

(or, 1 saiil be, ' I see it is all over with you.' Lewis then 
went away. Sic me servant Apollo. 

u I remember seeing Bluchsr in the London assemblies, 
and never saw any dung of his age less venerable. With 
the voice and manners of a recruiting sergeant, he pre- 
tended to the honours of a hero, — just as if a slone could 
be worshipped because a man had stumbled over it." 



"Curran! Curran 's the man who struck me most. 
Such imagination! there never was any thing like it that 
ever I saw or heard of. His published life — his published 
speeches, give you no idea of the man — none at all. He 
was a machine of imagination, as some one said that 
Piron was an epigrammatic machine. 

" I did not see a great deal of Curran — only in 1813; 
but I met him at home, (foe he used to call on me,) and 
in society, at MacJontoeh's, Holland House, &c. &c. and 
he was wonderful even to me, who had seen many re- 
markable men of the time. 

****** 

"The powers of Curran's Irish imagination were ex- 
hanstless. I have heard that man speak more poetry than 
I have ever seen written, — though I met hun seldom and 
but occasionally. I saw him presented to Madame de 
Stacl at Mackintosh's-, — it was the grand confluence be- 
tween the Rhone and the Saone, and they were both so 
d — d ugly, that I could not help wondering how the best 
intellects of France and Ireland could have taken up 
respectively such residences." * * * * 

• One of the cleverest men I »ver knew, in conversa- 



" "When I met Hudson Lowe, the jailer, at Lord Hol- 
land's before he sailed for St. Helena, the discourse 
turned on the battle of Waterloo. I asked him whethei 
the dispositions of Napoleon were those of a great gene- 
ral? He answered, disparagingly, ' that they were very 
sii/ijilrS I had always thought dial a degree of simplicity 

was an ingredient of greatness. 

****** 
v L * * was a good man, a clever man, but a bore. 
My only revenge or consolation used to be, setting him 

by die ears with some vivacious person who hated bores 
especially, — Madame de S — or H — , for example. But 
I liked L * * ; he was a jewel of a man, had he been 
better set; — I don't mean personalty, but less tveanmi, 
for he was tedious, as well as contradictory to every thing 
and every body. Being shortsighted, when we used to 
ride out together near the Brenta in the twilight in sum- 
mer, he made me go before, to pilot hun : I am absent at 
tun -s, especially towards evening; and the consequence 
of this pilotage was some narrow escapes to the M * * 
on hwrseback. Once I led him into a ditch over which I 
had passed as usual, forgetting to warn my convoy; once 
I led him nearly into the river, instead of on the mowabU 
bridge which incommodes passengers ; and twice did we 

both run sgainstthe Diligence, which, being heavy and 
slow, did communicate less damage than it received in its 
leaders, who were terruned by the charge ; thrice did I 
lose him in die gray of the gloaming, and was obGged to 
bring-to to his distant signals of distance and distress ; — all 

the time he went un talking without intermission, for he 
was a man of many words. Poor fellow! he died a 
martyr to his new riches — of a second vu.it to Jamaica. 



' I '(I ci»e the I.'tmti of Dcloraint 
Dork Mitigrur c were &h*e again 1 



that 1 



old gtri many a supnr can* 
k Lewit were ali»e og«iii I" 



"Madame de Stael was a good woman at heart and 
the cleverest at bottom, but spoiled by a wish to be — she 
knew not what. In her own house she was amiable ; in 
any other person's, you wished her gone, and in her own 
again." 

****** 

* 1 liked the Dandies ; they were alwtya very civil to 



DETACHED THOUGHTS 



267 



me, though in general they disliked literary people, and 
persecuted and mystified Madame de Stael, Lewis, * * 
* *, and the like, damnably. They persuaded Madame 
de Stael that A * * had a hundred thousand a year, &c 
&c. till she praised him to his face for his beauty! and 
made a set at him for * *, and a hundred fooleries be- 
sides. The truth is, that, though I gave up the business 
early, I had a tinge of dandyism in my minority, and pro- 
bably retained enough of it to conciliate the great ones at 
6ve-and-iwenrv. I had gamed, and drank, and taken my 
degrees m most dissipations, and having no pedant rv, and 
not being overhearing, we ran quietly together. I knew 
them all more or ltss, and they made me a member of 
Watier's, (a superb club at that time,) being, I take it, the 
only literary man (except two otJiers, botli men of the 
world, Moore and Spenser) in it. Our masquerade was 
a grand one ; so was die dandy ball too, at the Argyle, 
but that (the latter) was given by the four chiefs, B., M., 
A., and P., if I err not. 

w I was a member of the Alfred, loo, being elected 
while in Greece. It was pleasant ; a little too sober and 
li erary, and bored with * * and Sir Francis Dlvernois; 
but one met Peel v and Ward, and Valenua, and many 
other pleasant or known people ; and it was, upon the 
whole, a decent resource in a rainy day, in a dearth of 
parties, or parliament, or in an empty season. 

"I belonged, or belong, to the following clubs or socie- 
ties : — to the Alfred ; to die Cocoa Tree ; to Watier's ; 
to the Union; to Racket's, (at Brighton;) to the Pugi- 
Ustic; to the Owls, or ' Fly-by-night ;' to the Cambridge 
Whig Club; to die Harrow Club, Cambridge; and to 
one or two private Clubs; to the Hampden (political) 
Club; and to the Italian Carbonari, &c. &.C. &c. 'though 
last, not least? I got into all these, and never stood for 
any other — at least to my own knowledge. I declined 
bsing proposeU to several others, though pressed to stand 
candidate." 



* * * * (commonly called long * * *, a very clever 
man, but odd) complained to our friend Scrope B. Davies, 
in ruling, that he had a stitch in his side. 'I don't won- 
der at it,' said Scrope, ' for you ride like a tailor? Whoever 
had seen * * * on horseback, with his very tall figure on 
a small nag, would not deny the justness of the repartee. 



"When Brummell was obliged (by that afFair of poor 
M * *, who thence acquired the name of 'Dick the 
Dandv-killf-r" — it was about money, and debt, and all 
that) to retire to France, he knew no French, and having 
obtained a irrammar for the purpose of study, our friend 
Scrope Davies was asked what progress Brummell had 
made in French, he responded, l that Brummell had been 
stopped, like Buonaparte in Russia, by the Elements? 

u I have put this pun into Beppo, which is 'a fair ex- 
change and no robbery,' for Scrope made his fortune 
at several dinners (as he owned himself) by repeating 
occasionally, as his own, some of the buffooneries with 
winch I had encountered"him in the morning." 



a I have been called in as mediator, or second, at least 
twenty times, in violent quarrels, and have alwavs con- 
trived to settle the business without compromising the 
honour of the parties, or leading them to mortal conse- 
quences, and this too sometimes u*. very difficult and 
delicate circumstances, and having to deal with very hot 
and haughty spirits, — Irishmen, gamesters, guardsmen, 
captains, and cornets of horse, and the like. This was, 
of course, in my youth, when I lived in hot-headed com- 
pany. I have had to carry challenges from gentlemen to 
noblemen, from captains to captains, from lawyers to 
counsellors, and once from a clergyman to an officer in 



the life-guards ; but I found the latter by far the most 
difficult, 

' to compose 
The bloody duel without blows, ' 

the business being about a woman: I must add too, that 
I never saw a woman behave so ill, like a cold-blooded, 
heartless b — as she was, — but very handsome, for all 
that. A certain Susan C * * was she called. I never 
saw her but once ; and that was to induce her but to say 
two words, (which in no degree compromised herself,) 
and which would have had the effect of saving a priest or 
a lieutenant of cavalry. She would not say them, and 
neither N * * nor myself (the son of Sir E. N * +, 
and a friend to one of the parties) could prevail upon her 
to say them, though both of us used to deal m some sort 
with woman-kind. At last I managed to quiet the com- 
batants without her talisman, and, I believe, to her great 
disappointment: she'was the damnedest b— that I ever 
saw, and I have seen a great many. Though my clergy- 
man was sure to lose either his life or his living, he was 
as warlike as the Bishop of Beauvais, and would hardly 
be pacified ; but then he was in love, and that is a martial 
passion." 

***** 4= 

tt Like Sylla, I have always believed that all things 
depend upen fortune, and nothing upon ourselves. I am 
not aware of any one thought or action worthy of being 
called good to myself or others, which is not to be attn 
buted to the good goddess Fortune." 

****** 

" If I were to live over again, I do not know what I 
would change in my life, unless it were for — not to have 
lived at all. All history, and experience, and the rest, 
teaches us that the good and evil are pretty equally 
halanced in this existence, and that what is most to be 
desired is an easy passage out of it. What can it give 
us but years? and those have htUe of good but their 
ending. 

****** 

"The world visits change of politics or change of 
religion wiih a more severe censure than a mere diffe- 
rence of opinion would appear to me to deserve. But 
there must be some reason for this feeling ; — and I think 
it is that these departures from the earliest instilled ideas 
of our cliildhood, and from the line of conduct chosen by 
us whttn we first enter into public life, have been seen to 
have more mischievous results for society, and to prove 
more weakness of mind than other actions, in themselves 
more immoral." 



Of the bast of himself by Bartollini : — * The bust does 
not turn out a good one, — though it may be like for aught 
I know, as it exactly resembles a superannuated Jesuit." 
Again, ■ I assure you BartolUni's is dreadful, though my 
mind misgives me that it is hideously like. If it is, I 
cannot be long for this world, for it overlooks seventy." 



'As far as fame goes (that is to say, living fame,) I 
have had my share, perhaps — indeed, certainly — more 
than my deserts. 

u Some odd instances have occurred, to my own experi- 
ence, of the wild and strange places to which a name 
may penetrate, and where it may impress. Two years 
ago, (almost three, being in August or July, 1819,) I re- 
ceived at Ravenna a letter, in English verse, from Uron- 
thexm in Norway, written by a Norwegian, and full of the 
usual compliments, &c. &c. It is still somewhere among 
my papers. In the same month I received an invitation 
into Holstein from a Mr. Jacobsen (I think) of Ham- 
burgh : also, by the same medium, a translation of Me- 
dora's song in the Corsair by a Westphahan baroness, 
(not ' Thunderton-Tronck,') with some original verses of 
hers, (very pretty and Klopstock-ish,) and a prose transla- 
t mi annexed to thorn, on the ruibjac of my wife: — as 



26S 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



[hey concerned her mora than me, I sent ihem to her, 
together with Mr. Jacobsen's letter. It was odd enough 
to receive an invitation to pass the summer in Haitian 

while in Italy, from | pie I never knew. The letter 

was addmsed to Venire. Mr. Jacohscn talke.l to the 
of the 'wild roses' growing in the Holstein Bummer. 1 
Why then did the Cimbri and Teutones emigrate? 

"Wh.iia strange thing is life and man! Were (to 
present myself at the door of the boose where my daugb- 
n now is, the door would be shut in my face— unless (as 
is not unpossible) I knocked down the porter; and if I 

nilrl I in that year (and perhaps now) loJJrontheim, 

(the Airthesl town in Norway,) ..r into Hols I rinuld 

have been received with open arms into the mansion of 
alrangers and foreigners, attached to me by no lie but bv 

that of mind and ru ir. 

" As far as fame gees, I have had my share : it has 
indeed been leavened by other human contingencies, and 
this in a greater degree than has occurred to most 
literary men of a decent rank in life ; but, on the whole, I 
lake it that such equipoise is ihe condition of humanity." 

•Among the various Journals, Memoranda, Diaries, 
&c. which I have kept in the course of my living, I began 
one about three months ago, and carried it on till I had 
filled one paper-book, (ilnuinsh.) and two sheets or so of 
another. I then left off, partly because I thought we 
should have some business here, and I had furbished up 
my arms and got my apparatus ready for taking a turn 
will, the patriots, having my drawers loll of their procla- 
mations, oaths, and resolutions, and mv lower rooms of 
their bidden weapons, of moal calibers,— and partly 
because I had filled my paper-book. 

"But the Neapolitans have betrayed themselves and 
all the world; and those who would haw given their 
blood for Italy can now only give her their lean. 
"Some day or other, if dust holds together, I have been 

enough in the secret (at least in this part of the c ntry) 

to cast perhaps some little light upon the atrocious 
treachery which has replugged Italy into barbarism: at 
/resent I have neither the time nor the temper. How- 
ever, the real Italians are not to blame ; merely the scoun- 
drels at the heel of the boot, which the llun now wears, and 
• ill trample them to ashes with lor their servility. I have 

risked myself with th hers /an, and how far' I may or 

■nay not be compromised is a problem at this moment 
Some of them, like Craigengelt, would 'tell all, and more 
than aU, to save themselves.' But, come what may, the 
-;auso was a glorious one, though it reads at present" as if 
Che Greeks had run away ft >m Xerxes. Happy the few 
"■ho have only to reproach themselves with beliei ing that 
these rascals were less 'rascaille' than they proved!— 
Hire m Romagna, the efforts were necessarily limited to 
preparations a,^ g„ d intentions, until the Germans were 
fairly engaged in eqval warfare— as «e are upon their 
very frontiers, without a single fori „ r bill nearer than San 

Marino. Whether 'hell will he paved wiuYthos ' I 

intentions, 1 know not ; l,„, ,|„.„. w ill probably be a good 
store of Neapolitans to walk upon the pavement, whatever 
may be its composition. Slabs of lava from their moun- 
tain, with the bodies of their own darnned souls for cement, 
would be the fittest causeway for Satan's ' Corso.'" 



between ihe present time and the days of Harrow. It was 
a new and inexplicable feeling, like rising from the grave 
to me. Clare ohj was much agitated — more in ayptar- 
anr.e than was myself; for I could feel his heart beat to his 
lingers' ends, unless, indeed, it was the pulse of my men 
which made me ihuik so. He told me that I should find 
a note from him left at Bologna. I did. We were obligl d 
to part for our different journeys, he for Koine, I for I'la, 
hut with the promise to meet again in spring. We were 
but five minutes together, and on the public road; but I 
hardly recoiled an hour of my existence which could be 
weighed against Ihem. He had heard thai I was coming 
on, and had lefl his Idler for rue at Bologna, because ihe 

I p'e with wbom he was travelling could not wail longer. 

"Ofalllhave ever known, he has always been Ihe least 
alti ri d in every thing from theexcellenl qualities and kmd 
affections which attached me to him so strongly al school 
I should hardly have thought it possible for society (or 
ihe world, as it is called) to leave a being with so little of 
ihe leaven of bad \ assions. 

'I do not speak from personal experience only, but 
from all I have ever heard of him from others, during uo- 
sence and distance." 

****** 

" I revisited the Florence Gallery, &c. My former im- 
pel si. us were confirmed; but there were too many 
visiters there to allow one to feel anv thing properly. 
\\h.„ we were (abonl thirty or forty) all stuffed into the 
cabinet of gems anil knick-knackeries, in a corner of one 
of ihe galleries, I told Rogers thai it 'fell like being in die 
watchhouse ' 1 lefl him to make his obeisances to some 
of Ins acquaintances, and strolled on alone — the only four 
minutes I could snatch of any feeling for the works around 
me. [do not mean to apply this to a tete-a-toic scrutiny 
with Rogers, who has an excellent teste, and deep frehnu 
lor the arts, (indeed much more of bolh than I con pos- 
sess, lor of Ihe roHMEK I have not much,) but to lite 
crowd ofjostling slarers and travelling lalkers around me. 

"I heard one bold Briton declare to the woman on Ins 
arm, looking at the Venus of Tilian, ' Well, now, llus is 
really very fine indeed,'— an observation which, tike that 
of ihe landlord in Joseph Andrews on 'the certainly of 
lealh,' was (as the landlord's wife observed) 'extremely 
rue. 1 ' * 

"In the Piiti Palace, I did not omit Goldsmith's pre- 
scripti i, for a connoisseur, viz. ' that the pictures would 
have been belter if the painter had taken more pains, and 
lo praise the works of IVtro Perugino." 

****** 

" People have wondered at the melancholy which rens 
through my writings. Others have wondered ai mi i ar- 
sons! gayety. Bui I recollect once, after an hour in which 
1 bad bt en sincerely and particularly gay and rather bnl- 
hani, in company, my wife replying lo roe, when I said, 
(upon her remarking my high spirits,) 'And yet, BelL I 
hale been called and miscalled melancholy— yot 1st 

have seen I"-" falsely, frequently'.'' 'No, Byron,' she 
snswered, ' it is not so: at heart, you are the most melan- 
choly of mankind ; and often when apparently gayest.' " 



"Pisa. November 5, 1821. 

"Thercisastranje coincidence sometimes in the little 
dungs of this world, Sancho, 1 says Sterne in a letter, (if 1 
mistake not,) and so I have often found u. 

" In Page [ 261, ] of this collection, I had alluded to 
my friend Lord Clare in terms sucll as mv fbelin 

peso, |. About a week or two afterward, I met luni he 

road holwoen Imola and Bologna, after not having met for 
leven or eqjhl years. He "as abroad in 1814, tuid came 
home pist as I set out in 1816. 

" This ninenng annihilated for a moment all the year. 



A young American,* named Cc.olidge, called on me 
not many months ago. He was intelligent, very hand- 
some, and not more than twenty years old, according to 
appearances; a linlc romantic, but that aits well upon 
youth, ami mighty loud of poesy, as max be suspected from 
Ins approaching me in my cavern. He brought me a 
message from an old servant of mv family, (J,,e Murray,) 
and told me that he (Mr. Coolidge') had obtained a copy 
ol my bust from Thorwaldsen al Rome, to send to Ame- 
rica. I confess I was more flattered by this young enthu- 
siasm of a solitary transatlantic traveller, Ibaii if they bad 
decreed me a statue in the Paris Pantheon, (1 have seen 



*8|| LiUfr 501. 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



269 



«mperors anil demagogues cast down from their pedestals 
even m my own time, and Grattan's name razed from the 
street, called after him in Duhlui;) I say that I was more 
flattered bv it, because it was single, unpolitical, and was 
without motive or ostentation, — the pure and warm feeliug 
of a boy for the poet he admired. It must have been ex- 
pensive, though j — /"would not pay die price of a Thor- 
waldseri bust tor any human head and shoulders, except 
Napoleon's, or my cluldren's, or some i abftwd woman- 
kitufs^ as Moukbarns calls them— or my sister's. If asked 
why, then, I sat for my own ? — Answer, ihat it was at the 
particular request of J. C. Hobhouse, "Esq. and for no one 
else. A picture is a different matter ; — every body sits for 
their picture; but a bust looks like putting up pretensions 
to permanency, and smacks something of a hankering for 
public fame rather than private remembrance. 

" Whenever an American requests to see me, (which is 
not unfre-jueutly,) I comply, firstly, because I respect a 
people who acquired their freedom by their firmness with- 
out excess; and, secondly, because these transatlantic 
visits, 'few and far between,' make me feel as if talking 
with posterity from the other side of the Styx. In a cen- 
tury or two the new English and Spanish Atlan'ides will 
be masters of the old countries, in all probability, as Greece 
and Europe overcame their mother Asia in the older or 
earlier ages, as they are called." 

+ * * * * * 

After saying, in reference to his own choice of Venice 
as a place of residence, " I remembered General Ludlow's 
domal inscription] ' Omne solum ford patria,' and sal down 
free in a country which had been one of slavery for centu- 
ries," he adds, " But there is no freedom, even for mastery 
in the midst of slaves. It makes my blood boil to see the 
thin^. I sometimes wish that I was the owner of Africa, 
to do at once what Wilberforce will do in time, viz, sweep 
slavery from her deserts, and look on upon the first dance 
of their freedom. 

"As to political slavery, so genera!, it is men's own fault: 
if they will he slaves, let them! Yet it is but 'a word and 
a blow.' See how England formerly, France, Spain, Por- 
tugal, America, Switzerland, freed themselves! There is 
no one instance of a long contest in which men did not tri- 
umph over systems. If Tyranny misses her Jirst spring, 
she is cowardly as the tiger, and retires to be hunted." 
* * * * * * 

"Going to the fountain of Delphi (Castri) in 1809, I 
saw a Bight <>t twelve eagles (H. says they were vultures 
— at leas', in conversation,) and I seized the omen. On 
the day before, I composed the lines to Parnassus, (in 
Childe Harold,) and, on beholding the birds, had a hope 
that Apollo had accepted my homage. I have at least had 
the name and fame of a poet during the poetical part of 
life, (from twenty to thirty ;) — whether it will last is 
another matter.' 

***** * 

"In the year 1814, as Moore and I were going to dine 
widi Lord Grey in Porlman-sqtiare, I pulled out a ' Java 
Gazette,' (which Murray had sent to me,) in which there 
was a controversy on our respective merits as poets. It 
was amusin° enough that we should be proceeding peace- 
ably to the same table, while they were squabbling about us 
in the Indian seas, (to be sure, the paper was dated six 
months before,) and tilling columns with Batavian criti- 
cism. But tins is fame, I presume."* 

"One of my notions different from those of my contem- 
poraries is, that the present is not a high age of English 
poetry. There are more poets (soi-disant) than ever there 
were, and proportionably less poetry. This thesis I have 
maintained for some years, but, strange to say, it meeteth 
not with favour from my brethren of the slielf. Even 
Moore shakes his head and firmly believes that this is the 
grand age of British poesy." 



"Of the immortality of the soul, it appears to me that 
there can be little doubt, if we attend for a moment to the 
action of mind : it is in perpetual activity. I used to doubt 
of it, but reflection has taught me better. It acts also so 
very independent of body — in dreams, for instance; — in- 
coherently and madly, I grant you, but still it is mind, and 
much more mind than when we are awake. Now that 
this should not act srpuratdy, as well as jointly, who can 
pronounce ■ The stoics, Epicletusand Marcus Aurelius, 
call the present slate l a soul which drags a carcass,'— 
a heavy chain to be sure, hut all chains being materie' 
may be shaken off. How far our future life will bf ijufr 
xiduaL, or, rather, how far it will at all resemble our prtsen. 
existence, is another question ; but that the mind is eternal 
seems as probable as that the body is not so. Of course, I 
here venture upon the question without recurring to reve- 
lation, which, however, is at least as rational a solution of 
it as any other. A material resurrection seems strange 
and even absurd, except for purposes of punishment ; and 
all punishment winch is to revenge rather than correct must 
be morally wrong; and when the world is at an end, what 
moral or warning purpose can eternal tortures answer? 
Human passions have probably disfigured the divine doc- 
trines here: — but the whole thing is inscrutable." 



" It is useless to tell me not to reason-, but to believe. You 
might as well tell a man not to wake, but sleep. And then 
to bully with torments, and all that! I cannot help think- 
ing that the menace of hell makes as many devils as the 
severe penal codes o( inhuman humanity make villains." 



"Man is born passionate of body, but with an innate 
though secret tendency to the love of good in his main- 
spring of mind. But, God help us all! it is at present a 
sad jar of atoms." 



" Matter is eternal, always changing, but reproduced, 
and, as far as we can comprehend eternity, eternal; and 
why not mind/ Why should not the mind act with and 
upon the universe, as portions of it act upon and with ihe 
congregated dust called mankind? See how one man acts 
upon himself and others, or upon multitudes! The same 
agency, in a higher and purer (Wree, may act upon the 
stars, &c. ad infinitum. 11 



* 8«a Journal ia Idlj. 



"I have often been inclined to materialism in philosophy, 
but could never bear its introduction into Christianity, 
which appears to me essentially founded upon the soul. 
For this reason, Priestley's Christian Materialism always 
struck me as deadly. Believe the resurrection of ihe body^ 
if you will, but not without a soul. The deuce is in it, it* 
af'er having had a soul (as surely the mina\ or whatever 
you call it is) in this world, we must part with it in the 
next, even for an immortal materiality ! I own my par- 
tiality for spud." 



" I am always most religious upon a sunshiny Hay, as if 
there was some association between an internal approach 
to greater light aud purity, and the kindler of this dark 
lantern of our external existence. 11 



"The night is also a religious concern, and even more 
so when I viewed the moon and stars through Herschell 1 * 
telescope, and saw that ihey were worlds." 



tl If* according to some speculations, you could prove the 
world many thousand years older than the Mosaic chro- 
nology, or if you could get rid of Adam and Eve, and the 
apple, and serpent, still, what is to be put up in their stead ? 
or how is die difficulty removed ? Things must have had 
a beginning, and what matters il when or how? 9 



270 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



11 1 sometimes think thai man may be the relic of some 
higher material being wrecked in a former world, and de- 
generated ni the hard-hip and struggle through chaos into 
c< inform it v, or something like it, — as we see Laplanders, 
Esquimaux, &c. inferior in ihe present state, as the ele- 
ments become more inexorable. But even then this 
higher pre-Adamite supposititious creation must have 
had an origin and a Creator, — for a creation is a more 
natural imagination than a fortuitous concourse of atoms; 
all things remount to a fountain, though they may Bow 
lo an ocean. 



11 Plutarch says, in his Life of Lysander, trial Aristo- 
tle observes ' that in general great geniuses are of a 
melancholy turn, and insiances Socrates, Plato, and Her- 
cules, (or Heraclitus,) as examples; and Lysuider, 
though not while young, yet as inclined to it when ap- 
proaching towards age. 1 Whether I am a genius or 
not, I have been called such by my friends as well as 
enemies, and in more countries and languages than one, 
and also wilhid a no very long period of existence. Of 
my genius I can say nothing, but of my melancholy, that 
ii is ' increasing and ought to be diminished.' Bui how ? 

" I take it that most men are so at botiom, but (hat it 
is only remarked in the remarkable. The Duchesse de 
Broglio, in reply to a remark of mine on the errors of 
clever people, said that 'they were not worse than 
others, only, being more in view, more noted, especially 
in all that could reduce them to the rest, or raise the rest 
to them. 1 In 1816 this was. 

" In fact, (I suppose that) if the follies of fools were 
all set down like those of the wise, the wise (who seem 
at present only a better sort of fools) would appea: almost 
intelligent." 

*' It is singular how soon we lose the impression of 
what ceases to be constantly before us: a year impairs ; 
a lustre obliterates. There is little distinct left without 
an effort of memory. Then, indeed, the lights aie re- 
kindled for a moment ; but who can besure^hat imagi- 
nation is not the torclibearer 7 Let any man try at ihe 
end of ten years to bring before him the features, or tin- 
mind, or the sayings, or the habits of his best friend, or 
his greatest man, (l mean his favourite, his Buonaparte, 
his this, that, or t'other.) and lie will be surprised at the 
extreme confusion of his ideas. I speak confidently on 
this point, having always passed for one who had a good, 
ay, an excellent memory. 1 except, indeed, our recol- 
lection of womankind; there is no forgetting them (and 
be d — d to them) any more than any other remarkable 
era, such as 'the revolution,' or 'the plague,' or 'the 
invasion,' or ' the comet,' or ' the war' of such and such 
an epoch, — being the favourite dates of mankind, who 
have so many blessings in their lot, that they never make 
their calendars from them, being too common. For in- 
stance, you see, ' the great drought,* ' the Thames fro- 
zen over,' 'the seven years' war broke out,' the ' Eng- 
lish, or French, or Spanish revolution commenced,' * the 
Lisbon earthquake/ ' the Lima earthquake,' ' the oarth- 



quake ofCalabna,' ' the plague of London,' ditto ' of 
Constantinople,' 'the sweating sitikness,' 'the velUw 
fever ol Htnlad. lphia.' lie. &i . a.--. , bui you don't see • il.e 
1 abundant harvest,' 'the tine sotumer, 1 ' the long peace,' 
'the neaithy speculation,' 'the reckless voyage,' re- 
corded so emphatically! B\ tl.e-«av, ihere baa been 

a thirty years' war and a sevcity years' tear ; was there 
ever a Seventy or a thirty yt<ir* peace? or was lh< re 
evern a da v's IffitUSPM/ peace ? exrepi perhaps in China, 
where llley huve found OUl ihe miserable happlin 
siauonary and unwarlike mediocrity. And is all this 
because naiure is niggard or savage, or mankind un- 
grate^! ? Let philosopher* dec ide. 1 am none." 

" In general I do not draw well with literary men ; not 
that I dislike them — but I never know what to say io 
them af er I have praised iln*ir last publication. There 

are several exceptions, to he sure; but then they have 

either been men of the world, such a> Scott and Moore, 
&c. ; or vistornnes out of it, such is Shelley , &c : but 
your literary everv-dav man and I never went well in 

company, especially your foreigner, whom 1 never could 
abide; excepiGiordani, ami — and — and — (I reall) can't 
name any oilier) — I don't remember a man am<ni. them 
whom 1 ever wished to see twice, except perhaps M< E- 
zophanti, who is a monster of languages, the Brian us of 
parts of speech, a walking Polygloit, and more, who 
OUghl to have existed at the time of the Tower of Ba- 
bel as universal interpreter. He is indeed a marvel- 
unassuming also. I trad him in all the tongues "f 
which 1 knew a single oath, (or adjuration to the gods 
against post-boys, savages, Tartars, boatmen, sailors, 
pilots, gondoliers, muleteers, camel drivers, Vet'urini, 
postmasters, post horses, post houses, post everything,) 
and, egad! he astounded me — even to my Kngli&Ii." 



11 * No man would live his life over again,' is an old 
and true saying which all can resolve for themselves. 
At the same time, there are probably moments in most 
men's lives which they would live over the rest of life to 
regain? Else why do we live at all? because Hope 
recurs to Memory, both false but — but — but — but and 
this but drags on till — what ? I do not know : anl who 
docs? He that died o' Wednesday?" 



" Alcibiades is said to have been ' successful in all 
his battles' — but what battles? Name them ! If you 
mention Caesar, or Hannibal, or Napoleon, you at once 
rush upon Pharsalia, Munda, Alesia, Cantup, Thrasv- 
mene, Trehia, Lodi, Marengo, Jena, Ausierlhz, Fried- 
land, Wagram, Moskwa : but it is less easy to pitch 
upon the victories of Alcibiades ; though they may be 
named too, though not so readily as the Leuctra and 
MantitiiKa of Epaminondas, the Marathon of Miltia- 
des, the Salaniis of Themistocles, and the Thermopybe 
of Leonidas. Yet, upon the whole, it may he doubted 
whether there be a name of antiquity which comes down 
with such a general charm as that of Alcibiades. Why 7 
I cannot answer. Who can?" 



REVIEW OF WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 

TWO VOLS. 1807.* 

(from "monthly literary recreations," for august, 1807.) 



The volumes before ns are by the author of Lyrical 
B?.Uana, a collection which has not undeservedly met 
with a considerable share of public applause. The 
characteristics ol Mr. W.'s muse are simple and (low- 
ing, though occasionally inharmonious verse, strong, and 
sometimes irresistible appeals to the feelings, with un- 
exceptionable seniiments. Though the present work 
may not equal his former efforts, many of the poems 
possess a native elegance, natural and unaffected, totally 
devoid of the tinsel embellishments and abstract hvper- 
bole*? of several contemporary sonneteers. The last 
sonnet in the tirst volume, p. 152.. is perhaps the best, 
without any novelty in the seniiments, which we hope 
are common to every Briion at the present crisis ; the 
force and expression is that of a genuine poet, feeling as 
he writes:— 

" Another year ! another deadly blow 1 
Another mighty empire overthrown I 
And we are left, or shall be left, alone— 
The hist ili.it dares to struggle with the foe. 
'Tis well !— from this Hay forward we shall know 
That in .-nr> el»es ur s ifely muM be sought. 
That by our own ngbl-hunds it must be wrought ; 
That we must stand unprop'd, or be laid low. 
O dastard t whom such foretaste rtotb not cltccrl 
We lb*]] ex. ill, if they who role the land 
lie men who hold ill ru.ii.y blessings dear, 
■Wise, upright, valiant, oot a renal band, 
Who are to Judge of danger which they fear, 
And honour which they do not understand." 

The song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, the Se- 
ven Sisters, the Affliction of Margaret of , 

posses-s all the beauties, and few of the defects, of this 
writer : the following lines from the last are in his first 
style : — 

" Ah! little doth tbe ratine one dream 
When full of play and childish cares, 
What power hath e'en his wddest scream. 
Heard by bis mother unaware* : 
He knows it not, be cannot guess : 
Years to a mother bring distress, 
But do not make ber love tbe less." 



* I have been a reviewer. In 1807, in a Magazine called " Monthly 
Literary Recreations," 1 reviewed Wordsworth's trash of that time. 
In the Monthly Review I wrote some articles which wera inserted. 
This was in the latter pan of 1811. 



The pieces least worthy of the author are those enti- 
tled "Moods of my own Mind." We certainly wish 
these " Moods" bad been less frequent, or not permitted 
to occupy a place near works which only make their 
deformity more obvious ; wlten Mr. W. ceases to please, 
it is by " abandoning" his mind to the most common- 
place ideas, at the same time clothing them in language 
not simple, but puerile. What will any reader or 
auditor, out of the nursery, say to such namby-pamby 
as " Lines written at the Foot of Brothers Bridge? 

" The cock is crowing, 
The stream is flowing. 
The small birds twitter, 
The take doth glitter. 
The green field sleeps in the sun ; 
The oldest »nd youngest. 
Are at work with the ctrongest ; 
T he cattle are grazing, 
Their heads never raising, 
There are forty feeding like one. 
Like an army defeated, 
The snow hath retreated, 
And now doth fare ill, 
On the top uf the bare hill." 

" The plough-boy is whooping anon, anon," &c. &c. 
is in the same exquisite measure. This appears to ua 
neither more nor less than an imitation of such min- 
strelsy as soothed our cries in the cradle, with the shriU 
ditty of 

" Hey de diddle 
The cat and the fiddle: 
The cow Jump'd over the moon, 
The little dog laugh'd to see such sport, 
And the dish ran away with the spoon." 

On the whole, however, with the exception of the 
above, and other innocent odes of the same cast, we 
think these volumes display a genius worthy of higher 
pursuits, and regret that Mr. W. confines his muse to 
such trifling subjects. We trust his motto will be in 
future, " Paulo majora canamus." Many, with inferior 
abilities, have acquired a loftier seat on Parnassus, 
merely by attempting strains in which Mr. Wordsworth 
is more qualified to excel. 



REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA, AND 
ITINERARY OF GREECE. 

(FROM THE "MONTHLY REVIEW" FOR AUGUST, JS1J.) 



That laudable curiosity concerning the remains of 
classical antiquity which has of late years increased 
among our countrymen, is in no traveller or author 
more conspicuous than in Mr. Gell. Whatever differ- 
ence of opinion may yet exist with regard to the success 
of the several disputants in the famous Trojan contro- 
versy,* or, indeed, relating to tho present author's 
merits as an inspector of the Troad, it must universally 



* We have it from the best authority that the venerable leader of the 
Anti-Homeric sect, Jucub Bryant, several years before his death, ex- 
pressed regret for ^i< ungrateful attempt to destroy some of the most 
pletein* association! of our youthful studies. On* of hi* last wishes 
as* — '' Tiojaqut tiune ilarti." -,c. 



be acknowledged that any work, which more forcibly 
impresses on our imaginations the scenes of heroic ac- 
tion, and the subjects of immortal song, possesses claims 
on the attention of every scholar. 

Of the two works which now demand our report, we 
conceive the former to be by far the mest interesting to 
the reader, as the latter is indisputably ihe most ser- 
viceable to the traveller. Excepting, indeed, the run- 
ning commentary which it contains on a number of 
exiracts from Pausanias and Strabo, it is, as the title 
imports, a mere itinerary of Greece, or rather of Argo- 
lis only, in its present circumstances. This being the 
case, surely it would have answered every purpose of 



272 



REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA. 



utilily much better by being printed as a pocket road- j the Roman emperors. They hare the head nf Ulysses 

r pointed rap, while the re 

I k, the emblem of 

.^..™ ™.kcn. a few uf these 

drawing?, we shall be told, would not permit such an medals are preferred in the cabinet- of the curious, and 



nii i \ mill ii ucticr ov uemg prinicu as a poCKd roatl- i"* 1 "vihiii ciiijiemia. m. urjr iiitt i 

book of that part of (he Morea; for a quarto is a very rec "? ni e,) L, 7 the P'leum, or pointed 

. i . I.- r,., * v verse oi one presents the hgrre of a < 

unmanageable travelling companion. The maps* *nd h ia vigilance, with the legend leaKi 



arrangement: but as lo the drawings, they are not in 
general to be admired as specimens of the art ; and 
several of them, as we have been assured by eye-wit- 
nesses of the scenes which they describe, do not com- 
pensate for their mediocrity in point of execution, by 
any extraordinary fidelity of representation. Others, 
indeed, arc more faithful, according to our informants. 
The true reason, however, for this cosdy mode of publi- 
cation is m course to be found in a desire of gratifying 
the public passion for large margins, and all the luxury 
of typography ; and we have before expressed our dis- 
satisfaction with Mr. Gell's aristorratical mode of com- 
municalinga species of knowledge which ought to be 
accessible to a much greater portion of classical students 
than can at present acquire it by his means : — but, as 
such expostulations are generally useless, we shall be 
thankful for what we can obtain, and that in the manner 
in which Mr. Gell has chosen to present it. 

The former of these volumes, we have observed, is 
the most attractive in the closet. It comprehends a 
very full survey of the far-famed island which the hero 
of the Odyssey lias immortalized; for we really are in- 
clined to think that the author has established the iden- 
tity of the modern Theaki with the Ithaca of Homer. 
At all events, if it be an illusion, it is a very agreeable 
deception, and is effected by an ingenious interpretation 
of the passages in Homer that are supposed to be de- 
scriptive of the scenes which our traveller has visited. 
We shall extract some of these adaptations of ihe an- 
cient picture to the modern scene, marking the points of 
resemblance which appear to be strained and forced, as 
well as those which are more easy and natural: but we 
must first insert some preliminary matter from the open- 
ing chapter. The following passage conveys a sort of 
general sketch of the book, which may give our readers 
a tolerably adequate notion of its contents: — 

" The present work may adduce, by a simple and cor- 
rect survey of the inland, coincidences in lis geography, 
in its natural product! ins, and moral statu, before unno- 
ticed. Some will he directly pointed out ; the fancy or in- 
genuity of the reader may be employed in tracing others : 
the mind familiar with the imagery of the Odyssey will 
i uise with satisfaction the scenes themselves; and 
this volume is offered to the public, not entirely without 
hopes of vindicating the poem ol Homer from the scepti- 
cism of those cruics who imagine th.it the Odyssey is a 
mere poetical composition, unsupported t>y history, and 
unconnected with the localities of any particular situation. 

•• Some have asserted that, in the comparison of places 
now existing with the descriptions of Homer, we ought not 
I i expeci c incidence in minute details ; yet it seeme 01 ly 
by these that the kingdom ol Ulysses, or any other, can 

be identified, a', if such an Ilea be admitted, every small 
and rocky island in the Ionian Sea, containing a good port, 
might, with equal plausibility, assume the appellation of 
Ithaca. 

" The Venetian geographers have in a great degree con- 
tributed to raise those doubts which have existed on the 
identity of the modern with the ancient Ithaca, by giving, 
in their charts, the name of Val di Compare to the island. 
I'n ii ii.iiim- m, Iko\ i", ei , [ tallv nn known in tin country, 
where the isle is invariably called Ithaca by the upper 
ranks, and Theaki by the vulgar. The Venetians have 
equally corrupted the name of almost every place ii, 
< in-rce ; yet, as the n itives uf Epactos or Naupactos never 
heard of Lepanto, those ofZacynthoi of Zante, or the 
Athenians of 9ettioes, it would be as unfair to rob Ithaca 
of its name, on such authority, as It would he 10 ast-eu 

that mi such island existed, because no tolet able represen- 
tation of us form can be found in the Vem tlan sun eys. 

"The r;ire medals of the island, of whirh three are 
represented in the [ille-page, might be adduced as a proof 
thai the name of Ithaca was not lost during the reigns of 



* Or, rsvlher, Map ; for we havr only on* In Ih? Tolump, am) that n 
on loo small a leide lo Rive morr than ■ prnrral irtra of ihp n-lu ti*r poti- 
lion of platei. The exciae about a larger miip not fiAUug wall it 
trifling i >c«, for iiulAnw. the aullior'a own map of llhaca. 



one 'ii- 1 >, w nii the cockj fot nd in the i- land, is in the pos* 
passion i f Signor Sfisvo, of Bathi. The upperum-i com ii 
in the collection of Dr. Hui ter ; the second ii copied from 
Newman, and the third is the property of R. P. Knight, 

Esq. 

■* Several inscriptions, which will be hereaf er produced, 
wi 1 tend i" itie confirmation of the idea thai Unjica wai 
inhabited about Hie time when the Romans were me ten 
i I Grei ce ; yet there is every reason to believe ih. t lew, 
if any, of the present propi letora ol ibe soil an- descended 

from ancestors who had long resided success vely m the 

island. Even those who lived at the lime of Ulysses, in 
Mem to hare hern on the point of emigrating to 
Argos, and no i blel remained, after the second in descent 
from thai hem, worthy of being recorded in history, it 
ai pears that the isle has been twice colonised from Cepha 
1 ana in modem times, and I was ml" rmed that a grant 
had h en made by the Vent ii ins, entitling each settler in 
Ithaca to as m :ch land as hb circumstances would enable 
him to cultivate.*' 

Mr. Gell then proceeds to invalidate the authority of 
previous writers on the subject of Iihaca. Sir Georgo 
Wheeler and M. le Chevalier fall under his severo 
animadversion; and, indeed, according to his account, 
neither of these gentleman had visited the island, and 
the description of the latter is "absolutely too absurd 
for refutation.*' In another place, he speaks of M. ie 
(J. "disgracing a work of such merit by the introduction 
of such fabrications f 1 again, of the inaccuracy of the 
author's maps ; and, lastly, of his inserting an island at 
the southern entry of the Channel between Cephalonia 
and Ithaca, which has no existence. This observation 
very nearly approaches to the use of that monosyllable 
which Gibbon,* without expressing it, so adroitly ap- 
plied to some assertion of his antagonist, Mr. Davies. 
In truth, our traveller's words are rather bitter towards 
his brother tourist : but we must conclude that their 
justice warrants their severity. 

In the second chapter, the author describes his landing 
in Ithaca, and arrival at the rock Korax and the foun- 
tain Arethusa, as he designates it with sufficient posi- 
liveness. — This rock, now known by the name of Korax, 
or Koraka Petra, he contends to be the same with that 
which Homer mentions as contiguous lo the habitation 
of EumSBUS, the faithful swine-herd of Ulysses. — We 
shall take the liberty of adding lo our extracts from 
Mr Gell some of the passages in Homer to which he 
refers only, conceiving this to be the fairest method of 
exhibiting the strength or the weakness of his argument. 
" Ulysses," he observes, " came to the extremity of ihe 
isle to visit EumsilS, and that extremity was the most 
southern^ for Telemaehus, coming from Pylos, touched 
at the first south-eastern part of Ithaca with the same 
intention." 

Kai Tort ft) p' '(Mvffija */iieo$ iro"*v t)\ayt datpvv 
Ayp* if' Vff^artTjv, W» (wfiara van tM'^iurijj- 
V.v'i' i]\9iy <;M* f vio( 'Odvtratjof Sumo, 

'KK lit Atr /jjltt&otf ro£ luiV fft'V Vljt ^ilXatVJJ- 

, Avrar> Iwtfv trowrip' A<rt)V 'Ifla*j;c i+ucqa* 
Nijo ptv l S toAiv 6rpf fat *at *avrm§ iratpovf 
'Avroi it vpuiri-a ov^mrtjv tioa<, iKitTtpat, 

k. r. A. 'Ojvrou* O. 

These citations, we think, appear to justify the author 
in his attempt to identify the situation of his rock and 
fountain with the place of those mentioned by Homer. 
But let us now follow him in the closer description of the 
scene. — After some account of 'he subjects in the plate 
affixed, Mr. Gell remarks: " It is impossible to visit 
this sequestered spot without being struck with ihe re- 
collection of the Fount of Arethusa and the rock Korax, 
which the poet mentions in the same line, adding, that 



• See hit Vin.llcalio 
and Fall, <ic. 



of I lie 15th and I6U> (hapten of lU Dcctin* 



REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA. 



2 73 



there the swine cat the sweet* acorns, and drank the 
black water." 

Aif«f rot/ yt o-vtTv\ ti^ikhv cf <*l vtpovrm 
flap K»pa«<j( iir^-i, *t. u <pfr 7 'Apt4*7j), 

nu. 1 .'4i *0 *t-iriT» N. 

'* Haung passed some time at the fountain, taken a 
drawing, and m »de the necessary observation* on the situ- 
ation of the place, we proceeded t -an examination of the 
precipice, climbing over the terraces above the source, 
ain mg shady fig-trees, which, however, did not prevent 
us from feeling the powerful effects of the mid-day sun. 
Af'er a sho't but fatiguing ascent, we arrived at the rock, 
which extends in a vast perpendicular semicircle, beauti- 
fully frin-ed with tree-, facing to the south-east Under 
the era,- we f >und two caves of inconsiderable extent, the 
entrance oi one of whicb. not difficult of access, is seen 
in the view of the fount. They are stii] the resort of sheen 
and gnats, and in one of thrm are small naiural recep- 
tacles fur the «ater, cot* red by a atalaginitic incrustation. 

"These caves, being at the extremity of the curve 
formed by the precipice, < pen toward the south, and pe- 
sent us w.th another iiccmnpani.ne, t t • the fount of Are- 
thu^a, mentioned by the poet, who informs us that 'he 
swineherd Eum^us left hi- gu'-sis in the hou»e, whist 
he, putting on a thick garment, went t'> sleep near the 
herd, under the hollow ol the r ck, ** hich shelteied him 
from the northern Mast. Ni»w Ht uiom that the herd fed 
near the fount ; for Minerva te'Is Ulysses that he is to so 
first tn £umeus, whom he should find with the swine, 
near the roc^ K rax and the fount of Arethusa. As the 
e wine then fed a( the fountain, so it i-- necessary that a 
cavern should he found in its vicinity ; and this seems In 
coincide, in distance and situation, with that of the poem. 
Near ihe fount al-o was the fold or sutbmos of Eumeeus ; 
for the goddess informs Ulysses that he should find his 
faithful servant at or above the fount. 

11 Now the hero meets the swineherd close to the f Id, 
which was consequently very near that source. At the 
top of the rock, and just above the spot where the water- 
fall shoots do .vn the pre. ip.ee, is at this day a stagni or 
pastoral dwelling, which the herdsmen of Ithaca still in- 
habit, on account of the water necessary for their 1 attle. 
One of these people talked on the verge of the precipice 
at the time of our visit to the place, and seemed so anxious 
to know how we had been conveyed to the spot, that his 
enquiries reminded us of a que ti <n probably not uncom- 
mon in the days of Homer, who more than once repre- 
sents the Ithacences demanding of strangers what ship 
hoi brought th m to 1 e ial nd, it being evident they 
Could n 1 < om ■ on loot. He t Id us thit there whs, on the 
summit wh re he. stood, a small cistern of water, and a 
kakbea,or shepherd's hut There are also vesiijes of 
•Jiciem habitations, and the place is now called Amaia'hia. 

11 Convenience, as well as safety, seems to hnv<- pointed 
Oilt the* lolly situation ofAniaratliia as a fit place for the 
residence of the herdsmen of this part of the inland f om 
the earliest a-je*. A small source of water is a treasure 
in these climates; and if the inhabitant* of Ithaca now 
select a rugged and e'evated ^pot, 1 1 secure them from 
the rubbers nf the Kcbinades, it is to he recollected that 
the Taphi-m pirates were n<u less formidable, even in the 
days of Ulysses, and that a residence in the solitary part 
ol the island, far from the fortress, and close 'o a cele- 
brated foun ain, must at all times have been dangerous, 
without some such security as the rocks nf K-.rax. In- 
deed, there can be no doubt that the house nf Etumeus 
was on the top of the precipice; for Ulysses, in order to 
eunce the truth of his story to the swineherd, deeii b to 
be thrown from the summit if his narration does nut prove 
correct. 

' Near the bottom of the precipice is a curious natural 
gallery, ab >ut seven feet high, which is expressed in the 
pla e. It may be fairly presumed, from the very remark- 
able coinci 'ence between this place and the Homeric ac- 
count, that this was the scene designated by the p ei as 
the fountain of Arethusa, and the residence of Eunifeus; 
and, perhaps, it would be impossible to find another spot 
which bears, at this day, so strong a resemblance to a 
p etic description composed at a period so very remote. 
There is no other fountain in this part of the island, nor 
any ruck whit h bears the slightest resemblance to the 
Korax of Homer. 

11 The sbithmofl of the good Eumspus appears to have 
been little different, euher in use or construction, from the 
stagni and kalybea of tin- p-esemday. The poet express- 
ly memi-ins that other herdsmen drove their flocks into 



• " 5u»«e( «.eorn*. M Does Mr. Oell tranaUt* (Vim the Latin? To 
tvoirt ■imiLu'CAUM of mtfUk*. f>iveu«a atutuld wn !>• rtui]«rto «ua>«m 
but froxom, u Buom bu gr**o li. 

35 



the city at sunset,— a custom which still prevails through 
our Gree- e dm ing 1 e white , and that was the season in 
which Ulysses visited EumaBua, Yet Homer accounts for 
this deviation Chun the pie^ailing custom, by observing 
that he had retired frnn the city to avoid the suitors of 
Penelope. These trilling occurrences aflord a strong pre- 
sumption that the Ithaca of Homer was something more 
than the creatu r e of his own fancy, as some have sup- 
posed it ; lor though the grand outline nf a fable may be 
easily imagined, yet the c> usietent adaptation of minute 
incidents to a long and elaborate f J-eh"oU is a task of the 
most arduous and complicated nature " 

After this long extract, by which we have endea* 
voured to do justice lo Mr. Cell's argument, we cannot 
allow room for any farther quotations of such extent, 
and we must offer a brief and imperfect analysis of the 
remainder of the work. 

In the third chapter, the traveller arrives at the capi- 
tal, and in the fourth, he describes it in an agreeable 
manner. We select his account of the mode of cele- 
brating a Christian festival in the Greek church : — 

'■We were present at the celebration nf the feast of the 
Ascension, wnen the citizens appeared in their gayest 
dresses, and saluted each other in tt e streets w;th demon- 
strationa of pleasure. As we s*te at bie;;kfast in the house 
of Zi.noi Zavo, we were suddenly roused by the discharge 
of a gun, succeeded by a tremendous crash of pottery, 
which fell on the tiles, steps, and pavements, in every di- 
rection. The bells of the numerous churches commenced 
a most discordant jingle ; c lours were hoisted on every 
mast in the pou, ami a general shout of joy announced 
some great event. Our host informed us that the feast of 
the Ascension was annually cnmmemora'ed in this man- 
ner at Bathi. the populace exclaiming »mjv o Xf*;os, oAf 
fiivoj 6ioj, Christ is risen, the true God." 

In another passage, he continues this account as fol- 
lows : — " In the evening of the festival, the inhabitants 
danced before their houses; and at one we saw the 
figure which is said to have been first used by the youths 
and virgins of Delos, at the happy return of Theseus 
from the expedition of the Cretan Labyrinth. It has now 
lost much of that intricacy which was supposed to al- 
lude to the windings of the habitation of the Minotaur," 
&c. &c. This is rather too much for even the inflexi- 
ble gravity of uur censorial muscles. "When the author 
talks, with all the reality (if we may use the expression) 
of a Lempriere, on the stories of the fabulous ages, we 
cannot rtfrain from indulging a momentary smile ; nor 
can we seriously accompany him in the learned archi- 
tectural detail by which he endeavours to give us, from 
the Odyssey, the ground-plot of the house of Ulysses, — 
f which he actually offers a plan in drawing! " show- 
ing how the description of the house of Ulysses in the 
Odyssey may be supposed to correspond with the foun- 
dations yet visible on the hill ofAito!" — Oh, Foot e! 
Foote ! why are you lost to such inviting subjects for 
your ludicrous p> ncil ! In his account of this cele- 
brated mansion, Mr. Gell says, one side of the court 
seems to have been occupied bv the Thalamos,or sleep- 
ing apartments of the men, &c. &c. ; and, in confirmation 
of this hypothesis, he refers to the 10th Odyssey, line 
340. On examining his reference, we read, 

'Ej daAapov t' Itvat, km <tijj iiti^/ttviu ft/v))j" 

where Ulysses records an invitation which he received 
from Circe to take a part of her bed. How this illus- 
trates the above conjecture, we are at a loss to divine : 
but we suppose that some numerical error has occurred 
in the reference, as we have delected a trifling mistake 
or two of the same nature. 

Mr. G. labours hard to identify the cave of Dexia, 
near Baihi (the capital of the island), with the grotto 
of the Nymphs described in the 13th Odyssey. We 
are disposed to grant that he has succeeded : but wo 
cannot here enter into the proofs by which he supports 
his opinion; and we can only extract one of the con- 
cluding sentences of the chapter, which appear i to ua 
candid and judicioua : — 



274 



IIKY1EW OF GELL'3 GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA. 



" Whatevr opinion may he fnrme'l as to the i'lfntity present. With Homer in his pocket, anil Gell on his 
of the cafe ol Dexla with the poll ol ihe Nymphs, it u jumpter-horee or mole, the Odyssean tourist may now 
fair to slaw, that Strabu positively asseru that no such . f a rer gjaasical and delightful excursion ; ami «u 

js^,:e';;:.r , ;l::!,i , ht , !; ,, ;::n.', . ' .■:{■>.■»« ^,,^ r , r ,, l ,,„„, : 

cimi.-p, rainer ihan ignorance in Homer, to account for a ! f r „„, the increased number of travellers whs will vieil 
difference which he imagined 10 exist between the Ithaca I Ihcm j n consequence of Mr. Gell's account of theit 
of hie lime ami that ol ihe poet. Bui Strabo, who wa« trv w ;|| induce iln-m 10 confer on iliat gentleman 

Ee 3 .re?e.VS^^ 

edly misled by tiis informers n j 1 1 salons, should he ever look m upon them again.— JJaron JSutm 



• Thai Sit ibo bad never risited tin- country 13 evident, 
Dot only from ins inaccurate account ol it, but from bis 
citation ol tYppoHodoru* and Seen lus, wh le relatione 
are indirect opposition to each other 00 ihe sul 

. tia will be demonstrated on o ruture opiHtftunitv." 

We must, however, observe that " demonstration" is 
a strong term, — In his description of the Leucadian 
Promontory (of which we have a pleasing ri presentation 
in the plate), the auihor remarks that it is " celebrated 
for the /'"/' of Sappho, and the death of Artemisia." 
From this variety in the expression, a reader would 
hardly conceive that both the ladies perished in ihe 
same manner: in fact, ihe sentence is as proper as 11 
would be to talk of the decapitation of Russell, and the 
death of Sidney. The view from this promontory in- 
cludes the island of Corfu; and the name suggests Lo 
Mr. Gell the following note, which, though rather irre- 
levant, is of a curious nature, and we therefore con- 
clude our citations by transcribing it: — 

" It has been «encrallv supposed thai Corfu, or Corryra, 
was the Phasacia of Homer: bul Sir Henry En lefield 
thinks the position of thai island inconsistent with the 
voyage of Ulysses .is described hi the Odyssey. That 
gentleman has also observed .> number of such remarkable 

. .i,,, 1 1 between the courts of A lei nous and Solomon, 

tm it thi v may be thought curious and interesting. Homer 
was familiar with ihe names ol Ty e Sidon and Egypt; 
and, ae he'Iived about ihe time ol Solomon, it would rtoi 
have been e ctraordiiiary if he ha<i introrti ced some account 
of the magnificence of that prince into In- poem. As 

Solomon was famous for wisdom, so ll e na of Alcinous 

signifii a Birengih ol knowledge; as the gardens ol Solo- 
mon were celebrated, so are those of Ann u (0,1.7. 
112,1 ; as the kingdom of Solomon was distinguished by 
twelve tribes undi r twelve prim ea ( I Kingd ch. 1). so ihat 
of Alcinoufl (Od. 8. 300) wad ruled by sn equal n mber; 
as ihe throne of Solomon was supported by lions ■ 1 & Id 
(1 Kings, ch. 10), so that of Mclnuus was placed on aogd 
of ailve anil ■ Id Od. 7. 91) ; ay the Beets of Solomon 
were famous, so were those of a lei nous, It is perhaps 
worthy of remark, that Neptune sate on the mountains of 
the Solvmi, as he returned from (fcthi >pla 10 -K. . ..-. n hi e 
he raised the tempest which threw Ulysse* on thi coast 
qi Fii.i aria; and thai the Solymi of Pampl ids are trerj 

nt nsiderably distant from the route.— The .-u p c s cha- 

Mcter, also, which Nauaicaa am ihutes 10 1 ot 1 ounti j man 
agrees precisely with that which the Greeks and It mans 
gave of the Jews. 1 ' 

The seventh chapter contains a description of the 
ydonasterv of Kathara, and several adjacent places. 
The eighth, among other curiosities, fixes on an imagi- 
nary site lor the farm of Laertes : bul tins is the agony 
of conjecture indeed!— and ihe ninth chapter mentions 
another Monastery, and a rock still called the school of 
Homer. Some sepulchral inscriptions of a very simple 
nature are included. — The tenth and last chapter brings 
us round to the Port of Schcsnus, near Bathi ; after we 
have completed, seemingly in a very minute and accurate 
manner, the lour of the island. 

We can certainly recommend a perusal of this volume 
lo every lover of classical scene and story. If we may 
indulge the pleasing belief that Homer sang of a real 
kingdom, and that Ulysses governed it, though we dis- 
cern many feeble links in Mr. GelPs chain of evidence, 
we are on the whole induced to fancy that this is the 
Ithaca of the bard and of the monarch. At all events 
Mr. Gell has enabled every future traveller to form a 



would be a pretty tide : 

" Hoc [UnCUl vtlit, it mugno mtrcentur Atrid($."— Virgil. 

For ourselves, we confess that all our old Grecian feel 
ioga would be alive on approaching the fountain of 
Melainudros, where, as the t radii ion runs, or as tho 
priests relate, Homer was restored to sight. 

We now come 10 the " Grecian Patterson," or 
" CaryY' which Mr. Gell has begun to publish; and 
really he has carried the epic rule of conceal u 
person of the auihor to as great a length as either of 
the above-men! ioned heroes of itinerary wriL We hear 
nothing of Ins ■« hair-breadth 'scapes" by sea or land; 
and we do not even know, for the greater part ol hia 
journey through Argolis, whether be relates what ho 
has *een or what he has heard. From other parts of 
the b 10 k, we find the former to be ihe ease : but, though 
there have been tourists and " strangers" in other coun- 
tries, who have kindly permitted their readers lo learn 
rather too much of "heir sweet selves, yet it is possible 
to carry delicacy, or cautious silence, or whatever it 
may be called, to the contrary extreme. We think that 
Mr. Gell has fallen into this error, so opposite to that 
of his numerous brethren. It is offensive, indeed, lo 
he told what a man has eaten for dinner, or how pathetic 
he was on certain occasions ; but we like lo know that 
there is a being vet living who describes ihe scenes lo 
which he introduces us; and that it is not a mere 
translation from Strabo or Pausaniaa which we are 
reading, or a commentary on those authors. Tins re- 
flection leads us lo the concluding remark in Mr. (.ell's 
preface (by much the most interesting part of his book) 
to iii- Iiinerary of Greece, in which he thus expresses 
himself: — 

" The confusion of the modern wiih the ancient Q&mes 
of places In thi$ volume is b boIui ly unavoidable ; they 
are, however, mentioned in such a manner, that the n adi r 
will soon be accustomed to the indiscriminate use ol them, 
Thi necessit) of applying the ancient appellations i" the 
different routes, will be evident from the total ign< ranee 
ol the public "ii the subject of the m dei n n >Bnee, v- hich, 
having never appeared In | ri t, are onl) known to the 
(ow liirlividi ah u ho h ive vis.ited the country. 

■■ What could appi ar lei ■ 11 g Me to the re, ..It, or 

less useful to the traveller, than a route from Chlone and 

Zi a to Cutchukmaii, from thence to Knbaia to 

Scho n 'hi.no, and by the mill? 1 f Peali, « hil< 1 

is in ome degree scuuai ted with the names ol Siympha 

lus, Nemea, Myceme, Lyrcela, Lerna, and T 

Although this may be very true inasmuch us it relates 

to the reader, vet to the traveller we must observe, in 

opposition to Mr. Gell, that nothing can he less useful 
than ihe designation of Ins route according to the ancient 
names. We might as well, and with as much chance 
of arriving at the place of our destination, talk to 3 
Hounslow post-boy about making haste to Augvst-i, as 
apply to our Turkish guide in modern Greece lor a di- 
rection to Stymphalus, Nemea, Mycenae, &c. &c. 
This is neither more nor less than classical affectation; 
and it renders Mr. Gell's book of much more confined 
use than it would otherwise have been: — but we have 
some other and more important remarks to make on his 
general directions to Grecian tourists; and we beg 
leave to assure our readers that they are derived from 
travellers who have lately visited Gieece. In ihe first 



clearer judgment on the question than he could have j place, Mr. Gell is absolutely incautious enough lo re- 
established "without such a "Vademecum to Ithaca," | commend an interference on the part of Kng/ish travel- 
er a " Have with yon, to th« Houae of Ulysses; 1 as the ilers with the Minister at the Porte, in behalf ■*! the 



REVIEW OF G ELL'S GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA. 



275 



Greeks. " The folly of such neglect (page 16. preface.) 
]t< many instances, where the emancipation of a district 
might <ifien be obtained by the present o( a snuff-box or 
a war n, at Constantinople, and without the smallest 
dangtt of exciting the jealousy of such a court as thut 
of Turkey, will be acknowledged when we are no 
longer able to rectify the error. 1 ' We have every rea- 
son to believe, on the contrary, that the foUy of half a 
dozen travellers taking this advice, might bring us into 
a war, *' Never interfere with any thing of the kind," 
is a much sounder and more political suggestion lo all 
English travellers in Greece. 

Mr. Gell apologises for the introduction of " his pa- 
noramic designs," aa he calls them, on the score of the 
great difficulty of giving any tolerable idea of the face 
of u country in writing, and the ease with which a very 
accurate knowledge of it may be acquired by maps and 
panoramic designs. We are informed that this is not 
tli-.- case with many of ihese designs. The small scale 
of the" single map we have already censured ; and we 
tiave hinted that some of the drawings are not remarka- 
ble for correct resemblance of their originals. The two 
dearer views of the Gate of the Lions at Mycenrc are 
Indeed good likenesses of their subject, and the first of 
■hem is unusually well executed; but the general view 
of Mycenae is not more than tolerable in any respect; 
And the prospect of Larissa,&c. is barely equal to the 
former. The view from this last place is also indiffer- 
i'nt; and we are positively assured that there are no 
windows at Naupl a which look like a box of dominos, 
— the idea suggested by Mr. Gell's plate. We must 
not, however, be too severe on these picturesque baga- 
telles, which, probably, were very hastv sketches ; and 
the circumstances of weather, &c. may have occasioned 
some difference in the appearance of the same objects 
to different spectators. We shall therefore return to 
Mr. Gell's preface ; endeavouring to sel him right in 
Ins directions to travellers, where we think that he is 
erroneous, and adding what appears to have been omitted. 
In Ins first sentence, he makes an asserlion which is by 
no means correct. He says, " We are at present as 
ignorant of Greece, as of the interior of Africa." 
Surely not quite so ignorant ; or several of our Grecian 
Mungo Parks have travelled in vain, and some verv 
sumptuous works have been published to no purpose ! 
As we proceed, we find the author observing thai 
14 Athens is now the most polished city of Greece," 
when we believe it to be the most barbarous, even to a 
proverb — 

is a couplet of reproach now applied to this once famous 
city ; whose inhabitants seem little worthy of the in- 
spiring call which was addressed to them within these 
twenty years, by the celebrated Riga : — 
Atvi-i nau*ts intv EXAijvcuv— k. t. X. 

lannlna, the capital of Epirus, and the seal of Ali Pa- 
cha's government, is in truth deserving of the honours 
which Mr. Cell has improperly bestowed on degraded 
Athens. As to the correctness of the remark concern- 
ing the fashion of wearing the hair cropped in IMoloasia, 
a- Mr. G-.ll informs us, our authorities cannot depose : 
hot why will he use the classical term of Eleuihero- 
I. i rtes, when that people are so much better known by 
their modern name of Mainotes ? l ' The court of the 
Pacha of Tripolizza" is said " to realise the splendid 
visions of the Arabian Nights. 1 ' This is true with re- 
gard to the court: but surely the traveller ought to have 
added that the city and palace are most miserable, and 
form an extraordinary contrast to the splendour of the 



• We write theae line* from the rtcitntion of the Inm Vn to whom 
re h*»» alluded; but we c&auol vouch for UM contctuesn |ihe Koumic. 



court. — Mr. Gell mentions gold mines in Greece: he 
should have specified their situation, as it certainly is 
nol universally known. When, also, he remarks that 
11 the first article of necessity in Greece is a firman, or 
order from the Sultan, permitting the traveller to pass 
unmolested," we are iiiuch misinformed if he be right. 
On the contrary, we believe this to be almost the only 
part of the Turkish dominions in which a firman is not 
necessary; since the passport of the Pacha is absolute 
within his territory (according to Mr. G.'s own admis- 
sion), and much more effectual than a firman. — " Mo- 
ney," he remarks, " is easily procured at Salonica, or 
Patrass, where the English have Consuls." It is much 
better procured, we understand, from the Turkish go- 
vernors, who never charge discount. The Consuls for 
the English are not of the most magnanimous order of 
Greeks, and far from being so liberal, generally speak- 
ing ; although there are, in course, some exceptions, 
and Strune of Patrass has been more honourably men- 
tioned. — After having observed that " horses seem the 
best mode of conveyance in Greece," Mr. Gell pro- 
ceeds : " Some travellers would prefer an English sad- 
dle ; but a saddle of this sort is always objected to by 
the owner of the horse, and not without reason" &c. 
This, we learn, is far from being the case ; and, indeed, 
for a very simple reason, an English saddle must seem 
to be preferable to one of the country, because it is 
much lighter. When, loo, Mr. Gell calls the postilion. 
11 Menzilgi," he mistakes him for his betters : Semi- 
gees are postilions ; JUenzilgva are postmasters: — Our 
traveller was fortunate in his Turks, who are hired to 
walk bv the side of the baggage-horses. They " are 
certain," he says, "of performing their engagement 
without grumbling." We apprehend that this is by no 
means certain : — but Mr. Gell is perfectly right in pre- 
ferring a Turk to a Greek for this purpose ; and in his 
general recommendation to take a Janissary on the 
tour: who, we may add, should be suffered to act as he 
pleases, since nothing is to be done by gentle means, or 
even by offers of money, at the places of accommoda- 
tion. A courier, to be sent on before to the place at 
which the traveller intends to sleep, is indispensable to 
comfort : but no tourist should be misled by the author's 
advice to suffer the Greeks to gratify their curiosity, in 
permitting them to remain for some time about him on 
his arrival a! an inn. They should be removed as soon 
as possible; for, as to the remark that "no stranger 
would think of intruding when a room is pre-occupied," 
our informants were not so well convinced of that fact. 

Though we have made the above exceptions to the 
accuracy of Mr. Cell's information, we are most ready 
to do justice to the general utility of his directions, and 
can certainly concede the praise which he is desirous 
of obtaining —namely, " of having facilitated the re- 
searches of future travellers, by affording mat local 
information which it was before impossible to obtain." 
This book, indeed, is absolutely necessary to anv person 
who wishes to explore the Morea advantageously ; and 
we hope that Mr. Gell will continue his Itinerary over 
that and every other part of Greece, He allows that 
his volume " is only calculated to become a book of re- 
ference, and not of general entertainment:" but we da 
not see any reason against the compatibility of both 
objects in a survey of the most celebrated country of 
die ancient world. To that country, we trust, the at- 
tention not only of our travellers, but of our legislators, 
will hereafter be directed. The greatest caution will, 
indeed, b>- required, as we have premised, in touching 
on so delicate a subject as the amelioration of the 
possessions of an ally: hut the field for the exercise of 
political sagacity is wide and inviting in this portion of 
the globe; and Mr. Gell, and all other writers who in- 
terest us, however .remotely, in its extraordinary capa- 
biiitie*, deserve welt of the British empire. We shall 



276 



REVIEW OF GELL'9 GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA. 



conclude by an extract from the auihor*s work: which, 
even if it fails of exciting that general interest which 
we hope most earnestly it may attract, towards its im- 
portant subject, cannot, as he justly observes, " be en- 
tirely uninteresting to the scholar;" since it is a work 
11 which gives him a faithful description of the remains 
of cities, the very existence of which was doubtful, as 
they perished before the era of authentic history." The 
subjoined quotation is a good specimen of the author's 
minuteness of research as a topographer; and we trust 
that the credit which must accrue to him from the 
present performance will ensure the completion of his 
Itinerary:— 

" The inaccuracies of the maps of Anncharsis are In 
many respects very glaring. The situation of Phlius is 
marked by Straho an surrounded by the territories of 
Sicyon, Argos, Cleona?, and Stymphalus. Mi. Hawkins 
Observed, that Phlius, the ruins of which still exist UH 
Agios Giorgios, lies in a direct line between Cleona? and 
Stymphalus, and another from Sicyon to Argos; so that 
Strabo was correct in saying that it lay between those four 
towns; yet we see Phlius, in the map of Argolis by M. 
Barbie du Bocage, placed ten miles to the north of Styra- 
phalus, contradicting both history and fact. D'Anville is 
guilty of the same error. 

" M. du Bocage places a town named Phlius, and by 
him Phlionie, on the point of land which forms the port 
of Drepano : there are not at present any ruins there. 
The maps of D'Anville are generally more correct than 
any others where ancient geography is concerned. A mis- 
take occurs on the subject of Tiryns, and a plare named 
by him Vathia, but of which nothing can be understood. 
It is p 'ssible that Vailii, or the profound valley, may be a 
name sometimes used for the valley of Barbitsa, ami thai 
the place named by D'Anville Clauaira may be the outlet 
or that valley called Kleisoura, which has a corresponding 
#lgniucaUon. 



" The city of Tiryns Is also placed in iwo different post 
tions, once by its Greek name, and again 4s Tirymhua. 
The mistake between the islands of Sphn na and C a) aura 
has been noticed in page 135. The Pontinus, which D'An 
ville p-pT«H?nu as a river, and the Krasinus are equally 
ill placed in his map. There was a place called Creopolia, 
somewhere toward Cynourra ; but its situation is n<>i easily 
Axed. The ports called Bucephalium and Piraeus seem to 
have bean nothing more than little bays in the country 
between Corinth and Epidaurus. The town called Athe- 
ns, in Cynouria, hy Pausanias, is called Aiilhena by 
Tkucydide; book 5. 41. 

11 In general, ths map of D'Anville will be found more 
accurate than those which have been published since bis 
time ; indeed the mistakes of that eeographer are in ge- 
neral such as could not be avoided" without visiting the 
country. Two errors of D'Anville may be mentioned, lest 
the opportunity of publishing the itinerary of Arcadia 
should never occur. The first is, that the rivers Mal&tas 
and Mylaon, near Metbydrium, are represented as run- 
Ding toward the south, whereas they flow northwards to 
the Ladon: and the second is, that the Aroanius, which 
falls into tne Erymanihop at Psophis, is represented aa 
flowing from the lake of Pheneos; a mistake which arises 
from the ignorance of the ancients themselves who have 
written on the subject. The fact is that the Ladon receives 
the waters of the lakes of Orchumenrs and Pheneos : but 
the Aroanius rises at a spot not two hours distant from 
Psophis." 

In furtherance of our principal object in this critique, 
we have only to add a wish that some of our Grecian 
tourists, among the fresh arlicles of information con- 
cerning Greece which they have lately imported, would 
turn their minds to the language of the country. So 
strikingly similar to the ancient Greek is the modern 
Romaic as a written language, and so dissimilar in 
sound, that even a few general rules concerning pro- 
nunciation would be of most extensive use. 



THE FIRST CHAPTER OF A NOVEL, 



COirTEJCPLATED BT LORD Bl'ROS I?f THE SPRING OF 1812 ; (AFTERWARDS PUBLISHED Ilf ONE OF 

MR. DALLAS 1 NOVELS.) 



-,J- 



1S0— . 



— — DARJIELL TO G. T. 

* * * * So much for your present pursuits. I will 
now resume the subject of ray last. How I wish you 
were upon the spot ; your taste for the ridiculous would 
be fully gratified; and if you felt inclined for more serious 
amusement, there is no "lack of argument. ° Within 
this last week our guests have been doubled in number, 
some of them my old acquaintance. Our host you already 
know — absurd as ever, but rather duller, and I should 
conceive, troublesome to such of his very good friends as 
find his bouse more agreeable than its owner. I confine 
myself to observation, and do not find him at all in the 
wav, though Veramore and Asply are of a different 
opinion. The former, in particular, imparts to me many 
pathetic complaints of the want of opportunities (nothing 
rise being wanting to the success of the said Veramore) 
created by the fractious and but ill concealed jealousy of 
poor Bramblebear, whose Penelope seems to have as 
cnanv suitors as her namesake, and for aught I can see to 
the contrary, with as much prospect of carrying their 
point. In the mean time, I look on and laugh, or rather 
I should laugh were you present to share in it ; sackcloth 
and sorrow are excellent wear for soliloquy ; but for a 
laugh there should be two, but not many more, except at 
the first ni^ht of a modern tragedy. 

You are verv much mistaken in the design you impute 
to myself; I have none here or elsewhere. I am sick of 
old intrigues, and too indolent to engage in new ones. 
Besides, I am, that is, I used to be, apt to find my heart 
pone at the very time when you fastidious gentlemen 
begin to recover yours. I agree with you that the world, 
as well as yourself) are of a different opinion. I shall 
never be at the trouble to undeceive ei'her ; my follies 
have seldom been of my own seeking. " Rebellion came 
in my way, and I found it." This may appear as cox- 
combical a speech as Veramore could make, yet you 
partlv know its truth. You talk to me too of a my cha- 
racter,"' and yet it is one which you and fifty others have 
been struggling these seven years to obtain for yourselves. 
I wish you had it, you would make so much oeUer, that is, 
worse use of it ; relieve me, and gratify an ambition which 
is unworthy of a man of sense. It has always appeared 
lo me extraordinary that you should value women so 
highly, and yet love them so little. The height of your 
gratification ceases with its accomplishment; you bow, 
pnA you sigh, and you worship, — and abandon. For my 
part I regard them as a very beautiful, but inferior animal. 
I think them u much out of place at our tabWa as they 



would be in our senates. The whole present system, 
with regard to that sex, is a remnant of the chivalrous 
barbarism of our ancestors ; I look upon them as grown- 
up children, but, like a foolish mamma, am always the 
slave of some only one. With a contempt for the race, I 
am ever attached to the individual, in spite of myself. 
You know that, though not rude, I am inattentive ; any 
thing but a a beau garfon." I would not hand a woman 
out of her carriage, but I would leap into a nver after her. 
However [ giant you that, as they must walk oftener out 
of chariots than into the Thames, you gentlemen servitors, 
Cortejos and Cicisbei, have a better chance of being 
agreeable and useful ; you might, very probably, do both ; 
but as you can't swim, and I can, I recommend you to 
mute me to your first water-party. 

Bramblebear's Lady Penelope puzzles me. She is 
very beautiful, but not one of my beauties. You know I 
admire a different complexion, but the figure is perfect. 
She is accomplished, if her mother and music-master 
may be believed ; amiable, if a soft voice and a sweet 
smile could make her so; young, even by the register of 
her baptism ; pious and chaste, and doting on her hus- 
band according to Bramblebear's observation ; equally 
loving, not of her husband, though rather less pious, and 
£ other thing, according to Veramore 's ; and if mine hath 
any discernment, she detests the one, despises the other, 
and loves — herself. That she dislikes Bramblebear is 
evident; poor soul, I can't blame her ; she has found him 
out to be mighty weak and little-tempered; she has also 
discovered that she married loo earlv to know what she 
liked, and that there are many likeable people who would 
have been less discordant and more creditable partners. 
Still, she conducts herself well, and in point of sood 
humour, to admiration. A good deal of religion, (not 
enthusiasm, for that leads the contrary way,) a prying 
husband who never leaves her, and, as I think, a very 
temperate pulse, will keep her out of scrapes. I am glad 
of it, first, because, though Bramblebear is bad, 1 dun*! 
lliink Veramore much better; and next, because Bram- 
blebear is ridiculous enough already, and it would be 
thrown away upon him to make him more so ; thirdly, it 
would be a pity, because nobody would pity him ; and, 
fourthly, (as Scrub says,) he would then become a melan- 
choly and sentimental harlequin, instead of a merry, fret* 
ful pantaloon, and I like the pantomime belter as it is now 
cast. Wore in my next. Yours, truly, 

Dakhkll. 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



DEBATE OS THE FRAME-WORK BILL, IN THE HOP8E 
OF LORDS, FEBRUARY 27, 1812. 

The order of the day for the second reading of this 
bill being pad, . , 

LORU BYRON rose, and (for the first lime) ad- 
dressed their l.nd-hips, as follows: 

My Lords— The subject now submitted to your lord- 
ships for the first time, though new to the House, ii bj 
no means new t" the country. 1 believe n had occupied 
the serious thoughts of all descriptions ol persons, long 
before its introduction to the notice of that legislature 
whose interference alone could be of real service. As 1 
person in some degree connected with the sufferin 
county, though a stranger not only to this House in gene 
ral, but to almost every individual whose attention I pre 

sume to solicit, I must claim s p.imon ol your lord 

ships' indulgence whilst I oiler a few observations on a 
question in "Inch I confess myself deeply interested. 

To enter into anv deiail of the riots would be supi i 
(luuus: the House is already aware that ever) outragi 
short of actual bloodshed has been perpetrated, and that 
the proprietors of the frames obnoxious to the riotl rs, and 
all persons supposed to be connected with them, have 
been liable to insult and violence. During die short tune 
I recently passed in Nottinghamshire, not twelve noun 
elapsed without some fresh act of violence ; and on the 



hurried over with a view to exportation. It was callcl, in 
the cant of the trade, by the name of "Spider work. 
The rejected workmen, in the blindness of their Igno- 
, m, , instead of rejoicing at these improv. in. nts in arts 

..,, beneficial to mankind, oonci I themselyi - 

sacrificed to improvements in mechani m. Inthi I 

noes of their hearts they imagi I, 

md well-doing of the industrious poor wi 

greater consequence than the enrich at ol • Ii 

viduals bv anv improvement, in the implemi nts "t trade, 
which threw the workmen out of employment, and ren- 
di r,d the labourer unworthy of In- lore. And it must be 
confessed that although the adoption of the enlarged ma- 
chinery in that state of our commerce which the country 

v boasted, might have been beneficial to the 

without belli" detrimental to the servant ; vet, in the pre- 
sent situation of our manufactures, rotting ui wan b 
without a prospect of exportation, with the demand Tor 
work and workmen equally rliimnished; frames of this 

ion tend materially toaggravate thediaO 
discontent of the disappointed sufferers. But tl 
cause of these distresses and consequent dads 
lies deeper. When we are told that these men are 
leagued togedier not only for the destruction of 101 .row,, 
comfort, but of their verv means of subsistence, can we 
forget that it is the bitter policy, the destructive wai 






nave reason io ueuc**. .v >■« »" -. 

these outrages must be admitted to exist to an alarming 
extent, it cannot be denied that they have arisen from 
circumstances of the most unparalleled distress. The 
perseverance of these miserable men in their proceed. 
ings, tends to prove that nothing but absolute want could 
have driven a large, and once honest and industrious, 
body of the people, into the commission of excesses so 
hazardous to themselves, their families, and the commu- 
nity. At the nine to which I allude, the town and county 
were burdened with large detachments of the military ; 
the poh.e was in motion, the magistrates assembled ; yet 
all the movements, civil and military, had led to— nothing 
Not a single instance had occurred of the apprehension 
of any real delinquent actuall) taken in the (act, agam 

whom there existed legal eval nee sutlieient I ">"'- 

tion. But the police, however useless, were by no means 

idle- several notorious delinquents had been .1 

men, liable to conviction, on the dearest evidence, of the 

capital crime of poverty; men who had bee I 

guilty of lawfully begetting several children, whom,thanks 

to the times', they were unaMe to maintain. C idera- 

ble injury has been done to the proprietors of the improved 

frames ' These machines were to them an advantage, 
inasmuch as they superseded the necessity of employing 
a number of workmen, who were left in consequence to 
starve. By the adoption of one species of frame in par- 
ticular, one man performed the work of many, and the 
superfluous labourers were thrown out of employment. 
Yet it is to be observed, dial the work thus executed was 
inferior in qualitx; ; not marketable at home, and merely 



me tniru anu luuioi g«u«» 

destroyed their looms till they were become I] 
wot ii than useless; till they were beeomeacuial b 

Mini's to their exertions 111 obtaining their dally b I ad. 
i ,,, you, then, wonder that in tunes like these, when 
bankruptcy, convicted fraud, and imputed felony are found 
in a station not far beneath that of your lordships, the 
lowest, though once most useful portion ol the people, 
should forget their duty in their distresses, and h me 

only lr~s guilty than one of their representatives? But 
while the exalted offender can find means to battle the 
law, new capital punishments must be devised, new 
snares of death must be spread for the wretched mecha- 
nic, who is famished into guitt. These men wore w illing 
lo di ■. bul the spade was in "'her hands: they were not 
ashamed lo beg, bul there was none to relii 
own moan- of subsistence were cut off, all othei employ- 
menu preoccupied, and their excesses, however to be 
and condemned, can hardly be subject of sur- 
prise. 

It has been stated that the persons in the temporary 

ion of frames connive at their destruction i it this 

be proved upon inquiry, it were necessary that such mate* 

rial accessaries to llie'crime should he principals III ihe 

punishment. But Idid hope, that any measure | 

by his majesty's government, foi your lordships' dads 

would have had conciliation (or its basis; or, if that were 
hopeless, that some previous inquiry, some deliberation 
would have hem deemed requisite; not that we s hould 
have been called at once without examination, and with- 
out cause, to pass sentences by wholesale, and sign death- 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



279 



But admitting Aat these men had no then employments, would have rendered unnecessary the 

voices of them and tender mercies of the bayonet and the gibbei. Bui 

' doubtless our friends have loo many foreign claims to 

admit a prospect of domestic relief; though never did 

I have traversed the seat of 



wamr ta blindfold. 
cause of complaint 

their i mployers were alike groundless; 'hai they deserved 
the worst; what inefficiency, what imbecility has been 
evinced in the method chosen to reduce them! Why 
were the militarv called out to be made a mockery of, if 
they were to be called out at all ? As far as the differ- 
ence of seasons would permit, they have merely parodied 
the summer campaign of Major Sturgeon ; and, indeed, 
the whole proceedings, civil and military, seemed on the 
i .f those of the Mayor and Corporation of Gar- 
<att — Such marchings and coiintcrmarchings I from 
gham to Bullwcll, from Bullwell to Banfnrd, from 
Banford to Mansfield! and when at length the detach- 
ments arrived at their destinations, in all "the pride, 
pomp, and circumstance of slorious war," they came just 
m time to witness the mischief which had been done, and 
ascertain the escape of the perpetrators, to collect the 
"spolia opima'' in the fragments of broken frames, and 
return to their quarters amidst the derision of old women, 
and the hootings of children. Now, though in a free 
country, it were to be wished that our military should 
never be too formidable, at least to ourselves, I cannot see 
the policy of placing them in situations where they can 
only he made ridiculous. As the sword is the worst 
argument that can be used, so should it be the last. In 
this instance it has been the first ; but providentially as 
v.t only in the scabbard. The present measure will. 
pluck it from the sheath; yet had proper meet- 
ings been held in the earlier stages of these riots,— had 
the grievances of these men and their masters (for they 
also"had their grievances) been fairly weighed and justly 
examined, I do think that means might have been devised 
to restore these workmen to their avocalions, and tran- 
quillity to the county. At present the county suffers from 
the .'.ouble infliction of an idle military, and a starving 
popidation. In what sta'e of apathy have we been 
plunged so long, that now for the first time the House has 
facially apprized of these disturbances ! All this 
has been transacting within 130 miles of London, and yet 
we, " good easy men, have deemed full surely our great- 
ness was a-ripening," an I have sat down to enjoy our 
foreign triomphs in the midst of domestic calamity. But 
all the cities you have taken, all the armies which have 
retreated before your leaders, are but paltry subjects of 
self-congratulation, if your land divides against itself and 
your dragoons an! your executioners mist be let loose 
against your fellow-citizens. — You call these men a mob, 
desperate, dangerous, and ignorant; and seem to think 
tha' the only way to quiet the ■•flrlluamiiltorum 
is 10 lop off a few of its superfluous heads. Bui even a 
mob mav be better reduced to reason by a mixture of 
ccn-iliaiion and firmness, than by additional irritation and 
redoubled penalties. Are we aware of our obligations 
to a mob ? It is the mob that labour in your fields, and 
serve in your houses, — 'ha' man your navy, and recruit 
your army, — that have enabled you to defy all the world, 
and can also defy you when neglect and calamity have 
driven them to despair. Yi ra mav call the people a mob ; 
but do not forget, thai a m ib too open speaks the senti- 
ments of the people. And here I must remark, with 
what alacrity yon are accustomed to fly to the succour of 
vollr h, i leaving the distressed of your own 

country tothe care of Providence, or — the parish. When 
the Portuguese suffered under the retreat of the French, 
everv arm was stretched out, every hand was opened, 
from the rich man's largess to the widow's mite, all was 
bestowed to enable them to rebuild their villages and 
replenish their granaries. And at this moment, when 
thousands of misguided but most unfortunate fellow, 
countrymen are struggling with the extremes of hardships 
and hunger, as vour charity began abroad, it should end 
at home." A much less sum, a tilho of the bounty be- 
«>ow«d on Portugal, even if those men (whi h I cannot 
admit ■nr.hout inquiry) could not have been, restored to 



iich objects demand it. 

war in the Peninsula, I have been in some of the most 
oppressed provinces of Turkey, but never under the most 
despouc of infidel governments did I behold such squaiid 
wTetchcdness as I have seen since my return in the very 
heart of a Christian country. And what are your reme- 
dies ? After months of inaction, and months of action 
worse than inactivity, at length comes forth the grand 
specific, the never-failing nostrum of all state physicians, 
from the davs of Draco to the present time. After feel- 
ing the pulse and shaking the head over the patient, pre 
scribing the usual course of warm water and bleeding, the 
warm water of your maukish police, and the lance's of 
your military, these convulsions must terminate in death, 
the sure consummation of the prescriptions of all politi- 
cal Sangrados. Setting aside the palpable injustice, and 
the certain inefficiency of the bill, are there not capital 
punishments sufficient in your statutes? Is there not 
blood enough upon your penal code, that more must be 
poured fi .rth to ascend to Heaven and testify against you ? 
How will you carrv the bill into effect ? Can you com- 
mit a whole county to their own prison ? Will you erect 
a gibbet in every field, and hang up men like scarecrows? 
or will you proceed (as you must, to bring this measure 
into effect) by decimation ? place the county under mar- 
tial law? depopulate and lay waste all around you? and 
restore Sherwood Forest as an acceptable gift to the 
crown, in its former condition of a royal chase and an 
asylum for outlaws ? Are these the remedies for a starv- 
ing and desperate populace? Will the famished wretch 
who has braved your bayonets, be appalled by your gib 
bets? When death is 'a relief, and the only relief it 
appears that you will afford him, will he be dragooned 
into tranquillity ? Will that which could not be effected 
by your grenadiers be accomplished by your execution- 
ers ? If you proceed by the forms of law, where is your 
evidence ? Those who have refused to impeach their 
accomplices, when transportation only was the punish- 
ment, will hardly be tempted to witness against them 
when death is the penalty. With all due deference to 
the noble lords opposite, I think a little invest iga'ion, some 
previous inquiry, would induce even them to change their 
purpose. That most favourite state measure, so marvel 
lously efficacious in many and recent instances, temporiz- 
ing, would not be without its advantages in this. When 
a proposal is made to emancipate or relieve, you hesitate 
you deliberate for years, you temporize and tamper with 
the minds of men;' but a death-bill must be passed off 
hand, without a thought of the consequences. Sure I am, 
from what I have heard, and from what I have seen, that 
to pass the Bill under all the existing circumstances, 
without inquiry, without deliberation, would only be to add 
injustice to irritation, and barbarity to neglect. The 
(Tamers of such a Bill must be content to inherit the 
honours of that Athenian lawgiver whose edicts were 
said to be written not in ink, but in blood. But suppose 
it past ; suppose one of these men, as I have seen them, 
—meagre w iih famine, sullen with despair, careless of a 
life which vour lordships are perhaps about to vali e at 
something less than the price of a stocking-frame— sup- 
pose this "man surrounded by the children for whom he is 
unable to procure bread at the hazard of his existence, 
about to be torn for ever from a family winch he lately 
supported in peaceful industry, and which it is not his 
fault that he can no longer so support— suppose this man, 
and there are ten thousand such from whom you may 
jeled vour victims, dragged into court, to be tried for this 
new offence, bv this n™ law ; still, there are two things 
wanting to convict and condemn him ; and these are, in 
my opinion,— twelve Butchers for a Jury, and a Jeffenej 
f >r a Judge! 



280 



PARLIAMENTARY 6PEECHK9. 



DEBATE OX THE EARL OF DONOUGHMORe's MOTIOS 

FOR A COMMITTEE ON THE ROMAN CATHOLIC 

CLAIMS, APRIL 21, 1612. 

My Lords — The question before the House has been 
80 frequently, fully, and ably discussed, and never perhaps 
more ably than on this night, that it would be difficult to 
adduce new arguments for or against it. But with each 
discussion difficulties have been removed, objections have 
been canvassed and refuted, and some of the former 
opponents of Catholic Emancipation have at length con- 
ceded to the expediency of relieving the petitioners. In 
conceding thus much, however, a new objection is started ; 
it is not the time, say they, or it is an improper lime, or 
there is time enough yet. In some degree I concur with 
those who say it is not the time exactly; that lime is 
passed ; better had it been for the country, that the Ca- 
tholics possessed at this moment their proportion of our 
privileges, that their nobles held their due weight in our 
councils, than that we should be assembled to discuss 
their claims. It had indeed been better 



Ogere c 



" Noa tempore tali 
rilium turn muroi obsiHrl hoatM.' 



The enemy is without, and distress within. It is loo late 
tn r;ivil on doctrinal points, when we must unite in defence 
of things more important than the mere ceremonies of 
religion. It is indeed singular, that we are called together 
to deliberate, not on the God we adore, for in that we are 
agreed ; not about the king we obey, for to him we are 
loyal ; but how far a difference in the ceremonials of wor- 
ship, how far believing not too little, but too much, (the 
worst that can be imputed to the Catholics,) how far 
loo rum li devotion to their God, may incapacitate our 
fellow-subjects from effectually serving their king. 

Much has been said, within and without doors, of 
Church and State, and although those venerable words 
have been too often prostituted to the most despicable of 
party purposes, we cannot hear them too often ; all, I 
presume, are the advocates of Church and State, ihe 
Church of Christ, and the State of Great Britain ; but 
not a state of exclusion and despotism; not an intolerant 
church ; not a church militant, which renders itself liable 
to the very objection urged against the Romish commu- 
nion, and in a greater degree, for the Catholic merely with- 
holds its spiritual benediction, (and even that is doubtful,) 
but our church, or rather our churchmen, not only refuse 
to the Catholic their spiritual grace, but all temporal bless- 
ings whatsoever. It was an observation of the great 
Lord Peterborough, made within these walls, or within the 
walls where the Lords then assembled, that he was fin a 
"parliamentary king and a parliamentary constitution, but 
not a parliamentary God, and a parliamentary religion.'' 
The interval of a century has not weakened the force of 
the remark. It is indeed time that we should leave off 
these petty cavils on frivolous points, these Lilliputian 
sophistries, whether our "eggs are best broken at the 
broad or narrow end." 

The opponents of the Catholics may be divided into 
two classes ; those who assert that the Catholics have too 
much already, and those who allege that the lower orders, 
at least, have nothing more to require. We are told by 
the former, that the Catholics never will be contents! : 
by the latter, that they are already too happy. The lost 
paradox is sufficiently refuted by Ihe present, as by all past 
petitions : it might as well he said, that the negroes did 
not desire to be emancipated — but this is an unfortunate 
comparison, for you have already delivered them out of 
the house of bondage without any petition on their pari, 
but many from their taskmasters to a contrary effect ; 
said tor myself, when I consider this, I pity the Catholic 
peasantry for not having the good fortune to be born black. 
But the Catholics are contented, or at least ought to be, 
as we are told : I shall therefore proceed to touch on a 
few of those circumstances which so marvellously contri- 
bute to their exceeding contentment. They are not 
atinwtd the fiteo, •xorcoo of their religion in the regular 



armv ; the Catholic soldier cannot absent himself fron. 
the service of the Protestant clergyman, and, unless he is 
quartered in Ireland, or in Spain, where can he find eligi- 
ble opportunities of attending bis own ? The permission 
of Catholic chaplains to the Irish militia regiments was 
conceded as a special favour, and not till after years of 
remonstrance, although an act, passed in 1793, established 
it as a right. But are the Catholics properly protected in 
Ireland 7 Can the church purchase a rood of land where- 
on to erect u chapel ? No ; all the places of worship are 
built on leases of trust or sufferance from the laity, easily 
broken and often betrayed. The moment any irregular 
wish, any casual caprice of the benevolent landlord meets 
with opposition, the doors are barred against the congre- 
gation. This has happened continually, but in no instance 
more glaring! v, than at the town of Newtown Barry, 
in the county of Wexford. The Catholics, enjoying no 
regular chapel, as a temporary expedient, hired two barns, 
which, being thrown into one, served for public worship. 
At tins time there was quartered opposite to the spot an 
officer, whose mind appears to have been deeply imbued 
with those prejudices which the Protestant petitions, now 
on the table, prove to have been fortunately eradicated 
from the more rational portion of the people; and when 
the Catholics were assembled on the Sabbath as usual, in 
peace and good-will towards men, for the worship of their 
God and yours, they found the chapel door closed, and 
were told that if they did not immediately retire, (and 
they were told this by a yeoman officer and a magistrate,) 
the riot act should be read, and the assembly dispersed at 
the point of the bayonet! This was complained of to 
ihe middle-man of government, the secretary at the Cas- 
tle in 1806, and the answer was, (in lieu of redress,) that 
he would cause a letter to be written to ihe colonel, to 
prevent, if possible, the recurrence of similar distnnV 
.on . -. Upon this fact, no very great stress need be laid ; 
but it tends to prove that while the * 'atholic church has 
not power to purchase land for ils chapels to stand upon, 
the laws for its protection are of no avail. In the mean 
tune, the Catholics are at the mercy of every "pelting 
petty officer," who may choose to play his "fantastic 
tricks before high heaven," to insult his God, and injure 
his fellow-creatures. 

Every schoolboy, any footboy (such have held com- 
missions in our service,) any footboy who can exchange 
his shoulderknot for an epaulet, may perform all this and 
more against the Catholic, by virtue of that very authority 
delegated to him by his sovereign, for the express purpose 
of defending his fellow-subjeets to the last drop of lus 
blood, without discrimination or distinction between 
Catholic and Protestant. 

Have the Irish Catholics the full benefit of trial by 
jury? They have not; they never can have until tie v 
are permitted to share the privilege of Barring as sheriffs 
and undershenfls. Of this a striking example occurred, 
at the last EnniskilU-n assizes. A yeoman was arraigned 
for the murder of a Catholic named Macvoumagh : three 
respe. lahle uncontradicted unnesses deposed that they 
saw the prisoner load, take aim, tire at, and kill the said 
Macvoumagh. This was properly commented on by 
the judge; but, to the astonishment of the bar, and 
indignation of the court, the Protestant jury acquitted 
the accused. So glaring was the partiality, that Mr. 
Justice I tebome felt u his duty to bind over the acquitted, 
but not absolved assassin, in large recognizances, thus 
lor a lime taking away his license to kill Catholics. 

Arc the very laws passed in their favour observed ? 
They are rendered nugatory in trivial as in serious cases. 
By a late act, Catholic chaplains are permitted in jails, 
but in Fermanagh county the grand jury lately persisted 
in presenting a suspended clergyman for the office, there- 
in- evading the statute, notwithstanding the most preOHU 
remonstrances of a most respectable magistrate, named 
Fletcher, to the contrary. Surh is law, such is justice, 
I for tho happy, freo, contented Catholic! 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



28 1 



It has been asked in another p'ace, why do not the 
rich Catholics endow foundations f>r the education of the 
priesthood? Why do you not permit them to do so? 
Why are all such bequests subject to the interference, 
the vexatious, arbitrary, peculating interference of the 
Orange commissioners for charitable donations? 

As to Mavnooth college, in no instance, except at the 
time of its foundation, when ;i noble Lord (Camden,) at 
the head of the Irish administration, did appear to inte- 
rest himself in its advancement ; and during the govern- 
ment df a noble Duke (Bedford,) who, like his ancestors, 
has ever been the friend of freedom and mankind, and 
who has not so far adopted ihe selfish policy of the day 
as to exclude the Catholics from the number of his fellow- 
creatures ; with these exceptions, in no instance has that 
institution been properly encouraged. There was indeed 
a time when the Catholic clergy were conciliated, while 
the Union was pending, that Union which could not be 
carried without them, while their assistance was requisite 
in procuring addresses from the Catholic counties; then 
they were cajoled and caressed, feared and Haltered, and 
given to understand that li the Union would do every 
thing ;* but, the moment it was passed, they were driven 
back with contempt into their former obscurity. 

In the contempt pursued towards Mavnooth college, 
every thing is done to irri'ate and perplex — every thing trines of the Church of England, or of churchmen 'J 



nearest of kindred from a charity charter school. In 
this manner are proselytes ob'ained, and mingled with 
the offspring of such Protes'an's as mav avail themselves 
of the institution. And how are they taught? A cate- 
chism is put into their hands consisting of, I believe, 
forty-five pages, in which are three questions relative to 
the Protestant religion ; one of these queries is, " Where 
was the Protestant religion before Luther?" Answer, 
''In the Gospel." The remaining furtv-four pages and a 
half regard the damnable idolatry of Papists! 

Allow me to ask our spiritual pastors and masters, is 
this training up a child m the way which he should go? 
Is this the religion of the gospel before the time of Lu- 
ther ? that religion which preaches "Peace on earth, 
and glory to God .'" Is it bringing up infants to be men 
or devils? Belter would it be to send them any where 
than teach them such doctrines; better send them to 
those islands in the South Seas, where they might more 
humanely leam to become cannibals ; it would be less 
disgusting that thev were brought up to devour the dead, 
than persecute the living. Schools do you call th< m ? 
call them rather dunghills, where the viper of intolerance 
deposits her young, that, when their teeth are cut and 
heir poison is mature, they may issue forth, filthy and 
venomous, to sting the Catholic. But are these the doc- 



is done to efface the slightest impression of gratitude 
from the Catholic mind ; the very hay made upon the 
lawn, the fat and tallow of the beef and mutton allowed, 
must be paid for and accounted upon oath. It is true, 
this economv in miniature cannot be sufficiently com- 
mended, particularly at a lime when only the insect 
defaulters of the Treasury, your Hums ami your Chin- 
nrrvs, when only these "gilded bugs" can escape the 
microscopic eye of ministers. But when vou come for- 
ward session after session, as your paltry pittance is 
wrung from you with wrangling and reluctance, to boast 
of your liberality, well might the Catholic exclaim, in the 
words of Prior, — 

" To Jolin I owe ooroe "Miaulion, 
But Jului unluckily think* fit 
T* paMbli it to Ml lt>e nation. 
So John and I arc in. .re than quit." 

Some persons have enmpared the Catholics to the 
beggar in Gil Bias. Who mad*; them beggars ? Who 
are enriched with the spoils of their ancestors? And 
cannot you relieve the beggar when your fathers have 
made him such? If you are disposed to relieve him at 
all, cannot you do it without flinging your farthings in his 
fur.- ? As a contrast, however, to this beggarly bene- 
rolence, let us look at the Protestant Charter Schools; 
w i them you have lately granted 41,000/. ; thus are they 
supported, aid how are they recruited ? Montesquieu 
observes, on the English constitution, that the model may 
be found in Tacitus, where the historian descrihes the 
policy of ihe Germans, and adds, " this beautiful system 
was taken from the woods j* 1 so in speaking of the charter 
schools, it may be observed, that this beautiful system 
was taken from the gipsies. These schools are recruit- 
ed in the same manner as the Janizaries at the time of 
their enrolment under Amurath, and the gipsies of the 
present dav, with stolen children, with children decoyed 
and kidnapped from their Catholic connexions by their 
rich and powerful Protestant neighbours: this is noto- 
rious, and one instance may sutfice to show in what 
manner. The sister of a Mr. Carthy (a Catholic gen- 
tleman of very considerable property) died, leaving two 
girls, who were immediately marked out as proselytes, 
and conveved to the charter sch«»ol of Coolgreny. Then- 
uncle, on being apprized of the fact, which took place 
durinc his absence, applied for the restitution of his 
nieces, offering to settle an independence on these rela- 
tions; his request was refused, and not till after five 
years' struggle, and the interference of very high autho- 
niy, could this Catholic gentleman obtain back his 

36 



No; the most enlightened churchmen are of a different 
opinion. What says Paley ? "I perceive no reason 
why men of different religious persuasions, should not 
sit upon the same bench, deliberate in the same council, 
or fight in the same ranks, as well as men of various 
religious opimons, upon any controverted topic of natural 
history, philosophy, or ethics." It may be answered that 
Paley was not strictly orthodox ; I know nothing of his 
orthodoxy, but who will deny that he was an ornament 
to the church, to human nature, to Christianity ? 

I shall not dwell upon the grievance of tithes, so 
severely felt by the peasantry, but it may be proper to 
observe that there is an addition to the burden, a per- 
centage to the gatherer, whose interest it thus becomes 
to rate them as highly as possible, and we know that in 
many large living in Ireland, the only resident Protest- 
ant? are the tithe-proctor and his family. 

Amons many causes of irntauon, too numerous for 
recapitulation, there is one in the militia not to be passed 
over, 1 mean the existence of Orange lodges amongst the 
[invars ; can the cdieers deny tins ? And if such lodges 
do exist, do thev, can they tend to promote harmonv 
amongst the men, who are thus individually separated 
in society, although mingled in th'- ranks ? And is this 
general system of persecution to he permitted, or is it to 
be believed that with such a system the Catholics can or 
ought to be contented ? If they are, they belie human 
nature; they are then, indeed, unworthy to be any thing 
but the slaves you have made them. The factsslated 
are from most respectable authority, or I should not have 
dan d in this place, or any place, to haiurd this avowal. 
If e\ag;:erated, there are plenty, as willing as I believe 
thi m ii. be unable, to disprove them. Should it be 
objected that I never was in Irelandj I beg leave lo 
observe, ihat it is as easy to know something of Ireland 
without having been there, as it appears with some to 
hav«- been bom, bred, and cherished there, and yet remain 
ignorant "fits best interests. 

But there are, who assert that the Catholics have 
already been too much indulged: see (cry they) what 
has been done: we have given them one entire college, 
we allow them food and raiment, the full enjoyment of 
the elements, and leave to fight for us as long as they 
have limbs and lives lo offer ; and yet they are never to 
be satisfied! Generous and just declaimers ! To this, 
and to tins only, amount the whole of your arguments 
when stnpt of their sophistry. These personages remind 
me of the story of a certain drummer, who being called 
upon in the course of duty to administer punishment to 



282 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



a friend tied to the halberts, was requested to flog high , 
h,. did— to ting low, he did— to flog in the middle, he did 
—high, low, down the middle, and up again, but all in 
rain, the patient continued his complaints with the most 



provoking pertinacity, until the drummer, exhausted a 
angrv, Hung downliisscourge.cxclaiming, " the devil In 
you, there 'a DO pleasingyou, flog where one will!" Tl 



exhausted and 
burn 
hus 
it is', you liave flogged the Catholic, high, low, here, there, 
and every where, and then you wonder he is not pleased. 
It is true, that time, experience, and that weariness which 
attends even the exercise of barbarity, have taught you 

to il"- a Hide more gently, but still you e Que la lay 

on the lash, and will so continue, till perhaps the rod may 
be wrested from your hands, and applied to die baeks of 
yourselves and your posterity. 

It was said by somebody in a former debate, (I forget 
by whom, and am not very anxious to remember,) il the 
Catholics are emancipaled, why not the Jews ? If this 
sentiment was dictated by compassion for the Jews, it 
might deserve attention, but as a sneer against the Catho- 
lic, what is it but the language of Sliylock transferred 
from his daughter's marriage to Catholic emancipation- 
" Would inyof the LrfbiofBMTSbbM 

SlioulJ have ll rather than a Clirialinii." 

1 presume a Catholic is a Christian, even in the opi- 
nion of him whose taste only can be called in question 
for his preference of the Jews. 

It is a remark often quoted of Dr. Johnson, (whom I 
take to be almost as good authority as the gentle apostle 
of intolerance, Dr. Duigenan,) thai lie who could enter- 
tain serious apprehensions of danger to the Church in 
these times, would have "cried lire in the deluge." This 
is more than a metaphor, for a remnant of diese ante- 
diluvians appear actually to have cue- down to us, with 
fire in their mouths and water in thoir brains, to disturb 

and perplex mankind with tli. ir whimsical 

And as it is an infallible symptom of that distressing 
malady with which I conceive them to be afflicted, (so 
any doctor will inform your lordships,) for the unhappy 
invalids to perceive a flame perpetually flashing b I 
their eyes, particularly when their eyes are shut, (as 
those of the persons to whom I allude have long been,) 
it is impossible to convince these poor creatures, that die 
fire against which they are perpetually warning us and 
themselves, is nothing but an ignis fiUuus of their own 
drivelling imaginations. What rhubarb, senna, or "what 
purgative ding can scour that fancy thruce .'" — It is im- 
possible, they are given over, theirs is the true 

" Caput insanabile Iritaia Amicyris." 

These are your true Protestants. Like Bayle, who pro- 
le-tod against all seels whatsoever, so do they protest 

against Catholic petitions, Protestant petitions, all re- 
dress, all that reason, humanity, pule'-, justice, and com, 
man sense, can urge againsl the delusions of their absurd 
delirium. Tie-, are the persons who reverse the fable 
of the mountain mat brought forth a mouse ; Uicy are the 
mice who conceive themselves in labour with mountains. 
To return to the Catholics, -oppose the Irish were 
actually contented under their disabilities, lupposethero 
capable of such a bull as not to desire deliverance, ought 
we not to wish it for ourselves? Have we nothing to 

gain by their emancipation? What resources have I n 

wasted! What talents have been lost by the selfish 
system of exclusion! You already know the value of 
Irish aid ; at tins moment the defence of England is 
intrusted to the Irish militia: at this moment, while the 
starving people are rising in tile fierceness of despair, 
the Irish are faithful to their trust. But till equal energy- 
is imparted throughout by the extension of freedom, you 
cannot enjoy the full benefit of the strength which you 
are glad to interpose between you and destruction. Ire- 
land has done much, but will do more. At tllis moment 
the only triumph obtained through long years of con- 
tinental disaster has been achieved by an Irish general ; 



it is true lie is not a Catholic ; had he been so, we should 
have been deprived of bis exertions; but 1 presume no 
one will assert that his religion would have impaired bin 
talents or diminished his patriotism, though in lhat case 
he must have conquered in the ranks, for he never could 
have commanded an army. 

But while he is fighting the batUcs of the Catholira 
abroad, his noble brother has this night advocated iheir 
cause, « ith an eloquence which I shall not depreciate by 
the humble u ibute of my panegyric, whilst a third of his 
kindred as unlike u unequal, has been combating againsl 
his Catholic brethren in Dublin, with circular letters, 
edicts, proclamations, arrests, and dispersions— all the 
vexatious implements of petty warfare that could be 
wielded bv the mercenary guerillas of govermni 
,n rbe rusty armour of iheir obsolete statutes. Your 
lordships will, doubtless, divide new honour 
saviour of Portugal, and the dispenser of delegates. U 
is singular, indeed, to observe the difference between our 
foreign and domestic policy; if Cathode Spain, faithful 
Portugal, or the no less Catholic and faithful km. 
one Sicily, (of which, by the by, yon have lately di 
him,) -land III need of succour, away goes a fleel and an 
army, an ambassador and a subsidy, sometimes to fight 
pretty hardly, generally to negotiate very badly, and 
always to pay very dearly for our Popish allies. Kill 
let four millions of fellow-subjects pray for relief, who 
fight and pay and labour in your behalf, they must be 



treated as aliens, and although their "father's boose has 
many mansions," there is no resting-place for them. 
Allow me to ask, are yo t fighting lor the emancipa- 
tion of Ferdinand the Seventh, who certainly is a fool, 
and consequently, in all probability, a bigot ; and havo 
you more regard for a foreign sovereign than your own 
objects, who are not fools, for they know your 
interest better than you know your own; who are not 
bigots, for I hey return you good fir evil; but who are m 
worse durance than the prison of an usurper, inasmuch 
as the Utters of the mind are more galling Uian those of 
the body. 

Upon the consequences of your not acceding to the 
claims of the petitioners, I shail not expatiate ; you know 
them, you will feel them, and your children's children 
when you are passed away. Adieu to that Union so 
called, as " Lucus a non lucmdu" a Union from neve! 
uniting, which, in its first operation, gave a death-blow 
to the independence of Ireland, and in its last may be 
the cause of her eternal separation from this country. If 
u must be called a Union, il is the union of the shark 
with his prey ; the spoiler swallows up his victim, and 
thus they become one and indivisible. Thus has Great 
Britain swallowed up the parliament, the constitution, 
die independence of Ireland, and refus. - to disgorge even 
a single privilege, although for the relief of her - 
and distempered body politic 

And now, my lords', before I sit down, will his majesty's 
ministers permit me to say a few words, not on their 
merits, for that would be superfluous, but on the degree 
of estimation in which they are held by the people of 
these realms. The esteem in which Uicy are held has 
been boasted of in a triumphant tone on a late occasion 
within these walls, and a comparison instituted between 
their conduct, and dial of noble lords on this side of the 
house. 

What portion of popularity may have fallen to the 
share of my noble friends, (if such I may presume to call 
them,) I shall not pretend to ascertain; but lhat of his 
majesty's ministers it were vain to deny. Il is, to be sure, 
a little like die wind, " no one knows whence it comelh 
or whither it goelh," but they feel it, they enjoy it, they 
boast of it. Indeed, modest and unostentatious as they 
are, to what part of the kingdom, even Ihe most remote, 
can they flee to avoid the trium|>li which pursues them? 
If they pUinge into the midland counties, there they wdl 
be greeted by the manufacturers, widi rpurnod petitions 



P A R L I AM ENTARY SPEECHES. 



283 



in their hands, and those hatters round their necks recent- 
ly voted in their behalf, imploring blessings on the heads 
of those who so simply, yet ingeniously contrived to re« 
move them from their miseries in this to a better world 
If they journey on to Scotland, from Glasgow to Johnny 
Groat's, every where will they receive similar marks ot 
approbation. If they take a trip from Portpairick to 
Donaghadee, there will they rush at once into the em- 
braces rif four Catholic millions, to whom their vote of 
this nigh) is about to endear them for ever. When they 
return to the metropolis, if they can pass under Temple 
Bar without unpleasant sensations at the sight of the 
Oicht a over that ominous gateway, they cannot 
escape the acclamations of the livery, and the more tre- 
mulous, but not less sincere, applause, the blessings "not 
loud but deep" of bankrupt merchants and doubting stock- 
holders. If they look to the army, what wreaths, not of 
laurel, but of nightshade, are preparing for the heroes of 
Walcheren ! It is true there are few living deponents 
left to testify to their merits on that occasion ; but a 
"cloud of witnesses' 1 are gone above from that gallant 
army which they so generously and piously despatched, 
to recruit the "noble army of martyrs." 

\\ fial \{, in the course of this triumphal career, (in 
which they will gather as many pebbles as Caligula's 
arutv did on a similar triumph, the prototype of their 
own,) they do not perceive any of those memorials which 
a grateful people erect in honour of their benefactors; 
what although not even a signpost will condescend to 
depose the Saracen's head in favour of the likeness of the 
conquerors of Walcheren, they will not want a picture 
who can always have a caricature ; or regret the omission 
of a statue who will so often see themselves exalted in 
effisv. But their popularity is not limited to the narrow 
bounds of an island ; there are other countries where 
their measures, and, above all, their conduct to the Ca- 
tholics, must render them pre-eminently popular. If they 
are beloved here, in France they must be adored. There 
is no measure more repugnant to the designs and feelings 
of Buonaparte than Catholic emancipation ; no line of 
conduct more propitious to his projects, than that which 
en pursued, is pursuing, and, I fear, will be pursued, 
t wards Ireland. What is England without Ireland, and 
what is Ireland without the Catholics? It is on the basis 
of yoor tyranny Napoleon bopea to build his own. So 
grateful must oppression of the Catholics be to his mind, 
that doubtless (as he has lately permitted some renewal 
of intercourse) the next cartel will convey to this country 
of Sevres china and blue ribands, (things in great 
request, and of equal value at this moment,) blue ribands 
of the legion of honour for Dr. Duigenan and his minis- 
terial disciples. Such is that well-earned popularity, the 
result of those extraordinary expeditions, so expensive to 
ourselves, and so useless to our allies ; of those singular 
Inquiries, so exculpatory to the accused andsodissati - 
factory to the people; of those paradoxical victories, so 
!i 11 Durable, as we are told, to the British name, and so 
destructive to the best interests of the British nation ; 
above all, such is the reward of a conduct pursued by 
nnnistera towards the Catholics. 

I have to apologize to the House, who will, I trust, 
pardon one, not often in the habit of intruding upon their 
in lutgence, for so long attempting to engage their atten- 
tion. My most decided opinion is, as my vote will be, m 
favour of the motion. 



DEBATE OS MAJOR CARTWRtCHTS PETITION, JUNE 

1, 1613. 
Mt Lords — The Petiuon which I now hold for the 
purpose of presenting to the House, is one which I 
humbly conceive requires the particular attention of your 
lordships, inasmuch as, though signed but by a single 
individual, it contains statements which (if not disproved) 
demand most serious investigation. The grievance of 
which the petitioner complains is neither selfish nor 



imaginary. It is not his own only, for it has been, and 
is siill felt by numbers. No one without these walls, nor 
indeed within, but may to-morrow be made liable to the* 
same insult and obstruction, in the discharge of an im- 
perious duty for the restoration of the true constitution 
of these realms by petitioning for reform in parliament. 
The petitioner, my Lords, is a man whose long life has 
been spent in one unceasing struggle for the liberty of 
the subject, against that undue influence which "has in- 
creased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished;" and, 
whatever difference of opinion mav exist as to his politi- 
cal tenets, few will be found to question the integrity of 
his intentions. Even now, oppressed with years, and 
not exempt from the infirmities attendant on his age, 
but still unimpaired in talent, and unshaken in spirit— 
"fran^as non jUctes" — he has received many a wound in 
the combat against corruption : and the new grievance, 
the fresh insult of which he complains, may inflict another 
scar, but no dishonour. The petition is signed by John 
Cartwright, and it was in behalf of the people and par- 
liament, in the lawful pursuit of that reform in the 
representation which is the best service to be rendered 
both to parliament and people, that he encountered the 
wanton outrage which forms the subject matter of his 
petition to your lordships. It is couched in firm, yet 
respectful language — in the language of a man, not ro 
gardless of what is due to himself, but at the same time 
I trust, equally mindful of the deference to be paid to 
this House. The petitioner states, among other mat- 
ter of equal, if not greater importance, to all who are 
British in their feelings, as well as blood and birth, that 
on the 21st January, 1813, at Huddersfield, himself and 
six other persons, who, on hearing of his arrival, had 
waited on him merely as a testimony of respect, were 
seized by a military and civil force, and kept in closo 
custody for several hours, subjected to gross and abusive 
nsinuations from the commanding officer relative to the 
character of the petitioner; that he (ihe petitioner) was 
finally carried before a magistrate ; and not released fill 
an examination of his papers proved that there was not 
only no just, but not even statutable charge against him ; 
and that, notwithstanding the promise and order from tho 
presiding magistrates of a copy of the warrant against 
vour petitioner, it was afterwards withheld on divers pre- 
texts, and has never until this hour been granted. The 
names and condition of the parties will be found in the 
petition. To the other topics touched upon in the peu> 
tion, I shall not now advert, from a wish not to encroach 
upon the time of the House ; but I do most sincerely 
call the attention of your lordships to its general con- 
ten's— it is in the cause of the parliament and people 
that the rights of this venerable freeman have been vio- 
lated, and it is, in my opinion, the highest mark of respect 
that could be paid to the House, that to your justice, 
rather than by appeal to any inferior court, he now com- 
mits himself. Whatever may be the fate of his remon- 
strance, it is some satisfaction to me, though mixed with 
regret for the occasion, that I have this opportunity of 
publicly sta'ing the obstruction to which the subject is 
iable, in the prosecution of the most lawful and imperious 
of his duties, the obtaining by petition reform in parlia- 
ment. I have shortly stated his complaint ; the petitioner 
has more fully expressed it. Your lordships will, I hope, 
adopt some measure fully to protect and redress him, 
and not him atone, hut the whole body of the people 
insulted and aggrieved in his person by the interposi- 
tion of an abused civil, and unlawful military force, be- 
tween them and their right of petiuon to their own 
representatives. 

His lordship then presented the petition from Major 
Cartwright, which was read, complaining of the circum- 
stances at HuddersCeld, and of interruptions given to the 
right of petitioning, in several places in the northern 
parts of the kingdom, and which his lordship moved 
should be laid on tho table. 



284 



A FRAGMENT. 



Sevcr.il Lords having spoken mi the ijnrstinti, 

LORD BYRON replied, that he had, from m a of 

duty, presented ton petition to their lordships' oonaidera- 
llOn, The noble Karl had contended that it was not a 
petition bul ■ speech; and that, as it contained no prayer, 
it should not be received. What was the necessity of a 
prayci ? It" that word were to be used in its proper sense, 



their lordships could nut expect that any man should 
pray to others. He had only to say that the pt-iuiou, 
though in some parts expressed strongly perhaps, did not 
contain any improper mode of address, but was couched 
in respectful language towards their lordships ; he should 
therefore trust their lordships would allow the petition to 
be received. 



A FRAGMENT. 



June 17,1816. 
In die year 17 — , having for some time determined on 
a journey through countries ool hitherto much frequented 

by travellers, I set out, aceompamed by a friend whom I 
shall designate by the name of Augustus Darvell. He 
was a few years my elder, and a man of considerable for- 
tune and ancient family — advantages which an extensive 
capacity prevented him alike from undervaluing or over' 
rating. Some peculiar circumstances in his private his - 

lory had rendered him to mean c>li|<«l uf attention, of 
interest, ami even of regard, which neither the re erve 
jis manners, nor occasional indications of an ini|uietude at 
Vines nearly approaching to alienation of numi, could 
extinguish. 

I was yet young in life, which I had begun early ; but 
my intimacy with him was of a recent date: we had been 
educated at the same schools and university ; but his pro- 
gress through these had preceded mine, and he had been 
deeply initiated into what is called the world, while I was 
yet in my noviciate. While thus engaged, I had heard 
much both of his past and present life; and, although in 
these accounts there were many and irreconcilable con- 
tradictions, I could still gather from the whole that he was 
a being of no common order, and one who, whatever pains 
he might take to avoid remark, would still he remarkable. 
[ had cultivated his acquaintance subsequently, and en- 
"leavoured to obtain hi- friendship, but this last appeared 
to be unattainable; whatever affections he might have 
possessed seemed now, some to have been extinguished, 
and others to be concentred: thai his feelings wire acute, 

I had sufficient opportunities of observing; for, all] eh 

he could control, he could not altogether disguise them: 
still he had a power of giving to one passion the appear- 
ance of another in such a maimer that it was difficult to 
define the nature of what was working within him; and 
lbs expressions ofhis features would vary bo rapidly; though 
slightly, that it was useless to trace them to theii 
It was evident that he was a prey to some cureless dis- 
quiet ; but whether it arose from ambition, love, remorse, 

grief) from one or all of these, or men l\ I mm a morbid tem- 
perament akin to disease, I could not discover: there were 
circumstances alleged which might have justified the a|»- 
plication to each of these causes; but, as I have before 
said, these were so contradictory and contradicted, that 
none could be fixed upon with accuracy. Where there 
is mystery, it is generally supposed that there must also 
be evil: I know not how this may he, hut in him there 
certainly was the one, though I could not ascertain the 
extent of the other — and felt loth, as far as regarded him- 
self, to believe in its existence. My advances were re- 
ceived with sufficient coldness ; but I was young, and not 
easily discouraged, and at length succeeded in obtaining, 
to a OBCtuin decree, that commonplace intercourse and 



moderate confidence of common and every-day concern 
created and cemented by similarity of pursuit and fr* 
quencv of meeting which is called intimacy, or friendship 
according to the ideas of him who uses those words U 

express itlelii. 

DarveD had already travelled extensively, and to him I 
had applied f>r information with regard to the conduct of 
my intended journey. It was my secret wish that he 
might be prevailed on to accompany me: it was also a 
probable hope, founded upon the shadowy restlessness 
which I had observed in him, and to which the animation 
which he appeared to fed on such subjects, and his appa- 
rent indifference to all by which he was more inuxu 
surrounded, gave fresh strength. This wish I lirst hinted, 
and then expressed: his answer, though 1 had partly ex- 
pected it, gave me all the pleasure of surprint — he con- 
sented; and, after the requisite arrangements, we com- 
menced our voyages. After journeying through various 
countries of the soudi of Kurope, our attention was turned 
towards die east, according to our original destination; 
and it was in my progress through those regions that the 
incident occurred upon which will turn what I may have ts 
relate. 

The constitution of Darvell, which must, from his ap- 
pearance, have been in early life more than usually robust 
had been for some time gradually giving way, without the 
intervention of any apparent disease: he had neither, 
COUgh nor hectic, yet he became daily more enfeebled 
his habits were temperate, and he neither declined nor 
complained ot tally lie, yet he \\a- evident U wasting away 
he became more ami more silent and sleepless, and al 
length so seriously altered, that my alarm gTBW proportion- 
ate to what I roneeived hi he his danger. 

We had determined, on our arrival at Smyrna, on an 
Kcursion to the ruins ofEpheeus and Sardis, from which 
l endi avoured to dissuade him, in bis present stale ofh> 
Usposition — but in vain: dure appeared to be an oppres 
jion on his mind, and a solemnity in his manner, which ill 
corresponded with Ins eagerness to proceed on what I 
regarded as a mere party of pleasure, little suited to a 
valetudinarian ; but I opposed him no longer — and in u few 
days we set off together, accompanied only by a seirugee 
and a single janizary. 

We had passed half-way towards the remains of Ephe- 
sus, leaving behind us the more fertile environs of Smyrna, 
and were entering upon that wild and tenantlesfl trark 
through the marshes and defiles which lead to the few huts 
yet lingering over the broken columns of Diana — the roof- 
less walls of expelled Christianity, and die still more recent 
but complete desolation of abandoned mosques- — when the 
sudden and rapid illness of my companion obliged us to 
halt at a Turkish cemetery, the turbancd tombstones of 
which were the sole indication that human hie had evei 



A FRAGMENT. 



235 



been a sojourner in tlus wilderness. The only caravan- 
sera we had seen was lefl some hours behind us ; not a 
vestige of a town or even cottage, was wiihiu sight or 
nope, and this "city of the dead'' appeared to be the sole 
refuge for my unfortunate friend, who seemed on the verge 
of becoming the last of its inhabitants. 

In this situation, I looked round for a place where he 
might most conveniently repose: — contrary to the usual 
aspect of Mahometan bunal-grounds, the cypresses were 
in this few in number, and these thinly scattered over its 
extent: the tombstones were mostly fallen, and worn with 
age : upon one of the most considerable of these, and be- 
neath one of the most spreading trees, Darvell supported 
himself, in a half-reclining posture, with great difficulty. 
He asked f jr water. 1 had some doubts of our being able 
to find any, and prepared to go in search of it with hesita- 
ting despondency — but he desired me to remain; and, 
turning to Suleiman, our janizary, who stood by us smoking 
with great tranquillity, he said, " Suleiman, verbana su," 
(i. e. brill.- some water,) and went on describing the spot 
where it was to be found with great minuteness, at a small 
well for camels, a few hundred yards to the right : the 
janizary obeyed. I said to Darveil, " How did you know 
tins.'" — He replied, "From our situation; you must per- 
ceive that this place was once inhabited, and could not 
have beenso without springs:] have also been here before." 

" You have been here before ! — How came you never 
to mention this to me ? and what could you be doing in a 
place where no one would remain a moment longer than 
they could help it ?" 

To this question I received no answer. In the mean 
time, Suleiman returned with the water, leaving the ser- 
rugee and the horses at the fountain. The quenching of 
his ihirst had the appearance of reviving him for a mo- 
ment ; and I conceived hopes of his being able to proceed, 
or at least to return, and I urged the attempt. He was 
silent — and appeared to be collecting his spirits for an 
effort to speak. He began. 

"This is the end of my journey, and of my life — I came 
here to die : but I have a request to make, a command — 
for such my last words must be. — You will observe it ?" 

"Most certainly; but have better hopes." 

'I have no hopes, nor wishes, but this — conceal my 
death irom every human being." 

" I hope there will be no occasion ; that you will re- 
cover, and " 

"Peace! it must be so: promise this." 

"Ido." 

« Swear it by all that" He here dictated an oath of 

great solemnity. 

" There is no occasion for this — I will observe your re- 
quest ; and to doubt me is " 

" It cannot be helped, you must swear." 

1 took the oath : it appeared to relieve him. He re- 
moved a seal-ring from his finger, on which were some 
Arabic characters, and presented it to me . He proceeded— 



"On the ninth day of the month, at noon precisely, (what 
month you please, but this must be the day.) you must 
Ring this ring into the salt springs which run into the Hay 
of Eleusig: the day after, at the same hour, you must 
repair to the ruins of the temple of Ceres, and wail one 
hour." 

"Why?" 

"Y'ou will see." 

"The ninth day of the month, you say?" 

"The nmth.' ' 

As I observed that the present was the ninth day of the 
monUi, his countenance changed, and he paused. As he 
sate, evidently becoming more feeble, a stork, with a snake 
in her beak, perched upon a tombstone near us ; an J, with- 
out devouring her prey, appeared to be steadfastly regard- 
ing us. I know not what impelled me to drive it away, 
but the attempt was useless; she made a few circles in 
the air, and returned exactly to the same spot. Darvell 
pointed to it, and smiled: he spoke — I know not whether 
to himself or to me — but the words were only,"Tis well!" 

" What is well ? what do you mean ?" 

"No matter: you must bury me here this evening, and 
exactly where that bird is now perched. Y'ou know the 
rest of my injunctions." 

He then proceeded to give me several directions as 
to the manner in which his death might be best concealed. 
After these were finished, he exclaimed, " Y'ou perceive 
that -bird ?" 

"Certain'v." 

"And the serpent writhing in her beak ?" 

"Doubtless: there is nothing uncommon in it; it is 
her natural prey. But it is odd that she does not 
devour il." 

He smiled in a ghastly manner and said, faintly, " It is 
not vet time!" As he spoke, the stork flew away. My 
eves followed it for a moment : it could hardly be longer 
than ten might be counted. I fell Darvell's weight, as it 
were, increase upon my shoulder, and, turning to look upon 
his face, perceived that he was dead ! 

I was shocked with the sudden certainty which could 
not be mistaken — his countenance in a few minutes be- 
came nearly black. I should have attributed so rapid a 
change to poison, had I not been aware that he had no 
opportunity of receiving it unperceived. The day was 
declining, the body was rapidly altering, and nothing re- 
mained but to fulfil his request. With the aid of Sulei- 
man's ataghan and my own sabre, we scooped a shallow 
grave upon the spot which Darvell had indicated : the 
earth easily save wav, having already received some Ma- 
hometan tenant. We dug as deeply as the time per- 
mitted us, and throwing the dry earth upon all that 
remained of the singular being so lately departed, we cut 
a few sods of greener turf from the less withered sod 
around us, and laid them upon his sepulchre. 

Between astonishment and grief, 1 was tearless. 



LETTER 

TO JOHN MURRAY ON 
THE REV. W. L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES 

OH 

THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF POPE. 



I 'II play ai Bottle* wuh [tit tun and moon. 

OLD SONG. 



My mithf r '» atild, ilr, ami she hai rather forgotten henw 11 In 
■peaking '" •">' Ledflffi ll,at camta wed bide to be conn tdleklt, 

(n» I ken n.iei"«ly likei il If tlirv coul.l ht-ly themteila.) 

TALKS OP MY LANDLORD, Old Mortality, ml. U. 



Ravenna, February 1th, 1821. 
Dear Sir, 

Is the different pamphlets which you have had the 
goodness to send me, on the Pope and Bowles' contro- 
versy, I perceive that my name is occasionally introduced 
by both parties. Mr. Bowles refers more than once to 
what he is pleased to consider "a remarkahle circum- 
stance," not only in his tetter to Mr. Campbell, but in his 
reply to the Quarterly. The Quarterly also and Mr. 
Gilchrist have conferred on me the dangerous honour of. 
a quotation ; and Mr. Bowles indirectly makes a kind .it' 
appeal to me personally, by Baying Lord Byron, i/ he 
remembers the circumstance, will unfneM — (witness in 
italic, an ominous character for a testimony at pre- 
sent.)* 

I shall not avail myself of a "non mi ricordo" even 
after so long a residence in Italy ; — I do " remember th< 
circumstance" — and have no reluctance to relate it (since 
called upon so to do) as correctly as the distance of time 
and the impression of intervening events will permit me. 
In the year 181'2, more than three years after the publica- 
tion of " Knghsh Bards and Scotch Reviewers," I had the 
honour of mooting Mr. Bowles in the house of our vene- 
rable host of u Human Life, etc." the last Argonaut of 
Classic English poetry, and the Nestor of our inferior 
race of living poets. Mr, Bowles calls this "soon after"' 
the publication ; but to me three years appear a consi- 
derable segment of the immortality of a modern poem 
1 recollect nothing of "the rest of the company going into 
another room*' — nor, though I well remember the topogra- 
phy of our host's elegant and classically-furnished man- 
sion, could I swear to the very room where the conversa- 
tion occurred, though the "taking down the poem" seems 
to fix it in the library. Had it been " taken up," it would 
probably have Iwen in the drawing-room. I presume 
*lso that the " remarkahle circumstance"' took place after 
dinner, as I conceive that neither Mr. Bowles's politeness 
nor appetite would have allowed him to detain " the rest 
of the company" standing round their chairs in the u other 
room" while we were discussing "the Woods of Madei- 
ra" instead of circulating its vintage. Of Mr. Bowles's 
" good-humour" ] have a full and not ungrateful recoUec- 
tion ; as also of his gentlemanly manners and agreeable 
conversation. I speak of the whole, and not of particu- 
lars ; for whether he did or did not use the precise words 
printed in the pamphlet, I cannot say, nor could he with 
accuracy. Of " the tone of seriousness" I certainly 
recollect nothing : on the contrary, I thought Mr. Bowles 
rather disposed to treat the subject lightly ; for he said (I 
have no objection to be contradicted if incorrect) that 



■ H* alht.Ua to Ma|occhl ( aud lha other li&llan wilnti 



some of his good-natured friends had come to him anu 
exclaimed, " Kh ! Bowles ! how came yon to make the- 
Woods of Madeira," etc. etc. an' 1 that he had been at 
some pains and pulling down of tiie poem to convince 
them that he had never made "the Woods* do any thing 
of the kind. He was right, and / uvw wrong", and have 
been wrong still up to this acknowledgment ; fori ought to 
have looked twice l>« tore I wrote that which involv- d an 
inaccuracy capable of giving pain. The fact was, that 
although I had certainly before read "(Tie Spirit of Dis- 
covery," I took the quotation from tlte review. Bui the 
mistake was mine, and nol the r« icia*s, which quoted the 
passage correctly enough, I believe. I blundered— God 
knows how — into attributing the tremors of the lovers to 
the " Woods of Madeira," by which they were sur- 
rounded. And I hereby do fully and freely declare and 
asseverate, that the Woods did not tremble to a kiss, and 
that Uic lovers did. I quote from memory — 

A kiai 
Stole on ihe liat'ttmp silence, etc. elc. 
Tliey (the lovcra) trembled, even ai if (he power, etc. 

And if I had been aware that this declaration would have 
been in the smallest degree satisfactory to Mr. Bowie-., I 
should not have waited nine years to make it, notwith- 
standing that "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" 
had been suppressed some time previously to my meeting 
him at Mr. Rogers's. Our worthy host might indeed 
have told him as much, as it was at his representation 
that I suppressed it. A new edition of tJiat lampoon was 
preparing for the press, when Mr. Rogers represented to 
me, that "I was now acquainted with many of the per- 
sons mentioned in it, anil with some on terms of inti- 
macy;" and that he knew "one family in particular to 
whom its suppression would give pleasure," I did not 
hesitate one moment; it was cancelled msiantly; and it 
is no fault of mine that it has ever been republished 
When [ left England, in April, 1816, with no very violent 
intentions of troubling that country again, and amidst 

scenes of various kinds to distract my attention — almost 
my last act, I believe, was to sign a power of attorney, to 
yourself, to prevent or suppress any attempts {of which 
everal had been made in Ireland) at a republication. It 
s proper that I should state, that the persons with whom 
I was subsequently acquainted, whose names had occur- 
red in that publication, were made my acquaintances at 
their own desire, or through the unsought intervention of 
others. I never, to the best of my knowledge, sought a 
personal introduction to any. Some of them to this day 
I know only by correspondence ; and with one of those it 
was begun bv mvself.in consequence, however, of a polite 
■erbal communication from a third person. 
I have dwelt for an instant on these c ^umstanevs 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



2S7 



because it has sometimes been made a subject of bitter 
reproach to me to have endeavoured to suppress that 
satire. I never shrunk, as those who know me know, 
from any personal consequences which could be attached 
10 its publication. Of its subsequent suppression, as I 
possessed the copyright, I was the best judge and the sole 
master. The circumstances which occasioned the sup- 
pression I have now stated; of the motives, each must 
judge according to his candour or malignity. Mr. Bowles 
does me the honour to talk of " noble mind," and " gene- 
rous maniannmly J* and all this because "the circumstance 
would have been explained had not tlie book been sup- 
pressed.' 1 I see no " nobility of mind" in an act of sim- 
tice ; and I hate the word "magnanimity" because 
I have sometimes seen it applied to the grossest of impos- 
the greatest of fools : but I would have "explained 
tli> circumstance,* notwithstanding "the suppression of 
the bonk," if Mr. Bowles had expressed any desire that I 
should. As the "gallant GalbraiuY'saysto" Baillie Jar- 
V.-ll, the devil take the mistake and all that occa- 
sion. -,\ it" I have had as great and greater mistakes 
made about me personally and poetically, once a month 
for these last ten years, and never cared very much about 
t orrecting one or the other, at least after the first eight- 
;..l I -forty hours had gone over them. 

I must now, however, say a word or two about Pope, of 
whom win have my opinion more at larse in the unpub- 
li d li ier on or to (for I forget which) the editor of 
* Blackwo < Js Edinburgh Magazine ;" — and here I doubt 
that Mr. Bowles will no\ approve of ray sentiments. 

Although I regret having published "English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers," the part which I regret the least 
is 'hat which regards Mr. Bowles with reference to Pope. 
Whilst I was writing that publication, in 1807 and 1808, 
Mr. Hobhouse was desirous that I should express our 
mutual opinion of Pope, and of Mr. Bowles's edition of 
his works. As I had completed mv outline, and felt lazy, 
I requested that he would do so. He did it. His fourteen 
lines on Bowles's Pope are in the first edition of " Eng- 
lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers f and are quite as 
severe and much more poetical than my own in the 
second. On reprinting the work, as I put my name to it, 
I omitted Mr. Hobhouse's lines, and replaced them with 
mv own, by which the work trained less than Mr. Bowles. 
I have stated this in the preface to the second edition. It 
is many years since I have read that poem ; but the 
Quarterly Review, Mr. Octavius Gilchrist, and Mr. 
Bowles himseIC have been so obliging as to refresh my 
memory, and that of the public. I am grieved to say, 
that in reading over those lines, I repent of their having so 
far fallen short of what I meant to express upon the sub- 
ject of Bowles's edition of Pope's Works. Mr. Bowie 
savs that " Lord Byron knows he does not deserve this 
character." I know no such thing. I have met Mr. 
Bowles occasionally, in the best society in London ; he 
appeared to me an amiable, well-informed, and extremely 
able man. I desire nothing better than to dine in com- 
pany with such a mannered man every day in the week : 
but of "his character" I know nodung personally; I can 
only speak of his manners, and these have my warmest 
approbation. But I never jud^e from manners, for I once 
had mv pocket picked by the civilest gentleman I ever 
met with ; and <w\f of the mildest persons I ever saw was 
Ah Pacha. Of Mr. Bowles's " character" I will not do 
hitn Uie injustice to judge from the edition of Pope, if he 
prepared it heedlessly ; nor the justice, should it be other- 
wise, because I would neither become a literary execu- 
tioner, nor a personal one. Mr. Bowles the individual, 
and Mi. Bowles the editor, appear the two most opposite 
things imaginable. 

" And he himself one anlUheiii." 

1 won't say H vile," because it is harsh ; nor ° mistaken, 
because it has two sylla'les too many; but every one 
must fill up the Wank as b .* please*. 



What I saw of Mr. Bowles increased my surprise and 
regret that he should ever have lent his talents to such a 
task. If he had been a fool, there would have been some 
excuse for him ; if he had been a needy or a bad man, his 
conduct would have been intelligible ; but he is the oppo- 
site of all these ; and thinking and feeling as I do of Pope, 
to me the whole thing is unaccountable. However, I must 
call things by their right names. I cannot call his edition 
of Pope a "candid' 1 work; and I still think that there is 
an affectation of that quality not only in those volumes, 
but in the pamphlets lately published. 

11 Why yet ho dolh deny hie prisoner!." 

Mr. Bowles says, that "he has seen passages in his 
letters to Martha Blount, whi^h were never published by 
me, and I hope never will be by others ; which are sorrow 
as to implv the grossest licentiousness." Is this fair play ? 
It may, or it may not be, that such passages exist; and 
that Pope, who was not a monk, although a catholic, may 
have occasionally sinned in word and in deed with woman 

his youth ; but is this a sufficient ground for such a 
sweeping denunciation? Where is the unmarried Eng- 
lishman of a certain rank of life, who (provided he has not 
taken orders) has not to reproach himself between the 
ages of sixteen and thirty with far more licentiousness 
than has ever yet been traced to Pope? Pope Uved in 
the public eye from his youth upwards ; he had all die 
dunces of his own time for his enemies, and, I am sorry 
to say, some, who have not the apology of dulness for de- 
traction, since his death; and yet to what do all theii 
accumulated hints and charges amount; — to an equivocal 
liaison with Martha Blount, which might arise as much 
from his infirmities as from his passions ; to a hopeless 
flirtation with Lady Mary W. Montagu ; to a story of 
Cibber's; and to two or three coarse passages in his 
works. Who could come forth clearer from an invidious 
inquest on a life of fifty-six years ? Why are we to be 
officiously reminded of such passages in his letters, pro- 
vided that they exist? Is Mr. Bowles aware to what 
such rummaging among "letters" and "stories" might 
lead? I have myself seen a collection of letters of 
another eminent, nay, pre-eminent, deceased poet, so 
abominably gross, and elaborately coarse, that I do? not 
believe that they could be paralleled in our language. 
What is more stran«e, is, that some of these are couched 
as postscripts to his serious and sentimental letters, to 
which are tacked either a piece of prose, or some verses, 
of the most hyperbolical indecency. He himself says 
that if "obscenity (using a much coarser word) be the 
sin against the Holy Ghost, he most certainly cannot be 
saved." These letters are in existence, and have been 
seen by many besides myself; but would his editor have 
been K candid" in even alluding to them ? Nothing would 
have even provoked me, an indifferent spectator, to allude 
to them, but Uiis further attempt at the depreciation of 
Pope. 

What should we say to an editor of Addison, who 
cited the following passage from Walpole's -letters to 
George Montagu? "Dr. Young has published a new 
book," etc. Mr. Addison sent for the young Earl of 
Warwick, as he was dying, to show him in what peace a 
Christian could die; unluckily he died of bramly : no- 
thing makes a Christian die in peace like being maudlin ' 
hut don't say this in Gath where you are." Suppose the 
editor introduced it with this preface : "One circumstance 
is mentioned by Horace Walpole, which, if true, was 
indeed flagitious. Walpole informs Montagu that Addi- 
son sent for the young Earl of Warwick, when dying, to 
show him in what peace a Christian could die ; hut un- 
luckily he died drunk, etc. etc." Now, although there 
might occur on the subsequent, or on the same page, a 
faint show of disbelief; seasoned with the expression of 
"the wane candour" (the same exactly as throughout the 
book,) I should say that this editor was either foolish or 
false to his trust: such a Mtory ought not to have be*n 



28S 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON TOPE. 



Emitted, except for one brief mark of crushing indiana- 
lion j unless il were completely proved. Why foe words 
"if true.'" That "if" is not a peacemaker. Why talk 
of " C ibber's testimony" to Ins licentiousness ? To what 
does this amount? that Tope, when very young was 
once decoyed by some noblemen and the player to a bouse 
of carnal recreation. Mr. Bowles was not always a 
clergyman ; and when he was a very young man, was he 

never seduced into as much ! If 1 wen- is lha b 

for story-telling, and relating little anecdotes, 1 could tell 
a much better story of Mr. Bowles than Cibbcr\ upon 
much better authority, viz. that of Mr. iVwl, . himself 
It was not related by lum in my presence, but in thai "I 
a third person, whom Mr. Bowles names oflener than 
once in the course ofhis replies. This gentleman 
it to me as a humorous and witty anecdote ; and so it 
was, whatever its other characteristics might be, Bui 
should I, from a youthful frolic, brand -Mr. Bowles with a 
"libertine sort of love," or with " licennousness '/" is he 
the l.ss now a pious or a good man for not having always 
been a priest ? No such tiling ; I am willing to believe 
him a good man, almost as good a man as Pope, but no 
better. 

The truth is, that in these days the grand ' prvmm 
mobile" of England is cant ; cant political, cunt poetical, 
cant religious, cant moral; but always cant, multiplied 
through all the varieties of life. It is the fashion, and 
wlule it lasts will be too powerful for those who can only 
exist by taking the tone of the time. I say cant, because 
it is a tiling of words, without the smallest influence upon 
human actions ; the English being no wiser, no better, 
and much poorer, and more divided among themselves, 
as well as far less moral, than they were be (ore the prcva- 
lence of das verbal decorum. This hysterical horror of 
poor Pope's not very well ascertained, and never fully 
proved amours, (for even Cibber "«ns thai he prevented 
the somewhat perilous adventure in which Pope was 
embarking,) sounds very virtuous in a controversial 
pamphlet; but all men of the world who know what life 
is, or at least what it was to them in their youth, must 
laugh ai such a ludicrous foundation of the charge of a 
"libertine sort of love ;" while the more serious will look 
upon those who bring forward such charges upon an 
insulated fact, as fanatics or hypocrites, perhaps both. 
The two are sometimes compounded in a happy mix- 
ture. 

Mr. Octavius Gilchrist speaks rather irreverently of a 
•second tumbler of hat white-wine negus." What does 
he mean? Is there any harm in negus? or is it the 
worse lor being hot ? or does Mr. Bowles drink negus .' I 
had a better opinion of him. 1 hoped that whatevi i wine 

he drank was neat ; or at least that, like il rdinar) In 

Jonathan Wild, " he preferred punch, the rather us there 
was nothing against it in scripture." I should be sorry to 
believe that Mr. Bowles was fond of negus ; it is such a 
"candid" liquor, so like a wishy-washy compromise 
between the passion for wine and the propriety ol water. 

Bill different writers have divers tastes. Judae Blaek- 

atone composed his "Commentaries," (lie was b poef loo 
in his youth,) with a bottle of porl b. lore lum. Addi- 
son's conversation was not good for much till he had 
taken a similar dose. Perhaps the prescription of these 
two great men was not inferior lo the very dnTerent one oi 
asoi-disant poet of this day, who, after wandering among 
the hills, returns, goes to bed, and dictates his veins, 
being fed bv a by-stander with bread and butter, during 
the operation. 

I now come to Mr. Bowles's " invariable principles of 
poetry." These Mr. Bowles and some of his corre- 
spondents pronounce "unanswerable ;" and they arc 
"unanswered," at least by Campbell, who seems to have 
been astounded by the utle. The sultan of the huh 
being, offered to ally himself to the king of France, 
because "he hated the word league :" which proves that 
.he Padishan understood French. Mr. Campbell has no 



need of my albance, nor shall I presume to ofTer il ; but 
I do hate that word '■ imariabie." What is there ot 
human, be it poetry, philosophy, wit, wisdom, a 

lory, mind, matter, lift or death, which is "inua- 
nabkr Of course I put things divine out of the ques- 
tion. Of all arrogant baptisms of a book, this title to a 
pamphlet appears the most complacently conceited. It 
is Mr, t lampbell's part to answer the contents of this per- 
formance, and especially to vindicate Ins own "Ship," 
which .Mr. Bowles most triumphantly proclaims lo have 
struck to his very first fire. 

" (Auolh he, Iherc wai a Ship ; 

Nww lei me go, Ua,u grny l,»,r 'd loon, 
Or my lurr ihaU make Ihee tkip ;" 

It is no affair of mine, but having once begun, (certainly 
not by my own wish, but called upon by the frequent 
recurrence to my name in the pamphlets,) I am like an 
Irishman in a "row" "any body's customer." 1 shall 
therefore say a word or two on Ihi 

Mr. Bowles asserts that Campbell's" Ship of the Line* 
derives all its poetry not from •' art"' but from " nature " 
■Takeaway the waves, the winds, the sun, etc. etc. uiw 
will become a stripe of blue burning; and the other a 
piece of coarse canvass on three tall poles." Very true; 
lake away "the waves,'' "the winds,' and there will be no 
hip at all, not only for poetical, but for any other purpose ; 
and take away "foe sun," and we must read Mr. Bowles's 
pamphlet by candlelight. Bui the "poetry" of the 
« Ship" does not depend on "the waves," etc.; on the con 
trary, the " Ship of the Line" confers its own poetry upon 
the waters, and heightens than. Idonotdem 
■'waves and winds," and above all "the sun," are highly 
poetical; we know it to our cost, by the many descrip- 
tions of them inverse: but if I he waves bore only the 
foam upon their bosoms, if foe winds walled only the 
9 ea-weed to foe shore, if the sun shone neither upon 
pyramids, nor fleets, nor fortresses, would n- beams be 
equally poetical? I think not: foe poetry is ai least 
reciprocal. Take away " the ship of foe line"" swing- 
ing round" the "calm water," and foe calm water becomes 
u somewhat monotonous thing to look at, particularly il 
not transparently dear; witness the thousands who pass 
by without looking on it at all. What was u a 
the thousands to foe launch? they might have seen the 
poetical "calm water," at Wapping, or in the "London 
Dock," or in the Paddington Canal, or in a borsepond, or 
in a slop-basin, or in any other vase. They might have 
heard foe poetical winds howling through foe clanks ,,l a 
pig-sty, or the garrct-w nid, av ; they mighl have seen the 
sun sinning on a footman's livery, or on a brass warming- 
pan ; bul could the "calm water," or the ■' wind," or the 

■'sun," make all, or any of iheae, "| ical f" 1 think 

not. Mr. Bowles admits "the ship" to be poetical, but 
only from those accessories: now if they cunttr poetry so 
as to make one thing poetical, they would make other 
iliin-s poetical; foe more so, as Mr. Bowles calls a "ship 
of foe line" without them, foal t- to say, its "mms and 
sails and streamers," " blue burning," and "coarse canvass," 

iii.I ■■ [all poll .-■" Sofoej are | and! » lain i i 

man is dust, and II, I, is grass, and yet the two latter at 
lea.st are foe subjects of much poesy. 

Bid Mr. Howies ever gaze upon the sea? I presume 
foal he has, at least upon a sea-piece. Did any painter 
,v,r paint foe sea only, without foe addition of a slap, 
boat, wreck, or some such adjunct? Is the sea itself a 
more attractive, a more moral, a more poetical object 
with or without a vessel, breaking its vast but fatiguing 
monotony? Is a slorm more poetical without a ship I 
or, in the' poem of the Shipwreck, is it foe slorm or foo 
slap which most interests? both much, undoubtedly; but 
without foe vessel, what should we ear.- for foe tempest? 

It would sink into mere descriptive poetry, winch ill Itself 

was never esteemed a high order of foal art. 

I look upon myself as entitled to talk of naval matters 
at least lo poets: — with the exception of Waller Scull. 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



289 



Moore, and Soulhey, perhaps, (who have been voyagers,) 
1 have swum more miles llian all the res! of ihem together 
now living ever sailciL, arid have lived for months and 
months on shipboard ; and during the whole period of 
my life abroad, have scarcely ever passed a month out 
of sight of the ocean : besides being brought up from two 
years till ten on the brink of it. I recollect, when an- 
chored off Cape Solemn, in 1810, in an English frigate, 

violent squall coming on at sunset, so violent as to 
make us imagine that the ship would part cable, or drive 
Iron her anchorage. Mr. llobhouse and myself, and 
some officers, had been up the Dardanelles to Abydos, 
and were just returned in tune. The aspect ol a stonu 
in the Archipelago is as poetical as need be, the sea 
being particularly short, dashing, and dangeruus, and the 
navigation intricate and broken by the isles and currents. 
Cape Sig*um, the tumuli of the Troad, Lemnos, Tene- 
dos, all added to the associations of the tune. But what 
seemed the most "poetical" of all at the moment, were 
the numbers (about two hundred) of Greek and Turkish 
crafi, which were obliged to "cut and run" before the 
wind, from llieir unsafe anchorage, some for TenedoB, 
some for other isles, sortie for the main, and some it might 
be for eterni;y. The sight of these little scudding ves- 
sels, darting over the foam in the twilight, now appearing 
and now disappearing between the waves in the cloud ol 
night, with their peculiarly white sails (the Levant sails 
not being of ^coarse canvas? but of white cotton) skim- 
ming along as quickly, but less safely than the seamewg 
which hovered over thein ; their evident distress, their 
reduction to Muttering specks in the distance, their crowd- 
ed succession, their littleness, as contending with the giant 
element, which made our stout forty-four's teak timbers 
(she was built in India) creak again ; their aspect and 
their motion, all struck me as something far more " poeti- 
cal" than the mere broad, brawling, shipless sea, and the 
sullen winds, could possibly have heen without them. 

The Euxine is a noble sea to look upon, and the port 
of Constantinople the most beautiful of harbours, and 
yet I cannot but think that the twenty sail of the line, 
some of one hundred and forty guns, rendered it more 
" poetical" by day in the sun, and by night perhaps still 
more, for the Turks illuminate their vessels of war in a 
manner the most picturesque — and yet all this is artifi- 
cial. As for the Euxine, I stood upon the Symplegades 
— I stood by the broken altar still exposed 



1 to the winds 
upon one of them— 1 felt all the "poetry" of [he situa- 
tion, as I repeated the first lines of Medea; but would 
not that " poetry" have been heightened by the Ar«<> .' 
It was so even by the appearance of any merchant Vessel 
arriving from Odessa. But Mr. Bowles says, "why 
bring your ship off the stocks ?'' for no reason that I 
know, except that ships are built to be launched. The 
water, etc. undoubtedly heightens the poetical associa- 
tions, but it does not make them ; and ihe ship amply 
repays die obligation: they aid each other; the water is 
more poetical with the ship — the ship less so without the 
water. But even a ship, laid up in dock, is a grand and 
poetical sight. Even an old boat, keel upwards, wrecked 
upon the barren sand, is a " poetical" object, (and Words- 
worth, who made a poein about a washing-tub and a blind 
boy, may tell you so as well as I ;) whilst a long extent of 
sand and unbroken water, without the boat, would be as 
like dull prose as any pamphlet lately published. 

What makes the poetry in the image of the " marble 
waste of TiMlmor," or Grainger's "Ode to Solitude," so 
much admired by Johnson ? Is it the " marble" or the 
■ waste," the artificial or the natural object'.' The "waste" 
is like all other wastes; but the "marble" of Palmyra 
makes the poetry of the passage as of the place. 

The beautiful but barren Hymettus, the whole coast of 
Attica, her hills and mountains, Pentelicus, Anchesmus. 
Philopappus, etc. etc. are in themselves poetical, and 
nould be so if the name of Athens, of Athenians, and 
aer very ruins, wye swept from the earth. But am I 
37 



tx> be told that the "nature" of Attica would be more 
poetical wi houl the "art" of the Acropolis? of the Tem- 
ple of Theseus? and of the still all Greek and glorious 
monuments of her exquisitely artificial genius? Ask tho 
traveller what strikes him as in fit poetical, the Parthe- 
non, or the rock on which if stands ? The columns of 
Cape Colonna, or the Cape ilaotfJ The rocks, at the 
foot of it, or the rocollec.ion that Falconer's ship was 
bulged upon them. There are a thousand rocks and 
capes, t'.tr more picturesque than those of the Acropolis 
and Cape Sutiiuni in themselves ; what are they to a 
thousand scenes in the wilder parts of Greece, of Asia 
Minor, Switzerland, or even of (intra in Portugal, or to 
many scenes of Italy, and the Sierras of Spam ? But it 
is the * art," the columns, the temples, the wrecked vessel, 
which give them their antique and their modern poetry 
and no- the spots themselves. Without them, the spots 
of earth would be unnoticed and unknown; huiied, like 
Babylon and Nineveh, in indistinct confusion, without 
poetry, as without existence: but to whatever spot af 
earth these ruins were transported, u" they were capable 
of transportation, like the obelisk, and the sphinx, and tho 
Memnon's head, there they would still exist in the perfec- 
tion of their beauty, and in the pride of their poetry. I 
opposed, and will ever oppose, the robbery of ruins from 
Athens, to instruct the English in sculpture ; but why did 
I so ? The ruins are as poetical in Piccadilly as they 
were in the Parthenon ; but the Parthenon and its rock 
are less so without them. Such is the poetry of art. 

Mr. Bowles contends, again, that the pyramids of 
Egvpl are poetical, because of " the association with 
boundless deserts," and that a " pyramid of the same 
dimensions" would not be sublime in "Lincoln's Inn 
Fields ;" not so poetical, certainly ; but take away Ihe 
"pyramids," and what is the "desert?" Take away 
Stone-henge from Salisbury plain, and it is nothing more 
than Hounslow Heath, or any other unenclosed down. It 
appears to me that St. Peter's, the Coliseum, the Pan 
theon, the Palatine, the Apollo, the Laocoon, the Ver.us 
di Medicis, the Hercules, the dying Gladiator, the Moses 
of Michael Angelo, and all the higher works of Canova, 
(I have already spoken of those of ancient Greece, still 
extant in ihat coin-try, or transported to England,) are as 
poetical as .Mont Blanc or Mount iESna, perhaps still 

t -a so, as they are direct manifestations of mind, and 

presuppose poetry Ul their very conception; and have, 
moreover, as being such, a something of actual life, 

which cannot belong to any part of inanimate nature. 

Unless we adopt the system of Spinosa, that the world 
is the deity. There can be nodiing more poetical in its 
aspect than the city of Venice : does this depend upon 
the sea, or the canals ? — 

" The dirt ami leaweeil wlience proud Venice roeel" 

Is it the canal which runs between the palace and the 
prison, or the " Bridge of Sighs" w hich connects them, 
that render it poetical ? Is it the " Canal Grande," or 
the Rialto which arches it, the churches which tower 
over it, the palaces which line, and the gondolas which 
glide over the wa'ers, that render this city more poetical 
than Rome itself? Mr. Bowles will say, perhaps, that 
the Kialtn is but marble, the palaces and churches only 
stone, and the gondolas a " coarse" black cloth, thrown 
over some planks of carved wood, with a shining bit of 
fantastieallv-fornied iron at the prow, "without" tho 
water. And I tell him that without these the water 
would be nothing but a clay-coloured ditch, and who- 
ever savs the contrary, deserves to be at the bottom of 
that where Pope's heroes are embraced by the mud- 
nvmphs. There would be nothing to make the canal of 
Venice more poetical than that of Paddington, were it 
not for the artificial adjuncts above mentioned, although it 
is a perfectly natural canal, formed by the sea, and the 
innumerable islands which constitute the site of this 
extraordinary city. 



290 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



The very Cloacae of Tarquin at Rome are as poetical 
as Richmond Hill ; many wril think more so. Take away 
Rome, and leave the Tiber and the seven hills, in the 
nature of Evander's time ; let Mr. Bowles, or Mr. 
Wordsworth, or Mr. Southey, or any of the other "na- 
turals," make a poem upon them, and then see which is 
most poetual, their production or the commonest guide- 
booh which tells you the road from St. Petert to the 
< 'olis< um, ati' I informs you what you will see by the way. 
The ground interests in Virgil, because it w/i be Rome, 
and not because il is Evanders rural domain. 

Mr. Bowles then proceeds to press Homer into hi.* 
service, in answer to a remark of Mr, Campbel 

"Homer was a great deseriber of works of art." Mr. 
Bowles contends, that all his great power, even in tins, 
depends upon their connexion with nature. The "shield 
of Achilles derives its poetical interest from the sub 
described on it." And from what does the spear of 
Achilles derive its interesl ? and the helmet and the mail 
worn by Patroclus, and the celestial armour, and the 
very brazen greaves of the well-booted Greeks? [s i; 
solely from the legs, and the ba< k, and the breast, and (he 
human body, which they enclose '. In that case, il would 
have been more poetical to have made them 6ghl naked ; 
and Gully and Gregson, as being nearer to a state of 
nature, are more poetical, boxing in a pair of drawers, 
than Hector and Achillea in radiant armour, and with 
heroic weapons. 

Instead of the clash of helmets, and the rushing of 
chariots, and die whizzing of spears, and the glancing of 
RWPrds, and the cleaving of shields, and the .piercing of 
breastplates, why not represenl the I rreeks and Trojans 
like twit savage tribes, tugging and tearing, and kicking 
and biting, and gnashing, foaming, grinning, and goug n ■. 
in all the poetry of martial nature, unincumbered with 
gross, prosaic, artificial arms, an equal superfluity to the 
natural warrior, and his natural port ? Is there any 
thing unpoetical in Ulysses" striking the horses of Rhesus 
with hit Iimr, (having forgotten his thong,) or would Mr. 
Bowles have had him kick them with lus foot, or smack 
them with his hand, as beng more unsophisticated? 

In Gray's Elegy, is there an image more stril ing than 
his " shapeless sculpture /'' Of sculpture in general, i 1 
maybe observed, that it is more poetical than nature 
itself, inasmuch as it represents and bodies forth thai 
ideal beL»ity and sublimity which is never to be found in 
actual nature. This at least is the general opinion ; but, 
always excepting the Venus di Medicis, I differ from thai 
opinion, al least aa far as regards female beaut v, for the 
head of Lady Charlcmont (when I first saw her, nine 
years ago) seemed to possess all that sculpture could 

require for its ideal. I recollect seeing something of the 
same kind in the head of an Albanian girl, who was 
actually employed in mending a road in the mountains, 
and in some Greek; and one or two Italian faces. But 
of ftuhliunty, 1 have never seen any thing in human nature 

at all to approach the expression of sculpture, either in 
the Apollo, the Moses, or other of the sterner works of 
ancient or modern art. 
Let us examine a little further this " babble of green 

fields," and of hair na'nre in general, as SUD4 nor to arti- 
ficial imagery, for the poetical purposes of the line arts. 
In landscape painting, the greai artist does not give VOU 
a literal copy of a country, but he invents ml composes 
one. Nature, in her actual aspect, does not furnish him 

with such existing scenes as he requires. Even where 

he presents vou with some famous cilv, or celebrated 

scene from mountain OT'other nature, it must be taken 
from some particular point of view, and with such light, 
ami shade, and distance, etc, as serve not only to heighten 
its beauties, but to shadow its def trinities. The poetry 
of nature alone, exactly as she appears, is not sufficient 
to bear him out. The very sky of his painting is not the 
portrait of the sky of nature ; it is a composition of diffe- 
rcnt Rfete*, observed at different times, and not the whole 



copied from any particular day. And why? Because 
Nature is not lavish of her beauties; they are widely 

scattered, and occasionally displayed, to be selected wall 
care, ind gathered with difficulty. 

i tf sculpture I have just spoken. It is the greed scope 
of the sculptor to heighten nature into heroic beauty, i. e. 
in plain English, to surpass his model. When Canova 
firms a statue, he takes a limb from one, a hand from 
another, a feature from a third, and a shape, it may be, 
H mi u fourth, probably at the same tune improving upon 
all, as the < rreck of old did in ombodying Ins Venus* 

Ask a portrait painter to describe his agonies in accom- 
he faces With which Nature and his sitters have 

crowded his painting-room to the principles of Ins art; 

with the exception of perhaps ten faces m as many mil- 
lions, there is not one which he COD t enture to give with- 
out shading much and adding more. Nature, exactly, 
simply, barely nature, will make no great artist of any 
kind, and least of all a poet — die most artificial, perhaps, 
of all artists in his very essence. With regard to natural 
imagery, the poets are obliged to take some of their best 
illustrations from art. Vou say that "a fountain is as clear 
or clearer than gUusf to express Us beauty— 
" Com Ruiit1<i*la, tjilendiiliur vilro t" 

In the speech of Mark Antony, the body of Cresar ia 
displayed, but so also is his mantle — 

" You nil do know this manllt t " etc 
" Louk I in ihn pttM run Cimsuii' dagger through." 
If the poet had said thatOassius had nin his_/?s* through 

the rent of the mantle, it would have had more of Mr. 

Bowles's H nature* to help it; but the artificial dagger is 

ti | tical than any natural hrtnd without it. In the 

sublime of sacred poetry, " Who is tins that romeih from 
K.dom ? with dyed garments from I '"/rah V Would u the 
comer" be poetical without his a dyed garment?" which 
strike and startle the spectator, ami identify the approach- 
ing object. 

The mother of Siscra is represented listening for the 
• wheel* o/*his chariot. 11 Solomon, in his Song, compares 
the nose of his beloved to a *tower, a which to us appears 
an eastern exaggeration. If he had said, that her statue 
was like that of "a lower," it would have been as poetical 
as if he hail compared her to a tree. 

" The virtuoui Mnrein tower* abnve her lex," 

is an instance of an artificial image to express a moral 
superiority. Hut Solomon, it is probable, did not compare 
Ins beloved's nose to a " lower" on account of its length, 
but of its symmetry ; and, making allowance for eastern 
hvperbole and the difficulty of finding a discreet image for 
a female nose in nature, it is perhaps as good a figure as 
any other. 

Art is not inferior to nature Car poetical purposes. What 

makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble object of view 

than the same mass of mob ? Their 8X1X19, their dresses, 

their banners, and the art and artificial symmetry of their 
position and movements). A Highlander's plaid, a Mus- 
sulman's turban, and a Roman toga, are more pi 
than the tattooed or untatloucd buttocks of a New Sand- 
wich savage, although thev were described bv William 

Wordsworth himself like the "idiot in his glory." 

I have seen as many mountains as most men, and more 
fleets than the generality of landsmen: and, to my mind, 
a large convoy, with a few sail of die line to conduct them, 
is as noble and as poetical a prospect as all that inanimate 
nature can produce. I prefer the "mast of some great 
ammiral, with all its tackle, to the Scotch fir or the Alpine 
'annen . and think that more poetry '«" keen made out of 
it. In what does the infinite superiority of " Falconer's 
Shipwreck,' over all other shipwrecks, consist? In his 
admirable application of the terms of his art; in a poe> 
ailor's description of the sailor's fate. These very trmix, 
by his application, make the strength and reality of his 
poem. Why? because he was n poof, ami in the hands 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



291 



ot t a poet art will not bo found less ornamental than nature 
It is precisely in general nature, and in stepping out of 
his element, that Falconer fails; where he digresses tu 
speak of ancient Greece, and "such branches of learning." 
In Dyer^s Grongar Hill, upon which his fame rests, the 
very appearance of Nature herself is moralized into an 
artificial linage : 

" Thus is Nature's vettttre wrought, 
To instruct uur wandering thought ; 
T'-us she dresse* green and guy, 
1 n disperse uur cure* away." 

And here also we have the telescope, the misuse of 
which, from Milton, has rendered Mr. Bowles so tri- 
umphant over Mr. Campbell: 

" So we mistake the future's face, 

Eyed through Hnue's deluding g!as»." 

And here a word, en passant, to Mr. Campbell : 

" A» you summits, soft ntid fair, 
Cliul in colours of the air, 
Which, tu (hose wIli journey near, 
Uarreu, brown, and rough appear, 
Siil I we tread the sume coarse way— 
Tht present's still a cloudy duy." 

Is not this the original of the far-famed, 

" *T l> distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robeJ the mouuula in its azure hue I" 

To return once more to the sea. Let any one look on 
the long naUof Malainocco, which curbs the Adriatic, and 
pronounce between the sea and its master. Surely that 
Roman work, (I mean Annan ill conception and perform- 
ance,) which says to the ocean, " thus far shah thou come, 
and no further," and is obeyed, is not less sublime and 
poetical than the angry waves which vamly break be- 

Death It. 

Mr. Bowles makes the chief part of a ship's poesy 
depend on the " wind :" then why is a ship under sail more 
poetical than a hog in a high wind ? The hog is all nature, 
lii.- ship is all art, "coarse canvas," " blue bunting," and 
"tall poles;" both are violently acted upon by the wind, 
lossed here and there, to and fro; and yet nothing but 
excess of hunger could make me look upon the pig as the 
more poetical of the two, and then only in the shape of a 
griskin. 

Wiil Mr. Bowles tell us that the poetry of an aqueduct 
consists in die water which it conveys? Let hun Look on 
thai of Justinian} on those of Rome, Constantinople, Lisbon, 
and Elvas, or even at the remains of Uiat in Attica. 

We are asked "what makes the venerable towers of 
Westminster Abbey more poetical, as objects, than the 
tower fir the manufactory of patent shot, surrounded by 
the same scenery '" I will answer — the architecture. 
Turn Westminster Abbey, or Saint Paul's, into a powder 
magazine, their poetry, as objects, remains the same; the 
Parthnnon was actually converted into one by the Turks, 
during Morusini's Venetian siege, and part of it destroyed 
in consequence. Cromwell's dragoons stalled their steeds 
in Worcester cathedral; was it less poetical, as an ob- 
ject, 'ban before ? Ask a foreigner on his approach to 
London, what strikes bun as the most poetical of the 
lowers before bun ; he will point out St. Paul's and West- 
minster Abbey, without, perhaps, knowing the names or 
associations of either, and pass over the "tower for patent 
shot,* 1 not ihat,for anv thing he knows to the contrary, i I 
anight not be the mausoleum of a monarch, or a Waterloo 
column, or a Trafalgar monument, but because its archi- 
tecture is obviously inferior. 

To Ihe question, " whether ihe description of a game of 
cards be as poetical, supposing the execution of Ihe artists 
equal, as a description of a walk in a forest ?" it may be 
answered, that the materials are certainly not equal ; but 
that "the artist? who has rendered the "game of cards 
poetical)" is by far the greater of the two. But all this 
"ordering" of poets is purely arbitrary on the part of Mr. 
Bywles. There may or may not be, in fact, dilFerent 
* orders" of poetry, utthe poet Lb always ranked according 



to his execution, and not according tu his branch of 
the art. 

Tragedy is one of the highest presumed orders. Hughes 
has written a tragedy, and a very successful one; Fenton 
another; and Pope none. Did any man, however, — will 
even Mr. Bowles himself rank Hughes and Fenton as poets 
above Pope'? Was even Addison, (the author of Cato,) 
or Rowe (one of the higher order of dramatists, as far as 
success goes,) or Young, or even Otway and Southerne, 
ever raised for a moment to the same rank with Pope in 
the estimation of the reader or the critic, before his deadi 
or since? If Mr. Bowles will contend for classifications 
of this kind, let him recollect that descriptive poetry has 
been ranked as among the lowest branches of the art, and 
description as a mere ornament, but which should never 
form " the subject" of a poem. The Italians, with the 
most poetical language, and the most fastidious taste in 
Europe, possess now five great poets, they say, Dante, 
Petrarch, Ariosto,Tasso, and lastly Allien ; and whom do 
they esteem one of the highest of these, and some of them 
the very highest? Petrarch, the sonnetteer : it is true that 
some of his Canzoni are nut less esteemed, but not more; 
who ever dreams of his Latin Africa? 

Were Petrarch to he ranked according to the " order" 
of Ins compositions, where would the best of sonnets place 
him? with Dante and the others? No: but, as I have 
before said, the poet who executes best is the highest, what- 
ever his department, and will ever be so rated in the 
world's esteem. 

Had Gray written nothing but his Elegy, high as he 
stands, I am not sure that he would not stand higher; it 
is the corner-stone of his glory ; without it, his odes would 
be insufficient for his fame. The depreciation of Pope is 
partly founded upon a false idea of the dignity nf his order 
of poetry, to which he has partly contributed by the in 
genuous boast, 

" That not in fancy's mare he wander'd long, 
But sloap'd to truth, and moralized his song." 

He should have written " rose to truth." In my mind, the 
highest of aJi poetry is ethical poetry, as the highest of all 
earthly objects must be moral truth. Religion does not 
make a part of my subject ; it is something beyond human 
powers, and has failed in all human hands except Milton's 
and Dante's, and even Dante's powers are involved in the 
delineation of human passions, though in supernatural cir- 
cumstances. What made Socrates the greatest of men'' 
His moral trulh — his eilucs. What proved Jesus Christ 
the Son of God hardly less than his miracles ? His moral 
precepts. And if ethics have made a philosopher the first 
of men, and have not been disdained as an adjunct to his 
gospel by the Deity himself, are we to be told that ethical 
poetry, or didactic poetry, or by whatever name you term 
it, whose object is to make men better and wiser, is not 
the very Jirst order of poetry ? and are we to be told this 
too by one of the priesthood? It requires more mind, 
more wisdom, more power, than all the "forests" that ever 
were "walked" for their " description," and all the epics 
that ever were founded upon fields of battle. The 
Georgics are indisputably, and, I believe, uivhsputedly, 
even a finer poem than the ./Eneid. Virgil knew this ; he 
did not order them to be burnt. 

" The proper study of mankind is man." 

It is the fashion of the day to lay great stress upon what 
ihey call "imagination 11 and "invention," the two cotn- 
mnnesl of qualities: an Irish peasant, with a little whUky 
in his head, will imagine and invent more than would fur- 
nish forth a modern poem. If Lucretius had not been 
spoiled hv the Epicurean system, we should have had a 
far superior poem to any now in existence. As mere 
poetry, it is the first of Latin poems. What then has 
ruined it ? His ethics. Pope has not this defect ; his moral 
is as pure as his poetrv is glorious. In speaking of arti- 
ficial objects, I have omitted to touch upon one which I 
will now mention. Cannon may be presumed to be as 



292 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



highly poetical bs an can make her abject** Mr. Bowie* 
will, perhaps, tell me thai this is became they resemble 
that grand natural article of sound in heaven, and simile 
upon earth — thunder. I shall be told triumphantly, thai 
Milton made sa<l work with his artill-ry, when he armed 
his devils therewithal. He did so; and this artificial ob- 
ject must have had much of the sublime to attract his 
attention for such a conflict. He hat made an absurd use 
of it; but the absurdity consists nol in using cannon against 
the angels of God, but any material weapon. The thun- 
der of the clouds would have been as ridiculous and vain 
in 'tie hands of the devils, as the •* villain'.,-- saltpetre:" 
the ingels were as impervious to the one as to the other. 
The thunderbolts became sublime in the hands of the Al- 
mighty, not bs such, but becansi- As deigns to use mem as 
a means of repelling the rebel spirits; but no iuk* can at- 
tribute their defeat to (his grand piece of natural electri- 
city: the Almighty willed! and they fell; Ins word would 
have been enough; and Milton >-' BS absurd (and in fact, 
blasphemous) in putting material lightnings into the hands 
of llie Godhead as in giving him hands at all. 

The artillery of the demons was but the first step of 
his mistake, the thunder the next, and it is a step lower. 
Tt would have been fit for Jove, but not for Jehovah. 
The subject altogether was essentially unpoeticsJ ; he 
has made more of it than another could, but it is beyond 
htm and all men. 

In a portion of his reply, Mr. Bowles asserts that 
Pope * envied Phillips" because he quizzed his pastorals 
in the Guardian, in that most admirable model of irony,! 
his paper on the subject. If there was any thing envi- 
able about Phillips, it could hardly be his pastorals 
They were despicable, and Pope expressed his contempt. 
If Mr. Fitzgerald published a volume of sonnets, or a 
"Spirit of Discovery," or a "Missionary" and Mr. 
Bowles wrote in anv periodica] journal an ironical paper 
upon them, would this be "envy ?" The authors of the 
"Rejected Addresses" have ridiculed the sixteen or twenty 
"first living poets" of the day ; but do they " envy" them ? 
"Envy" Writhes, it don't laugh. The authors of the 
"Rejected Addresses" mav despise some, but they can 
hardly B eniry a anv of the persons whom they have paro- 
died ; and Pope could have no more envied Phillips than 
he did Welstedj or Theobalds, or Sinedly, or any other 
given hero of the Dunciad. He could not have envied 
him, even had he himself not been the greatest poet of 

hi* age. Did Mr. Lags "ran/"Mr. Phillips, when he 
asked him, " how came your Pyirhus to drive oxen, and 
say, I am goadtd on by love?" This question silenced 
poor Phillips; but it no more proceeded from "envv" 
than did Pope's ridicule. Did he envy Swift ? Did he 
envy Bolblgbroke? Did he envy Gay the unparalleled 
success of his " Beggars' Opera?" We may be answered 
that these were his friends — true; but does Jriandikip 
prevent envy? Study the first woman you meet with, 
or the first scribbler, let Mr. Bowles himself {whom I 
acquit fully of such an odious quality) study some of 
his own poetical intimates : the most envious man I 
ever heard of is a poet, and a high one ; besides it is an 
fcniuarsui passion* Goldsmith envied not only the pup- 
pets for their dancing and broke his shins in the attempt 
at rivalry, hut was seriously angry because two pretty 
women received more attention than he did. This it 
envy ; but where does Pope show a sign of the passion 1 
In that case, Dryden envied the hero of his. Mac Fleck- 
noe. Mr. Bowles compares, when and where he can, 
Pope with Cowper, (the same Cowper whom, in his 
edition of Pope, he laughs at fir his attachment to an 
old woman, Mrs. Unwin: search and you will find it; I 
remember the passage, ih<>ii;»h not the page;) in parti- 
cular he re-quotes Cowpcr's Dutch delineation of a wood, 
drawn up like a seedsman's < atalngi e, + with an affected 

* I will «uhmit to Mr, Bow.rVl a*n ludsmenl a pause? from another 
poem .•! Cowper 'a, io tic ompjrtM *;tli the. nunc writer • Sylvan Sam- 
ple* . lu Ltie lines U> Mary, 



imitation of Milton's Jtyle, as burlesque as the "Splendid 
Shilling." These two writers (for Cowper is no poet) 
come into comparison in one great work — the translation 
of Homer. Now, with all the great, and manifest, and 
manifold, and reproved] and acknowledged, and uncon- 
troverted faults of Pope's translation, and all the scholar- 
ship, and pains, and tune, and trouble, and blank verse 
of the other, who can ever read Cowper ? and who will 
iv. t lay down Pope, unless for the original ? Pope's was 
u not Homer, it was S|>oiKlanus ;" but Cowper's is not 
Homer, either, it is not even Cowper. As a child I first 
read Pope's Homer with a rapture which no subsequent 
work could ever afford; and children are not the worst 
judges of their own language. As a boy I read Homer 
in the original, as we have all done, some uf us by force, 
and a few by favour ; under which description I come is 
nullum; In the purpnse, it is enough that 1 read him. As 
a man I have tried to read Cowper's version, and I found 
it impossible. Has any human reader ever succeeded? 
And now that we have heard the Catholic reproached 
llh envy, duplirity, licentiousness, avarice — what was 
ie Calvinist? He attempted the most atrocious of 
crimes m the Christian code, viz. suicide — and why? 

Because he was to be examined whether he was fit for 
an office which he seems to wish to have made a sine* 
cure. His connexion with Mrs. Unwin was pure enough. 
lor the old lady was devout, and he was deranged ; but 
why then is the infirm and then elderlv Pope lo be re- 
proved for his connexion with Martha Blount ? Cowpei 
was the almoner of Mrs. Throgmorton ; but Pope's chart- 
ties were his own, and they were noble and extensive, far 
beyond his fortune's warrant. Pope was the tolerant yet 
steady adherent of the most bigoted of seels ; and Cow. 
per the most bigoted and despondent sectary mat ever 
anticipated damnation to himself or others. Is this harsh ? 
I know it is, and I do not assert it as my opinion of Cow- 
per perstmally, but to show what might be said, wi'h just 
as great an appearance of truth and candour, as all the 
odium which has been accumulated upon Pope in similar 
speculations. Cowper was a good man, and lived at a 
fortunate time f >r his works. 

Mr. Bowles, apparently not relying entirely upon his 
own arguments, has, in person or by proxy, brought for- 
ward the names of Southey and Moore. Mr. Soul hey 
■ agrees entirely with Mr. Bowles in his invariable prin- 
ciples of poetry." The least that Air. Bowles can do in 
return is to approve the "invariable principles of Mr. 
Southey." I should have thought thai the word "rrirari- 



" Thy needlei, once a ihinltig -.tore, 
For rnv «nkr restlras he ratofOK, 
Now run diamed, nnd thine nn more. 

My Mary," 

contain 1 tlmnle. houwhold, " tmxVior," artificial, unit ordinary Imar*. 

I rrfer Mi. Bowleato iln ibinM, and n\k If t heat Ihrea Unci about " - ■* 
ilfn" are iinl nmfth I Ml llir bOaaUl! (WnddlincabOMl tree»,»oU i. irnphant \f 
re-quoted? Bltdyel in fact what do they convey } A homely collection 
of Udiujm Hid incae aaaoctated with the darning of atocklnga, and "*■ 
hmiming of shirt •, and i in- irn'inlm;/ "f l.rr.-i-|n-« Uh will any urn . I- m 
Unit tlnv are eminently [Mttlf&l ami pathetic (is ndilr ri">r<l tiy < I 

tin limit-.' Tin- trnalief utei rei da me of n laying <>( Sheridan 'a, 

SOOO after the " Rencl.d ilMreM" SCCIW, In 1819,1 nm SlM-riiLin. lu 

the eourae »f dinner, he *aid, " Lord Uvroii, did too huua that t 

Hie wrltcri of addvcMfj mi Whllbreid himaelf?* 1 I nnawerad by an 
mnnirv of what ion »f an addrraa he hnd riiinU. " 01 that." replied 

Sherkun, " i re mbei LIU)*, ex< epl ihat there *u ■ fha-nir In n." 

" a |.ii.i nix tl Well, how did he describe it ?" " / «e a pevftmr," 

a.i.'il Sheridan: " U woe *reen. and yellow, nnd red, ami blue! tie 

1101 I l Dl off for a ■iiiL'lc fi-nlitr." And Just alien aa liia puuherer'i 

'mi ni a nhtenix, la Cow per '■ nick picker's deluil of a wood, with 

all ua petty poloutla of Uiii, that, and the other, 

"ne more poetical Instance of ttie |«wcr of art, tnd e*en i'a svpf 
rtorit] we* nature, in potter, nml I have done :— the hull of Ant iitotm I 

I I then* any thing in nature like thi*. mnrhle, exceptlof tin- Venn » .' tan 
i»i"ie tx more yiittiy ttuilii'Tfl Into axle tance than In that wuodarful 

cnatl I iwrfect baauty? Itnt the poetry of lltia Imat ii in no retpaOt 

oarlTed rran nature, nor from any aaaorialiou of moral exnltrdneaa : 

what i. there in common, witli moml nature and the male nnnion of 
ftdftaa? The Hrj axacntfna ie nor nalurai, but ruprrnaiural, or 
raUMT WUptrwtUeial. for nature has never done ao much. 

A V| , , iIh-ii, with tlila cant utioni naturv and " invnrlul'le i>rluelplc) 
of pot)tr*l" A ere.it artim will make a block of ItOtM «• lUbuRM a» a 
ui'iiiiitHiii, ami ii good puei can itubue a tiack of cnnla with m<>re poetry 
than lohabhe the fwreaU of .America. It la the lninnru unci the proof 
of a poet i.. eivp the lie la ilit prowbi and ». une timet to " NwCa a alien 
l'u *f uut of a «ou'« ear ;" and lu Conclude with another homely Jiro? 
r«rb, "a (ood workman will not nnri Unit wall Uu took." 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



able* might have stuck in Southey's throat, like Macbeth's 
"Amen!" I am sure it did in mine, and I am not the 
least consistent of the two, at least as a voter. Moore 
(tt in Brute!) also approves, and a Mr. J. Scott. There 
is a letter also of two lines from a gentleman in asterisks, 
who, it seems, is a poet of M (lie highest rank'" — who can 
I lis be ! not inv friend. Sir "Walter, surely. Campbell 11 
can't be ; Rogers it won't be. 

(Pope, t presume] on 



" Yon havr Ml the nail in llic head, ami 

the he-ail i/iu.' 1 

I rHMDi) your*, offeeiiunately 



(Faur Aiteritks.) 

And in asterisks let Iiim remain. Whoever this person 
may be, he deserves, for such a judgment of Midas, tha: 
a the nail" which Mr. Bowles has hit in the head should 
be driven through his own ears ; I am sure that they are 
long enough. 

The attention of the poetical populace of the present 
day tu obtain an ostracism against Pope is as easily ac- 
counted for as the Athenian's shell against Arisddes 
they are tire*! of hearing him always called "the Just.'' 
They are also fighting for life; for if he maintains hi* 
station, they will reach their own falling. They have 
raised a mosque by the side of a Grecian temple of the 
purest architecture ; and, more barbarous than the bar- 
barians from whose practice I have borrowed the figure, 
they are not contented with their own grotesque edilice, 
mi iss ihey destroy the prior and purely beautiful fabric 
which preceded, and which shames them and theirs for 
ever and ever. . I shall be told that amongst those I have 
been (or it may be si ill am) conspicuous — true, and I 
am ashamed of it. I firwe been among the builders of 
tins Babel, attended by a confusion of tongues, but never 
among the envious destroyers of the classic temple of 
our predecessor. I have loved and honoured the fame 
and name of that illustrious and unrivalled man, fa 
more than my own paltry renown, and the trashy gin- 
gle of the crowd of "schools* and upstarts, who pretend 
to rival, or even surpass him. Sootier than a single leaf 
should be torn from his laurel, it were better that all 
which these men, and I, as one of their set, have ever 
written, should 

•* Line ir'inkn, clothe spiee, or, flullerinE in & row, 
Brlruioe Uie raiU of Bedlam or Suho I" 

There are those who will believe this, and those who 
will not. Too, sir, know how far I am sincere, and 
whether my opinion, not only in the short work intended 
for publication, and in private letters which can never 
be published, has or has not been the same. I look 
upon this a> the declining a^e of English poetry; no 
regard for others, no selfish feeling, can prevent me from 
seeing this, and expressing the truth. There can he no 
worse sign fur the taste of the times than the deprecia- 
tion of Pope, ft would be better to receive for proof 

Mr. Cobbetia rough but strong attach upon Shakspeare 
and Milton, than to allow this smooth and "candid" 
undermining of the reputation of the most perfect of our 
poets ami the purest of our moralists. Of his power in 
the passions, in description, in the mock-heroic, I leave 
others to descant. I take him on his strong ground, as 
an euucal poet ; in the former none excel, in the mock- 
heroic and the ethical none equal him ; and, in my mind, 
the latter is the highest of all poetry, because it does 
that in eerse, which the greatest uf men have wished bo 
accomplish in prose. If the e sence of poetrv must he 
a lis, throw it to the dogs, or banish it from your republic, 
as Plato would have done. He who can reconcile poetrv 
with truth and wisdom, is the only true "poet in its real 
sense; "the maker" tt the creator'' — why must this mean 
the tt liar," the "feigner," K the tale-teller ? B A man may 
make and create better things than these. 

I shall not presume to say that Pope is as high a poet 
as Shakspeare and Milton, though !iis enemv, Warton, 
places turn immediately under them. I would no more 



-in 

say this than I would assert in the mosque, (once St. 
Sophia's,) that Socrates was a greater man than Maho- 
met. But if I say that he is very near them, it is no 
more than has been asserted of Burns, who is supposed 

" To rival all but Shukspeare't name below." 

i say nothing against this opinion. But of what K order? 
according to the poetical aristocracy, are Burns's poems ? 
These are his opus magnum, * Tain O'Shanter," a tale; 
the "Colter's Saturday Ninht," a descriptive sketch; 
some others in the same style; the restate songs. So 
much for the rank of his pro<!vetwns ; the rank of Burnt 
is the very first of his art. Of Pope I have expressed 
my opinion elsewhere, as also of the effect which the 
present attempts at poetry have had upon our literature. 
If any great national or natural convulsion could or should 
overwhelm your country, in such sort as to sweep Great 
Britain from the kingdoms of the earth, arid ieave only 
that, after all the most living of human things, a dead 
language, to he studied and read, and imitated, by the 
wise of future and far generations upon foreign shores; 
il your literature should become the learning of mankind, 
divested of party cabals, temporary fashions, and national 
pnde and prejudice ; an Englishman, anxious that the 
posterity of s; rangers s 1 ould know that there had been 
such a thing as a British Epic and Tragedy, might wish 
for the preservation of Shakspeare and Milton ; but the 
surviving world would snatch Pope from the wreck, and 
let the rest sink with the people. He is the moral poet 
ot all civilization, and, as such, let us hope that he will 
one day be the national poet of mankind. He is the only 
poet that never shocks; the onlv poet whose faultlessness 
has been made his reproach. Cast your eye over his 
productions ; consider their extent, and contemplate their 
variety: — pastoral, passion, mock-heroic, translation, sa- 
tire, ethics, — all excellent, and often perfect. If his great 
charm be his melody, how comes it that foreigners adore 
him even in their diluted translation ? But 1 have made 
this letter too long. Give my compliments to Mr. Bowles^ 
Yours ever, very truly, 

BYRON. 
To J. Murray^ Esq. 

Post scriptum. — Long as this letter has grown, I find 
it necessary to append a postscript, — if possible, a short 
one. Mr. Bowles denies that he has accused Pope of 
" a sordid money-getting passion ;" but he adds " if I had 
ever done so, I should be glad to find any testimony thai 
might show me he was not so." This testimony he may 
find to his heart's contenl in Spence and elsewhere. 
First, there is Martha Blount, who, Mr. Bowles charit- 
ably says, a probably thought he did not save enough for 
her as legatee." Whatever she thought upon this point, 
her words are in Pone's favour. Then there is .Alder- 
man Barber — see Spence's Anecdotes. There is Pope's 
cold answer to Halifax, when he proposed a pension ; his 
behaviour to Craggs and to Addison upon hke occasions ; 
and his own two lines — 



' And, thnnkn 
Indebted to n 



> Homer, since T live and thrive, 
i prince or peer alive — '■ 



ritten when princes would have been proud to pension, 
and peers to promote him, and when the whole armv of 
dunces were in array against him, and would have been 
but too happy to deprive him ot Uiis boast of indepen- 
dence. But there is something a little more serious in 
Mr. Bowles's declaration, that he t( would have spoken" 

>f his "noble generosity to the outcast, Richard Savage, 1 
and other instances of a compassionate and generous 
heart, "ha/I they occurred to fas recollection when he wrote." 
What! is it come to this? Does Mr. Bowles sit down 
to write a minute and laboured life and edition of a great 
poet? Does he anatomize his character, moral and po- 

tical ? Does he present us with his faults and with his 
foibles ? Does he sneer at his feelings, and doubt of his 
sincerity ? Does he unfold his vanity and duplicity 7 end 



291 



ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 



(hen omil the good qualities which might, in part, have 
11 covered tins multitude of sins /'" and than plead thai 

11 they did not occur to hia recollection /" Is this the Iramr 
of mind and of memory with which the illustrious dead 
are to be reproached ? If Mr. Bowles, who must have 
had access toall the means of refreshing his memory, 
did noi recollect these fads, he is unlit for his task ; bui 
if he did recollect, and omit them, I know n<»t wbal he 
is tit for, but I know whal would be til for him. Is ih<' 
plea of " not recollecting" such prominent facts to be 
admitted? Mr. Bowles has been at a public school, 
and, as 1 have been publicly educated also, I can sym- 
pathize with his predilection. When we were in the 
third form even, had we pleaded on the Monday Doming, 
that we had noi brought up the JSaturdav's exercise be- 
cause '* we had forgotten it," whal would have been the 
reply? And is an excuse, which would not be pardoned 
lo a schoolboy, to pass current in a matter which so 
nearly concerns the fame of tin- first poet of his age, if 
not of his country ? If Mr. Bowles so readily forgets 
the virtues of others, why complain so grievously that 
others have a belter memory for his own faults ? They 
are bul the faults of an author ; while the virtues he 
omitted from his catalogue are essential lo the justice 
due to a man. 

Mr. Bowles appears, indeed, lo be susceptible beyond 
the privilege of authorship. There is a plaintive dedi- 
cation to Mr. Gilford, in which he is made responsible 
for all the articles of the Quarterly. Mr. Southey, it 
seems, " the most able and eloquent writer in that Re- 
view," approves of Mr. Bowles's publication. Now, it 
seems lo me the more impartial, that notwithstanding 
thai the great writer of the Quarterly entertains opinions 
opposite to the able article on Spenoe, nevertheless that 
essay was permitted lo appear. Is a review to be de- 
voted to the opinions of any one man ? Must it not 
vary according to circumstances, and according to the 
subjects to be criticised / I fear that writers must take 
the swee's and bitters of tho public journals as they 
occur, and an author of so long a standing as Mr. 
Bowles might have become accustomed lo such inci- 
dents ; ho might bo angry, but not astonished. I have 
been reviewed in the Quarterly almost as often as Mr. 
Bowles, and have had as pleasant things said, and some 



as unpUatant, as could well be pronounced. In il.e re- 
view of * The fad of Jerusalem," i u Staled thai 1 
have de voted ' inv powers, eic. to the wunti pi 
manicheism," winch being iuteiprcled, memo* that 1 
worship the devil. Now , I have neither written a reply, 

nor complained toGifibrd. I believe hat I observed in 
i letter iu you, thai I thought "that ti"' crilit 
have praised Milman without finding ii necw 
abuse me ;" hot I did not add at die same time, ot - I 
after, (apropos, of the note m the booh "t travels,) ihsj 
I would not, if it were even in my power, hai ts I 
line cancelled on my accuunt in that nor in any other 
publication ? — Of couise, 1 reserve to myself th« privi- 
lege of response when necessary. Mr. Bowies Hems 
in a whimsical slate about the article on Spence. You 
know very well that I am noi in your confidence, nor is 

that of the conductor of ihe journal. The moment I 
saw that article, I was morally certain that I knew the 
author " by his style." You will tell me thai I do not 
know him; that is all as ii should boj keep the scent, 
SO shall I, though no one has ever intrusted it to nie. 
He is not the person whom Mr. Bowles denounces. 
Mr. Bowles's extreme sensibility reminds me of a cir- 
cumstance which occurred on board of a frigate, m 
which I was a passenger and guest of the captain's for 
a considerable time. The surgeon on board, a very 
gentlemanly young man, and remarkably able in his 
profession, wore a wig. Upon this ornament he was 
extremely tenacious. As naval jests are sometimes a 
little roogh, his brother-officers made occasional allu- 
sions to this delicate appendage to the doctor's person, 
One day a young lieutenant, in ihe course of a faceti us 
discussion, said, " Suppose, now, doctor, I should take 
off your hat." " Sir," replied the doctor, i( I shall talk 
no longer with you ; you grow scurrilous." He would 
not even admit so near an approach as lo the hat w hu h 
protected it. In like manner, if any body approached 
Mr. Bowles's laurels, even in his outside capacity of an 
editor, " they grow scurrilous." You say that you are 
about to prepare an edition of Pope ; you cannot do 
belter fjr vour own credit as a publisher, nor for the re- 
demption of Pope from Air. Bowles, and of the public 
taste from rapid degeneracy. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. Pa?e 291. 

77n" Italians^ with the most poetical language, and the 
most, fastidious taste in Europe, possess now fire grea. 

lastly ..'7/ 



poets, they say, Dame, Petrarch, Jlriusto, I'asso, and 
' fit fieri. 



Of these there is one ranked with the others fi>r his 
Sonnbts, and txe-o for compositions which belong to no 
class at alii Where is Dame ? His p-n m is n<t an epic ; 
thro what is it ? "He himself calls n a " divine comedy f 

and why ? This is rnoiv th.m all his thousand cm -\>. 

laiors have been able to explain. Ariosto's is not an epic 
poem; and If poets are to be classed according to the 
genus of their poetry, when: is In- to he pla. -e-l l Of these 
h.e, T.isao and AJfleri only come within Aristotle's ar- 
rangement, and Mr. Bowles's class-bo >k. But the whole 
position \- false. Poets are classed by the powei of their 

performance, and noi according to its rank in a gradus. 
In ihe contrary <ase, the forgotten epic poets m all coun- 
tries would rank above Petrarch, Dante, Lrlosto, Bums, 
Gray, Dry den, and thehigheat names "i varf ius countries. 
Mr. B i W fee's title of " invariable principles of poetry, ' 
Is, perhaps, the most arrogant ever prefixed to a volume. 
So far are ihe principled of poetry from being " invaria- 
ble," that ihey never were nor ever will be settled. The>e 
"principles" mem nothing more than the predilections 
of a particular age; and every age has IH own, and ;i 
dilfureiit from iu predecessor. It is now Homer and now 



Virgil ; once Dryden, and since Waller Scoti ; now Cor- 
neille, and now Racine: now Crebillon. now \ 
'l'lw Homerist! and V* ire tiian* in France disputed for hall 
a century. Nut fifty years at-o the Italians neglected 
Dante Beit rtelll reproved Monti for reading "that bar. 

harian ;' al pres'-nt they adore him. Bhuapes I 

Milton have had their rise, and they will have tl 
cline. Already the] have more than once Quotum 
must be the case with all the dramutiate and pons ol a 
living language. '1 hi- di e not depend upon n gj| 
but upon the ordinary vicissitudes of human npl ii ta. 
Si hies, i and Madame de Sue] have endeavoured 
reduce poetry to two systems, classical and romantic. 
The effect is only beginning. 

Note 2. Page 293. 

I shall noi presume to nay that Pope »* as htgh a poet 
as Shakspean and Milton, though his enemy, Huiton, 
plans hint immediately under thun. 

If the opinions cited by Mr. Bowles, of Dr. Johnson 
against Pope, are io be tal en ■ e decisive authority, tin y 
will also hold good against Gr.i\ , Mi ton, Swift. Tl 
and Dryden : m that c tee whai becomes of G> ay's pot ttcal 
and Milton's moral character? even of Milton's poetical 
character, or, Indeed, of English poetry In general? foi 
Johnson strips many a leaf from every laurel. Slill 
Johnsons is ihe fiue-i rruical work extant, and <.an nevei 
L»u read wiihoui instruction and delight. 



OBSERVATIONS UPON "OBSERVATIONS." 

A SECOND LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY, ESQ. 

OS 

THE REV.W. L.BOWLES'S STRICTURES 

ON THE 

LIFE AND WRITINGS OF POPE 



Ravenna, March 25, 1821. 
Dear Sir, 

In the furlher " Observations" of Mr. Bowles, in re- 
jiiinder 10 ihe charges hrought against h 
Pope, it is to be regretted that he has 



Mr. Bowles declares, that " he will not enter into a 

pamcolar examination of the pamphlet," which by a 

misnomer is called '■ Gilchrist's Answer to B wles " 

I his edition of when it should have been called " Gilchrist's Abuse 'of 

lost his temper. Bowles." On ibis error in ihe baptism of Mr Gil- 

WWerih. language of his antagonists may have been, ; chrisl's pamphlel, ,t may be observed, that » answer 



I liar that Ins replies have afforded more pleasl e to may be abusive and vet 

£"! ' b Z «? ,h r I? Mf , BOW,eS 8h ° Uld " 0t ' ^'"' M y » «-™ o™ m ght be "e, er of Z 

be pleased » natural, whether nght or wrong ; but a two , but ,1 otu« ,s to cancel all pretension to reply 
temp rate defence would have answered his purpose in what becomes of Mr. Bowles's answers to Mr Git 
Ihe former case— and, in the latler.no defence, how- christ 1 
era violent. can tend to any thing bu, his discomfiture. Mr. Bowles continues :-" But as Mr Gilchrist de- 

have read oyer , Ins ,h,rd pamphlet, which you have rides nvy pecuUor ««*«• to aitoZ tefcrelshw 
been so obligmg as to send me, and shal venture a few how destitute of truth ,s Ms representaUon, I will hZ 
Uove'Z '" l ° UP ° n ,hepreVlous c «n- explic.ly declare the only grounds, fee. &c. &c'-Mr! 

r °ivT rS -D i .. ... Bowles's sensibility in denying his "sensitiveness lii 

Mr Bowles sous out with repeating his « confirmed criticism" proves "perhaps loo^much. Bu Tf he has 

miir/ifm." that '» wh»t U*. .-„,.! „r iU .« ! . _n l _ . r " JJUl " ne "as 



■ \ r I"""" |fl-llHl[JO 1UU lll'l' Jl. J 

that -what he said of the moral part of been so charged, and truly— what then? 



_ , — i — « ^vuoif;.. u , ttuu iiuiy — wnai men; l h 

Popes character was, generally speaking, true; and moral turpitude in such acu.eness of feelin 
that Ihe principles of poetical criticism which he has laid ! been, and mnv h„ h;„-J ...:,,. ~, 



There is no 



it ha 



he has laid been, and may be, combined with many sood'and ureal 
down are tnvartahle and invulnerat.k," &e. , and that he I qualities. Is Mr. Bowles a poel, or ,s he not " If he 
IS the more persuaded of this by the ■ exaggerations of be, he must, from his very essence be senl,"ive to c riti 
his opponents." This is ail very well, and highly na- cism ; and even if he be not, he need no, b ashamed ol 
lural and sincere Nobody ever expected ibat either Mr. ! the common repugnance lo being attacked All lhaT t 

- to be wished is,, hat he had considered how H^agreeable 



man fallibility in their own persons. But it is nothing 
lo the purpose— for it is not what Mr. Bowles thinks, 
but what is to be thought of Pope, that is the question. 
It is what he has asserted or insinuated against a name 
which is the palrimony of posterity, thai is to be tried ; 
and Mr. Bowles, as a parly, can be no judge. The 
more he is persuaded, the heller for himself, if it give 
him any pleasure; but he can only persuade others by 
the proofs brought out in his defence. 

After these prefatory remarks of " conviction," &c. 
Mr. Bowles proceeds to Mr. Gilchrist; whom he charges 
with " slang" and " slander," besides a small subsidiary 
indictment of" abuse, ignorance, malice," and so forth. 
Mr. Gilchrist has, indeed, shown some anoer ; but it 
rs an honest indignation, which rises up in defence of 
Ihe illustrious dead. It is a generous rage which in- 
terposes between our ashes and their disturbers. There 
appears also lo have been some slight personal pro- 
vocation. Mr. Gilchrist, wiih a chivalrous disdain of 
the fury of an incensed poel. put his name to a letter 
avowing the production of a former essay in defence of 
Pope, and consequently of an allack upon Mr. Bowles. 
Mr. Bowles appears to be angry with Mr. Gilchrist for 
four reasons : — firstly, because he 



a Ihing it is, before he assailed Ihe greatest moral poet 
of any age, or in any language. 

Pope himself "sleeps well,"— nothing can touch 
him further; but those who love the honour of their 
country, the perfection of her lilerature, the glory of her 
language— are not to be expected to permit an atom of 
his dust lo be slirred in his lomb, or a leaf to be stripped 
from the laurel which grows over it. 

Mr. Bowles assigns several reasons why and when 
'' an author is justified in appealing to every upright 
and honourable mind in the kingdom." If Mr. Bowles 
limits the perusal of his defence to ihe " upright and 
honourable" only, I greally fear thai it will not be ex- 
tensively circulated. I should rather hope that some 
of Ihe downright and dishonest will read and be con- 
verted, or convicted. But the whole of his reasoning is 
here superfluous—" an author is justified in appeal- 
ing," &c. when and why he pleases. Lei him make 
out a tolerable case, and few of his readers will quarrel 
wilh his motives. 

Mr. Bowles " will now plainly set before the literary 
public all the circumstances which have led to Ail name 
and Mr. Gilchrist's being brought together," &c. 



wrote an article in j Courtesy requires, in speaking of others and ourselves, 



"Tkplnml.tu,.,,;. .» ji v. l 7 """""y squires, in s leaning ol omers and ourse ves, 

waTds avowed it T^ i l y ' *T hC f e,J ,ha ' we should P'* ce lhe name r ' f "» »™« &*— «J 

IT. T. ' £ y ' r a " ae l ^. WaS " ,e aUlhor 0f not " E «° *< R « meus -" Mr. Bowles should have 
.iZ .» , r n M d t'"^ '" " The( i^»"ly Re- written "Mr. Gilchrist's name and his." 



and, fourthly, because he was hot the author 
of the said Quarlerlv article, and had the audacity to 
disown it— for no earthly reason bul because he had hot 
written it. 



This point he wishes " particularly to address to 
those most respectable characters, who have the direction 
and management of the periodical critical press." That 
I the press may be, in some instances, conducted by re- 



S9C 



OBSERVATIONS ON "OBSERVATIONS:" 



spec'able characters is probable enough ; but if they are 

h. i. there ie iccasion to tell them of it; and if they 

aie not, it is a base adulation. In either case, it looks 
like a kind of flattery, by which (hose gentry are not 
very likely to be softened; since it would be difficult to 
find two passages in fifteen pages more at variance, 
than Mr. Bowles's prose at the beginning oJ thia 
pamphlet, and his verse at the end of it. In page 4. 
he speaks of " those most respectable characters who 
have the direction, &c. of the periodical press," and in 
page 10. we find — 

** Ye dark injuititOTt, a mouV-llk* band, 
Who o'er IOBH shrinking rieUra*tnihar ti«uJ, 
A solemn, lecroi, nmi vtndicttnt brtiod, 
Only terrific in yuirpcowl mid hood." 

And so on — to " bloody law" and " red scourges," with 
other similar phrases, which may not be altogether 
agreeable to the above-mentioned " most respectable 
characters." Mr. Bowles goes on, " I concluded tnv 
observations in the last Pamphleteer with feelings not 
unkind towards Mr. Gilchrist, or" fit should be nor] 
" to the author of the review of Spence, be he whom be 
might." — M I was in hopes, as I have always been ready 
to admit any errors I might have been led into, or pre- 
judice I might have entertained, that even Mr. Gilchrist 
might be disposed to a more amicable mode of discussing 
what I had advanced in regard to Pope's moral cha- 
racter." As Major Sturgeon observes, " There never 
was a set of more amicable officers — with the exception 
of a boxing-bout between Captain Shears and the 
Colonel." 

A page and a half — nay only a page before — Mr. 
Bowles re-affirms his conviction, that " what he has 
said of Pope's moral character is (generally tpettJdng') 
true, and that his "poetical principles are invariant 
and invulnerable.' 1 '' He has also published three pam- 
phlets, — ay, four of the same tenour, — and yet, with this 
declaration and these declamations staring him and his 
adversaries in the face, he speaks of his " readiness to 
admit errors or to abandon prejudices ! ! !" His 0S6 off 
the word " amicable" reminds me of the Irish Institu- 
tion (which I have somewhere heard or read of) called 
the " Friendly Society," where lite president alwavs 
carried pistols in his pocket, so that when one amicable 
gentleman knocked down another, the difference might 
be adjusted on the spot, at the harmonious distance of 
twelve paces. 

But Mr. Bowles "has since read a publication by 
him (Mr. Gilchrist) containing such vulgar slander, 
affecting private life and character,'* &c. &c. ; and Mr. 
Gilchrist has also had the advantage of reading a pub- 
lication by Mr. Bowles sufficiently imbued with per- 
sonality ; for one of the first and principal topics of 
reproach is that he is a grocer, that he has a " pipe in 
his mouth, ledger-book, green canisters, dingy shop- boy. 
half a hogshead of brown treacle," &c. Nay, the same 
delicate raillery is upon the very title-page. When 
controversy has once commenced upon this footing, as 
Dr. Johnson said to Dr. Percy, " Sir, there is an end of 
politeness— we are to be as rude as wo please — Sir, 
you said that I was short-sighted" As a man's pro- 
fession is generally no more in his own power than his 
person — both having been made out for him — it is 
hard that he should be reproached with either, and still 
more that an honest calling should be made a reproach. 
If there is any tiling more honourable lo Mr. Gilchrist 
than another it is, that heing engaged in commerce he 
has had the taste, and found the leisure, to become bo 
able a proficient in the higher literature of his own and 
other countries. Mr. Bowles, who will be proud to 
own Glover, Chatterton, Burns, and Bloomfield for his 
peers, should hardly have quarrelled with Mr. Gilchrist 
for his critic. Mr. Gilchrist's station, however, which 
might conduct him to the highest civic honours, and to 



boundless wealth, has nothing to require apology; but 
even if U had, such a reproach was not very gracious 
on the part of a clergyman, nor graceful on thut of a 
gentleman. The allusion to " Christian criticism" is 
nol particularly happy, especially where Mr. Gilchrist is 
accused of having " set thejirst example of tins mode in 
Europe. 1 What Pagan criticism may have been we 
know but little ; the names of Zoilus and Aristarchus 
survive, and the works of Anstoile, Longious, and 
Q,uintilian: but of " Christian criticism" we have 
already bad some specimens in the works of Philel- 
phus, Pogsius, Scaliger, Milton, Salmasius, the Crus- 
canii (versus Tasso,) the French Academy (again>i the 
Cid,) and the antagonists of Voltaire and of Pupe— to 
say nothing of some articles in most of the reviews, 
since their earliest institution in ihe person of their 
respectable and still prolific parent, "The Monthly." 
Why, then, is Mr. Gilchrist io be singled out "as 
having set the first example ?" A sole page of Milii.n 
or Salmasius contains more abust — rank, rancorous, 
unleavened abuse — than all that can be raked furih 
from the whole works of many remit critics. There 
are some, indeed, who still keep up the good old CUStOfD ; 
but fewer English than foreign. 1; is a pity that 
Mr. Bowles cannot witness some of the Italian contro- 
versies, or become the subject of one. He would then 
look upon Mr. Gilchrist as a panegyrist. * * + * 

To me it appears of no very great consequence whe- 
ther Martha Blount was or was not Pope's mistress, 
though I could have wished him a better. She appears 
to have been a cold-hearted, interested, ignorant, dis 
agreeable woman, upon whom the tenderness of Pope'* 
heart in the desolation of his latter davs was cast away, 
not knowing whither to turn, as he drew towards his 
premature old age, childless ami lonely, — like the needle 
which, approaching within a <-crta in distance of the pole, 
becomes helpless and useless, and, ceasing lo tremble, 
rusts. She seems to have been so totally unworthy of 
tenderness, that it is an additional proof of the kindness 
of Pope's heart to have been able to love such a being, 
But we must love something. I agree with Mr. B. dial 
she "could at no time have regarded Puj>r personally 
with attachment," because she was incapable of attach- 
ment ; but I deny lhat Pope could not be regarded wiih 
personal attachment by a worthier woman. It is not 
probable, indeed, (hat a woman would have fallen in love 
with him as he walked along the Mall, or in a box, at 
the opera, nor from a balcony, nor in a ball-room ; but 
in society he seems lo have been as amiable as uii.i-.uni- 
ing, and, wiih the greatest disadvantages of figure, his 
head and face were remarkably handsome, especially his 
eyes. He was adored by his friends — friends of the 
most op|KJsito dispositions, ages, and talents — by (ho 
old and wayward Wycherley, by the cynical Swift, the 
rough Aiierbury, the gentle Spence, the stern attorney- 
bishop Warburton, the virtuous Berkeley, and the 
"cankered Bolmgbroke." Bohngbroke wept over him 
like a chili! ; and Spencer's description of fail last mo- 
ments is at least as edifying as the more ostentatious 
account of the deathbed of Addison. The soldier Peter- 
borough and the poet Gay, the witty Congreve and the 
laughing Uowe, the eccentric Cromwell and the steady 
Bathurat, Were all his intimates. The man who could 
conciliate so many men of ihe most opposite description, 
not one of whom but was a remarkable or a celebrated 
character, might well have pretended to all the attach- 
ment which a reasonable man would desire of an amiable 
woman. 

Pope, in fact, wherever he got it, appears to have 
understood the sex well. Bolingbroke, " a judge of the 
uhjeel," says Warlon, thought his " Epistle on the 
Characters of Women" his " masterpiece." And even 
with respect to the grosser passion, which takes occa- 
sionally the name of " rvnantic" accordingly as the 



A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES. 



297 



degree of sentiment elevates it above the definition of 
.ove by Burton, il mav be remaiked, thai il does not 
always depend upon per^uitiil appearance, even in a 
woman. Madame Collin was a plain woman, ^ml 
might have been virtuous, it may be presumed, without 
much interruption. Virtuous she was, and the conse- 
quences of this uiveleraie virtue were that two dltfereui 
admirers (one an elderly gentleman) killed themselves 
in despair (see Lady Morgan's " France.") I would 
not, however, recommend this rigour to plain women in 
general, in the hope of securing the glory of two suicides 
apiece. I beheve that there are few men who, in the 
corse of their observaiions on life, may not have per- 
ceived that it is not the greatest f-niale beauty who 
forms the tungest and the strongest passions. 

But, apropos of Pope. — Voltaire tells us that the 
Marechal Luxembourg (who had precisely Pope'sfigure) 
was not only somewhat too amatory for a great man, but 
Jbminate in his attachments. La VaU£re, the passion 
of Louis XIV., had an unsightly delect. The Princes* 
of Eholi, the mistress of Philip II. of Spain, and 
M.tu^iron, the minion of Henry III. of France, had 
each of them lost an eye ; and the famous Latin epigram 
was writieu upon them, which has, I believe, been either 
translated or imitated by GoldsmiUi : — 

" 1 , limine Aeon deTtro, Ctpta eit I.comlla siiiiBtro, 

Et pons en forma rinoera ulerque Dens ; 
BUorie puor, iumen quod (tabes concede gurrori, 

Sie lu c*cu* A ul.ji , uc Brit ilia. Vcuui.' ' 

Wilkes, with his ugliness, used to say that " be was 
but a quarter of an hour behind the handsomest man in 
Engtaud ;" and this vaunt of lus is said not to have been 
disproved by circumstances. Swift, when neither young, 
nor handsome, nor rich, nor even amiable, inspired the 
two most extraordinary passions upon record, Vanessa's 
and Stella's. 

** VaneMA, aged scarce n score, 
Sigln for * gu*o of forty-four." 

He requited them bitterly; for he seems to have 
broken the heart of the one, and worn out that of the 
other; and he had his reward, for he died a solitary 
idiol in the hands of servants. 

For my own part, I am of the opinion of Pausanias, 
that success in love depends upon Fortune. " They 
particularly renounce Celestial Venus, into whose tem- 
ple, &c. &c. &lc. I remember, too, to have seen a 
building in jEgina in which ihere is a sia'ue of Fortune, 
holding a horn of Amahhea; and near her there is a 
winged Love. The meaning of this is, that the success 
of men in love affairs depends more on the assistance 
of Fortune than the charms of beauty. I am persuaded, 
too, with Pindar (to whose opinion I submit in olhcr 
particulars), that Fortune is one of the Fates, ami thai 
in a certain respect she is more powerful than her sis- 
ters.'' — See Pausanias, Achaics, book vit. chap. 26. p. 
246. Taylor's " Translation." 

Grimm has a remark of the same kind on the different 
destinies of the younger Crebillon and Rousseau. The 
former writes a licentious novel, and a young English 
girl of some fortune and family (a Miss Strafford) runs 
sway, and crosses the sea to marrv him ; while Rous- 
seau, the most tender and passionate of lovers, is obliged 
i» espouse bis chambermaid. If I recollect rightly, this 
remark was also related in the Edinburgh Review of 
Grimm's correspondence, seven or eight years ago. 

In regard " to the strange mixture of indecent, and 
sometimes profane levity, which his conduct and lan- 
guage often exhibited." and which so much shocks Mr. 
Bowles, I object to the indefinite word " often j n and in 
extenuation of the occasional occurrence of such lan- 
guage it w to be recollected, that it was less the tone of 
P>pe, than (he tone of the time. With the exception 
of the correspondence of Pope and his friends, not many 
private letters of ihe period have come down to us; but 
those, such as they are— a few scattered rcrapa from 

88 



Farquhar and others — are more indecent and coarso 
than any thing in pope's letters. The comedies of 
Congreve, Vanbriigh, Farquhar, Gibber, &c, which 
naturally attempted to represent the manners and con- 
versation of private life, are decisive upon this point ; 
as are also some of Steele's papers, and even Addison's. 
We all know what the conversation u( Sir H. Walpole, 
for seventeen years the prime minister of the country, 
vvasat his own table, and his excuse for his licentious 
language, viz. "that every body understood that, but 
few could talk rationally upon less common topics." 
The refinement of latter days, — which is perhaps the 
consequence of vice, which wishes to mask and soften 
itself, as much as of virtuous civilisation,— had not yet 
made sufficient progress. Even Johnson, in his " Lon- 
don," has two or three passages which cannot be read 
aloud, and Addison's ''Drummer" some indelicate al- 
lusions. 

To return to Mr. Bowleg. "If what is here ex- 
traced can excite in the mind (I will not say of any 
' layman,' of any ' Christian.' but) of any human being" 
&C Stc. Is not Mr. Gilchrist a " human being?" 
Mr. Bowles asks "whether m attributing an article," 
&lc. &c. "to the critic, he had any reason for disiin- 
guisbing him with that courtesy," &c. &.c. But Mr. 
Bowles was wrong in " attributing the article" to Mr. 
Gilchrist at all ; and would not have been right in call- 
ing him a dunce and a grocer, if he had written it. 

Mr. Bowles is here t( peremptorily called upon to 
speak of a circumstance which gives him the greatest 
pain, — the mention of a letter he received from the 
editor of 'The London Magazine 1 " Mr. Bowles 
seems to have embroiled himself on all sides; whether 
by editing, ot replying, or attributing, or quoting, — it 
has been an awkwaid affair for him. 

Poor Scott is now- no more. In the exercise of his 
vocation, he contrived at last to make himself the sub- 
ject of a coroner's inquest. But he died like a brave 
nan, and he lived an able one. I knew him personally, 
hough slightly. Although several years my senior, we 
had been schoolfellows together at the " gramniar-schule" 
(or, as the Aberdonians pronounce it, "*/u«/") ot New 
Aberdeen. He did not behave to me quite handsomely 
in his capacity of editor a few years ago, but he vtai 
under no obligation to behave otherwise. The moment 
was too tempting for many friends and for all enemies 
At a time wlu-n all my relations (save one) fell from m» 
like leaves from the tr»-e in autumn winds, and my 
few friends became still fewer. — when the whole peri- 
odical press (I mean the daily and weekly, not the 
literary press) was let loose against me in every shape 
of reproach, with the two sirange exceptions (from theii 
usual opposition) of " The Courier" and " The Exami- 
ner," — the paper of which Scott had the direction was 
neither the last nor the least vituperative. Two years 
ago I met him at Venice, when he was bowed in griefs 
by the loss of his son, and had known, by experience, 
the bitterness of domestic privation. He was then ear- 
nest with me to return to England; and on my telling 
him, with a smile, that he was once of a different opi- 
nion, he replied to me, 'that he and others had beep 
greatly misled; and that some pains, and rather extraor- 
dinary means, had been taken to excite them.' Scott is 
no more, but there are more than one living who were 
present at this dialogue. He was a man of very consi- 
derable talents, and of great acquirements. He had 
made his way, as a literary character, with high success, 
and in a few years. Poor fellow ! I recollect his joy al 
some appointment which he had obtained, or was t« 
obtain, through Sir James Mackintosh, and which pre- 
vented the further extension (unless by a rapid run to 
Rome) of his travels in Iialy. I little thought to what 
it would conduct him. Peace be with him! — and may 
all such other faults as are inevitable to humanity be as 
readily forgiven him, as the little injury which he had 



OBSERVATIONS ON "OBSERVATIONS:" 



89S 



lone to one who respected his talenis, and regrets his 

I pass over Mr. Bowles's page of explanation, upon 

the correspondence between him and Mr. S . It is 

jf little importance in regard to Pope, and contains 
nerely a re-contradiction of a contradiction of Mr. < Sit- 
Christ's. We now come to a point where Mr. Gilchrist 
has, certainly, rather exaggerated matters; and, of 
course, Mr. Bowles makes the most of it. Capital 
letters, like Kean's name, ll large upon the bills," are 
made use of six or seven times to BXpn Sfl his sense of 
the outrage. The charge is indeed) very bojdty made j 
but, like "Ranold of the Mist's" practical joke of put- 
ting the bread and cheese into a dead man's mouth, is. 
as 1 tugald 1 talgetty says, " somewhat loo wild and sal- 
vage, besides wasting the pood victuals. 

Mr. Howies appeals to the " Christian reader!" upon 
this " GUchristian criticism.' 1 Is not this play upon 
such words " a step beyond decorum" in a clergyman .' 
But I admit the temptation of a pun to be irresistible. 

Bui " a hasty pamphlet was published, in which some 
personalities respecting Mr. Gilchrist were suffered lo 
Bppear." If Mr. Bowles will write " hasty pamphlets,'' 
why is he so surprised on receiving Bhorl answers 
The nmrid grievance to which he perpetually reliirns is 
a charge of" llijpaehomlriacism" asserted or insinuate ' 
in the Quarterly, I cannot conceive a man in perfect 
health being much affected by such a charge, becaus 
his complexion and conduct must amply refute it. But 
were ii true, to what does it amount? — to an impeach- 
ment of a liver complaint. " I will tell it to the world," 
exclaimed the learned Smelfungus. — You had better," 
said 1, " tell it to your physician." There is noihin 
dishonourahle in such a disorder, which i^ more pecu- 
liarly the malady of students. It has been the complaint 
of the good, and the wise, and the witiy, and even of 
lliei-av. R'gnard, the author of ihc last French CO- 

i |y ;,f>'r Moliere, was atrabilious; and Moliere hin 

self, saturnine. Dr. Johnson, Gray, and Hums, were 
all more or less affected In' n occasionally. I' was ihi 
prelude to the more awful malady of Collins, Cowper 
Swift, and Smart; hut it hy no means follows thai a 
partial affliction of this disorder is to terminate like 
theirs. But even were it so, — 

" Nor beat, nor wi*e»t. «re exempt from thrp ; 
Folly— Folly's only lYee." Pcurott. 

If this be the criterion of e:semption, Mr. Bowles s last 
two pamphlets form a hotter cert ificale of sanity than a 
physician's. Mendehlson and Bayle were at times so 

overcome with this depression, as to he obliged to reeur 

to seeing "puppet-shows, and counting files upon the 
opposite houses,* 1 to divert ihemselves. Dr. Johnson ai 

i urns '' would have given a iimb to recover his spiriis.' 1 
Mr. Bowles, who is (strange lo say) fond of tiuoting 
Pope, may perhaps answer, — 

" Go on, oMfeing cn-atiirei, let me tee 

All which disgrac'd my hellem met in mf ** 

But the cliarge, such as it is, neither disgraces them n 
him* It is easily disproved if false ; and even if proved 

line, has nothing in it to make a man so ven indignant 

Mr. Bowles himself appears to he a little ashamed of his 
*' hasty pamphlet;" for he attempts to excuse it by th< 
" great provocation ;" that is to say, hy Mr. Bowks', 
supposing that Mr. Gilchrist was the " riter of the article 
in (he Quarterly, which he was not. 

" Btit, in extenuation, not only the greoi provocation 

should be remembered, but it ought to bo said, that 

orders were sent to the London I ksellers, that the 

most direct personal passages should he omitted entirely ," 
&.c. This is what the proverb ealls " breaking b l" ad 

and giving a plaster ;" but, in (his instance, the plaster 
Was t it spread in time, and Mr. Gilchrist does not seem 
n pit itui disposed lo regard Mr. Bowleg's courtesies 



like the rust of the spear of Achilles, which had such 

rklll in surgery." 

Bui " Mr. Gilchrist has no ritflii to object, an the 
reader will see." I am a reader, a '' flf-mle reader," and 
I see nothing of the kind. Were I in Mr. Gilchrist's 
place, l should object exceedingly to being ai 

firstly, lor whal I did write, and, secondly, for what I 
did not write ; merely because il is Mr. Bowles's will 
and pleasure to he as an^ry with rue t<-r having written 
in the London Magazine, as for not having wriilen in 
the Quarterly Review. 
"JMr. Gilchrist has had ample revenge; for he has, 

in bis answer, said BO and so," &c. &c. There is no 
great revenge in all this ; and I presume that nobody 
either seeks or wishes it. What revenge .' Mr. Bowles 
calls names, and he is answered. Bui Mi. Uilehnsi and 
he <i'iarierly Review are not poets, nor pretenders to 
poetry j therefore they can have no envy nor malice 
againsi Mr. Bowles: ihey have no acquaintance with 

Mr. Bowles, and can have no personal pique; ihey i\o 

noi cross his path of life, nor he theirs. There is no 
political fend between them. What, then, can be ibe 

motive of their discussion of his deserts as an editor '.' — 
veneration for the genius of Pope, love for his memory, 
and regard for the classic glory of iheir country. Y\ hy 
would Mr. Bowles edite? Had he limited his honest 
endeavours to poetry, very little would have been said 
upon the Subject] and nothing al all by his present an- 
tagonists. 

Mr. Bowles calls the pamphlet a " mud-cart," and the 
writer a " scavenger." Afterwards he asks, " Shall he 
fling dirt and receive roue- water /" This metaphor, by 
the way, is taken hum Marmont el's Memoirs; who, la- 
menting to (hamfort the shedding of blood during the 
French revolution, was answered, '" Do you think thai 

revolul tons are to be made with ruxr-u alt r /" 

For my own part, I presume (hat *' rose-water* 
would be infinitely more graceful in the hands of Mr. 
Bowles than the substance which he has substituted for 
that delicate liquid. It would also more confound his 
adversary, supposing him a " scai enger. 1 mm mber, 
(and du you remember, reader, that if was in my ear- 
liest youth, " Consult Planeo,") — on the morning of 
the great battle, (the second 1 — between Gullev and 
Gregson, — Cribb, who was matched against Horlon 
for the second fight, on the same memorable day, 
awaking mo (a lodger at the wn in the next room) by 

a loud remonstrance to the wi* *r againsi the al tina- 

tion of his towels, which hen he«n laid in lavender, 
t Iribb w as a coal-heaver — and w as much more discom- 
hited by this odoriferous effeminacy of fine linen, than 
hy his adversary Horlon, whom he " finished in 
siyle," though with some reluctance; for I recollect 
that he said, "he disliked hurting him, he looked so 
pi- ii>," — Horn. ii being a very tine fresh-coloured young 
■nan. 

To return to " rose-water" — that is, to gentle 
means of rebuke. Does Mr. Bowl, a know how to re- 
venge himself upon a hackney-coaehinan, when he has 
overcharged his fare? In ease he should not, 1 will 
tell him. It is of little use to call him a "rascal, a 
scoundrel, a thief, an impostor, a btsckgOafd, a villain, a 
raggamuffin, a — what you please," all that he is used 
in — it is Ins mother-tongue, and probably his mother's. 
But look him Bteadily and quietly in the lace, and say — 
" Upon my word, I think you are the ugliest fdlow I 
ever saw in my life," and he will instantly roll forth the 
brazen thunders of the charioteer Salmoneus as follows : 
— " Hugly ! w hat (he h — II are you ? You a gentit man ' 

Why !" So much easier it i> to protwas — and 

therefore to vindicate — (for passion punishes him who 
'".'>■ ii more thai) those whom the passionati would ex- 
cruciate) — by a few quiet words the aggressor, than by 
retorting violently. The "coals of fire" of U.e Scrip- 



A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLE'8 STRICTURES. 



299 



CUre aie benefits; — bul they are not the less "coals of 
/&«." 

1 pass over a page of quotation and reprobation — 
"Sin up to my sony" — '*Oh let my little bark" — 
*' Arc^uh-s amiiu" — ' Writer in the Quarterly Review 
an I turn-, ■if — •• In-door avocaiions, indued" — " Kings 

of'B enlford" — "One nosegay' 1 — "Perennial nosegay" 
— '* nil Juveoee," — and the like. 

Page 1*2. produces '■ more reasons," — (the task ought 
nut \o havu been difficult, for as yet there were none) — 
11 to show why Mr. Bowles attributed the critique in the 
Quarterly to Octavius Gilchrist." All these " reasons" 
consists of ROTPUisi of Mr, Bowles, upon the presumed 
ciiaracterof his opponent. '■ He did not suppose there 
could exist a man in die kingdom so impudent, &c. &c. 
except Octavius Gilchrist."— ■* He did not think there 
was a man in the kingdom who would pretend ignorance, 
&c. &e. except Octavius Gilchrist. 1 ' — He did not 
conceive that one man in the kingdom would utter such 
stupid flippancy, &c. &c. except Octavius Gilchrist." — 
" He Hid not think there was one man in the kingdom 
who, &c, &<■. could so utterly show his ignorance, com- 
billed irtih conceit, &c as Octavius Gilchrist." — ''He 
did uoi believe there was a man in the kingdom so per- 
fect in Mr, Gilchrist's 'old tunes,'" &c. &c. — "He 
did not think the mean mirul of any one in the king- 
dom," &c, and so on ; always beginning with " any one 
in the kingdom," and ending with " Octavius Gilchrist," 
like the word in a catch. I am not '* in the kingdom," 
and have not been much in the kingdom since I was one 
and twenty, (about live years in the whole, since I was 
of age,) an ) have no desire to be in the kingdom again, 
whilst I breathe, nor to sleep there afterwards; and I 
regret nothing more than having ever been " in the 
kingdom* at all. But though no longer a man " in the 
kingdom," let me hope that when I have ceased to 
exist, it tnav be said, as was answered by the master of 
C anronald's henchman, his day after the battle of Sheriff*- 
Mmr, when he was found watching his chiefs body. 
He was asked, " who that was ?" he replied — { it was 
a man yesterday." And in this capacity, " in or out of 
the kingdom," I must own that T participate in many of 
the objections urged by Mr. Gilchrist. I participate in 
his love ol'Pope, and in his not understanding, and oc- 
casionally rinding fault with, the last editor of our last 
truly great poet. 

One of the reproaches against Mr. Gilchrist is, that 
he is (it is sneeringly said) an F. S. A. If it will 
give Mr Bowles am pleasure, I am nol an F. S. A. hut 
a fellow of the Royal Society at his service, in case 
should be any thing in that association also which 
muv point a paragraph. 

11 There are some other reasons," but " the author is 
now not unknown." Mr. Bowles has so totally ex- 
haiMe I hini«elf upon Octavius Gilchrist, that he has not 
a word left for the real quarterer of his edition, although 
now '■ delerre." 

The following pa ye refers to a mvsterinus charge of 
" duplicity, in regard to the publication nt Pope's let- 
ters." Till ihis charge is made in proper form, we have 
nothing to do with it: Mr. Gilchrist hints it — Mr. 
B i lea denies it ; there it rests for the present. Mr. 
Bowie- professes his dislike to Pope's duplicity, not to 
Pope" — a distinction apparently without a difference. 
However, 1 believe that I un lerstand him. We have a 
great isltketu Mr. Bowles's edition of Pope, but nut io 
.Mr. Bowleg ; nevertheless, he tak^s up the subject as 
warmtv as if it was personal. With regard to the fact 
of " Pope's duplicity,* 1 it remains to be proved — like 
Mr. Bowles's benevolence towards his memory. 

In page 14. we have a large assertion, that " the 
' Eloi«j;\' alone is sufficient to convict him of gross liren- 
tunutun. n Thus, out it comes at last. Mr. Bowles 
iloei a< cuse Pope of " grots licentiousness," and grounds 



the charge upon a poem. The licentionxness is a 
"grand peut-etre," according to the turn of the times 
being. The grossness I deny. On (he contrary, I do 
believe that such a subject never was, n. >r ever could be, 
treated by any poet with so much delicacy, mingled 
with, at the same time, such true and intense passion. 
Is the " Atys" of Catullus licentious ? No, nor eve* 
gross; and yet Catullus is often a coarse writer. Tha 
subject is nearly the same, except that Atys was lite 
suicide of his manhood, and Abelard the victim. 

The " licentiousness" of the story was not Pope's^— 
it was a fact. All that it had of gross, he has softened ; 
— all that it had of indelicate, he has purified ; — all 
that it had of passionate, he has beautified ; — all that it 
had of holy, he has hallowed. Mr. Campbell has admi- 
rably marked this in a few words {I quote from me- 
mory), in drawing the distinction between Pope and 
Dryden, and pointing out where Dry den was wanting. 
'I fear," says he, " that had the subject of 'Eloisa 1 
fallen into bis (Dryden's) bands, that he would have 
given us but a course draft of her passion." Never was 
the delicacy of Pope so much shown as in this poem. 
With the facts and the letters of " Eloisa" he has done 
what no other mind but that of the best and purest of 
poets could have accomplished with such materials. 
Ovid, Sappho (in the Ode called hers) — ail that wo 
have of ancient, all that we have of modern poetry, 
sinks into nothing compared with him in this production. 

Let us hear no more of this trash about " licentious- 
ness." Is not " Anacreon" taught in our schools ?— 
translated, praised, and edited? Are not his Odea the 
amatory praises n(n boy? Is not Sappho's Ode on a 
girl? Is not this sublime and (according to Longinus) 
fierce love for one of her own sex ? And is not Phi!- 
lip's translation of it in the mouths of all your women? 
And are the English schools or the Engiish women the 
more corrupt for all this ? When you have thrown tho 
ancients into the fire, it will be time to denounce the 
moderns. " Licentiousness !"* — there is more real mis- 
chief and sapping licentiousness in a single French 
prose novel, in a Moravian hymn, or a German comedy, 
than in all the actual poetry that ever was penned, or 
poured forth, since the rhapsodies of Orpheus. The 
sentimental anatomy of Rosseau and Mad. de S. are 
Ur more formidable than any quantity of verse. They 
are so, because they sap the principles, by reasoning 
upon the passions; whereas poetry is in itself passion 
and does not systematise. It assails, but does not argue ; 
ii ina\ be wrong, but it does nol assume pretensions to 
Optimism. 

Mr. Bowles now 1ms the goodness " to point out the 
difference between a traduccr and him who sincerely 
states what he sincerely believes." He might have 
spared himself the trouble. The one is a liar, who lies 
knowingly ; the other (I speak of a scandal-monger of 
course) lies, charitably believing that he speaks truth, 
and very sorry to find himself in falsehood ; — because 

" Would ratlicr th.it the dean should die, 
Thau hit predictlou prove a lie." 

After a definition of a " traducer," which was quite 
superfluous (though it is agreeable to learn that Mr. 
Bowles so well understands the character), we are as- 
sured, that " he feels equally indifferent, Mr. Gilchrist, 
for what your malice can invent, or your impudence 
utter." This is indubitable; for it rests not only on 
Mr. Bowles's assurance, but on that of Sir Fretful Pla- 
giary, and nearly in the saine words, — ' and I shall treat 
t with exacily the same calm indifference and philo- 
sophical contempt, and so vour servant." 

" One thing has given Mr. Bowles concern." It is 
a passage which might seem to reflect on the patro- 
nage a young man has received.*' MifiHTseem!. The 
passage alluded to expresses, that if l.{: (iilca ist be 



300 



OBSERVATIONS OS "OBSERVATIONS.* 



the reviewer of "a certain poet of na:ure," his praise 
and blame are equally contemptible."— Mr. Bowles, 

who has .1 peculiarity ambig is style. wber« u suits him. 

comes off with a "not lo thenar hot t h«- .ritic," &c. 
In my humble opiim.ii, tlie passage retired to both. 
Hal Mr. B iwles really meanl fairly, be wuaM have said 
so from the hr-t — he would have bet n eagerly transpa- 
rent. — " A certain p.-ei of nature" is not the style oi 
commendation. li U the very prologue to the most 
scandalous paragraphs of the newspapers, when 

" Willing to wound, «ml yel afraid to •trikt.'' 

"> certain high personage," — " a certain peeress," — 
"a certain [I ustrinus foreigner," — whal do these word* 
ever precede, but defamation ? Had he felt a spark of 

kindling kindness for John Clare, he would have named 
him. There is a sneer in the sentence as it stands. 
How a favourable review of a deserving po.-t can " rather 
injure than promote his cause" is difficult to comprehend. 
The article denounced is able and amiable, and it hat 
" served" the poet, as far as poetry can be served by 
judicious and honest criticism. 

With the two next paragraphs of Mr. Bowles's pam- 
phlet it is pleasing to concur. His mention of " Pen- 
nie, and his former patronage of " Shoel," do him 
honour. I am not of those who may deny Mr. Bowles 
to be a benevolent man. I merely assert, that he is not 
a candid editor. 

Mr. Bowles has been " a writer occasionally upwards 
of thirty years," and never wrote one word in reply in 
his life " to criticisms, merely ax criticisms." This is 
Mr. Lofty in Goldsmith's Good-natured Man ; " and I 
vow by all that's honourable, my resentment has never 
done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm, — that 
is, as mere men. 

" The letter to the editor of the newspaper" is owned ; 
but " it was not on account of the criticism. It was 
because the criticism came down in a frank directed to 
Mrs. Bowles ! ! !" — (she iulicfl and three notes of ad- 
miration appended to Mrs, Bowles are copied verbatim 
from the quotation), and Mr. Bowles was not displeased 
with the criticism, but with the frank and the address. 
I agree with Mr. Bowles that the intention was to an- 
noy him; but I fear that this was answered by his no- 
lice of the reception of the criticism. An anonymous 
lotter-writer has but one means of knowing the effect of 
Uis attack. In this he has the superiority over the vi- 
per ; he knows that his poison has taken effect, when he 
hears the victim cry ; — the adder is denf. The best re- 
ply lo an anonymous intimation is to lake no notice di- 
rectly nor indirectly. I wish Mr. Bowles could see onl. 
one or two of the thousand which I have received in the 
course of a literary life, which, though begun early, has 
not yet extended to a third part of his existence as an 
author. I speak of literary life only. Were I lo add 
per tonal, I might double the amount of anonymous letters. 
If he could but see the violence, the threats, the absurdity 
of the whole thing, he would laugh, and so should I, and 
thus be both gainers. 

To keep up the farce, — within the last month of this 
present writing (18-21 )I have had my life threatened 
in the same way which menaced Mr. Bowles's fame, 
— excepting that tho anonymous denunciation was ad- 
dressed to the Cardinal Legate of iiomagna, instead of 
to Mrs. Bowles. The Cardinal is, I believe, the elder 
lady of the two. I append the menace in all its bar- 
baric but literal Italian, that Mr. Bowles may he con- 
vinced ; and as this is the only a promise to pay," which 
the Italians ever keep, so mv person has been at least as 
much exposed to a " shot in the gloaming," from 
" John Heatherblutter" (see Waverlv,) as ever Mr. 
Bowl, * 



my custom in the afternoon," and that I believe if 
the tyrant cannot escape amidsl his guards (should it be 
bo Written .') so the humbler individual would find pre- 
cautions useless. 

Mr. Bowles has here the humility to «ay, that "he 
must succumb; for with Lord Byron turned against 
him, he has no chance," — a declaration of s< ICdemal 
not much in unison with his "promise," five lines 
afterwards, that *' for every twenty-four lines quoted 
by Mr. Gilchrist, or his friend, to greet him with as 
many from the ' Gilchrisiad f " but so much the better. 
Mr. Bowles has no reason to " succumb" but to Mr. 
Bowles. As a poet, the author of " The .Missionary" 
may compete with the foremost of his contemporaries. 
Let it be recollected, that all my previous opinions of 
Mr. Bowles's poetry were written long before the publi- 
cation of his last and best poem ; and that u poet's last 
poem should he his best, is his highest praiae. But, 
however, he may duly and honourably rank with his 
living rivals. There never was so complete a proof of 
the superiority ol Pope, as m the lines with winch Mr. 
Bowles closes his "ft>oi concluded in our newt." 

Mr. Bowles is avowedly the champion and the poet nf 
nature. Art and the arts are dragged, some before, and 
others behind his chariot. Pope, where he deals with 
passion, and with the nature of the naturals of the dav, 
is allowed even by themselves to be sublime; but th«J 
complain that too soon — 

" He itoop'd to truth and moraliacd hii •oiig." 

and there even they allow him to be unrivalled. He has 
succeeded, and even surpassed them, when he chose, in 
(heir own pretended province. Let us see what their 
Coryphceus effects in Pope's. But it is too pitiable, 
it is too melancholy, to see Mr. Bowles "sinning" not 
" up" but " down" as a poet to his lowest depth as an 
editor. By the way, Mr. Bowles is always quoting 
Pope. I grant that there is no poet — not Shakspeara 
himself — who can be so often quoted, with reference to 
life ; — but his editor is so like the devil quoting Scrip- 
ture, that I could wish Mr. Bowles in his proper place 
quoting in the pulpit. 

And now for his lines. But it is painful — painful — 
to see such a suicide, though at the shrine of Pope. I 
can't copy them all : — 

" Shall the rank, loet Inome roiicrennt of the nge 
Sil, lilit- ti uijiul-maro, gniiuing o'er ti page. , ■ 

■• V/hoM pja-bnld character w eptl* mil 
'I'll..- iwii extreme* of Button) Mid nf Unite 
Compound grotesque of eulleunawaad »ht-w 
The cbaturiug mngule, utd ifae crtwkiugcrow .'» 

" When heart ooateadi with thy Satumtan head. 
A root 'it hemlock, end a tump wi ic*d. 

<iil< ImaC proceed," 4c. Ac. 

" And thai lUnd forth, •pile ottbj r^nnm'ii foam 
TvgtoUiM 6(l«/orM<e l erltab thee Umpinf horn..- 

With regard to the last line, the only on.- upon which I 
shall venture fur f ;ir of infection, I would advise Mr 
Gilchrist to keep out of the way of such reciprocal mo* 
sure— unless he has more faith in ,} M . " Ofinaltirk me- 
dicine 1 ' than most people, or may wish to anticipate tho 
pension of the recent German professor, (I forget his 
name, but it is advertised and full of consonants,) who 
presented his memoir of an infallible remedy for the 
hydrophobia to the German diet last month, coupled 
with the philanthropic condition of a large annuity, pio- 
vided that his cure cured. Let him begin with' the 
editor of Pope, and double his demand. 



Yours ever, 



Btroj. 



To John Murray, Esq. 

I. Amongst the above-mentioned lines there oc- 



i glory was from an editor. I am, nevertheless, 
on horseback and lonely for some hours (one of them I curs the following, applied to Pop. 
iMiujht) in the (orest daily; and litis, because it was! » ™ — .:-- T • ntntt m, 9 nA u» miaul', tie 



A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTU11CS. 



And Mr. Bowles persists that he is a well-wisher to 
Puite!!! He has, then, edited an "assassin" and a 
'■cvward" wittiogly, a- well as lovingly. In my Ibrmei 
letter I have remarked upon the editor's fbrgetfulness of 
Pope's benevolence, Bui where he mentions his faults 
il is " wilh sorrow " — his lears drop, but they do not 
blut ihem out. The u recording angel" differs from the 
recording clergyman. A fulsome editor is pardonable 
though tiresome, like a paneg) rical son whose pious sin- 
cerity woul i demi-deifv his father. But a detracting edi- 
tor is a paricide. He sins against the nature of bis office, 
and conneriion — he murders the lite to come of his 
victim. If his author is not worthy to be mentioned, 
do not edit at all: if he be, edit honestly, and even 
flatteringly. The reader will forgive the weakness in 
favour of BKPtaiily, and correct your adulation with a 
smile. But to fit down " miogere in patriots cineres," 
a> Mr. Brn^s has done, merits a reprobation so strong, 
(hat I am as incapable of expressing as uf ceasing to 
feel it. 



FURTHER ADDENDA. 



_301 

"I understand, sir." he replied: "you would haffl 
them hang down, sir, somewhat poetical." Now, if no- 
thing existed but this little anecdote, it would suffice to 
prove Pope's taste tor Nature, and the impression which 
he had ma le on a common-minded man. But I have 
already quoted Warton and W'alpule (both his ene- 
mies ) and, were it necessary. I could amply quote Pope 
himself f >r such tributes to Nature as no poet of the pre- 
sent day has even approached. 

His various excellenee i> reallv wonderful : architec- 
ture, painting, gardening, all are alike subject to his 
genius. Be ii remembered, that English gardening is the 
purposed perfectioning of niggard Nature, and that with- 
out it England is but a hedge-and-ditch, doubte-post- 
and-rail, Bounslow Hea:h and Clapham Common sort 
of country, since the principal forests have been felled. It 
is, in general, fjr from a picturesque country. The case 
is different with Scotland, Wales, and Ireland; and I 
except also the lake countries and Derbyshire, together 
with Elton, Windsor, and my own dear Harrow on the 
Hill, and some spots near the coast. In the present 
rank fertility of "great poets of the age," and "schools 
ol poetry" — a word which, like " schools of eloquence" 
and ol '* philosophy," is never introduced till the decay 
of the art has increased with the number of its profes- 
sors — in the present day, then, there have sprung up 
two sorts of Naturals ; — ihe Lakers, who whine about 
Nature because they live in Cumberland ; and their 
wndersed (which some one has maliciously called the 
** Cockney School.") who are enihusiastical for the 
country because they live in London. It is to be ob- 
served, thai the rustical founders are rather anxious to 
disclaim any connexion wilh their metropolitan followers, 
whom they ungraciously review, and call cockneys, 
atheists, foolish fellows, bad writers, and other hard 
names not less ungrateful than unjust. I can under- 
s'and the pretensions of the aquatic gentlemen of Win- 
dermere to what Mr. Braliam terms " entusumusy" for 
lakes, and mountains, and daffodils, and buttercups ; but 
I should he glad to be apprised of the foundaiion of the 
London propensities of their imitative brethren to the 
same " high argument." Sou they, Wordsworth, and 
Coleridge have rambled over half Europe, and seen Na- 



It is worthy of remark thai, after all this outcry about 
11 in-donr nature" and " artificial images," Pope was the 
principal inventor of that boast of the English, Modern 
Gardening. He divides this honour with Milton. Hear 
Warton: — -'It hence appears, that this enchanting- art 
of modern gardening, in which this kingdom claims a 
preference ovei every nation in Europe, chiefly owes its 
origin and its improvements to two great poets, Milton 
and Pope." 

Walpole (no friend to Pope) asserts that Pope formed 
Kent's taste, and that Kent was the artist to whom the 
English are chief! v indebted for diffusing *' a taste in 
laying out grounds." The design of the Prince of 
Wales's garden was copied from Pope's at Twickenham 
Warton applauds ''his singular etfort of art and taste, 
in impressing so much variety and scenery on a spot of 
five acres." Pope was \hejirst who ridiculed the "for- 
mal. French, Dutch, false and unnatural taste in gar- 
dening, " both in prose and verse. (See, for the former, 
"The Guardian.") 

" Pope hps given not only some of our Jirst, but best j ture in most of her varieties (although I think that they 
rules and observations on Architecture and Gardening." \ have occasionally not used her very well ;) but what on 
(See Warton's Essay, vol. ii, p. BS7, &c &c.) . earth — of earth, and sea. and Nature — have the others 

Now, is ii noi a shame, after this, to hear our Lakers seen ? Not a Ijalf, nor a tenth part so much as Pope. 
in " Kendal Green," and our Buccolical Cockneys, cry- ' While they sneer al his Windsor Forest, have they 
ing out (tfie latter in a widerness of bricks and mortar) ever seen any thing of Windsor except its brick? 
abo'it *■ Nature," and Pope's •' artificial in-door habits V \ The mosl rural of these gentlemen is mv friend 
Pope had seen all of nature that England alone can sup- | Leigh Hum. who lives at Hanipstead. I believe that I 
ply. He was bred in Windsor Forest, and amidst the ! need not disclaim any personal or poetical hostility 
beautiful scenery of Eton ; he lived familiarly and Ire- | against i hat gentleman. A more amiable man in society 
quemly at the country seats of Balhilrst, Cobham, Bur- ' I know not • nor (when he will allow his sense to pre- 
liugtou, Peteiboroflgh,Digby, and Boiingbroke ; amongst i vail over his sectarian principles) a belter writer. When 
whose seals was ro be numbered Statue. He made his he was writing his " Rimini," I was not the last to 
own little " five acres" a model to princes, and to the I discover its beauties, long before it was published, 
first of our artists who imitated nature. Warton thinks ( Even then I remonstrated against its vulgarisms; which 
"that the mosl engaging of Kent's works was also ' are the more extraordinary, because the author is any 
[taiind on the model of Pope's. — at least in the opening thing but a vulvar man. Mr. Hunt's answer was, that 
nd tetiring shades of Venus*s Vale." [ he wrote (hem upon principle; they made part of his 

It is true hat Pope was infirm and deformed ; but | " system .'."' I then sa ; d no more. When a man talks 
he could walk, and he could ride (he rode to Oxford j of his system, v i^ like a woman's talking of her virtue. 
from London at a stretch.) ami he was famous for an I let them talk on. Whether there are writers who 
exquisite eye. On a tree at Lord Barthurst's is carved ', could have written u Rimini, "' a^ it nn^ht have been 
*' Here Po|ie sang," — he composed beneath il. Boling- written, I know not; but Mr, Hunt is. probably, the 
broke, in one of his letters, represents them both writing ' only poet who could have had the heart to spoU his 
in the hay-field. No poel ever admired Nature more, j own Capo d'Opera. 

or used her better, than Pope has done, as I will under- With the rest of his young people I have no ac- 
Uke to prove from his works, prose and verse, if not ! quaintance. except through some things of theirs (which 
anticipated in so easy and agreeable a labour. I re- ' have been sent out without my desire.) and I confess 
member a passage in Walpole, somewhere, of a gentle- that till I had read thern I was not aware of the full 
man who wished to give directions about some willows extent of human absurdity. Like Garrick's "Ode to 
to a man who had long served Pope iu his grounds: Shakspeare," they •"■ defy criticism." These are of the 



302 



OBSERVATIONS ON '"ODSERVATIONS." 



personages who decry Pope. One of them, a Mr. John 
Ketch, has written some tinei against him, of* which 
it were belter to be the subjrcl wan the aiiihor. Mr. 
Hunt redeems himself by occasional beauties; but the 
real of these poor creatures Beam bo far gone that I 
would not " march through Coventry with them, that's 
Ihit !" were 1 in Mr. Hunt's place. 'I'" be sure, he has 
"led his ragamuffins where Ihey will be well pep- 
pered j" but b Bystemfinaker muei receive all Bona ol 
proselytes. When thev have really seen life — when 
ihey have felt it — when they have travelled beyond the 
far distant boundaries of the wilds of Middlesex— 
when ihey have overpassed the Alps of Highga'e, and 
traced to its sources the Nile of the New River — then, 
and not till then, can it properly be permitted lo tbem 

to despise Pope ; who had. if Hot til IV'ilfS, been ntyir 

it, when he described so beautifully the " artificial" 
works of the Benefactor of Nature and mankind, the 
" Man of Ross," whose picture, still suspended in the 
parlour ^\' the inn, I have s<> often contemplated with 
reverence for Ins memory, find admiration of the poet, 
without whom even his own still existing good works 
could hardlv have preserved his honest renown. 

I would also observe to my friend Hunt, thai I shall be 
very glad to see him at Ravenna, no! only for my sin- 
cere pleasure in his company, and the advantage which 
a thousand miles or so of travel might produce to a 
" natural" poet, bui also to point out one or two little 
things in '" Rimini," which he probably would not have 
placed in his opening 10 that poemj if he had ever seen 
Ravenna ; — unless, indeed, it made " part of his 
Bystem ! !" I must also crave his indulgence for having 
spoken of his disciples — by no means an agreeable or 
self-sought subject. If they had said nothing of Popej 
ihey might have remained " alone with their glory" for 
BUght I should have said or thought about ihem or 
their nonsense. Bui if they interfere with the " little 
Night tngalo" of Twickenham, they may find others 
who will bear it — / won't. Neither time, nor dis- 
tance, nor grief, nor age, can ever diminish my vene- 
ration for him, who is the great moral poet of all 
rimes, of all climes, of all feelings, and of all stages 
of existence, The delight of my boyhood, the study 
of my manhood, perhaps (if allowed to me to attain 
it) he may be the consolation of my age. His poetry 
L8 the Hook of Life. Without canting, and yet without 
neglecting religion, lie has assembled all that a good 
and great man can gather together of moral wisdom 
clothed in consummate beauty. Sir William Temple 
observes, " that of all the members of mankind that 
live within the compass of a thousand years, for one man 
that is born capable of making a great poet, there may 
be a thousand horn capable of making as great generals 
and ministers of slate as any in story." Here is a 
statesman's opinion of poetry : it is honourable to him 
and to (he art. Such a " poet of a thousand years" 
was Pope. A thousand vears will roll away before such 
another can be hoped for in our literature. Hut it can 
uani ihech — he himself is a literature. 

One word upon his so brutally abused translation of 
ILuner. " Dr. Clarke, whose Critical exactnes is well 
known, has not been able to point out above three or 
four mistakes in the sense through the whole Iliad. The 
real faults of the translation are of a different kind." So 
savs Warton, himself a scholar. I' appears by this, 
then, that he avoided the chief fault of a translator. As 
to its other faults, they consist in his having made a 
beautiful English poem of a sublime Greek one. It will 
alwavs hold. Cowper and all Ihe rest of the blank 
pretenders may do their beat and their worst : they will 
never wrench Pope from the hands of a single reader of 
sense and feeling. 

The grand distinction of the under f >rms of the new 
school of poets is their vulgarity. By this I do not 



mean that they are course, but " shabby-si-n'eel," as it 
is termed. A man may be c-arst and yet not vulvar, 

and the reverse. Bunrs itt Ttfirn fnarrr, hut nnvnrwi(rnr 
Chatierton is never vulgar, nor Wordsworth, nor the 
higher of the Lake school, though they treat of low life 
in all its .branches, li i-- in their jftiery that the new 

under set 1 are must vulvar, and ihey u.a\ be known 

by this at one.- ■ as what we called at Harrow " a Sunday 
b ii. i" mighl be easily distinguished from a gentleman, 
although Ins clothes might be Ihe better cut, and his 
boots the tied, of the two ; — probably because 

fie made the one, or cleaned the other, with bis own 
hands. 

In the present case, 1 speak of writing not of persons. 
Of the latter, I know nothing; t*( the former, I judge 
as it is found. Of my friend Hunt, I have already said, 
thai he is anything but vulgar in his manners; and of 
Ins disciples, therefore, I will not judge of their manners 
from their verses. They may be honourable and gen- 
tlemaniu nun, for what I know j but the latter quality 

is Studiously excluded from their publications. rheV 

remind me of Mr. Smith and the Miss Broughtons at 
the 1 tampstead Assembly, in " Evelina." In these 
things (in private life, at least,) 1 pretend tn some small 
experience ; because, in the course of my youth. 1 have 
seen a little of all sorts of society, from the Christian 
prince and the (Mussulman sultan and pacha, and the 
higher ranks of their countries, down to the London 
boxer, the "flash and the 8U*etl" the Spanish muleteer, 
the wandering Turkish dervise, the Scotch highlander, 
and the A Ibanien robber ; — to say nothing of the curious 

varieties of Italian social life. Far he il from me to 
presume that there ever was, or can be such a thing as 
an aristocracy of potts ; but there fa ;i nobility of 
thought and ot' style. Open 10 all stations, and derived 
partly from talent, and partly from education. — which 
is to be found in Shakspeare, and Pope, and Bums, no 
less than in Dante and Altieri, hut which is nowhere to 
be perceived in the mock birds and bards of Mr. Hunt's 
little chorus. If I were asked to define what this gen- 
tlemanliness is, I should say that it is only to be defined 
by examples — of those who have it, and those who have 
it not. In nj/e, I si an ill say that most military men have 
it, and few naval ; — that several men of rank have it, and 
few law vers ; — that, it is more frequent among authors 
than divines (when they are not pedants) ; dial Jvnctng- 
masteis have more of it than dancing-masters, and 
singers than players ; and that (if it be not an li ishuni 
to say so) it is far more generally diffused among women 
than among men. In poetry, as well as writing in 
general) it will never make entirely a poet or a poem ; 
but neither poet nor poem will ever be good for any thing 

without it. It is the sail of society, and the seasoning 
of composition. Vulgarity is far worse than down- 
right blackguardism ; for the latter comprehends wit, 
humour, and strong sense at times ; while the former is 
a sad abort iv.' a i tempi .i: all things, " signif) ing nothing." 
It does nol depend upon low themes, or even low Ian 
guage, for Fielding rev-Is in l>oih ; — but is be ever 
vulgar ? No. You see the man of education, the gen 
tleman, and the scholar, Sporting with his subject, — its 
master, not its slave. Your vulgar writer is always 
most vulgar, the higher, his subject; as the man who 
showed the menagerie at Pidcock's was wont to Bay, — 
" This, gentlemen, is the eagle of the sun, from Arch- 
angel in, Russia; the otttTST it is, the ightrti lie dies." 

But to the proofs. It is a thmg to be fell more than ex- 
plained. Let any man take up a volume of Mr. Hunt's 
subordinate Writers, read (if possible) a couple of pages), 
and pronounce fo; ■himself, if ihey contain not the kind 
of writing which may he likened to ■'shabby-genteel" 
in actual life. When he has done this, let him take up 
Pope ; — an I when be has laid him down, take up the 
cockney again — if he can. 



A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES. 



303 



NOTE. 



Note referring toaom*. remarks of Mr. Bowles, relative 
to Pope" s line* up n Lady Mary W. Montague 1 1 i ink 
that I could show, il nee usai y, thai Lady Mai y W. Mont i- 
gue wa> ali i g eaily tobUmeiti thai quarrel not for having 

rejected, bin lor li.ivi e encouraged him : but I wuuldr uher 

toe 1 1 - k — -tin null >-tu; alio old have remembered her 

own line, ■*//• c 'in a loo near, (Aa> cornea to be denied.** 

re her bo much— her beauty, her talents — that I 

Bhuuld do tins reluctantly, ^beaidea, am so attached to 

i 1 "- v r. nam of Maru t that .is Jnhnson once s .id, " If 

Ifd a J >i; //' rvey, I should luve him ;" sn. if yu 

were to call a female o\' the sane species *' Mary," I 

ahuuld hue a heuer th.in others (biped or quadripeJ) of 

the same Bex with a different appellation. She was an 

extraordinary woman; she c <uM translate Epictetus^ 

a,. I y. it write a Bong worthy of Aristippus. The lined, 

*' And when ihe lone hour* . »f tlie public are past, 
■Aad we meet, with c£i tuning;* aud a cJuckeu, at la* I, 



M«y ereryfood pleasure ihnt moment ennVttr I 

Be bam.i.M ;<f.ir both d beret ton I iV... | 

Forgetting ->r scorning the Biri of the crowd, 

He ■>! .i v cettM to he lurmnl, and 1 10 he jiroud. 
Till, 'ate "uc. 

There, Mr. Bnw'es !— what say you to such a supper with 
s .th a woman ? ami her own description too I la not her 
" champaigns and chicken" vt or ih a forest or two? Is 
il i "i pc ttry : h ppears to me that this stanza contaiui 
the "■furte''* of the whole phi] usophy vf Epicurus : — I 
mean the practical philosop 1 > of hia school, not the precepts 
of the master ; fori have been too long at the university 
not lo kn>w th;it the philosopher was himself a moderate 
man. But, alter all, would not some of us have been as 
great fools as Pope ? For my part, I wonder that, with his 
qmck feelings, her coquetry* and his disappointment, he 
did no more, — instead vl' writing some lines, which are to 
be condemned il false, and regretted if true. 



SOME OBSERVATIONS 

UPOX 

AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, 
No. XXIX., August, 1819. 



' Why, how now, Hecate? you look angrily." 
Macbeth. 



TO J. D. ISRAELI, ESQ. 



THE AMIABLE AND INGENIOUS AUTHOR OF "THE CALAMITIES" AND " QUARRELS OF AUTHORS;' 

THIS ADDITIONAL QUARREL AND CALAMITY IS INSCRIBED BY 

ONE OF THE NUMBER. 



Ravenna, Mirch 15, 1820. 

•• The life of a writer" has been said, by Pope, 1 
believe, lo be "a warfare upon earth" As far as 
my own experience has gone, I have nothing lo say 
against the proposition ; and, like the rest, having once 
plunged into this slate of hostility, must, however reluc- 
tantly, carry ilon. An article has appeared in a peri- 
neal work, entitled "Remarks on Don Juan," which 
has been so full of this spirit, on the pari of the writer, 
as to require sotne observations on mine. 

In the first place. I am not aware by what right the 
writer assumes tins work, which is anonymous, to be my 
production. He will answer, that there is internal evi- 
dence ; that is to say, that there are passages which 
appear to be written in my name, or in my manner. Bui 
might not this have been done on purpose by another ? 
He will say, why not then deny il ? To this I could 
answer, thai of all the things attributed to me within the 
last five years, — Pilgrimages lo Jerusalem, Deaths 
upon Pale Horses, Odes to the Land of the Gaul, Adieus 
to England Songs to Madame La V detie, Odes to St. 
Helena, Vampires, and what not, — of which, God 
knows, I never composed nor read a syllable beyond 
their titles in advertisements, — 1 never thought it worth 
while to disavow any, except one which came linked 
with an account of my " residence in the isle of 
Milvlcne," where I never resided, and appeared to be 
carrying the amusement of those persons, who think 
my name can be of any use to them, a little too far. 

I should hardly, therefore, if I diJ not take the trouble 



to disavow these things published in my name, and vet 
not mine, go out of my way lo deny an anonymous 
work; which might appear an act of supererogation. 
With regard to Don Juan, I neilhcr deny nor admit it 
to be mine— every body may form their own opinion ; 
but, if there be any who now, or in the progress of thai 
poem, if il is to be continued, feel, or should feel them- 
selves so aggrieved as to reipiire a more explicil answer, 
privately and personally, they shall have it. 

I have never shrunk from the responsibility of what 
I have written, and have more than once incurred oblo- 
quy by neglecting lo disavow what was attributed to my 
pen without foundation. 

The greater part, however, of the " Remarks on Don 
Juan" contain but liltle on the work itself, which re- 
ceives an extraordinary portion of praise as a composi- 
tion. -With the exception of some quotations, and a 
few incidental remarks, the rest of the article is neither 
more nor less than a personal attack upon the inquired 
author. It is not the first in the same publication; for 
I recollect to have read, some time ago, similar remarks 
upon " Beppo" (said to have been written by a cele- 
brated northern preacher) ; in which the conclusion 
drawn was, that " Childe Harold, Byron, and the Count 
in Beppo, were one and the same person ;" thereby 
making me turn out to be, as Mrs. Maleprop says, 
il like Cerberus, three gentlemen ntonre." That article 
was signed " Presbyter Anglicanus;" which I presume, 
being interpreted, means Scotch Pr-shvtenan. I must 
here observe, — and it is at once ludicrous aud vexation 



804 



OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE 



to be compelled so frequently to repeat the same thing, 
— that my case, as an author, is peculiarly hard, in 
being everlastingly taken, or mistaken for my own pro- 
tagonist. It is unjust and particular. I never heard 
that my friend .Moore was sel down for a fire-worshipper 
on account of his Guebie ; that Scott was identified 
wiili Roderick Dim, or with Balfour of BuHey ; or that, 
notwithstanding all ihe magicians in Thataba, anybody 
has ever taken Mr. Soulhey for a conjuror ; whereas I 
have had some difficulty in extricating me even from 
Manfred, who, as Mr. SoutheV slily observes in one of 
his articles in the Quarterly, " mei ihe devil on the 
Jungfran, and bullied him:" and I answer Mr. Soulhey, 
who has apparently, in his poetical life, not been so 
successful against ihe great enemy, thai, in this, Man- 
fred exactly lollowed ihe sacred precept, — " Resist the 
devil, and lie will flee from you." — I shall have no more 
to say on th^ subject of ibis person — not the devil, hut 
his most humble servant Mr. Soulhey — before I Con- 
clude ; but, for the present, I must reiurn to the article 
in the Edinburgh Magazine. 

In ihe course of this article, amidst some extraordinary 
observations, there occur the following words: — " Ii 
appears, in short, as if ibis miserable man, having ex- 
hausted every species of sensual gratification, — having 
drained the cup of sin even to its bitterest dregs, were 
resolved to show us that he is no longer a human bring 
even in his frailties, — but a cool, unconcerned fiend, 
laughing with a detestable glee over the whole of the 
better and worse elements of which human life is com- 
posed." In another place there appears, "the lurking 
place of his selfish and polluted exile." — " By my troih, 
these be bitter words!" — With regard lo ihe first sen- 
tence, I shall content myself with observing, thai u 
appears to have been composed for Sardanapalus, Tibe- 
rius, the Regent Duke of Orleans, or Louis XV.; and 
that I have copied it with as much indifference as I 
would a passage from Suetonius, or from any of ihe 
private memoirs of the regency, conceiving it to be 
amply refuted by the terms in which it is expressed, and 
to be utterly inapplicable lo any private individual. On 
the words, " lurking-place," and " selfish and polluted 
exile," I have something mora to say. — How far the 
capital city of a government, which survived the vicis- 
situdes of thirteen hundred years, and might still have 
existed but for the treachery of Buonaparte, and the 
iniquity of his imitators, — a city which was the empo- 
rium of Europe when London and Edinburgh were dens 
of barbarians, — may be termed a " lurking-place," I 
leave to those who have seen or heard of Venice to de- 
cide. How far my exile may have been " polluted," it 
is not for me to say, because the word is a wide one, 
and, with some of its branches, may chance to over- 
shadow the actions of most men ; but that it has been 
11 selfish" I deny. If, to the extent of my means and 
my power, and my information of their calamities, io 
have assisted many miserable beings, reduced by the 
decay of the place of their birth, and their consequent 
loss of substance — if to have never rejected an applica- 
tion which appeared founded on truth — if to have ex- 
pended in this manner sums far out of proportion to 
my fortune, there and elsewhere, be selfish, then have 
I been selfish. To have done such things I do not deem 
much ; but it is hard indeed lo be compelled to recapi- 
tulate ihem in my own defence, by such accusations as 
that before me, like a panel before a jury calling lesli- 
monics to his character, or a soldier recording his services 
to obtain his discharge. If the person who has made 
the charge of " selfishness" wishes to inform himself 
further on the subject, he may acquire, not what he 
would wish lo find, but what will silence and >hame him, 
by applying to the Consul-General of our nation, resi- 
dent in ihe place, who will be in the case either to con- 
firm or deny what I have asserted. 



I neither make, nor have ever made, prptensions to 
sanctity of demeanour, nor regularity of conduct ; but 
my means have been expended principally on my own 
gratification, neither now nor heretofore, neither in 
' England nor our of ii ; and it wants hut a word from 
me, if I thought thai word decent or necessary, to call 
forth the most willing witnesses, and at once wiincssei 
i and proofs, in England itself, to show thai there are 
those who have derived not the mere temporary relief of 
B wretched boon, but the means which led ihem to im- 
mediate happiness and ultimate independence, by my 
want of thai very " sefySsAfieSf , H as grossly as falsely 
now imputed to rny conduct. 

Had I been a selfish man — had 1 been a grasping 
man — had I been, in the worldly sense of ihe word even 
a yrut tent man. — I should not be where I now am ; I 
should not have taken the step which was the first that 
led lo the events whtcfa have sunk and swoln a gulf be- 
tween me and mine; but in this respect the truth will 
one day be made known : in the mean time, as Duran- 
dearte says, in the Cave of Mouiesinos, "Patience, 
and shuffle the cards." 

I bitterly feel the ostentation of this statement, the 
first of the kind I have ever made ; I feel ihe degrada- 
tion of being compelled lo make it; but I also feel iis 
truth, and I (rust to feel it on my deaih-bed. should it be 
my lot to die there. I am not less sensible of the ego- 
tism of all this; but, alas! who have made me thus 
egotistical in my own defence, if not thev, who, by per- 
versely persisting in referring fiction to uuih,and tracing 
poetry lo life, and regarding characters of imagination 
as creatures of existence, have made me personally 
responsible for almost every poetical delineation which 
fancy and a particular bias of thought, may have tended 
to produce ? 

The writer continues : — M Those who are acquainted, 
as who is not ? with the main incidents of the private 
life of Lord B.," &c. Assuredly, whoever may be ac- 
quainted with these " mnin incidents," the writer of the 
11 Remarks on Don Juan" is noi,or he would use a very 
different language. That which I believe he alludes lo 
as a " main incident," happened lo be a very subordi- 
nate one, and the natural and almost inevitable OOnse* 
qiience of events and circumstances long prior to the 
period at which it occurred, it is the last drop which 
makes the cup run over, and mine was already full. — 
But, to return to this man's charge : he accuses Lord 
B. of " an elaborate satire on ihe character and man- 
ners of his wife." From what parts of Don Juan the 
writer has inferred this he himself best knows. As far 
as I recollect of the female characters in that produc- 
tion, there is but one who is depicted in ridiculous co- 
lours, or that could be interpreted as a satire upon any 
body. But here my poetical sins are again visited upon 
me, supposing that the poem l>e mine. If 1 depict a 
corsair, a misanthrope, a libertine, a chief of insurgents, 
or an infidel, he iaset down to the author; and if, in a 

poem I >v no means ascertained to he my production, there 

appears a disagreeable, casuistical, and by no means 
respectable female pedant, it i* set down tor my wile. 

Is there any resemblance ? If there be, it is in those 
who make it . 1 can sec none. In my writings I have 
rarely described any character under a fictitious name : 
those of whom I have spoken have had their own — in 
many cases a stronger satire in itself than an\ which 

could be appended to it. But of real circ -tames I 

have availed myself plentifully, both in tin- serious and 
the ludicrous — they are to poetry what landscapes are to 
the painter; but my ,/Sjgvrst am not portraits. It may 
even have happened] thai I have seised on some events 
that have occurred under my own observation, or in my 
own family, as I would paint a view from my grounds, 
did il harmonise wilh my picture; hut I never would 
introduce the likenesses of its living members, unless 



IN Bf, A CKWOOD'S MAGAZ'NE. 



305 



Ibur features could be made as favourable :o themseh es 
as to the effect ; which, in the above instance, would be 
extremeH* difficult. 

Mv learned l)roiher proceeds to observe, that " it is 
in vain for Lord B. tu attempt in anv way to justify his 
own h-diaviour in that affair ; and now that he has so 
optnly ami audaciously invited enquiry and reproach, we 
do not see any good reason why he should not be plainly 
told so by ihe voice of his countrymen. How f;ir the 
" openness* 1 of an anonymous poem, and the " audacity" 
of an imaginary character, which the writer supposes 
(•> be meant for Lady B., may be deemed to merit this 
f irmidabJe denunciation from their " most sweet voices," 
I neither know nor care; but when lie tells me that I 
cannot " in any way justify my own behaviour in that 
affair," ! acquiesce, because no man can "justify" 
: until he knows of what he is accused ; and I 
have never had — and, God knows, my whole desire has 
ever been to obtain it — anv specific charge, in a tan- 
gible shape, submitted lo rne by the adversary, nor by 
others, unless the atrocities of public rumour and ihe 
mysterious silence of the lady's legal advisers may be 
deemed such. But is not the writer content with what 
has been already said and d>-ne ? Has not " the general 
voice of his countrymen" long ago pronounced upon ihe 
subject — sentence without trial, and condemnation with- 
out a charge? Have I not been exiled by ostracism, 
except that the shells which proscribed me were anonv- 
mous ? Is ihe writer ignorant of the public opinion and the 
public conduct upon that occasion 1 If he is, I am not : 
the public will forget both, long before I shall cease to 
remember either. 

The man who is exiled by a faction has the consola- 
tion of thinking that he is a martyr; he is upheld bv 
hope and the dignity of his cause, real or imaginary: 
he who withdraws from the pressure of debt may indulge 
in ihe thought that time and prudence will retrieve his 
circumstances: he who is condemned by the law, has a 
term to his banishment, or a dream of its abbreviation ; 
or, it may be, ihe knowledge or ihe belief of some in- 
justice of the law, or of its administration in his own 
particular; but he who is outlawed bv general opinion, 
without the intervention of hostile politics, illegal judg- 
ment, or embarrassed circumstances, whether he be in- 
nocent or guilty, must undergo all the bitterness of exile, 
without hope, without pride, without alleviation. Tins 
case was mine. Upon what grounds the public founded 
their opinion, I am not aware : but it was general, and 
it was decisive. Of me or of mine they knew little, 
except that I had written what is called poetry, was a 
nobleman, had married, became a father, and was in- 
volved in differences with my wife and her relatives, no 
one knew why, because the persons complaining refused 
to state their grievances- The fashionable world was 
divided into parlies, mine consisting of a very small 
minority: the reasonable world was naturally on the 
stronger side, which happened to be Lhe lady's, as was 
most proper and polite. The press was active and 
■cuirifaus; and such was the rage of the day, that the 
unfortunate publication of two copies of verses, rather 
complimentary than otherwise lo the subjects of both, 
was tortured info a species of crime, or constructive 

Eetty treason. I was accused nf every monstrous vice 
y public rumour and private rancour: my name, which 
had boen a knightly or a nobie one since my fathers 
helped to conquer the kingdom for William the Norinan, 
was tainted. I fell thai, if what was whispered, and 
muttered, and murmured, was true, 1 was unfit for Eng- 
land ; if false, England was unfit fur me. I withdrew: 
but this was not enough. In other countries, in Swit- 
zerland, in the shadow of the Alps, and bv the blue 
depih of the lakes, 1 was pursued and breathed upon by 
the same blight. I Crossed the mountains, but ii was 

the now'; so I went a little farther, and settled myself 
33 



by ihe waves of the Adriatic, like the stag at bay, who 
be'ak'-s him to the waters. 

If' I may judge by ihe sia'enients of the few friends 
who gathered round me, the outcry of ihe period to 
which I B hide was beyond all precedent, all parallel, 
even in those cases where political motives have shar- 
pened slander and doubled enmity. I was advUed not 
to oo to the iheatres, lest I should be hissed, nor to my 
duty in parliament, lest 1 should be insulted by the way; 
even on the day of my departure, my most intimate 
friend told me afterwards, 'hat he was under apprehen- 
sions of violence from the people who might be assem- 
bled ai the door of lhe carriage. However, I was not 
.deterred by these counsels from seeing Kean in his best 
I characters, nor from voting according to my principles ; 
land with regard to ihe third and last apprehensions of 
mv friends. I could not share in tliejn, not being made 
acquainted with their extent, (ill some lime after I had 
crossed the Channel. Even if I had been so, I am not 
of a nature to be much a Heeled by men's anger, though 
I niav feel hurl by their aversion. Against all indivi- 
dual outrage, I could protect or redress myself; and 
againsi that of a crowd, I should probably have been 
enabled to defend myself, with the assistance of others, 
as has been done on similar oocasions. 

I retired from the country, perceiving that I was the 
object of general obloquy ; I did not indeed imagine, like 
Jean Jacques Rousseau, that all mankind was in a con- 
spiracy against me, though I had perhaps as good grounds 
for such a chimera as ever he had : but I perceived that 
I had to a great extent become personally obnoxious in 
England, perhaps through my own fault, but the fact 
was indisputable; the public in general wouid hardly 
have been so much excited against a more popular cha- 
racter, without at least an accusation or a charge of 
some kind actually expressed or substantiated, (or I can 
hardly conceive that ihe common and every-day occur- 
rence of a separation between man and wife could in 
itself produce so great a ferment. I shall say nothing 
of the usual complaints of " being prejudged," "con- 
demned unheard," "unfairness," " partiality," and so 
forth, the usual changes rung by parties who have had, 
or are to have, a trial ; but I was a little surprised to 
find myself condemned without being favoured with the 
act of accusation, and to perceive in the absence of 
this portentous charge or charges, whatever it or they 
were to be, that every possible or impossible crime was 
rumoured to supply its place, and taken for granted. 
This could only occur in the case of a person very much 
disliked, and I knew no remedy, having already used 
lo their e.Menl whatever little powers I might possess 
of pleasing in society. I had no party in fashion, 
though I was afterwards told that there was one — but it 
was not of my formation, nor did I then know of its 
existence — none in literal ure ; and in politics I had voted 
with the Whigs, wiih precisely that importance which 
a Whig vote possesses in these Tory days, and with 
such personal acquaintance with the leaders in both 
houses as the society in which I lived sanctioned, but 
without claim or expectation of any thing like friend- 
ship from any one, except a few young men of my own 
age and standing, and a few others more advanced in 
life, which last it had been my fortune to serve in cir- 
cumstances of difficulty. This was, in fact, to stand 
atone: and I recollect, some lime after, Madame de 
Stael said to me in Switzerland, " You should not have 
warred with the world— it will not do — it is too strong 
always for any individual: 1 myself once tried it in 
early life, but it will not do." I perfectly acquiesce in 
the truth of this remark ; but the world had done me ihe 
{honour to begin the war; and, assuredly, if peace is 
(only to be obtained by courting and paying tribute to it, 
! I am not qualified to obtain its countenance. I thought, 
in die words of Campbell, 



306 



OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE 



" Then wed thee to an sailed tot. 
And il the world hath loved the* not, 
lu abaenca may be borne." 

I recollect, however, that, having been much hurt by 
Romilly's conduct, (he, having a general retainer for 
me, had acted as adviser to ihe adversary, alleging, on 
being reminded of his retainer, that he had (woollen il, 
as Ms clerk had so many.) I observed that some of 
those who were now eagerly laying ihe axe to my roof- 
tree, might see iheir own shaken, and feel a portion of 
what they had inflicted.— His [ell, and Crushed bun. 

I have heard of, and believe, that there are human 
beings so constituted as to be insensible to injuries ; 
nut [believe that the best mode to avoid lakino ven- 
geance is to gel out of the way of tempin I hope 

thai I may never have the opportunity, for I am not 
quite sure that I could resist it, having derived from 
my mother something of the " perfervidum ingenium 
Scolomm." I have not sniiohl, and shall nol seek it, 
and perhaps it may never come in my paih. I do not 
in llus allude lo the partywho might be right or wrong : 
but to many who made her cause ihe pretext of their own 
bitterness. She, indeed, must have long avenged me 
in her own feelings; for whatever ber reasons may have 
been (and sin- never adduced ihein lo me at least), she 
probably neither contemplated nor conceived to what 
she became the means of conducting the father of her 
child, and the husband of her choice. 

So much fir " the general voice of his countrymen :" 
1 will now speak of some in particular. 

In the beginning of the year 1817, an an icle appeared 
in the Quarterly Review, written, I believe, by Waller 
Scott*, doing gnat honour to him, anil no disgrace to 
me, though both poetically and personally more than 
sufficiently favourable to the work and ihe author of 
whom it treated. Il was written at a time when a 
se fish man would not, and a timid ono dared not, have 
said a word in favour of either ; it was written by one to 
whom temporary public opinion had elevated me to the 
rank of a rival — a proud distinction, and unmerited ; 
but which has not prevented me from feeling as a friend, 
nor htm from more than corresponding to lhal sentiment. 
The article in question was written upon ihe Third 
Canto of Childe Harold ; and after many observations, 
which it would as ill become me to repeal as to forget, 
concluded with " a hope that I might yet reiurn to 
England." How ibis expression was received in Eng- 
land uself I am not acquainted, but it gave great "If. nee 
at Koine to ihe respectable ten or iweniy thousand 
English travellers then and there assembled. I did not 
visit Rome lill some time after, so thai I had no oppor- 
tunity of knowing the fact; but I was infin I, long 

afterwards, that the greatest indignation had been mani- 
fested in the enlighteni d Anglo-cin leof thai year, which 
happened to comprise within it — amidst a considerable 
leaven of Welbeck street and Devonshire Place, broken 
louse upon their Iravels— several really well-born and 
v ell-bred families, who did not the less parlicipale in ihe 
fooling. .f the hour. " Witt) should he return in Eng- 
land ?" was Ihe general exclamation — I answer why ? 
It is a question 1 have occasionally asked myself, and I 
never vet could give it a satisfactory reply. I had then 
nolhoiightsof returning, and if I have any now, they are 
of business, and not of pleasure. Amidst the ties that 
have been dashed to pieces, there are links yet entire, 
Ihouoh the chain ils.-lf be broken. There are duties, 
and "connections, which may one day require my pre- 
sence and I am a faiber. I have still some friends 

whom I wish lo meet again, and it may be an enemy. 
These things, and those minuter details of business, 
which lime accumulates during absence, in every man's 
affairs and properly, may, and probably will, recall me lo 
— — — — ■ 

• Sog lluarvurly Revwv, Vol. x»l. p. 1T8. 



England ; but 1 shall return with the same feelings with 
which I left it, in respect to itself, [hough altered with 
reward to individuals, as I have been more or less in- 
formed of their conduct since my departure ; for it was 
only a considerable time after it lhal I was made ac- 
quainted with Ihe real facts and full ex'tnl of some of 
Iheir proceedings and language. My friends, like other 
friends, from concilialory motives, withheld from me 
much thai they could, and some things which ihey ahmibl 
have unfolded ; however, thai which is deferred is not 
lost- bul it has been no fault of mine that il has been de- 
ferred al all. 

I haw alluded to what is said to have passed at Rome 
merely to show that the sentiment which I have deecri- 
!,. I wa nol confined to Ihe English in England, and as 
forming pan of my answer to the reproach cast upon 
what Ins ben called my " selfish exile," and my " vo- 
luntary exile." " Voluntary" it has been ; for who 
would dwell among a people entertaining Strom; hosli- 
lily against him? How far il has been " selfish" lias 
been already explained. 

I have now arrived at a passage describing me as 
having vented my " spleen against the lofty-minded 
and virtuous men," men " whose virtues few indeed can 
equal ;" meaning, I humbly presume, the notorious tri 
nnivirate known by the name of" Lake Poets" in theii 
aggregate capacity, and by Soulhey, Wordsworlh, and 
Coleridoe, when taken singly. I wish tosay a word or 
two upon the virtues of one of ihose persons, public and 
private, lor reasons which will soon appear. 

When I left England in April, 1816, ill in mind, in 
body, and in circumstances, I took up my residence at 
Coligny, by ihe lake of Geneva. The sole companion 
of mv journey was ayoting physician,* who had to make 
his way in the world, and having seen very little of it. 
was naturally and laudably desirous of seeing more so- 
ciety than suited my present habits or my past expe- 
rience. I therefore presented him to those gentlemen 
of Geneva for whom I had letters of introduction ; and 
having thus seen him in a situation to make his own 
wav, retired for my own part entirely from society, 
with the exception of one English family, living at 
about a quarter of a mile's distance from Dlodsli, and 
with the further exception of some occasional intercourse 
with Coppet at the wish of Madame de Slael. The 
English family lo which I allude consisted of two ladies, 
a getuieman and his son, a boy of a year old.f 

One of" these lofty -minded and trirruotu men" in ihe 
words of the Edinburgh Magazine, made. I understand, 
about ibis time, or soon after, a lour in Switzerland. 
(hi his return lo England, he circulated — and for any 
thing I know, invented — a report, that ihe gentleman lo 
whom I have alluded and myself were living in promis 
cuous intercourse wiih two sisters, " having formed a 

league of incest" (I quote the words as they "ere stated 

tome), and indulged himself on Ihe natural comments 

upon such a conjunction, which are said lo have been 
repeated publicly, with great complacency, by another 
of lhal poetical fraternity, of whom I shall say only, 
thai even had Ihe story been true, he should not have 
repealed il, as far as il regarded myself, except in sor- 
row. The lale itself requires but a word in answer 
— the ladies were not sisters, nor in any degree con- 
nected, except bv the second marriage of iheir respective 
parents, a widower with a widow, bolh being ihe off- 
spring of former marriages ; neither of them were, in 
1816, nineteen years old. "Promiscuous intercourse" 
could hardly have disgusted the great palron of panti- 
socracy, (does Mr. Southey remember such a scheme ?) 
but there was none. 

How far tins man, who, as author of Wat Tyler, has 



• Pr Polirl^ri— author ofthe " Vamptra " 

t Mr. auo Mre. Shelley, Miaa Clarmool, aud Maatae Shelter 



IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 



307 



been proclaimed by the Lord Chancellor guilty of a trea- 
sonable ami blasphemous libel, and denounced in the 
House of Commons, by the upright and able member 
for Norwich as a " rancorous renegado," be fit for sit- 
ting as a judge upon others, let others judge. He lias 
said that for this expression M he brands William Smith 
on the forehead as a calumniator," and lh;il " the mark 
will outlast his epitaph." How long William Smith's 
epitaph will last, and in what words it will be written, 

I know not, bul William Smiih's words form the epitaph 
itself of Robert Soothey. He has written Wat Tyler, 
and taken the office of poet laureate — he has, in the 
Life of Henry Kiike White, denominated reviewing 

II the ungenile craft," and has become a reviewer — he 
was one of the projectors of a scheme, called " pantiso- 
<-: u v." for having all things, including women, in com- 
Mi .n, {query, common women ?) and he sets up as a 
moralist — he denounced ihe battle of Blenheim, and he 
praised the battle of Waterloo — he loved Mary Woll- 
stoiicraft, and he tried to blast the character of her 
daughter {one of the young females mentioned) — he 
wrote treason, and serves the king — he was the butt of 
the An'.i-jacobin, and he is the prop of the Quarterly 
Review; licking the hands that smote him, eating ihe 
bread of his enemies, and internally writhing beneath 
his own contempt, — he would fain conceal, under anony- 
mous blister, and a vain endeavour to obtain the esteem 
of others, after having for ever lost his own, his leprous 
Benae of his own degradation. What is ihere in such a 
man to " envy?'* Who ever envied the envious? Is 
it his birth, his name, his fame, or his virtues, that I am 
to "envy?" I was born of the aristocracy, which he 
abhorred ; and am sprung, by my mother, from ihe kings 
who preceded those whom he has hired himself lo sing. 
It cannot, then, be his birth. As a poet, I have, for the 
p ist eight years, had nothing to apprehend from a com- 
petition ; and for the future, " that life to come in every 
poet's creed," it is open to all. I will only remind Mr. 
Souihey, in the words of a critic, who, if still living, 
would have annihilated Southey's literary existence 
now and ht-re.ifter, as the sworn foe of charla'ans and 
impostors, from Macpherson downwards, that K those 
dr. nuns were Settle's once and Ogilby's ;" and for niv 
own pan, I assure him. thai whenever he and his sect 
are remembered, I shall be proud to be " forgot." Thai 
he is not Content with Ins soeeese as a poet may reason- 
ably be believed— he has been the nine-pin of reviews ; 
the E linburgh knocked him down, and the Quarterly 
set him up ; the government found him useful in the pe- 
riodical line, and made a point of recommending his 
works to purchasers, so that he is occasionally bought, 
(I mean Ins books, as well as the author,) and mav be 
found on the same shelf, if not upon the table, of most 
of the eenth-m-'n employed in the different offices. With 
regard to his private virtues, I know nothing — >>f Lis 
principles, I have heard enough. As far as having been, 
i i the besl of niv power, benevolent toothers, I do not 
frar the comparison ; and for the errors of the pas-ions, 
was Mr. Si »ui hey tdway* so tranquil anil stainless ? Did 
ho RflW Covel his neighbour's wife? Did lie never ia- 
lumnia'e his neighbour's wile's daughter, the offspring 
ol her he coveted ? So much for the apostle of pan- 

tl-'MT.1.-V. 

Of the " loftv-minded. virtuous" Wordsworth, one 
anecdote will suffice to speak his sincerity. In a con- 
versation with Mr. upon poetry, he concluded 

with, u After all, I would not give five shillings f.ir all 
that Southey has ever written." Perhaps this calcula- 
tion night rather show his esteem for five shillings than 
his low estirna'e of Dr. Southev ; but considering that 
when he was in his need, and Southey had a shilling, 
Wordsworth is said to have had generally a sixpence out 
of it, it has an awkward sound in the way of valuation. 
This anecdote was told me by persons who, if quoted by 



name, would prove that its genealogy is poetical as well 
as true. I can give my amhority for this ; and am ready 
to adduce it also for Mr. Southey's circulation of the 
falsehood before mentioned. 

Of Coleridye, I shall say nothing — vihy t he may 
divine. 

I have said more of these people than I intended in 
this place, being somewhat stirred by the remarks which 
induced me to commence upon the topic. I see nothing 
in these men as poets, or as individuals — little in their 
talents, and less in their characters, to prevent honest 
men from expressing for them considerable contempt, in 
prose or rhyme, as it may happen. Mr. Southey has 
the Quarterly for his field of rejoinder, and Mr. Words- 
worth his postscripts to " Lyrical Ballads," where the 
two gieat instances of the sublime are taken from him- 
self and Milton. " Over her own sweel voice the stock- 
dove broods;" that is to say, she has the pleasure of 
listening to herself, in common with Mr. Wordsworth 
upon most of his public appearances. " What divinity 
doth hedge" these persous, that we should respect them? 
Is it Apollo? Are they not of those who called Dry- 
den's Ode " a drunken song?" who have discovered 
that Gray's Elegy is full of faults, (see Coleridge's 
Life, vol. i. note, for Wordsworth's kindness in point- 
ing this out to him,) and have published what is allowed 
to be ihe very worst prose lhat ever was written, to 
prove that Pope was no poet, and that William Words- 
worth is ? 

In other points, are they respectable, or respected ' 
Is it on the open avowal of apostasy, on the patronage 
of government, that their claim is founded? Who is 
there who esteems those parricides of their own prin- 
ciples ? They are, in fact, well aware that the reward 
of the.r change has been any thing but honour. The 
times have preserved a respect for political consistency, 
arid, even though changeable, honour the unchanged. 
Look at Moore: it will be long ere Southey meets with 
such a triumph in London as Moore met with in Dub- 
lin, even if the government subscribe for it, and set the 
money down to secret service. It was not less to the 
man than to the poet, to the tempted but unshaken pa- 
triot, to the not opulent hut incnrrupiible fellow citizen, 
lhat the warm-hearted Irish paid the proudest of tri- 
butes. Mr. Souihey mav upplaud himself to the world, 
but he has his own heartiest contempt; and the fury 
with which he foams against all who stand in the pha- 
lanx which he forsook, is, as William Smiih described 
it, " the rancour of ihe rrntgado," the bad language of 
the prostitute who siands at the corner of the street, 
and showers her slang upon all, except Mose who may 
have bestowed upon her her " little shilling." 

Hence his qnarlerlv overflowings, political and lite- 
rary, in what he has himself termed " the ungentle 
craft," and his especial wrath against Mr. Leigh Hunt, 
notwithstanding thai Hunt has done mop* fur Words- 
worth's reputation as a poet (such as it is), than all the 
Lakers could in their interchange of self-praises for the 
last twenty-five years. 

And here I wish to say a few words on the present 
sta'e of English poetry. That this is the age of the 
decline of. English poetry will be doubled by few who 
have calmly considered die subject. That there are 
men of genius among the present poets makes linle 
against the fact, because ii has been well said, that 
" next to him who forms the taste of his country, the 
greatest genius is he who corrupts it." No one has 
evrr ilrnjerl genim to M;irino, who corrupted not merely 
the ta^te of Italy, hut that of all Europe for nearb a 
cen'iirv. The great cause of the present deplorable 
stale of English poetry is to be attributed to that absurd 
and systematic depreciation of Pope, in which, for the 
last few years, there has been a kind { epidemical con- 
currence. Men 'of ihe mofat oppos * opinions have 



30S 



OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE 



united upon this topic Warlon Mid Churchill began 
it, having borrowed the hint probably from the heroes 
of the Dunciad, ami their own internal conviction that 
their proper reputation can be as nothing till the mosi 
perfect and harmonious of poet! — he who, having no 
fault, has had reason mode his reproach — was reduced 
to what they conceived to be Ins level; but even they 
dared not degrade him below Dry den. Goldsmith, and 
Rogers, and Campbell, his mosi successful disciples; 
and Hayley, who, however feeble, has left one poem 
"that will not be willingly let die" ^die Triumphs of 
Temper), kept up the reputation of thai pure and per- 
fect style ; and Crabbe, the firsi r»f living poets, his 
almost equalled the master. Thru tame Darwin, win. 
was put down by a single poem in I ha Antijacobin;* 
and the Cruscans, from Merry to Jernihghain, who 
were annihilated (if Nothing can be said to be anni- 
hilated) by Clifford, the last of the wholesome satirists. 

At the same time Mr. Southey was favouring the 
public with Wal Tyler and Juan of Arc, to the great 
glory of the Drama and Epos. I h'g pardon, W'a! 
Tyler, with Peter Bell, was still in M. S., and it was 
not till after Mr. Southey had received his Malmsey 
butt, and Mr. Wordsworthf became qualified to gtiage 
it, that the great revolutionary tragedy came before the 
public and the Court of Chancery. Wordsworth was 
peddling his lyrical ballads, and brooding a preface, 
lo be succeeded in due course by a postscript ; both 
couched in such prose as must give peculiar delight to 
those who have read the prefaces of Pope and Dryden ; 
scarcely less celebrated for the beauty of their prose, 
than for the charms of their verse. Wordsworth is the 
reverse of Molicre's gentleman who had been " talking 
prose all his life, without knowing it;" for he thinks 
that he has been all his life writing bom prose and verse, 
and neither of what he conceives to be such can be 
properly said to be either one or the other. Mr. Cole- 
ridge, the future votes, poet and seer of the Morning 
Pust, (an honour also claimed by Mr. Fitzgerald, of the 
" Rejected Addresses,") who ultimately prophesied the 
downfall of Buonaparte, to which he himself mainly 
contributed, by giving him the nickname of H the Corsi- 
ca*," was then employed in predicating the damnation 
ot Mr. Pitt, and the desolation of England, in the two 
v«rv best copies of verses he ever wrote : to wit, the 
infernal eclogue of " Eire, Famine, and Slaughter," 
and the " Ode to the departing Year." 

These three personages, Southey, Wordsworth, and 
Col-ridge, had all of them a very natural antipathy 

to Pope ; and I respect them for it, as the only ori- 
ginal feeling or principle which ihey have contrived 
to preserve. But they have been joined in it by ihose 
who have joined thorn in nothing else : by the Edinburgh 

Reviewers, bv die whole heterogeneous mass of living 
English poets, excepiing Crabbc, Rogers, Gilford, and 
Campbell, who, both by precept and practice, have 
proved their ad'ierence ; and by me, who have shame- 
fully deviated in practice, but have ever loved and ho- 
noured Pope's poetry with my whole soul, and hope to 
do so till my dying day. 1 would rather Bee all I have 
ever written lining the same trunk in which 1 actually 
read the eleventh book ofa model n epic poem at Malia, 
in 1811, (I opened it to take out a change afier the 
paroxysm ofa tertian, in ilv absence of my servant, and 
found it lined with the name of the maker, Eyre, Cock- 



" " The I-ovpi of the Triangles," tlir Joint production of Mtun. 
Caiuiinj- awl Frtie. 

f i ;..M«unifi liu anticipated the il. Guition of the l.nkn pot try, n* far 
Mcuchlhlaga can be djfiueil " OtotUmt n the prwent (ill 
f>f jM*tir common epic poevu, which Mini frurn in* preu like jmjht 
kite* hi mjmmer ; then? *re nen« of your Tui uutea or Dido* lo It . ff 
■ * anhigtoticat a*tcriptitm oj nnturu. I oi 1 1) bfll you'll eudwvour lo 
make fourtouti In wiiioa with ntuCi and Stto with In* name tnthuttmtm 
at: tli which I A/ir« wHrfon." Would uotthltliata mad« ■ \>%u\>tr proem 
tn the Ruunloa, and the \>ae\ and his pedlar ? Ii wonld hav| tnawcred 
« 1 1. . i iv i»i Ujut piirjrmc. had it uol uut*oruiu«it«ljf Utu writtou m ^h«I 



t^rWliy 



spur Street, and with the epic poetry alluded to.) than 
sacrifii e what I Gtmly believe in as the Christianity of 
English poetry, the poetry of Cop.'. 

But the Edinburgh Reviewer*, and the Lakers, and 
Hunt and his school, and every body else with tin it 
school] and even Moore without a school, and dilettanti 
lecturers at institutions, and elderly gentle on n who 
translate and imitate, and young ladies who lisi < 
repeat, Imroneis who draw indifferent frontispieces for 
bad poels. an I noblemen who let them dine with ihem 
in the country, the small body of the wits and the great 
body of the blues, have latterly united in a deprecial ion, 
of which their f,»t hers would have been as much ashamed 
as their children will be. In the mean time, what have 
we got instead? The Lake school, which begun with 
ah epic poera 9 written in six weeks," (so Joan of 
Arc proclaimed herself,) and finished with a ballad 
Composed in twenty \-ars, as " Puter Bell's" creator 
takes care to inform the few who will enquire. Whai 
have we gol instead? A deluge of flimsy and unin- 
telligible romances, imitated from Scott and myself, who 
have botli made the heel of our bad materials and erro- 
neous system. What have we got instead 3 Madoc, 
which is neither an epic nor any thing else ; Thalaha, 
Kehama, tiebir, and such gibberish, written in all 
metres and in n<> language. Hunt, who had powers to 
have made " the Story of Rimini" as perfect as a fable 
of Dryden, has thought fit lo sacrifice his genius and his 
taste to some unintelligible notions of Wordsworth, 

which I defy him to explain. Moore has But 

why continue? — All, with the exception of Crabbe, 
Rogers, and Campbell, who may be considered as 
having taken their station, will, by the blessing of God, 

survive their own reputation, without attaining any very 
extraordinary period of longevity. Of course there mnsi DO 

a still further exception in favour of those who, having 
never obtained any reputation at all, unless it be among 
provincial literati, and their own families, have none to 
lose ; and of Moore, who, as the Burns of Ireland, pos- 
sesses a fame which cannot be lost. 

The greater part of the poets mentioned, however, 
have been able to gather together a few followers. 
A paper of the Connoisseur says, that " it is observed 
by the French, that a cat, a priest, and an old woman, 
are sufficient to constitute a religions sect in England." 
The same number of animals, wall some difference in 
kind, will suffice for a poetical one. If we take Sir 
George Braumrml instead of the priest, and Mr. Words- 
worth fur the old woman, we shall nearly complete the 
quota required ; but I fear that Mr. Southey will but in- 
differently represent the CAT, having shown himself but 
too distinctly lobe ofa species to which that nolle crea- 
ture is peculiarly hosl ih>. 

Nevertheless] I Will OOl »<> so far as Wordsworth 

in his postscript, who pretends that no great poet ever 
bad immediate fame; which being interpreted, means 
■hat William Wordsworth is not quite so murh read 
by his coiemporaries as mighl be desirable. This as- 
sertion is as false as it is foolish. Homer's glorj de- 
pended upon ins present popularity : he recited, — and, 
without ihe strongest impression of the moment, who 
would have gotten the Uiad by heart, and given it to 
tradition .' Ennius, Terence, Platitua, Lucretius, Ho- 
race, \ irgil, JSschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Sappho, 
Anacreon, Theocritus, all the great poets of antiquity, 
were the delight of their coiemporaries. The very ex- 
istence ofa poet, previous to the invention of printing, 
depended upon his present popularity; and how often 
has it impaired his future fame? Haidly ever. History 
informs us that the best have rome down to us. The 
reason is evident; ihe most popular found the greatest 
number of transcribers fir their MSS., and that iho 
taste of their ^temporaries was corrupt can hardly be 
avouched by the moderns, ihe mightiest of whom have 



IN BLACKWOOD'S MAOAZINR. 



309 



but barely approached them. Dante, Peirareh, Ariqsto, 
and TassO] were all the darlings of the cotempurary 
reader. Dante's Poetn was celebrated Long before bis 
death: and, not lori;! after it, Slates negotiated for his 
ashes, and disputed for the siies of the composition of 
the Divina Cummedia. Petrarch was crowned in the 
Capitol. Ariusto was permitted lo pass free hy the 
public robber who had read the Orlando Furioso. I 
would ri'H recommend Mr. Wordsworth to try the same 
experiment with his Smugglers. Tasso, notwithstand- 
ing the criticisms of the Cruseanti, would have been 
crowned in the Capitol, but fur his death. 

It is easy to prove the immediate popularity nf the 
chief poets of the only modern nation in Europe that 
has a poetical language, the Italian. In our own, 
Suakspeare, Spencer, Jonson, Waller, Dryden, Cou- 
greTB] Pupe, Young, Shenstone, Thomson, Johnson, 
Goldsmith, Gray, were all as popular in their lives as 
since. Gray'." Elegy pleased instantly, and eternally. 
His Odes did not, nor yet do they, please like his Elegy, 
Milton's politics kept him down. But the Epigram of 
Dryden,* and the very sale of his work, in. proportion 
to the less reading time of its publication, prove him to 
have been honoured by his cotemporaries. I will ven- 
ture to assert, that ihe sale of the Paradise Lost was 
greater in the firal four years after its publication, than 
that of " The Excursion" in the same number, wiih 
the dtffercnce of nearly a century and a half between 
them «»f time, and of thousands in point of general read- 
ers. Notwithstanding Mr. Wordsworth'? having press- 
ed Milton into his service as one of those not presently 
popular, to favour his own purpose of proving that our 
grandchildren will read him (the said William Words- 
worth,) I would recommend him to begin first with our 
grandmothers. But he need not be alarmed; he may 
yel live to see all the envies pass away, as Darwin and 
Seward, and Hoole, and Hole, and Hoyle have passed 
away; but their declension will not be his ascension : he 
is essentially a bad writer, and all the failures of others 
can never strengthen him. He may have a sect, but 
he will never have a public ; and his "audience" will 
always be "few" without being i Jit" — except for 
Bedlam. 

It may be asked, why, having tins opinion nf the 
presenl slate of poetry in England, and having had ii 
long, as my friends and others well knew — possessing, 
or having possessed too, as a writer, the earof the public 
for the time being — I have not adopted a different plan 
in my own compositions, and endeavoured to correct 
rather than encourage the taste of the day. To ihis I 
wool, I answer, thai it is easier to perceive the wrong 
than lo pursue the right, ami that I have never contem- 
plated the prospect " of filling (wiih Peter B<-11, see its 
Preface) permanently a station in the literature of the 
Country." Those who know me best, know this, and 
that I have been considerably astonished at the tempora- 
ry success of my works, having flattered no person and 
no party, and expressed opinions which are not those nf 
the general reader. Could 1 have anticipated the degree 
of attention which has been accorded me, assuredly 
I would have studied more to deserve it. But I have 
lived in far countries abroad, or in the agitating world 
at home, which was not favourable to study or re- 
flection ; so that almost all I have written has been 
mere passion, — passion, it is true, of different kind?, 
but always passion: fir in me (if it be not an Irishism 
to sav so) my indifference was a kind of passion, the 
result of experience, and not the philosophy of nature. 
Writing grows a habit, like a woman's gallant rv : there 
are women who have had no intrigue, but few who have 



" The well known line* u.irter MTJton'e picture,— 

•■ Three t ■■■.«'• In -three dbuurt ■ (» bom," i«. 



had but one only ; so there are millions of men who have 
never written a book, but few who have written only 
one. And thus, having written once, I wrote on; en» 
couraged no doubt by the success of the moment, vet by- 
no means anticipating its duranon. and I will venture 
to say, scarcely even wishing it. But then I did other 
things besides write, which by no means contributed 
either lo improve my writings or inv prosperity. 

I have thus expressed publicly upon the poetry of 
the day the opinion I have long entertained and ex- 
pressed of it to all who have asked it, and to some 
who would rather not have heard it : as I told Moore 
not very long ago, "we are all wrong excepl Rogers, 
Cr&bbe, and Campbell." Without being old in years, I 
am old in days, and do not feel the adequate spirit within 
me lo attempt a work which should show what 1 think 
right in poetry, and must content myself with having de- 
nounced what is wrong. There are, I trust, vouncer 
spirits rising up in England, who, escaping the conta- 
gion which has swept away poetry from our literature, 
will recall it to their country, such as it once was and 
may still be. 

In the mean time, the best sign of amendment will 
repentance, and new and frequent editions of Pope 
and Dryden. 

There will be found as comfortable metaphysics, 
and fen times more poetry in the " Essay on Man." 
than in the " Excursion." If you search for passion, 
here is it rn be found stronger than in the epistle 
from Elnisa to Abelard, or in Palamon and Arcite? 
Do you wish for invention, imagination, sublimity, 
character ? seek them in the Rape of ihe Lock, the 
Fables of Dryden, the Ode of Saint Cecilia's Day, 
and Absalom and Achitnphel : you will discover in 
these two poets only, all for which you must ransack 
innumerable metres, and God only knows how many 
writers of the day, without finding a tiitle of the same 
qualities, — with the addition, too, of wit, of which the 
latter have none. I have not, however, forgotten Thomas 
Brown the Younger, nor the Fudge Family, nor Whis- 
'Jecraft ; but that is not wit — it is humour. I will say 
nothing of the harmmvy of Pope and Dryden in compa- 
rison, for there is not a living poet (except Ro^er?, 
GirTord, Campbell, and Crabbe.) who can write an 
heroic couplet. The fact is, that ihe exquisite beauty 
of their versification has withdrawn the public attention 
fioni their other excellences, as the vulgar eye will rest 
more upon the splendour of the uniform than the quality 
of the troops. It is this very harmony, particularly in 
Pope, which has raised Ihe vulvar and atrocious cant 
against him: — because his versification is perfect, it is 
assumed that it is hisonlv perfection ; because his truths 
ne so clear, it is asserted thai he has no invention ; and 
because he is always intelligible, it is taken for granted 
that he has do genius. We are sneeringly told that he 
is the " Poet of Reason," as if this was a reason for his 
being DO poet. Taking passage for passage, I will 
undertake to cite more lines teeming wiih imagina- 
tion from Pope than from any two living poets, be they 
who they may. To take an instance at random from a 
species of composition not very favourable to imagi- 
nation — Satire: set down the character of Sporus,* 



" Let Sjwub tremble— .1. Whm > that thing otiilk, 
Spot V . that mere White cwrtl 01 asa'< milk? 
Si'tii-e '" ("Cine, n!:n' CM II SpOTM feel i 
\\ ho brand* a Lmitei-flv upon h wlteel * 
P. Yet lei me flap Hni. Inifi with raided wings, 

Thti [Minted child of dirt. tti«i lUnkauid ungi ; 

Whuae Dim the WiUV fln<l ihe lair itmicM, 
Yet wii ne'er male*, and bennljr ne'er enjoys ; 
Bn well-bml ipaniela civilly delight 
In naumbUiuEof lliegiinir d.r) dure not bite. 
Eternal imilts hi* empilnes* betray,: 
Aethallow ilreanu r Ilmplinffdl the way. 

\\ In I he ■ III florid ins til ■ lit i ( ,ca!(». 

And, a« the prompter ' reothei, ihe puppet t<ii>mki 
ii p enrol Bee, I* miliar intd, 

Hal! Iruili, ItaU vtUOMj ipiU l.m.sdl ubru.\U> 



310 



OBSERVATIONS UPoN AN ARTICLE 



with all ihe wonderful play of" fancy which is scattered 
over it, and place by its side an equal number of verses, 
from any two existing poets, uflhe Mime power and the 
same variety — where will you Hud them .' 

I merely mention one instance of many, in reply to the 
injustice done lo the memory of him who harmonised 
our poetical language. The attorneys' clerks, and other 
Self-educated genii, found it easier 10 distort themselves 

to the new models, than to toil after the symmetry of 
him who had enchanted their fathers. Tluv were be- 
sides smitten by being told that the new school were to 
revive the language of Clue en Elizabeth, the true En- 
glish: as evury body in the reign of Queen Anne wrote 
no better than French, by a species of literary treason. 
Blank verse, which, unless in ihe drama, no out except 
Milton ever wrote who could rhyme, became the order ol 
die day, — or else such rhyme as looked still blaukei than 
the verse without it. I am aware that Johnson has said, 
afler some hesitation, that he could not "prevail upon 
himself to wish that Milton had been a rhymer." The 
opinions of that truly greal man, whom it ie also the 

present fashion to decry, will ever be received by me 
with that deference which tune will restore to him tfiii 
all ; but, wiih all humility, I am not persuaded that the, 
1 'aradise Lost would not have been inure nobly conveyed 

to posterity, not perhaps ifl heroic couplets, although 

even they cuu'd sustain the subject if well balanced, 
but in the stanza of Spenser or of Tasso, or in the 
terza rima of Dante, which the powers of Milton could 
easily have grafted on our Language. The Seasons o( 
Thomson would have been better in rhyme, although 
still inferior to his Casile of Indolence ; and Mr. 
Sotllhey's Joan of Arc no worse, aldiough it might have 
taken tip six months instead of weeks in the composition. 
I recommend also to the lovers of lyrics the perusal of 
the present laureate'* Odes by the side of Dryden's on 
Saint Cecilia, but. lei him be sure to read Jirst those of 
Mr. Southey. 

To the heaven-born genii and inspired young scrive- 
ners of the day much of tins will appear paradox : it will 
appear so '-v.il to the higher order of our critics ; but it 
was a truism twenty years ago, and it will be a re- 
acknowledged truth in ten more. In the mean time, I 
will conclude with two quotations, both intended fur 
some of my old classical friends who have still enough 
of Cambridge about them to think themselves honoured 
by having had John Dryden as a predecessor in their 
college, and to recollect that their earliest English poel 
kal pleasures were drawn from the '• little niijhiingale" 
of Twickenham, The first is from the notes to the 
Poem of the " Friends."* 

" It is only within the last twenty or thirty years 
that those notable discoveries in criticisms have hern 
made which have taught our recent versifiers to un- 
dervalue this energetic, melodious, and moral poet. 
The Consequences of this want of due esteem tor a writer 
whom the good Sense Of our predecessors had raised I" 

hii propter station have been NOMBRnrss and dkoka 
dinu ENiiuoH. This is not ihi- place to enter into the 
subject, even as far as it affects our poetical nwnocraejone, 
and there is matter of more importance that requires 
present reflection." 



Iiipuni, or politic*, or UdMi or I let. 

Or aptle, nr mud ui rhymea, orUnanhemlcs, 

Hi* wit nil n'c-mw, btlWMO thai and loit. 

Now high, no* l>*w. now master up, now mitt, 

And be bti If one *ile aiiiliheale. 

Ampin u> thing I that acting either part, 

The trifling he id, tit the cotrupled heart, 

Fop al the toilet, flatterer at the board. 

Now tripa a lady, and noWllrtlUI lord. 

blve'a tempter thua the Rabbin) hnvecxprcaa'd, 

A cheruh'a tire, a reptile all UiO n it, 

Beauty thai •hocki yon, pa-t» thm none will trait. 

Wit that can creep, ami pride thnt Ink* ihu dual ." 

Prr,I. to Sot. 

' WrttU-u by Lord Byrnn'g early friend, the Rev. Ft ancle Hodg 



The second is from the volume of a young person 
earning to write poetry, und beginning b\ teaching the 
art. Hear him-* 

" Itm ye We** dead 
To thing* ye knew not of— were clueely wed 
T -. muaty i.iwi Hned out v uh wretched rule 
And compaaa rile , *o thai ye taogM a »chooj* 
Otdolu loamoo.'A, inlay, audeAn). nndjii. 
Till like the certain we,*tfta ol Jacoh'a wit, 
<<•«■ taUitd. E.t.y w.\* ifre task ; 

A i\ mod hmiitlicntfituieii wore the mmk 

Ol |ioea] . Ill-fated Imploua mi a, 

Thai Uaphenwd the bright lyrlet to hi* fuee. 

And did not know ii , no, they went about 

Hold I ne i poor -lc< "fni attnderd otii 

M.i i k 'a a mi im m fliinay inollM, end in large 

The ttuiuc ul une UuiLe^u I 

A little before, the manner of Pope is termed, 

" A *r,'»f?i,J 

Nurtured \>y foppery ninl Mirimiiin, 

■ ii Apollo 1'iu-ii for tin. htl land." 

I thought "foppery" was a consequence ofre/inement , 
lint ni.nporte. 

The above will suffice to show the nniions entertain- 
ed by thenjw perfbrmenon the English lyre of him who 



• In a nunnecrlpl note on Ihi* pjt«iage oflhe pamphlet, dated Nor. 
12, rS31, Lord Byron wye,— "Mr. Keaiedledet Rttteeboui « yeai »f 

tei ihin w.m wriiicii, of a decline produced by hii having nurat a blood- 
vessel on rending the article oiihis ' Kudj >• in llw (Auartei ly Re»lew 

i 1 1 1 vi ! re id ihi article before and aince ; and although u It bluer, I do 
inn think that a man ehould permit blmxil i" he billed by It. Hut a 

voijiib man little d>eai uai Inevitably encounter in the eourai 

nt a life ambitioua »> public notice. My Indignation at Mi. Keaia'ade- 

i,i. thin <'i Pupe hue l ly per led me to do Jiietlce lu hia own 

genius, which, malgii ill Lfac uutlaaUi Ibvueriai ol libt atyle, we* oo- 
doiibtedly of great pr Ik Hlafriutm ol ' Hyperion 1 awe m e actually 

n, | .i.l | Ihc riuna, mid ii na mililnne an JGlchylu*. He U) a lo.t IO 
e> he h ■ ile 4 th, i» iiid lo 



liuve beel 



ided ihui lie Imd i 



>ghl In 



and waa re. 



forniug >n a 'iv i. 'ii'..!, the more elaaaleal mixieUoi'ihe language. 

t ii vai k ii . .i-i ii gntnuwir " aehoul." 

I s,, S| . r .ii by the author. 

5 An a ueuuica U theec Imea. and ID the wn«e and aentiment of the 
new -' ll »1, I will pui down «{ia»*agc ur two Iroin Pope a turltttt po 
citlt, taken at random :— 

" Fnvy her own imkea ahall feel. 
And Periecutlon mottrn her broken wheel. 
There K.i. | ., mi Rebi Hi le hei ehaia, 

Anil g.i-junx Fuiie* limit fur Li!.>i'd in »ain." 

'* Ah I Bfbaf avail* hi» gloaty varying dvei, 
ilis purple creat, and learlet-elrcd I 
The rimi (fleen bla ehining plumea unfold, 
Ilia painted aringa, and Lrenst Unit fl.iuiet with gold." 

" Round bnik^n column*, churning ley twined, 
ii ., beapeol mu.i aulk'd Ihe lUlety hind ; 

The lo* obeceite to geplne i ■• retiree, 

And »u vb«c how lluga fill tin* aaered oulrcja*" 

". ll.i.l . baxdi trtumphanl ' born In huppier day* ; 
in. hi irtal bain ol unlveraal prjlee l 

\\ liu-e hni rti witli inri'riiM 1 "I .me* grow, 

Ai i> ( reditu roll down, enlarging a*. Uiey 'tour ; 
Nation* null-in vim i mighty name* ahull •unud, 
And world* applaud Hint mint not yel 1* found I 

Oh may •onte spni k of your eekatlal fire. 
The i.i-i, the meanest ofynnr Kne Insplrti 
(I'lnK mi we ik vioa, from tnr piiraaee your flirhu 
Oluv « w hiii: be i ■ ■ ■'• be » miii, 

Po . known, 

T' admire ■uperiordttuoeiaud doubt ihetravn I' 

" Ainptiti.n there ihe land creating lyre 
BlruWa, and behold « mdden Thehea a»pirei 



Ami hatfllir mo , . 



al!. 1 



• So XeaahlB'i ro. k», ihe beautc work of Iroet, 

line White ill .lir. and cliUrr lhl . r ; lie COaM i 

P.de IUIMJ felt, "I .Im.uii r mil away, 

And mi th'Iinpnaaive let the light pi play ; 

. growing m.i»> aupply, 

Till i tic bright raounl • |»rop tlia iiieuuwMl ahy f 

A> til** h- 'd, e icti boary pile appt ir. , 
I in gather 'd winter of a ihouaoud yenra. 



v*,ll proportioned dome, 
mil even llilin-, l> Rome I 



**Thiia, when we vli 
Tlieworld'ajuata 

No tingle parta ■■]■-. 

All cornea united toth' idmiring lyai i 

No mouatroui heiicht, or breadth, or length *pi«-ar ; 

The whole iitume <■ boldaud regular.*' 

A thousand simitar pnmn^e* crowd upon me, all compoaed by Pope 
before hi* fb*o-ona.Wtt*»iii«H *eai . and yel Ii Ii conl ended thai h« ia nu 

pnet, and we me told »o InattcK hue- n* I lire \hr i .-...I.t i iinnri> with 

theaepouf'-/ui veraee ofthe '* uo poet." Mu.i v.. repeal the queadonoi 
Johuaon, "I' t*<>pe i* not ap'irt, tf'irre it yoelr-j to tte found /" Keen 
in dr. c> ip-K-t poetry, the 'mi-ear department nflheart, be will be found 
mi a fair axamiuatUiu, w turuaaa any hv.ug writer. 



IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 



311 



made it most tuneable, and the great improvements ot 
iheir own " variaztoni.'* 

The writer of this is a tadpole of the Likes, a young 
disciple of ihe six or seven new schools, in which he 
has learnt to write such lines and such sentiments as the 
above. He says c< easy was the task" of imitating Pope, 
or it may be of equalling him, I presume. 1 recommend 
him to try before he is so pusiliveon the subject, and then 
compare what he will have then written and what he has 
n»w wrhten with the humblest and earliest compositions 
of Pope, produced in years still more youthful than those 
i't .Mr. Keats when he invented his new H Essay on 
Criticism, entitled lt Sleep and Poetry" (an ominous 
lille,) from whence the above canons are taken. Po|>e's 
was written at nineteen, and published at Iweniy-two. 

Such are the triumphs cf the new schools, and such 
their scholars. The disciples of Pope were Johnson, 
jioldsinith, Rogers, Campbell, Crabbe, Gilford, Mat- 
thias, Hayley, and the author of the Paradise of 
Coquettes ; to whom may be added Richards, Heber, 
Wrangham, Bland. Hodgson, Merivale, and others who 
lave not had their full fame, because " the race is not 
iJwttys to the swift, nor the battle to the strong," and 
because there is a fortune in fame as in all other things. 
Now, ol ail the new schools — I say all, " for, '* like Le- 
gion, they are many" — has there appeared a single scho- 
lar who has not made his master ashamed of him ? unless 
it be Sotheby, who has imitated every body, and occa- 
sionally surpassed his models. Scott found peculiar 
favour and imitation among the fair sex : there was Miss 
Holford, and Miss Mitford, and Miss Francis; but, 
with the greatest respect be it spoken, none of his 
imitators did much honour to the original, except Hogg, 
the Ettrick shepherd, until the appearance of '* The 
Bridal of Triermain," and " Harold the Dauntless," 
which in the opinion of some equalled if not surpassed 
him ; and lo ! after three or four years they turned out to 
be the Master's own compositions. Have Southey, or 
Coleridge, or t'other fellow, made a follower of renown ? 
Wilson never did well till he set up for himself in the 
11 City of the Plague." Has Moore, or any other living 
writer of reputation, had a tolerable imitator, or rather 
4isciple? Now, it is remarkable, that almost all the 
(j I lowers of Pope, whom I have named, have produced 
•eautiful and standard works ; and it was not the number 
of his imitators who finally hurt his fame, but the despai 
of imitation, and the ease of not imitating him sufficiently 
This, and the same reason which induced the Athenian 
burgher to vote for the banishment of Arislides, " be- 
cause he was tired of always hearing him called the 
/usf," have produced the temporary exile of Pope from 
the State of Literature. But the term of his ostracism 
will expire, and the sooner the belter, not for him, but 
for those who banished htm, and for the coming genera- 
tion, who 

*' Will blush to find theii Others were his foee " 



I will now return to the writer of the article which 
has drawn forth these remarks, whom 1 honestly take to 
be John Wilson, a man of great powers and acquire- 
ments, well known lo the public as the author of the 
"City of the Piague," * 4 Isle of Palms," and other 
productions. I take the liberty of naming him, by the 
same species of*courtesy which lias induced him lo de- 
signate me as the author of Don Juan. Upon the 
score of the Lake Poets, lie may peihaps recall tu mind 
that I merely express an opinion long ayo entertained 
and specified in a letter to Mr. James Hogg, which 
he the said James Hogg, somewhat contrary to the law 
of pens, showed to Mr. John Wilson, in the year 1814, 
as he himself informed me in his answer, telling me by 

way of apology, that " he'd be d d if he could help 

it j" and I am not conscious of any thing like " envy" 
or " exacerbation" at this moment which induces me 
to think better or worse of Southey, Wordsworth, and 
Coleridge as poets than I do now, although I do know 
one or two things more which have added lo my con- 
tempt for them as individuals. And, in return for Mr. 
Wilson's invective, I shall content myself with asking 
one question ; Did he never compose, recite, or sing 
any parody or parodies upon the Psalms (of what nature 
this deponent saith not,) in certain jovial meetings of 
the youth of Edinburgh ? It is not that I ihink any 
great harm if he did ; because it seems to me that all 
depends upon the intention of such a parody. If it be 
meant to throw ridicule on the sacred original, it is a 
sin ; if. it be intended to burlesque the profane subject, 
or to inculcate a moral truth, it is none. If it were, 
the unbtiievers 7 Creed, the many political parodies of 
various parts of the Scriptures and liturgy, particularly 
a celebrated one of the Lords Prayer, and the beautiful 
moral parable in favour of toleration by Franklin, 
which has often been taken for a real extract from Ge- 
nesis, would all be sins of a damning nature. But I 
wish to know, if Mr. Wilson ever has done this, and 
if he has, why he should be so very angry with similar 
portions of Don Juan ? — Did no " parody profane" ap- 
pear in any of the earlier numbers of Blackwood's 
Magazine? 

I will now conclude this long answer to a short article, 
repenting uf having said so much in my own defence, 
and so little on the "crying, left-hand fallings off" and 
national defections" of ihe poetry of the present day. 
Having said this, I can hardly be expected lo defend 
Don Juan, or any other " living 1 ' poetry, and shall not 
make the attempt. And although I do not think that 
Mr. John Wilson has in this instance treated me with 
candour or consideration, I trust that the tone I have 
used in speaking of him personally will prove that J 
bear him as little malice as I really believe at the bot- 
tom of his heart he bears towards me ; but the duties of 
an editor, like those of a tax-gatherer, are paramount 
and peremptory. I have done. 

BYRON. 



LETTER 

TO THE EDITOR OF 'MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW. 

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE * LIBERAL.' 



In ihc First Canto of Do 
ing passage: 



Juan appeared the foflow- 



■ r ■ reai ■"imp prudish readen »honM grew ikUtlih. 
1 've bribed My Qrandmotliar'i Kt view, —the British I 

" 1 Hilt il m n letter tO the BdltOT, 

win. | nnk'd ma duly by return of pott— 
I 'm for a handeomr. article bbtciwdlloi 

Ytl il my penile Mime he |>livi*e tn nuHt, 

And break i piomta iftsi having made il her, 

Denying iht reo 
And imaiir hU page with gall imte.id of honey, 

All I can s.iv it— tliM he hud the money." 



On the appearance of the Poem, the learned editor 
of the Review in question allowed himself to be dc 
coyed into the ineffable absurdity of taking the charge 
as serious, and, in his succeeding number, came forth 
with an indignant contradiction of it ; to which Lord 
Byron replied in the following letter : — 

''TO THE EDITOR OF THE BRITISH REVIEW. 
'* MY DEAR ROBERTS, 

"As a believer in the Church of England — to say 
nothing of the Slate — I have been an occasional reader, 
and great admirer of, though not a subscriber to, your 
Review, which is rat her expensive. Bui I do not know 
that any part of its contents ever gave me much surprise 
till the eleventh article of your twenty-seventh number 
made its appearance. You have there most vigorously 
refuted a calumnious accusation of bribery and corrup- 
tion, the credence of which in the public mind might 001 
only have damaged your reputation as a barrister and an 
editor, but, what would have been still worse, have injured 
the circulation of your journal; which, I regret to hear, 
is not so extensive as the ' purity (as you well observe) 
of its,'&c. &c. and the present taste for propriety, would 
induce us to expect. The charge itself is of a solemn 
nature, and, although in verse, is couched in terms of such 
circumstantial gravity, as lo induce a belief Utile short 
of lhat generally accorded to the thirty-nine articles, to 
winch you so frankly subscribed on taking your degrees. 
Il is a charge the most revolting to the heart of man, from 
its frequent occurrence; to the mind of a lawyer, from 
its occasional truth; and lo the soul of an editor, from its 
moral impossibility. You are charged then in the last 
line of one nctave stanza, and the whole eight lines of the 
next, viz. 209th and 210th of the first canto of that ' pes- 
tilent poem,' Don Juan, with receiving, and still more 
foolishly acknowledging the receipt of, certain monies, 
to eulogize the unknown author, who by this account 
must be known to you, if to nobody else. An impeach- 
ment of this nature, so seriously made, there is but one 
way of refuting; and it is my firm persuasion, that whe- 
ther you did or did not (and / believe that you did not) 
receive the said monies, of which I wish that he had 
specified the sum, you are quite right in denying all 
knowledge of the transaction. If charges of this ne- 
farious description are to go forth, sanctioned by all the 
solemnity of circumstance, and guaranteed by the vera- 
city of verse (as Counsellor Phillips would say) what 
is lo become of readers hitherto implicitly confident in 
the not less veracious prose of our critical journals ? 
what is to become of the reviews ? And if the reviews 
fail, what is to become of the editors? It is common 



cause, and you have done welt to sound the alarm. 1 
myself, in my humble sphere, will be one of your echoes. 
In the words of ihe tragedian Liston, ' I love a row,' 
and you seem justly determined lo make one. 

" It is barely possible, certainly improbable, thai the 
writer might have been injesi; but this only aggravate* 
his crime. A joke, the proverb says, * breaks no Donee ;' 
but it may break a bookseller, or u may be the cause of 
hones being broken. The jest is but a bad one at the 
best for the author, and might have been n still worse 
one for you, if vour copious contradiction did not certify 
to all whom it may concern your own indignant inno- 
cence, and the immaculate purilv of the British Review. 
I do not doubt your word, my dear Roberta, yet I can- 
not help wishing that in a ca*e of such vital importance, 
it had assumed ihe more substantial shape of an affida- 
vit sworn before the Lord Mayor. 

11 I am sure, my dear Roberts, that you will lake tli.se 
observations of mine in good part ; they are writren in 
a spirit of friendship not less pure than your own edito- 
rial integrity. I have always admired you ; and not 
knowing any shape which friendship and admiration 
can assume more agreeable and useful than that of good 
advice, I shall continue my lucubrations, mixed wilh 
here and there a monitory hint as to what I conceive 
to be the line you should pursue, in case you should 
ever again be assailed wilh bribes, or accused of taking 
them. By the way, you don't say much ab. ut the 
poem, except that it is ' flagitious. ' This is a pi'y 
— you should have cut it up ; because, to say the truth, 
in not doing so, you somewhat assist any notions which 
the malignant might entertain on the score of ihe ano- 
nymous asseveration which has made you so angry. 

" You say, no bookseller ' was willing to lake upon 
himself the publication, though most of them disgrace 
themselves by selling it.' Now, my dear friend, though 
we all know lhat those fellows will do any thing for 
money, meihinks the disgrace is more wilh the pur- 
chasers ; and some such, doubtless, (here are, for there 
can be no very extensive selling (as you will perceive 
by that of the British Review) without buying. You 
then add, ' what can the critic say V I am sure I do n'l 
know ; at present he says very little, and that not much 
lo the purpose. Then comes, ' for praise, as far as re- 
gards the poetry, many passages might be exhibited * 
for condemnation, as far as regards the morality, all 
Now, my dear good Roberts. I feel for you and for your 
reputation ; my heart bleeds for both ; and I do as* 
you, whether or not such language does not come posi- 
tively under the description of 'the puff* collusive,' for 
which see Sheridan's farce of ' The Critic' (by the way, 
a little more facetious than your own farce under the 
same title) towards the close of scene second, act the 
first. 

" The poem is, it seems, sold as the work of Lord 
Byron ; but you feel yourself ' at liberty to suppose it 
not Lord B.'s composition.' Why did you ever sup- 
pose that it was? I approve of your indignation — I 
applaud it — I feel as angry as you can; but perhaps 
your virtuous wrath carries you a little loo far, when 
you sav lhat ' no misdemeanour, not even thai of send- 
ing into the world obscene and blasphemous poetry, the 
product of studious lewdness and laboured impiety, ap- 



LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF -MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW. 



313 



Dears to you in so deiestable a light as the acceptance 
of a present by the editor of a review, as the condition 
of praising an author. 1 The devil it does n't ! Think 
a little. This is being critical overmuch. In point of 
Gentile benevolence or Christian charity, it were surely 
less criminal to praise for a bribe, than to abuse a fel- 
low-creature for nothing; and as to the assertion of the 
comparative innocence of blasphemy and obscenity, con- 
fronted with an editor's 'acceptance of a present,' I 
shall merely observe, that as an editor you say very 
well, but as a Christian barrister, I would not recommend 
you to transplant this sentence into a brief. 

" And yet you say, ' the miserable man (for miserable 
he is, as having a soul of which he cannot get rid') — 
But here I must pause again, and inquire what is the 
meaning of this parenthesis. We have heard of people 
of ' Utile soul,' or of ' no soul at all,' but never till now 
of i the misery of having a soul of which we cannot get 
rid ;' a misery under which you are possibly no creal 
sufferer, having got rid apparently of some of the intel- 
lectual parL of your own when you penned this pretty 
piece of eloquence. 

w Bui to continue. You call upon Lord Byron, al- 
ways supposing him not the author, to disclaim ' with 
all gentlemanly haste,' &c. &c. 1 am told that Lord 
B. is in a foreign country, some thousand miles off it 
may be; so that it will be difficult for him to hurry to 
your wishes. In the mean lime, perhajts you yourself 
have set an example of more haste than gentility ; but 
* the more haste the worse speed.' 

" Let us now look at the charge itself, my dear Ro- 
berts, which appears to me to be in some degree not 
quite explicitly worded : 

" I bribed my Orandmother't Review, the British." 

" I recollect hearing, soon after the publication, this 
subject discussed at the tea-table of Mr. S. the poet, 
who expressed himself, I remember, a good deal surprised 
that you had never reviewed his epic poem, nor any of 
his six tragedies, of which, in one instance, the bad taste 
of the pit, and in all the rest, the barbarous repugnance 
of the principal actors, prevented the performance. 
Mrs. and ihe Misses S. being in a corner of the room 
perusing the proof sheets of some now poems on Italy, 
(I wish, by the by, Airs. S. would make the tea a little 
Blronger,) the male part of the conversazione were at 
liberty to make a few observations on the poein and 
passage in question, and there was a difference of opi- 
nion. Some thought the allusion was to the ' British 
Critic;' others, that by the expression, ' my Grandmo- 
ther's Review,' it was intimated that ' my grandmother' 
was not the reader of the review, but actually the 
writer ; thereby insinuating, my dear Roberts, that you 
were an old woman ; because, as people often say, 
' Jeffrey's Review,' ' Gilford's Review,' in lieu of Edin- 
burgh and Quarterly ; so ' my Grandmother's Review' 
and Roberts's might be also synonymous. Now, what- 
ever colour his insinuation might derive from the cir- 
cumstance of your wearing a gown, as well as from 
your time of life, your general style, and various pas- 
sages of your writings, — I will take upon myself to 
exculpate you from all suspicion of the kind, and assert, 
without caHing Mrs. Roberts in testimony, that if ever 
you should be chosen Pope, you will pass through all the 
previous ceremonies with as much credit as any pontiff 
since the parturition of Joan. It is very unfair to judge 
of sex from writings, particularly from those of the 
British Review. We are all liable to be deceived ; and 
it is an indisputable fact, that many of the best articles 
in your journal, which were attributed to a veteran fe- 
male, were actually written by you yourself; and yet to 
this day there are people who could never find out the 
difference. Bullet us return to the more immediate 
pueetion. 

" I agree with you that it is impoisibla Lord Byron 

40 



should be the author, not only because as a British peer, 
and a British poet, it would be impracticable for him to 
have recourse to such facetious fiction, but for some other 
reasons which you have omitted to state. In the first 
place, his lordship has no grandmother. Now the author, 
— and we may believe him in this — doth expressly state 
that the * British' is his ' Grandmother's Review ;' and 
if, as I think I have distinctly proved, this was not a 
mere figurative allusion to your supposed intellectual 
age and sex, my dear friend, it follows, whether you be 
she or no, that there is such an elderly lady still extant. 
And I can the more readily credit this, having a sexa- 
genary aunt of my own, who perused you constantly, till 
unfortunately falling asleep over the leading article of 
your la>t number, her spectac.es fell off and were broken 
against the fender, after a faithful service of fifteen years, 
and she has never been able to fit her eyes since ; so 
that I have been forced to read you aloud lo her; and 
this is in fact the way in which I became acquainted 
with the subject of my present letter, and thus deter- 
mined to become your public correspondent. 

'• In the next place, Lord B.'s destiny seems in some 
sort like that of Hercules of old, who became the author 
of all unappropriated prodigies. Lord B. has been sup- 
posed the author of the ' Vampire,' of a ' Pilgrimage to 
Jerusalem,' ' To the Dead Sea,' of ' Death upon the 
Pale Horse,* of odes to ' Lavalette,' to ' Saint Helena,' 
to the ' Land of the Gaul,' and to a sucking child. Now 
he turned out to have written none of these things. Be- 
sides, you say, he knows in what a spirit of, &c. you 
criticise — Are you sure he knows all this? thai he has 
read you like my poor dear aunt? They tell me he is 
a queer sort of a man ; and I would not be too sure, if 
I were you, either of what he has read or what he has 
written. I thought his style had been the serious and 
terrible. As to his sending you money, this is the first 
time that ever I heard of his paying his reviewers in 
thai coin; I thought it was rather in their own, to judge 
from some of his earlier productions. Besides, though 
he may not be profuse in his expenditure, 1 should con- 
jecture thai his reviewer's bill is not so long as his 
tailor's. 

' Shall I give you what I think a prudent opinion. 1 
do n't mean lo insinuate, God forbid ! but if, by any ac- 
cident, there should have been such a correspondence 
between you and the unknown author, whoever he may 
be, send him back his money : I dare say he will be very 
glad to have it again : it can't be much, considering the 
i'alue of the article and the circulation of the journal ; 
and you are too modest lo rale your praise beyond its 
real worth. — Don't be angry, — I know you won't, — at 
this appraisement of your powers of eulogy ; for on the 
other hand, my dear friend, depend upon it your abuse 
is worth, not its own weight — that's a feather, — but 
your weight in gold. So do n't spare it: if he has bar- 
gained for that, give it handsomely, and depend upop 
your doing him a friendly office. 

' But I only speak in case of possibility ; for, as I 
said before, I cannot believe in the first instance, that 
you would receive a bribe to praise any person whatever ; 
and still less can I believe that your praise could ever 
produce such an offer. You are a good creature, my 
dear Roberts, and a clever fellow ; else I could almost 
suspect that you had fallen into the very trap set for you 

verse by this anonymous wag, who will certainly be 
but too happy to see you saving him the trouble of mak- 
ing vou ridiculous. The fact is, that the solemnity of 
your eleventh article does make you look a little more 
absurd than vou ever yet looked, in all probability, and 
at the same time does no good ; for if any body believed 
before in the octave stanzas, ihey will believe still, and 
you will find it not less difficult to prove your negative, 
than the learned Partridge found it to demonstrate hi* 
not being dead, to the satisfaction of the readers of 
almanacs. 



314 



LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF 'MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW.* 



11 What the motives of this writer may have been for 
(as you magnificently translate his quizzing you) ' slating, 
with the particularity which belongs to tact, the forgery 
of a groundless fiction,' (do pray, my dear R. talk a 
little less l in King Cambyses' vein,') I cannot pretend 
to say ; perhaps to laugh at you, but that is no reason 
for your benevolently making all the world laugh also. 
I approve of your being angry ; I tell you I am angry 
too ; but you should not have shown it so outrageously. 
Your solemn ' if somebody personating the Editor of 
the,' &c. &c. * has received from Lord B. or from any 
Other person, 1 reminds me of Charley Incledon's usual 
exordium when people came into the tavern to hear him 
sing without paying their share of the reckoning — ' If 
a maun, or ony maun, or ony other maun,* &c. &c. ; 
you have both the same redundant eloquence. But why 
Bhould you think any body would personate you ? No- 
body would dream of such a prank who ever read your 
compositions, and perhaps not many who have heard 
your conversation. But 1 have been inoculated with a 
little of your prolixity. The fact is, my dear Roberts, 
that somebody has tried to make a fool of you, and what 
he did not succeed in doing, you have done for him and 
for yourself. 

11 With regard to the poem itself, or the author, whom 
I cannot find out, (can you ?) I have nothing to say ; 
my business is with you. I am sure that you will, upon 
second thoughts, be really obliged to me for the intention 



of this letter, however far short my expressions may 
have fallen of the sincere good will, admiration, and 
thorough esteem, with which I am ever, my dear 
Roberts, 

11 Most truly yours, 
"WORTLEY CLUTTERBUCK. 
" Sept. — , 1819. 
11 Little PuUington. 

" P. S. Mv letter is too long to revise, and the post 
is going. I forget whether or not I asked you the 
meaning of your last words, ' the forgery of a groundless 
fiction.' Now, as all forgery is fiction, and all fiction 
a kind of forgery, is not this tautological ? The sentence 
would have ended more strongly with ' forgery ;' enly it 
hath an awful Bank of England sound, and would havn 
ended like an indictment, besides sparing you several 
words, and conferring some meaning upon the remain- 
der. But this is mere verbal criticism. Good bye— 
once more yours truly, 

" W. C. 

"P. S. 2d.— Is it true that the Saints make up the 
looses of the review ? — It is very handsome in them to 
be at so great an expense — Pray pardon my taking up 
so much of your time from the bar, and from your clients, 
who I hear are about the same number ^ith the readers 
of your journal. T\uice more yours, 



LORD BACON'S APOPHTHEGMS. 



BACON'S APOPHTHEGMS. 

91. 

Michael Angelo, the fa- 
mous painter, painting in 
the pope's chapel the por- 
traiture of hell and damtwd 
Boulsi made one of the 
damned souls so like a car- 
dinal (hat was his enemy, 
as every body at first sight 
knew it-, whereupon the 
cardinal complained to Pope 
Clement, humbly praying it 
mighi bedefarr.l. The pope 
;;aidto him, Why, you know 
very well I have power to 
deliver a soul out of purga- 
tory, but not out of hell. 

155. 

Alexander, afier tho bat- 
Is* of Granicum, had very 
jreat offers made him by 
"Darius. Consulting with 
Sis captains concerning 
them,Parmentosaid, Sure, 
I would accept of these of- 
fers, if I were as Alexander. 
Alexander answered, So 
would I, if I were as Par- 
men io. 



OBSERVATIONS. 

This was not the por- 
trait of a cardinal, but of 
the pope's master of the 
ceremonies. 



It was after the battle of 
Issus, and during the siege 
of Tyre, and not immedi- 
ately after the passage of 
the Granicus, (hat this is 
said to have occurred. 



153. 

Antignnus, when it was 
told him that the enemy hod 
such volleys of arrows, that 
they did hide the sun, said, 
That falls out well, for it 
is hot weather, and so we 
shall fight in the shade. 

162. 

There was a philosopher 
that disputed with Adrian 
the Emperor, and did it 
but weakly. One of his 
friends that stood by, after- 
wards said unto him, Me- 
tliiuks you were not like 
yourself last day, in argu- 
ment with the Emperor : I 
could have answered better 
myself. Why, said the phi- 
losopher, would yon have 
me contend with him that 
commands thirty legions ? 

164. 

There was one that found 
a great mass of money 
digged under ground in his 
grandfather's house, and 
being somewhat doubtful of 
ihe case, signified it to the 



This was not said by 
Antigonus, but by a Spar- 
tan, previously to the battle 
of Thermopylae. 



This happened under 
Augustus Ca?sar, and nol 
during the reign of Adrian. 



This happened to the fa- 
ther of Herodes Atticus, 
and the answer was made* 
by the emperor Aieruo, who 
deserved thut his name 
should have been stated by 



LORD BACON'S APOPHTHEGMS. 



315 



the " greatest — wisest — 
meanest of mankind." 



emperor thai he had found 
such treasure. The empe- 
ror made a rescript thus: 
Use it. He writ back again, 
that the sum was greatei 
lit. 1.11 his state or condition 
rould use. The emperor 
writ a new rescript, thus: 

Ai-llSC 't. 



178. 
One of the seven was This was said by Ana- 
wont to say, that laws were charsis the Scythian, and 
like cobwebs: where the not by a Greek. 
email Hies were caught, and 
the great brake through. 

209. 

An orator of Athens said This was not said by 
toDcmoslhenes,The Athe- Demosthenes, but to De- 
mans will kill you if they mosthenes by Phocion. 
wax mad. Demosthenes 
replied. And they will kill 
you, if they be in good 
sense. 



2.M. 

There was a philosopher 
about Tiberius thai, looking 
into the nature of Cains, 
said of him, Thai he was 
oiire mingled with blood. 

97. 
There was a king of Hun- 
gary took a bishop in bat- 
tle, and kept him prisoner ; 
whereupon the pope writ 
a monitory to him, for that 
he had broken the p ivilege 
of holy church, and taken 
his son : the king sent an 
embassage to him, and sent 
Withal the umour wherein 
the bishop was laken, and 
this only in writing — Vide 
num. hac sit vestisjilu tux ? 
Know now whether this be 
thy son's coat ? 



This was not said of 
Caius (Caligula, I pre- 
sume, is intended byCaius,) 
but of Tiberius himself. 



This reply was not made 
by a King of Hungary, but 
sent by Richard the first, 
Cffiur de Lion, of England 
to the Pope, with the breast- 
plate of the bishop of Beau- 
vais. 



267 
Demetrius, king of M 1- This did not happen to 
cedon,hadapetitionofivred Demetrius, but to Philip 
him divers times by an old King of Alaecdon. 
woman, and answered he 
had no leisure ; whereupon 
the woman aaid aloud, Why 
then give over tube king. 

VOLTAIRE. 

Having stared dial Bacon was frequently incorrect in 
his citations from history, I have thought it necessary 
in what regards so great a name (however trifling,) to 
support the assertion by such facts as more immediately 
occur to me. They are hut trifles, and yet for such 
trifles a schoolboy would be whipped (if still in the 
fourth form) ; and Voltaire for half a dozen similar er- 
rors has been treated as a superficial writer, notwith- 
standing the testimony of the .earned Warton : — " Vol- 
taire, a writer oCviuch deeper research than is imagined, 
and the first who has displayed the literature and cus- 
toms of the dark ages' with any degree of penetration and 
comprehension." For another distinguished testimony 
to Voltaire's merits in literary research, see also Lord 
Holland's excellent Account of the Life and Writings 
of Lope de Vega, vol. i. p. 215. edition of 1817. 

Voltaire has even been termed " a shallow fellow," 
by some of the same school who called Dryden's Ode 
" a drunken song \ n — a school (as it is called, I presume, 
from their education being still incomplete) the whole 
of whose filthy trash of Epics, Excursions, &c. &c. $cc. 
is not worth the two words in Zaire, " Vous pleurez? 
or a single speech rtf Tancred: — a school, the apostate 
lives of whose renegadues, with their tea-Hrinking neu- 
trality of morals, and their convenient treachery in 
politics — in the record of their accumulated pretences 
to virtue can produce no actions (were all their good 
deeds drawn tip in arrav) to equal or approach the sole 
defence of the family of Calas, by ihat great and une- 
qualled genius — the universal Voliai-e. 

I have ventured to remark on these little inaccuracies 
of *' the greatest genius that England or perhaps any 
other country ever produced,"* merely to show our na- 
tional injustice in condemning generally, the greatest 
genius of France for such inadveriencies as these, of 
which the highest of England has been no less guilty. 
Query, was Bacon a greater intellect than Newton ? 



* Popei iii Sfwuce'a Anecdotes, [>. 156. Mulnue's edition. 



TRANSLATION OP 

TWO EPISTLES FROM THE ARMENIAN VERSION 



THE EPISTLE OF THE CORINTHIANS 
TO ST. PAUL THE APOSTLE.* 

1 Stephen,! and the elders with him, Dabnus, Eu- 
bulus, Theophilus, ami Xmon, to Paul, our Lather and 
evangelist, and faithful master in Jesus Christ, health.} 

2 Two men have coma to Corinth, Simon, by name, 
and Cleobus.j; who veh.-m<-nth disturb the faith of some 
with deceitful and corrupt words ; 

3 Of which words thou shou!dst inform thyself: 

4 For netLher have we heard such words from thee, 
nor from the other apostles: 

5 But we know only that what we have heard from 
thee and from them, that we have kept firmly. 

6 But in this chiefiy has our Lord had compassion, 
that, whilst thou art yet with us in the flesh, we are again 
about to hear from thee. 

7 Therefire do thou write to us, or come thyself 
anionj us quickly. 

8 We believe in the Lord, that, as U was revealed to 
Theonas, he hath delivered thee from the hands of the 
unrighteous. || 

9 But these are the sinful words of these impure men, 
Jbr thus do thev say and teach: 

10 That it behooves not to admit the PropheLs.1T 

11 Neither do they affirm the omnipotence uf God: 

12 Neither do thev affirm the resurrection of the hVsh : 

13 Neither do they affirm that man was altogether 
seated by God : 

14 Neither do they affirm that Jesus Christ was born 
o the flesh from the Virgin Man - : 

15 Neither do they affirm that the world was the work 
rt" God, but of some one of the angels. 

16 Therefore do thou make haste** tocome amon<* us. 

17 That this city of the Corinthians may remain with- 
out scandal. 

18 And that the folly of ihese men maybe made mani- 
fest by an open refutation. Fare thee well. ft 

The deacons Thereptus and TichusJJ recew 
conveyed this Epistle to the city of the Philipprans.SS 

When Paul received the Epistle, although he was tht n 
in chains on account of Stratonice,||j| the wife of Apofo- 
lainislli; yet, as it were forgetting his bonds, he mourned 
over these words, an 1 said, weeping, "It were hotter for 
me to be dead, and with the Lord. F >r while 1 am in 
this b • 'y, and hear the wretched words of such false 



doctrine, behold, grief arises upon grief] and my trouble 
adds a weight bo my chains; when I behold this calamity, 
and progress of the machinations of Satan, who searcheth 
to do wrong.* 

And thus with deep affliction Paul comjiosed hi3 reply 
to the Epistle.* 



• Pome M.1S. have Ihc title thus : Eptetle of Stephen the Elder to 

,",.■■ ! . 

t In the MSS. the marginal vwtM pubtfahed by (.tie Wbhrtotti an- 

wanting. 

,' In K>afU MSS. we find, Tf.r etrfrr, ,Vumenr.», Eululue, Theo- 
fhitu*. atri jfoKMOn, tu P.,ul their brother, health • 

6 Other! r*kd, Tktrt came certi.in men, . . .and Clobeue, who 

vehfite.n .1 ■ ■ 

.| Some Mss. ta*t, Wt betttvt in rfa Lord, that hi* prmnet 
trie mod* tnani/tst ; t:n& by ti.is fotth the Lord deiiceied us from 
t/if hands of the ufi igh '&•*. 

TI Othera rn/U To read the Prophets. 

'• s.n-t,. MSS. hnv c Tne-tfore, brother, do thou make haett. 

tt Oilier* read. Fare thxt vlt in the ts>rd. 

:* Sine Mss. have. The Otacoiu Thtrtaua amA 7VcJIm». 

H The Whiawns hnve, To .W city of Phmncia.; Lul In nil tli. 
*-S;S. «< Suit, 7'. the city of the Pttii'ipuiatut. 

nil n.hero read, I 

iv Th t VVhlMoiii hava, o Apoll phaxui .- but la all um MSS. en 
end, .iyojoirmi. 



EPISTLE OF PAUL TO THE CORINTHIANS* 

1 Paul, in bonds for Jesus Christ, disturbed bv so 
many errors,} to his Corinthian brethren, health. 

2 I nothing marvel that the preachers of evil have 
made this progress. 

3 For because the Lord Jesus is about to fulfil his 
CODCuilg verily on this account do certain men pervert and 
despise his words. 

4 But I, verily, from the beginning, have taught vnu 
that only which I myself received from the forroei 

Mrs, who always remained with the Lord Jesus Christ 

5 And I now say unto you, that the Lord Jesus Christ 
was born of the Virgin Mary, who was of the seed of 
David, 

6 According to the annunciation of the Holy Ghost, 
sent to her by our Father frcin heaven; 

7 That Jesus might be introduced into the world,§ 
and deliver our Hesh by his flesh, and that he might raise 
us up from the dead ; 

8 As in this also he himself became the example : 

9 That it might be made manifest that man was 
created by the Father, 

10 He has not remained in perdition unsought ;]| 

11 But lie is sought for, that he might be revived by 
adoption. 

IS For God, who is the Lord of all, the Father of our 
Lord Jesus Christ, who made heaven and earth, synt, 
firstly, the Prophets to the Jews : 

13 That he would absolve them from their sins, and 
bring them to his judgment 

14 Because he wished to save, firstly, the house <if 

Israel, be bestowed and poured forth his Spirit upon the 
Pp.ph.-ts; 

15 That they should fi>r a long time preach the wor- 
ship of God, and the nativity of Christ. 

16" But he who was (he prra hen he wished 

to make himself Gud, laid his hand upon them, 

17 And bound all men in sin,1T 

18 Because the judgment of die world was approach- 
ing. 

19 But Almighty God, when he willed to justify, was 
unwilling to abandon his creature ; 

20 But when he saw his affliction, he had compassion 
upon him: 



Fn Hie text of this E(ii«tle there are some other variations in tl« 
' tht HflM is Hi- BMW, 
t Bonn MSS. Imv,. PmU'i Epistle fr Jrn prieon, for the int'.ruc- 
Carinthinnt. 

id, lif'trhfi bv MrfAUf roTtptinrfiftnt. 
MSS. ban. That Se-fu might comfort the <e..rtd. 
I read. He hne not rtnviiird tndlfirtwtt. 
TT Snma MSS. have, Ca,d his hand, ewd'thtn and alt body takrai 



TRANSLATION FROM THE ARMENIAN. 



317 



21 And at the end of a time he sent the Holy Ghosr 
inio the Virgin foretold by the Prophets. 

22 Who, believing readily,* was made worthy to con- 
ceive, and bring forth our Lord Jesus Christ. 

23 That from this perishable body, in which the evil 
spirit was glorified, he should be cast out, and it should be 
made manifest 

21 That he was not God: For Jesus Christ, in his 
fieah, had recalled and saved this perishable flesh, and 
drawn it into eternal life by faith, 

25 Because in his body he would prepare a pure 
temple of justice for all ages ; 

26 In whom we also, when we believe, are saved. 

27 Therefore know ye that these men are not the 
children of justice, but the children of w rath ; 

28 Who turn away from themselves the compassion 
of Got) ; 

29 Who say that neither the heavens nor the earth 
Won altogether works made by the hand of the Father 
» r all things.! 

30 But these cursed menj have the doctrine of die 
wrpeat. 

31 But do yc, by the power of God, withdraw your- 
selves far from these, and expel from among you the 
doctrine of the wicked. 

32 Because you are not the children of rebellion,§ but 
t ie sons of the beloved church. 

33 And on this account the time of the resurrection i-s 
pn ifihed io all men. 

34 Therefore they who affirm that there is no resurrec- 
tion of the flesh, they indeed shall not be raised up to 
eternal life ; 

35 But to judgment and condemnation shall the unbe- 
liever arise in the flesh: 

36 For to dial body which denies the resurrection of 
the h<>dv, shall be denied the resurrection: because such 
are found to refuse the resurrection. 

37 But you also, Corinthians ! have known, from the 
seels <.f wheat, and from other seeds, 

38 That one grain falls][ dry into the earth, and within 
it first dies, 

39 And afterward rises again, by the will of the Lord, 
endued with the same body: 

40 Neither indeed does it arise with the same simple 
boHv, but manifold, and filled with blessing. 

41 But we produce die example not only from seeds, 
but from the honourable bodies of men.lf 

42 Ye also have known Jonas, the son of Amittai.** 



■ Older* rud, Btlirrine with t pure heart. 

t Some MS9. In*c, Of Ood the Father of all thing*. 

I <)ih»Tt mad, The* <-nrs< it<m«*'ffi in this thing. 
% Uthm ■•■■■I, ChOdrtn of the duohviitnt. 

II -torn* MSS. h.ivr, That one ;rain fall* not dry into the earth. 
*> i»ilien read. Bui tee hioe not only produced from seed*, but 

/dm the hunauraAU body of "ion. 

" Oiher* read, The sun of Eutattihue. 



43 Because he delayed to preach to the Ninevites ho 
was swallowed up in the belly of a ash for three days 
and three nights : 

44 And afier three days God heard his supp'ication, 
and brought him out from the deep abyss ; 

45 Neither was any pan of his body corrupted ; neither 
was his eyebrow bent down.* 

46 And how much more for you, oh men of little faith! 

47 If you believe in our Lord Jesus Christ, will he 
raise you up, even as he himself hath arisen. 

48 If the bones of Elisha the prophet, falling upon the 
dead, revived the dead, 

49 By how much more shall ye, who are supported by 
he flesh and the blood and the Spirit oF Christ, arise- 
again on diat day with a perfect body ? 

50 Elias the prophet, embracing the widow's son, raised 
him from the dead: 

51 By how much more shall Jesus Christ revive you. 
on that day, with a perfect body, even as he himself hath 
arisen ? 

52 But if ve receive other things vainly,! 

53 Henceforth no one shall cause me to travail ; fori 
bear on my body these fetters^ 

54 To obtain Christ ; and I suffer with patience these 
afflictions to become worthy of the resurrection of the 
dead. 

55 And do each of you, having received the law from 
die hands of the blessed Prophets and ihe holy gospel, § 
firmly main'ain it ; 

56 To the end that you may be rewarded in the resur- 
rection of the dead, and the possession of the life eternal. 

57 But if any of ye, not believing, shall trespass, he 
hall be judged with the misdoers, and punished with 

those who have false belief. 

58 Because such are the generations of vipers, and 
the children of dragons and basilisks. 

59 Drive far from among ye, and fly from such, with 
the aid of our Lord Jesus Christ. 

60 And the peace and grace of the beloved Son be 
upon vou.|| Amen. 

Done into English by me, January- February \ 1817, at 
the Convent of San fazaro, vith the axd and txposititm 
of the Armenian text hy the FaUier Paschal jiucher, Ar- 
menian Friar, Bvror. 

Venice, April 10, 1817. 
/ had also the Latin text, hut it is in many places very 
corrupt, and with great omissions. 



• Othen add, Nor did a hidr of hi* b-.dy fall therefrom. 

t Horn* MSS. have, Ve thai' not receive other things in vain. 

I Olbefl finiahrd litre thn». Henceforth no one can trouble me fa* 
■it . ',ir / beat in ""i body the nujfrringt of Chntt. The grac* of 
ur fsii-d Jttu* Ciritt he with i/our spirit, my brethren. Amen, 

(, Some MSS have, 0/ 'he holy e\a"gelitt. 

U ' 'in. ii ,uM, Our l*ird be with ye all. Amen. 



THE WILL OF LORD BYRON. 



^EXTRACTED FROM THE REGISTRY OF THE PREROGATIVE COURT OF CANTERDl RT.) 



This is the last will and testament of me,Geor<." ' <""- 
don, Lord Byron, Baron Byron, of Rochdale, in the 
county of Lancaster, as follows: — I give and devi i 
that my manor or lordship of Rochdale, in the said county 
of Lancaster, with all its rights, royalties, members, and 
appurtenances, and all my lands, tenements, heredita- 
ment*) atid premises situate, lying, and being within the 
parish, manor, or lordship of Rochdale aforesaid, and all 
other my estates, lands, hereditaments, and premises 
whatsoever and wheresoever, unto niv friends John * \im 
Hobhouse, late of Trinity Colli . I ambridge, Enquire, 
and John Hanson, of Chanci ry-lane, London, Esquire, to 
the use and behoof of them, their heirs and assigns, upon 
trust that they ihe said John Cain Hobhouse and John 
Hanson, and the survivor of them, and the heirs and 

assigns of such survivor, do :tud snail, as s is r >\i\ eni- 

enily may be after my decease, sell and disposenf all my 
said manor and estates for the most money that can or 
may be had or gotten for the same, either by private con- 
tract or public sale by auction, ami either together or in 
hits, as my said trustees shall think proper; and for the 
facilitating such sale and sales, I do direct thai the receipi 
and receipts of my said trustees, and the survivor of them, 
and the heirs and assigns of auch survivor, shall be a good 
and sufficient discharge, and good and sufficient dis- 
charges to the purchaser or purchasers of my said estates, 
or any part or parts thereof, (or so much money as in such 
receipt or rcceiptsshall be expressed or acknowledged to 
be received ; and that such purchaser or purchasers, his, 
her, or their heirs am! assigns, shall not afterward be in 
any manner answerable or accountable for such purchase- 
monevs, or be obliged to sVe to the application thereof; 
and I do will ami direct thai my said trustees shall stand 
possessed of the moneys to arise by the sale of my said 
estates upon such trusts and fur si irh intents and purposes 
as I have hereinafter directed of and concerning the 
same : Ami whereas I have by certain deeds of convey- 
ance made on niv marriage with my present wife conveyed 
all my manor and estate of New stead, in the parishes of 
Nowstead and LinleVfin the county of Nottingham, unto 

trustees, upon trust to sell the same, and apply the sum 
of sixty thousand pounds, part of the money to arise by 
Buch Bale, upon the trusts n{' my marriage settlement : 

Now I do hereby give and bequeath all the remainder of 

the purchaso-i ley to arise by sale of my Raid estate at 

Newstead, and all the whole of ihe said sixty thousand 
pounds, or such part thereof as shall not be ome vested 
and payable under the trusts of my said marriage settle- 
ment, umo the said John Cam Hobhouse and John Han- 
son, their executors, administrators, and assigns, upon 
such trusts and for such ends, intents, and purposes as 
In reinafter directed of and concerning tin n Btdue of my 
personal estate. I give and bi queath unto the said John 
Cam Hobhouse and John Hanson the sum of one thou- 
sand pounds each. I give and bequeath all the rest, resi- 
due, and remainder of my personal estate whatsoever and 
wheresoever unto the said John Cam Hobhouse and John 
Hanson, their executors, administrators, and assigns, upon 
trust that they, my said truster's, and ihe survivor of them, 
and the executors and administrators of such Burvivoi , do 
and shall stand possessed of all such rest and residue of 
my said personal estate and the money to arise by sale of 



my real estates hereinbefore devised to them for sale and 
such of the moneys to arise by sale of my said estate at 
Newstead as I have power to dispose of, after payment 
of my debts and legacies hereby given, upon the trusts 
and lor the ends, intents, and purposes her< -inafier oh n- 
Uonedand directed of and concerning the same, that is to 
say, upon trust, that they, my said trustees, and the sur- 
vivor of ihem, ami the executors and administrators of 
such survivor, do and shall lay out and invest the same m 
the public stocks or funds, or upon government or real 
security at interest, with power from time to time to 
change, vary, and transpose such securities, and from time 
to time during the life of my sister Augusta Mary Leijjh, 
the wift of George Leigh, Esquire, nay, receive, apply, 
and dispone of the interest, dividends, and annual produce 
thereof when and as the same shall bt-come due and 
payable into the proper hands of the said Augusta Mary 

Leigh, to and fur her sole and separate use and benefit, 

free from the Control, debts, or engagements of her present 
or any future husband, or unto such person or persons as 
she my said sister shall from time to time, by any writing 
under bei hand, notwithstanding her present or any future 
coverture, and whether coverl or sole, direct or appoint : 
and from and immediately after the decease of my said 
sister, then upon trust that they, my Baid trustees, and the 
survivor of them, Ins executors or administrators, do and 
shall assign and transfer all my said personal estate and 
other the trust property hereinbefore mentioned, or ih« 
stocks, funds, or securities wherein or upon which the 
same shall or may be placed out or invested unto and 
among all and every the child and children of my said 
sister, if more than one, in such parts, shares, and propor- 
tions, and to become a vested interest, and to be paid and 
transferred at such time and times, and in such manner, 
and with, under, and subject to such provisions, coi id it ion s, 
and restrictions, as my said sister at any time during her 
life, whether coverl or sole, by any deed or deeds, instru- 
ment or instruments, in writing, with or without power of 
revocation, to be sealed and delivered in the presence of 
two or more credible witnesses, or by her last will and 
testament in writing, or any writing of appointment in the 
nature of a will, shall direct or appoint, and in default of 
any such appointment, or in case of the death of my said 
sister in my lifetime, then Upon trust that they, my said 
trustees, and the sur\ ivur of ihi-m, his executors, adminis- 
trators, and assigns, do an. I shall assign and transfer all 
the trust, property, and funds unto and among the children 
of my said sister, if more than one, equally to he diviJi d 
between ihem, share ami shoe alike, and if only one such 
child, then to such only child the share and shares of sin h 
of (hem as shall be a son or sons, to he paid and trans- 
ferred unto him and them when and as he or they shall 
respectively attain his or their age or ages of twenty-one 
years ; and the share and shares of such of them as shall 
be a daughter or daughters, to be paid and transferred unto 
her or Ihem when and as she or they shall respectively 
attain his or their age or ages of twenty-one years, or be 
married, which shall first happen, and in case any of such 
children shall happen to die, being a son <,r sons, before he 
or they shall attain the age of twenty-one years, or being 
a daughter or daughters, before she or they shall attain 
the said a^e of iwtmty-one, or be married ; then it is my 



LORD BYRON'S WILL. 



319 



will and I do direct that the share and shares of such of 
the said children as shall so die shall go to the survivor or 
Blffvivors of such children, with the benefit of further 
accruer in case of the death of any such surviving chil- 
dren bel"»re thru* shares shall become vested. And I do 
direct that my said trustees shall pay and apply the inte- 
rest and dividends of each of the said children's shares in 
the said trust funds for his, her, or their maintenance and 
education during their minorities, notwithstanding their 
shares may not become vested interests, but that such 
interest and dividends as shall not have been so applied 
shall accumulate, and follow, and go over with the princi- 
pal. And I do nominate, constitute, and appoint the said 
John Cam Hobhousc and John Hanson executors of this 
my will. And I do will and direct that my said trustees 
shall not be answerable the one of them for the other of 
them, or for the acts, deeds, receipts, or defaults of the 
other of them, but each n<* them for his own acts, deeds, 
receipts, and wilful default-* only, and that they my said 
trustees shall be entitled to retain and deduct out of the 
moneys which shall come to their hands under the trusts 
aforesaid all such costs, charges, damages, and expenses 
wluch they or any of them shall bear, pay, sustain, or be 
put unto, in the execution and performance of the trusts 
herein reposed in them. I make the above provision for 
my sister and her children, in consequence of mv dear 
wife Lady Byron and any children I may have, being 
otherwise amply provided for ; and, lastly, I do revoke all 
former wills by me at any time heretofore made, and do 
declare this only to be my last will and testament. In 
witness whereof, I have to this my last will, contained in 
three sheets of paper, set my hand to the first two sheets 
thereof and to this third and last sheet my hand and seal 
this 20th day of July, in the year of our Lord 1815. 

BYRON, (L. S.) 
Signed, sealed, published, and declared by the said Lord 
Byron, the testator, as and for his last will and testament, 
m the presence of us, who, at his request, in his presence, 
and in the presence of each other, have hereto subscribed 
our names as witnesses. 

Thomas Jones Mawse, 
Edmund Griffin, 
Frederick Jervis, 
Clerks to Mr. Hanson, Chancery-lane. 



CODICIL.— This is a Codicil to the last will and 
testament of me, the Right Honourable George Gordon, 
Lord Byron. I give and bequeath unto Allegra Biron, 
an infant of about twenty months old, by me brought up, 
and now residing at Venice, the sum of five thousand 
pounds, which I direct the executors of mv said will to 
pay to her on her attaining the age of twenty-one years, 
or on the day of her marriage, on condition that she does 
not marry with a native of Great Britain, which shall first 
happen. And I direct my said executors, as soon as 
conveniently may be afier my decease, to invest the said 
sum of five thousand pounds upon government or real 
security, and to pay and apply the annual income thereof 
in or towards the maintenance and education of the said 
Allegra Biron, until she attains her said age of twenty* 
ie years, or shall be married as aforesaid ; but in case 
she shall die before attaining the said age and without 
having been married, then I direct the said sum of five 
thousand pounds to become part of the residue of my 
personal estate, and in all other respects I do confirm my 
aid will, and declare this to be a codicil thereto. In wit- 
ness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and seal, at 
Venice, this 17 ill day of November, in the year of our 
Lord 1818. 

BYRON, (L. S.) 

Signed, sealed, published, and declared by the said Lord 
Byron, as and for a codicil to his will, in the presence of 
us, who, in liis presence, at his request, and in the presence 
of each other, have subscribed our names as witnesses. 
Newton Hanson, 
William Fletcher. 

Proved at London, (with a codicil,) 6th of July, 1824- 
before the Worshipful Stephen Lushington, Doctor of 
Laws, and surrogate, by the oaths of John Cam Hobhouse 
and John Hanson, Esquires, the executors to whom 
administration was granted, having been first sworn duly 
to administer. 

Nathaniel Griskins, 
George Jenner, 
Charles Dvnelev, 

Deputy Registrars. 



\ 



4 




■■ _'iiV ' -■-;'.- -^U- I 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



A ROMAUNT. 



I/univeri e«l tine t ipeVe dp livre, dont nn n'a lu q«c 1j premiere pasje quaod on n'a »u q»t ion pays. J «n 
at reuitlet&ua *s«ez grand nombre, que j'si Irouvft fe^Hlcmem mauvaiaes. Cei ex amen ne m'a poinl bib in- 
fruetueux. Je haTssnianm palrie. Toiilea lea impertinences des peuplca diver*, purnii leaqueU J'ai tbcu, 
m'onl rfcconeiU& avec elle. Quaud je n'aurma lire d autre bkufcfice do ines voyagea que celui-IA, Je n'en 
regtetieraia ui lea fraia. ni lea faliguts. 

LE COSMOPOLITE. 



PREFACE. 

The following poem was written, fi>r the most part, 
amid the scenes which it attempts to describe. It was 
begun in Albania; and the parts relative to Spain and 
Portugal were composed from the author's observations 
in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary to 
state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes 
attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus 
Acarnania, and Greece. There for the present the poem 
stops: its reception will determine whether the author 
may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the 
East, through Ionia and Phrygia : these two cantos are 
merely experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
giving some connexion to the piece; which, however, 
makes no pretension to regularity. It has been suggest- 
ed to me by friends, on whose opinions I seta high value, 
that in this fictitious character, " Childe Harold," I may 
incur the suspicion of having intended some real person- 
age : this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim — Harold is 
the child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. 
In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local 
there might be grounds for such a notion ; but in the main 
points, 1 should hope, none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation 
"Childe," as " Childe Waters," "Childe Childers," 
&c. is used as more consonant with the old structure of 
versification which I have adopted. The " Good Night," 
in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by 
"Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Border Minstrelsy, 
edited by Mr. Scott. 

With the different poems which have been published 
on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight co- 
incidence in the first part, which treats of the Peninsula, 
but it can only be casual; as, with the exception of a 
few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was writ- 
ten in the Levant. 



The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most 
successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Bealtie 
makes the following observation : " Not long ago I began 
a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I 
propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be cither 
droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or 
satirical, as the humour strikes me; for, if I mistake not, 
the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all 
these kinds of composition."* — Strengthened in my 
opinion bv such authority, and by the example of some 
in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no 
apology for attempts at similar variations in the following 
composition ; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, 
their failure must be in the execution, rather than in the 
design sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, 
and Beattie. 



ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 

I have now waited till almost all our periodical jour 
nals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To 
the justice of the generality of their criticisms I have 
nothing to object; it would ill become me to quarrel with 
their veiy slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, it 
they had been less kind they had been more candid. 
Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for 
their liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an 
observation. Among the many objections justly urged 
to the very indifferent character of the " vagrant Childe," 
(whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I 
still maintain to be a fictitious personage,) it has been 
stated, that, besides the anachronism, he is very un- 



' BdiUle'i Let'.m. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



knigfdly, as the times of the ECnipfltS were times of love, 
honour, and so forth. Now it bo happens that the good 
old times, when " '.'amour du bun vieui tenis, 1'aniour 
antique" flourished, were tin' m el profligate of all pos- 
sible centuries. Thoso who have any doubts on ibis 
subject may consult St. Palaye, passim, and more parti- 
cularly vol. li. page 6*3. The rows of chivalry were no 
better kept than any oilier vows whatsoever; and the 
songs of the Troubadours were not more decent] and 
certainly were much less refined] than those of Ovid. 
The " Cours d'amour, parlemens d'amour ou de cour- 
tesie et de gentilcsse'' had nun h inon oi' l-.\ lliau o 
courtesy or gentleness. See Holland on the same subjecl 
with St. Palaye. Whatever other objection may be 
urged to that most unamiable personage Childe IlamM, 
he was so far perfectly knightly in his attributes — " No 
waiter, but a knight templar."* By the by. I fear that 
Sir Tristram and Sir Lancelot were no belter man they 
should be, although very poetical personages and tru-- 
kntghta "sans peur," though not " sans reproche." I 
the story of the institution of the "Gaiter" be not a 
fable, the knighU of that order have for several centuries 



* The Roven. Antijaccbln. 



borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent 
memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have 
regretted that its days are over, though Maria Antuinetto 
was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honours 
lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed* 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir 
Joseph Banks, ('In' most chaste and celebrated of ancient 
and modern times,) few exceptions will be found to this 
statement, and I fear a little investigation will teach us not 
to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle ages. 

I now leave " Childe Harold" to live his day, such as 
he is; it had been more agreeable, and certainly more 
easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had bten 
easy to varnish ^\ er bis faults, to make him do more and 
express less, but he never was intended as an example, 
further than to show that early perversion of mind and 
murals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappoint- 
ment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature, 
and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most 
powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so consti- 
tuted, or rather misdirected. Hail I proceeded with the 
poem, tin-, character would have deepened as he drew to 
(he close ; for the outline which I once meant to fill up 
for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a moder 
Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco. 



TO IANTIIE. 



Not in those climes where I have late been straying. 
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd ; 
Not in those visions to 'he heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, 
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seein'd : 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they bcam'd 
To such as see thee noi my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language could they 
speak ? 

Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
Before whoso heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 

Young Peri of the West! — *t is well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on theo, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 



Happier, 'hat while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes as una 
To thus.' u! ( ..-,- admiration shall succeed, 
But mix'd \\ ith [ angs to Love 1 ] even km liest hours de- 
creed. 

Oh ! lit that eve, which, wild as the Gazelle's, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
AYins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend: 
This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why 
To one so young my strain I would commend, 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined 
Shall tints be first beheld, forgotton last: 
My days once number'd, should this homage past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
Such is the most my memory may desire 
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship 
less require j 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO I. 



Oh, thou I in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill : 
Yet there I Ve wanderM by thy vaunted rill; 
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine, 1 
"Where, save lhat feeble fountain, all is still ; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 



Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, . 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. 
All, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things f jund favour in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal cornpanie, 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 



Childc Harold was he hight: — but whence his name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
And had been glorious in another day : 
But one sad loscl soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time ; 
Nor ail that heralds rake from coflWd clay, 
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

IT. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 
Disporting there like any other fly ; 
Nor deem'd before his little dav was done 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell; 
He felt the fulness of satiety: 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad ctl. 



For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss, 
Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one, 
And that loved one, alas 1 could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to last* 



And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee: 
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
And from his native land resolved to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
With pleasure drugged he almost long'd for wo, 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. 



The Childe departed from his father's hall : 
It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
Yet strength was pillar M in each massy aisle. 
Monastic dome ! condemn 'd to uses vile ! 
Where Superstition once had made her den 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile ; 
And monks might deem their time was come a"en, 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 

VIII, 

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood 

Strange | angs would flash along Childe Harold's brow 

As if the memory of some deadly feud 

Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 

But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 

For his was not that open, artless soul 

That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 

Nor sought be friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er tliis grief mote be, which he could not control. 

IX. 

And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near, 
He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea ! none did love him — not his lemans dear— 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care, 
And where these are light Eros finds a fere; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. 



Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did shun; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun: 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel ; 
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such parting break the heart they fondly hope to hcaj 



CIIII.DE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



Gawtq r . 



His house, his home, \us heritage, his lands, 
The faiighing dames in whom he did delight, 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
And long had fed his youthful appetite; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, 
And all Uiat mole to luxury invite, 
Without a sigh he left, to cross tin- brute, 
|sjdtrav*.T>e Pay nun shores, and pass Earth's central line 



The sails were RUM, and fair the light winds blew, 
As glad to waft luin from his native home; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did como 
One word of wait, whilst others sat and wept, 
£jni to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 



But when ihe sun was sinking in the sea 
He seized liis harp, which he at times could string, 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody, 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening: 
And now bis fingers o'er it he did Sing 
And tuned liis farewell in the dim twilight. 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 
Thus to the elements he pourM his last "Good Night. 



'Adieu, adieu! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue; 
The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild seamew. 
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his Sight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native Land — Good Night! 



tt A few short hours and He will rise 

To give the Morrow birth; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother Earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on tho wall ; 

My dog howls at the gate. 



"Come hither, hither, my little page! 

Why dost thou weep and wail 1 
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, 

Or tremble at the gale ? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; 

Our ship is swift and strong: 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along." 

4. 

'Let winds he shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind ; 
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind ; 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love, 
And have no friend, save these alone, 

But thee — and one above. 



5. 

Mv father blessM me fervently, 

^ el did not modi complain ; 

But sorely will my mother sigh 
Till I come back again.' — 

"Enough, enough, my little lad! 
Such tears become thine 

If I thy guileless boBom had, 
Mine own would not be dry. 



hither, my staunch yeoman, 

Why dost thou lot k B0 pale? 
Or dost thou dread a French fucman? 

Or shiver . 
'DeenVst thou I tremble for my life? 

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; 
But thinking un an absent wife 

Will Uanch a faithful cheek. 

7. 

'Mv spon-. and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake, 
And wh.n thry on their father call, 

What answer shall she make?' — 

"Enough, enough, mv yeoman good. 
Thy grief let none gainsay; 

But I, who am of lighter mood, 
Will laugh to DM away. 

8. 

"For who would trust tho seeming sighs 

Of wift or paramour ? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near; 
My gn Steal gi ii f is that I leave 

No tiling that elanns a tear. 

9. 

"And now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea: 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 

Till fed by stranger bands; 
But long ere I come back again, 

lied tear me where he stands. 

10. 

"With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine; 
Nor care what land thou bcar'st me to, 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves! 

And when you fail my sight, 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye cares! 

My native Land — Hood Night!" 



On, on the vessel flic, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
New shores descried make every bosom gay; 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reef 



Caxto [. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Oh, Christ! it is a gnoclly sight to see 

What Heaven hath ■ delicious land! 

What fruits of fragrance I ry tree! 

What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand! 
But man would mat ui impious hand: 

And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scoi 
XjJainst those who most transgress his high command, 
With treble n iXI his h rt shafts urge 

Gaul's locust host, and earth from feUest (oemen purge. 

XVI. 

What beauti- ■> first unfold! 

Her r thai noble tide, 

Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whi ■ tisand keels did ride 

Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
An 1 i" the Lumans did her aid afford: 
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, 
Who lick yel loathe the hand that waves the sword 
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord. 

XVII. 

But whoso entered] within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 

many things unsightly to strange ee; 
For hut and palace show like filthily : 
The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care t >ul or shirt, 

Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, 
unhurt. 

XVIII. 

Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest scenes — 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men? 
Lot Cinlra's glorious Eden intern 
In variegated maze of mount and <r!>'n. 
Ah. me! what hand can penril guide, °r p^n, 
To follow half on which the eye dilates, 
Through news more dazzling unto mortal ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard relates, 
Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates? 

XIX. 

The horrid rra^s, by toppling convent crown'd, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
in luntain-moxj by scon hing Bkies imbrown'd, 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep, 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
The torrents that from <-liif to valley lean, 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 

Mml in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. 
xx. 
Then slowly climh the many-winding way, 
Ann 1 frequent turn to ou go, 

From loftier rocks new loveline a survey, 
And rest vel a.1 our ■■].:< \ wt*f* 

Where frugal monks their little relics show, 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell: 
Here impious m**n have punish'd been, and lo! 
Deep in yon rave Honorius long did dwell, 

tn hope '" merit Heaven by making earth a Hell. 

XXI. 

And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
Mark many rude-caned crosses near the path: 
Vet deem not these devotion's offering — 
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : 
For v r \\ i tun hath 

t?our\I forth his blood beneath the a BassuVe knife, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Throughout Uiis purp!e land where law secures not life. 3 



On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
Are domes where whilome kings did make repair; 
But now the wild flowers round them only breathe; 
Yet ruin'd splendour sail is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair: 
There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest son, 
Once funnd thy Paradise, as not aware 
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, 
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wout to shun. 

XXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, 
Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow: 
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
Thy fain' duelling is as lone as thou! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide: 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied; 
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide! 

XXIV. 

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened! 4 
Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
With diadem night foolscap, lo! a fiend, 
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe arrayM, and by 
His siJe is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 
Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his soui. 

XXV. 

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That fuiTd the knights in Marialva's dome: 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here Folly dash'd to earth the victors plume, 
And Policy regain'd what amis had lost; 
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom ! 
Wo to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, 
Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast. 

XXVI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 

Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thv name; 

And folks in office at the mention fret, 

And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. 

How will posterity the deed proclaim! 

Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 

To view these champions cheated of their fame, 

By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 

Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming 
year? 

xxvri. 
So dcein'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 
Did take his way in solitary guise: 
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, 
More restless than the swallow in the skies: 
Though here a while he learn'd to moralize, 
For meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 
His early youth, inispent in maddest whim ; 

But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. 

XXVIII. 

To horse! to horse! he quits, far ever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul: 
Attain he rouses from hi' moping fits, 
But seeks not now th« harlot and the bowl. 
Onward he Hies, nor fi-'d as yet the goal 
Where he shall real him on his pilgrimage; 
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
Ere toil his tlxirst for travel can assuage, 
Or he shall calm his breast, or leam experience sage. 



Q 



CJiILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Caxto I 



Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,' 
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' hidden queen; 
Ami church and court did mingle their array, 
Ami mas ami revel were alternate seen; 
Lordlings and frcres — ill-sorted fry I ween! 
But here the Babylonian whore hath hu:lt 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 
That men forget the blood which she i.alli spilt, 
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish gtalt. 

xxx. 

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
(Oil, that such hills upheld a freebom race!) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, 
Oh! diere is sweetness in the mountain air, 
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the lulls at length recede, 
Ami, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend: 
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed! 
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows— 
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend: 
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, 
A ml all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes, 

XXXII. 

Where Lusitania anil her sister meet, 
Deem ve what bounds the rival realms divide? 
hi ere the jealous queens of nations greet, 
Doth Tayo interpose Ins mighty tide ! 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pud'.' 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crass, nor mountains dark and tall, 
Rise like the rocks Uiat part Hispania's land frum Gaid. 

XXXIII. 

But these between a silvor streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distinguished! the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
That peaceful still "twirl bitterest foemen flow; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke: 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. 6 

XXXIV. 
But en- the mingling bounds have far been pass'd, 

Dark Quad i rolls his power along 

In sullen lull,. us, murmuring and \ast, 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest : 
Here ceased the swift theii trade, hen sunk the strong; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
MiArV on die bleeding stream, by floating hoists opprcss'd. 

XXXV. 

Oh, lovclv Spain! renown'd romantic land! 
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 
When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?' 
Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
"Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale, 
echoes thrift! with Moorish matrons' wail 



xxxvi. 

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale 1 
Ah ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
When granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine cstato, 
See how the Mighty shrink into a song! 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History doer Owe 
wrong ? 

XXXVII. 

Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance! 
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries; 
But wields nut, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: 
Now on the smoke uf blazing bolts she flics, 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar: 
In every peal she calls— "Awake! arise!" 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore? 

XXXVIII. 

Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote; 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants anil tyrants' slaves? — the fires of death, 
The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breadiei 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo! where Ihe Giant on the mountain stands, 
His Hood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it rolls, now lix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done ; 
For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine die blood he deems most sweel 



By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mL\'d embroidery, 
Their various arms that glitter in the air! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, 
And 2iiash their fan?s, loud yelling for Uie prey! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share; 
The Grave shall hear the chiefest prize away, 
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 

XXI. 

Three hosts combine lo offer sacrifice; 
Three tongoes prefer strange orisons on high; 
Three gaudv standards thmt the pale blue skies; 
The shiiuls are France, Spain, Albion, Victory! 
The fee, tl«' victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize Uio field that each pretends to gain. 

XLII. 

There shall they rot — Ambition's honour'd fools! 
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
With human hearts — to what? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? 
Or call with truth one spnn of earth their own, 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone 7 



Canto I. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XLIII. 

Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief! 
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed ! 
Peace to the perish'd! may the warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
And shine m worthless lays, the theme of transient song ! 

XLIV. 

Enough of Battle's minions! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame: 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, 
Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
In sooth 'twere sad to thwart thei^noble aim 
"Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's good, 
And die, that living might have proved her shame ; 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, 
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. 

XLF. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued: 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wish'd-for prey ! 
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, 
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. 

XX. YX. 

But all unconscious of the coming doom, 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds : 
Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds ; 
Here Folly still his votaries inthralls ; 
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds : 
Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
StUl to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. 

XLVII. 

Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
E andango twirls his jocund castanet : 
Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret ; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy 
yet! 

XJ.VIII. 

How carols now the lusty muleteer? 
Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay, 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way ? 
No ! as he speeds, he chants, " Viva el Rey !" 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, 
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. 

XLIX. 

On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground ; 
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd vest 
Tells that the foe wa3 Andalusia's guest: 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, 
Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest ; 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, 
And points to yonder cliffs, wliich oft were won and lost, 



And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet ' • 
Wo to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true: 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; 
And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, 
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. 

LI. 

At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road. 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflowM, 
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
The magazine in rocky durance stowM, 
The holsteVd steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, 10 

HI. 

Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway 
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 
A little moment deignelh to delay: 
Soon will his legions sweep through these their way; 
The West must own the Scourger of the world. 
Ah! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, 
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurl'd, 
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd. 

LIU. 

And must they fall? the young, the proud, the bravej 
To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign? 
No step between submission and a grave? 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? 
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain? 
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart 
of steel ? 

LIT. 

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appalfd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, 
Now views the col umn- scattering bay'net jar, 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to 
tread. 

LV. 

Ve who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, 
Seen her long locks that (oil the painter's power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, 
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase. 

LVI. 

Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear; 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their base career ; 
The foe retires— she heads the sallying host; 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall? 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lostt 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall?" 



CH1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



(' IBTO r. 



Yet arc Span's ma'dfl no racj of Amazons, 
But formU for all the witching arts of Ion ; 
Though thus in arms tiny emulate her sons. 

■ And in the horrid pi alanx da c to move, 
Tia but the tender Gerceness of tlte dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate: 
In softness as in nVmness far i hove 
Remoter females, filmed for sickening prate; 

Her mind is nobler sure, her charm? perchance as great 
h vm. 
The seal Love's dimpling finger hftth impressed 
Denotes how soil that "Inn which bears his touch:" 
Her lips, whose kisses poul to leave their nest, 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such*: 
Her glance how wildly beautiful ! bow much 
Hath Phu-bus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, , 

Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch! 
Who round the North for paler dairies would seek? 

How poor their funis appear! how languid, wan, ami 
weald 

LIX. 
Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; 
Match me, ye harams of die land ! where now 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow ; 
Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — deign to know 
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, 

His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. 

L3C. 

Oh, thou Parnassus! 1 * whom I now survey, 
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, 
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave 
her wing. 

LXI, 
Oil have I dream'd of Thee ! whose glorious name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! 
LXil. 
Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
Whose fate to distant homes Confined their lot, 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
Which others rave ofj though they know it not? 
Though here no more ApoUo haunts his grot, 
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 

LXIII. 

Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 
I turu'tl aside to pay my homage hero ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spam ; 
Her fate, to every frccborn bosom dear ; 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let mo some remnant, sonic memorial bear; 
Yield mo one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, 
Nor let thy votary's hope be dcemM an idle vaunt. 



LXIV. 

But ncVr didst thou, lair Mount! when Greece was 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir, [young! 
N<>r e'er did Delphi, when her priceless sung 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal lire, 
Behold a train more firing to inspire 
The song of love than A aids, 

Nurst in the glowing Lap ofsofl di 
All! that to i ■ aceful shades 

As Greece can still bestow, though Glory liy her glades. 

LXV. 

Fair ' her country boasl 

Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days;" 
Kul Cadiz, rising on 
Ca forth ter, though ignoble pi 

Ah, Vice! how soft i rolupluo 

\\ I i . i, ,vi -h blood is mantling who can 'scape 
The fascination of Uiy magic gaze .' 
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gag e, 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 



When Paphos fell by time — accursed Time! 
The queen who conquers all must yield to thee— 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime ; 
And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
To nought else constant, hither deigu'd to flee; 
And fix'd her shrine within these walls of wliite: 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
Her worship, but, devoted to bor rite, 
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright- 



From morn till night, from night till startled Morn 
Peeps blushing on the revel's Laughing crew, 
The song is hcanl, the rosy garland worn. 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, 
Tread on each other's kibes, A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy thnt here sojourns: 
Noughl interrupts the riot, though in lien 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns, 
And love and prayer unite, or ride the hour by turns. 

LXVI1I. 

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest ; 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore? 
Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast ; 
Hark! heard you not the forest monarch's roar? 
Crashing the lance, lie snuffs the spouting gore 
Of man and steed, overthrown beneath ins horn. 
The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more; 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, 
Nor shrinks the female eve, nor ev'n affects to mourn. 



The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. 
London! right well th u know'sl the day of prayer: 
Then thy spruce citizen, uash'd artisan, 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: 
Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, 
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl, 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair; 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. 

I. XX. 

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd (air, 
I Ithers along the safer turnpike fly; 
Some Richmond-hill ascend, some send to Ware, 
And manv to the steep of EBghgate hie. 
A^k ve, Boeotian shades! the reason why? 1 * 
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, 
In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, 
And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn. 



Canto I. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea! 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary: 
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare: 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. 

LXXII. 

The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; 
Long ere the first loud trumpets note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found: 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, 
As moonstruck bards complain, by Love's sad archery. 

LXXIII. 

HushM is the din of tongues— on gallant steeds, 
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance, 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
And lowly bending to the lists advance; 
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers fcatly prance : 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 
And ail that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. 

LXXIV. 

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed : 
His arms a dart, he fights aloofj nor more 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed- 
Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 



Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring tlie mighty brute, 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding Coot, 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away, 
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear: 
Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer ; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 
Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud bellowings speak 
his woes. 



Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; 
Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears, 
His gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears ; 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears. 
B 



Z.XXVIJI. 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
And now the Matadores around him play, 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way- 
Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon the sand ! 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
He stops— he starts— disdaining to decline : 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 
The decorated car appears— on high 
The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eye*- ■ 
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 

LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
The Sjianish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain! 
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the foe, 
Enough, alas! in humble homes remain, 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm 
stream must flow. 

LXXXI. 

But Jealousy lias fled : his bars, his bolls, 
His wither'd centinel, Duenna sage ! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts, 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encase, 
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen, 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, 
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving 
Queen ? 

LXXXII. 

Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, 
Or dream'd he loved, since Rapture is a dream ; 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream; 
And lately had he leam'd with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, 
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. '• 

LXXXI1I. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, 
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ; 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes: 
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies ; 
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
Pleasure's pall'd victim! life-abhorring gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng ; 
But view'd them not with misanthropic hale: 
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song ; 
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? 
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate: 
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, 
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay 
To charms a* fair as those that soothed his happier day. 



10 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE- 



Casto I. 



TO INEZ. 

1. 

Nat, smito not at my sullen brow; 

Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
Yet Heaven avert that ever ihou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 

2. 

And dost thou ask, what secret wo 
I bear, corroding joy and youth? 

And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
A pang, ev'n thou must fail to sooth? 

3. 

It is not love, it is not hate, 

Nor low Ambition's honours lost, 

That bids rae loathe mv present state, 
And fly from all I prized the most: 

4. 

It is that weariness which springs 
From all I meet, or hear, or sec 

To me no pleasure Beauty brings ; 

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 

5. 
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 
That will not look beyond the tomb, 

But cannot hope for rest before. 

6. 

What Exile from himself can flee? 

To Zones, though more and more remote^ 
Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be, 

The blight of life— the demon Thought. 

7. 
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 

And taste of all that I forsake; 
Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 

And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 



Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 
"With many a retrospection curst; 

And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I Ve known the worst. 



What is that worst ? Nay do not ask — 

In pity from the search forbear: 
Smile on — nor venture to unmask 

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 

lxxxv. 

Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! 
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? 
When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
First to be free and last to l>e subdued: 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
Some native blood was .seen thy streets to die; 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud:" 
Hero all were noble, save Nubility; 
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry! 

LXXXVI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate ! 
They fight for freedom who were never free ; 
A Kingless people for a nerveless slate, 
Her vassals comhat when their chieftains flee, 
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery: 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, 
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 
War, war ii still the cry, ■ War even to the knife !"'• 



LXXXV1I. 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife: 
"Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's life : 
From flashing cimiter to • crel knife, 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need 
So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
S. in pressor bleed, 

So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed* 

LXXXV II I. 

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain; 
Look on the hands with female slaughter red; 
Then to the dogs resign the onburied slam, 
Than to the vulture lei each curse remain; 
Albeit unworthy of the - maw, 

Lei their bleacb'd bones, and blood's mil, leaching stain, 
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe: 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw . 

rxxxix. 

Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done; 
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: 
It deepens sail, the work Is scarce begun, 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Falln nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain 'd: 
Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustained. 

While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain'd 
xc. 
Not all the blood at Talavera ahed, 
Not all the marvels of Barussa's fight, 
Not Albuera lavish of the dead, 
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 
When shall her Olive-Branch be free Com blight 7 
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil? 
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, 
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, 

And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil! 
xci. 
And thou, my friend !' 9 — since unavailing wo 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain— - 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
Pride might (brbid ev'u Friendship to complain: 
But thus unlaurcTd to descend in vain, 
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slam, 
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest ! 

What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest* 
xcn. 
Oh, known the earlie.-t, and csfconi'd tho most! 
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear! 
Though to mv hopeless days P»r ever lost, 
In dreams deny me not to see thee here! 
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear 
Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, 
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 

And mourn'd and mourner lie muted in repose. 

xcin. 
Hero is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: 
Ye who of him may further seek to know, 
Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
Is this too much? stem Critic! say not so: 
Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands, wher s h» was doom'd to go: 
Lands that contain he n onuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grot in a ts by burbarous hands wers 
quell'd. 



Canto II. 



CIULDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



11 



CANTO II. 



Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — but thou, alas ! 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire, 1 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire: 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
bestow. 2 



Ancient of day*! an just Athena! where, 
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? 
Gone — glimmering through the dream of things that 
First in the race that led to Glory's goal, [were : 

They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole? 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! 
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, 
Dun willi the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. 



Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn: 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
Even gods must yield — religions take their turn: 
'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and other creeds 
"Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; 
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on 
reeds. 

IV. 

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
I 't noUenough, unhappy thing! to know 
Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
That being, thou would'st be again, and go, 
Thou know'si not, reck'st not to what region, so 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? 
Still will thou dream on future joy and wo? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: 
That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 



Or bursi the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound ; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleep? : J 
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around; 
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
N'.r warlike-worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where demi-nods appear'd, as records tell. 
Remove von skull from out the scatter'd heaps: 
Is that a temple where a God may dwell? 
Why cv'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell! 

VI. 

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portalo foul: 
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul: 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
The gay recesa of Wisdom and of Wit 
And Passion's aost, that ne" er brook'd control: 
Can all saint, age, or sopk.it ever writ, 
People this lonl J tower, this ' :nemcnt refit? 



Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! 
* All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun? 
Earn has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
AY uh brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. 

VIII. 

Yet i£ as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labours light! 
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, 
The Eactrian, Sarnian sage, and all who taught the right! 

IX. 

There, thou! — whose love and life together fled, 
Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, 
When busv Memory flashes on my brain? 
Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
And woo the vision to my vacant breast: 
If aught of young Remembrance then remain, 
Be as it may Futurity's behest, 
For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest * 



Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
Here, son of Saturn! was thy favVite throne: 4 
Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
It may not be: nor ev'n can Fancy's eye 
Restore what Time hath labour'd to deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no parsing sigh; 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. 



But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas linger'd, loath to flee 
The latest relic of her ancient reign; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? 
Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! 
England ! I joy no child he was of thine: 
Thv freo-born men should spare what once was free , 
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine.* 



But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared * 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
Aught to displace Alhena's poor remains 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,* 
And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains. 



What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears? 
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, 
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; 
The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears 
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land: 
Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endear*, 
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, 
1 Which envious Eld forbore, and tyinta left to stand. 



12 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Casto II. 



Where was thine JEgi^ Pallas ! that appall'J 

Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ?• 

Where Peleus' son ? w hom Hell in vain enthralled, 

His shades from Hades upon that dread day 

Bursting to light in terrible array! 

What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, 

To scare a second robber from his prey ? 

Uly lie wander'd on the Stygian shore, 

Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. 
xv. 
Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee, 
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; 
Pull is the eye that will not weep to see 
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed 
By British hands, which it had best behooved 
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, 
And once again thv hapless bosom gored, 

And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes 
abhorr'd ! 

XVI. 

But where is Harold 7 shall I then forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? 
Little rcck'd he of all that men regret; 
No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave ; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes: 
Hard is his heart whom charms m^y not enslave; 
But Harold felt not as in other times, 
And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 

XVII. 

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, 
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, 
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, 
60 gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 

XVIII. 

And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved gunsj the netted canopy, 9 
The hoarse command, the busy humming din, 
When, at a word, the tops are mami'd on high : 
Hark to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! 
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides ; 
Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by, 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, 
And well die docile crew that skilful urchin guides. 

XIX. 

White is the glassy oV<k, without a stain, 
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks: 
Look on that part which sacrod doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and Fame : but Britons rarelv sworve 

From law, however stern, which tends their strength to 
nerve. 

xx. 
Blow ! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale ! 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray; 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze! 
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day, 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, 

The flapping sail haufd down to halt for logs like these! 



The moon is up ; by Heaven, a lovely eve ! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand, 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe 
Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
Mean time some rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; 
A circle there of merry listeners stand, 
Or to some well-known measure foally move, 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove 

XXII. 

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore, 
Europe and Afric on each other gaze! 
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moot 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze: 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, 
Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase , 
But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, 
From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down 

XXIII. 

*Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at an end . 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy ? 
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
Death hath but little left bin* to destroy ! 
Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be a boy 7 

XXIV. 

Thus bending oVr the vessel's laving side, 
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, 
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, 
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than selfj possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; 
A flashing pang! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest 

XXT. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and feH, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
Where tilings that own not man's dominion dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen* 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms, and viow her store* 
unroll'd. 

XXTI. 

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
To hear, to sec, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless . 
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
If \\e were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued ; 
This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 

XXVII. 

More blest the life of godly Eremite, 
Such as on lonely Athus may be seen, 
Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
Which looks oVr waves so blue, skies so serene, 
That he who there at such an hour hath been 
Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; 
Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 



C.tSTO II. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



]3 



XXVIII. 

Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, 
And each well known caprice of wave and wind ; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
Till on some jocund mom — lo, land! and all is well. 

XXIX. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, 10 
The sister tenants of the middle deep; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep, 
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride: 
Here, too, his boy cssay'd the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide; 
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sigh'd. 

XXX. 

Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this; too easy youth, beware! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
Tliis wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine : 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 
Nor ask so dear a breast to feci one pang for mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, 
Save Admiration glancing harmless by: 
Love kept aloof] albeit not far remote, 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
And ne'er again 'he boy his bosom sought : 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway was o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe, 
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law ; 
All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims: 
And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger 
dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride, 
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art, 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs; 
What careth she for hearts when once possess'd? 
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
But not too humbly, or she will despise 
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes : 
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes; 
Pique her and sooth in turn, soon Passion crowns thy 
hopes. 



XXXV. 

'Tis an old lesson; Time approves it true, 
And those who know it best, deplore it most; 
When all is won that all desire to woo, 
The paltry prize is hardly worm the cost: 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, 
These are thy fruits, successful Passion ! these ! 
If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. 

XXXVI. 

Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
For we have manv a mountain- path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were read, 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 

XXXVII. 

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
Though alway changing, in her aspect mild; 
From her bare bosom let me take mv fill, 
Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child. 
Oh! she is fairest in her features wild, 
Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path: 
To me by day or night she ever smiled 
Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, 
And sought her more and more, and loved her best In 
wrath. 

XXXVIII. 

Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose, 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
And he his namesake, whose ofi-bafBed'foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize: 
Land of Albania!" let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken, 

XXXIX. 

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot" 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal fire? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave? 
If life eternal may await the lyre, 
That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspire. 

XL. 

'Twas on a Grecian autunm's gentle eve 
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar; 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave: 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar; 13 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at martial 
wight. 

XLI. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of wo, 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 14 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow: 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He wateb'd the billows' melancholy flow, 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
More placid seem'd his ey, and smooth his pallid front. 



14 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Canto 71. 



Mom dawns ; and with it stern Albania's fulls, 
Dark Sub's rocks, and Pmdus' inland peak, 
Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
Arrav'd in many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along iln-m bre:tk, 
Disclose the dwelling of the m nintaineer: 
Here roams the woHJ the eagle whets his beak, 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 

And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. 
Xl.Itl. 
Now Harold felt himself at length alone, 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu; 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but many dread to view : 
His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were few; 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet: 
The scene was savage, but the scene was new ; 
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, 

Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed summer's 
heat. 

XLIV. 

Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, 
Though sadly scotf'd at by the circumcised, 
Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthocd dear ; 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul Superstition I howsoe'er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross? 

XLV. 

A mbr aria's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless tiling ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king 15 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring: 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose ! IC 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering: 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
God! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win and lose'/ 

XLVI. 

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen: nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus fails, 
Though classic ground and consecrated most, 
To match some spots that lurk within tliis lowering coast. 

XL VII. 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Aeherusia's lake, 1T 
And left the primal city of the Land) 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania's chief, 18 whoso dread command 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold: 
Yet here and then- some daring mountain-baud 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 13 

XLVIII. 

Monastic Zitza ! 20 from thy shady brow, 
Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found! 
Rock, river,, forest, mountain, all abound, 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please tht 
■oui. 



Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Ruing in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
Might well iiself be deem'd of dignity, 
The* convent's white walls glisten fair on high : 
Ben dwells tile caloyer,* 1 nor rude is he, 
Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer by 
Is welcome siill ; nor heedless will he flee 
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see. 

L. 

Here in the sultriest season let liim rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
From heaven iiself he may inhale the breeze: 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray 
Here pierceih not, impregnate with disease: 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away. 

LI. 

Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, 22 
Chimera's alps extend from left, to right: 
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir ; 
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain-fir 
Nodding above: behold black Acheron! 93 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto! if this be hell I look upon, 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for 
none! 

LII. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view; 
Unseeu is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil'd by the screen of hilts : here men are few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot; 
But peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth; and. pensive o'er his scalter'd flock, 
The little shepherd in lus white capote ** 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 

Or m his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 
Lin. 
Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine ? 
What valley echo'd the response of Jove? 
What trace remaineth of the thunderer*s shrine ? 
All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke ? 
Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be tliine: 
WouMst thou survive the marble or the oak? 

When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath 
the stroke! 

LIV. 

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fai! ; 
Tired of up-gaxing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale, 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy die: 
Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
And woods along the banks are waving high, 
Whose shadows in tho glassy waters dance, 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn trancs 

LV. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,** 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by;* - 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of Tcpalen, 
Whose walls overlook the stream ; and drawing nigh, 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthening g'em. 



Canto II. 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



15 



He pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower, 
And underneath the wide oYrarchmg gate 
Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
"Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparation shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait ; 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort: 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 

LVII. 

Richly eaparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circled the wide extending court below ; 
Above, strange groups adorn 'd the corridor; 
And oft-times through the areas echoing door 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away : 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
Here mingled in their manv-hued array, 
While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close 
of day. 

LTTII. 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see ; 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on, 
And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son; 
The bearded Turk that rarely deigns to speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 

LIZ. 
Are mix'd conspicuous: some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are found ; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground; 
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, 
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
•There is no god but God I — to prayer — lo! God is great!" 

LX. 

Just at this season Ramazams fast 
Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, 
But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 

I. XI. 

Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, 
She yields to one her person and her heart, 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove ; 
For, not unhappy in her master's love, 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. 

LXII. 

In marbled-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose, 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
A i.l reclined, a man of war and woes; 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and slain biro with disgrace. 



LXIXf. 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
III suits the passions which belong to youth; 
Love conquers age — so Haiiz hath averr'd, 
So sir.gs the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 
Beseeming all men ill, hut most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; 
Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. 

LXIV. 

Mid many things most new to ear and eye 

The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise: 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet; 
But Peace abhorrelh artificial joys, 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both 
destroys. 

LXV. 

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues mere mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure? 
Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship suro, 
When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed, 
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 

X.XTI. 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower 
Thronging to war in splendour and success ; 
And after view'd them when, within their power, 
Himself awhile the victim of distress; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press: 
But these did shelter him beneath their roofj 
When less barbarians would have cheerd him less, 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof— aT 
In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof! 



It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
When all around was desolate and dark; 
To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; 
Yet for a while the mariners forbore, 
Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : 
At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore 
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. 



Vain fear ! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome hand, 
Led them o'e'r rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so bland, 
And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp. 
And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp, 
And spread their fare ; though homely, all they had: 
Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp — 
To rest the weary and to sooth the sad, 
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. 

LXIX. 

It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, 
Combined marauders ha!f-way barr'd egress, 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 
In war well season'd, and wiih labours tann'd, 
Till he did greet white Achelous tide, 
And from las further bank iEtolia's wolds espied. 



1G 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Casio II. 



Where lone Utraikey firms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at ic -t, 

How brown the foliage of the green lull's grove, 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
As winds come lightly whispering from the west, 
Kissing nut ruffling the blue <!«■> |'s serene: — 
Here Harold was received B weicomi gui ■( ; 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle --< ene, 
For many a joy eould lie from Nights soft presence glean. 



On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
The feast was dour, the red wine curding last, 21 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast; 

For ere night's imdm >st, sillies! hour was past, 
The native revels of ilie troop began ; 
Each Palikar" his sabre from him cast, 
And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunced the kirtled 
clan. 



Childe Harold at a little distance stood 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee ; 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing fi ee, 
The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd, 
While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half 
seream'd: 30 

1. 

11 Tambourgi! Tambourgi!* thy larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war; 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suuute! 



Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 

In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? 

To the wolf and the vulture he leaves Ins wild flock, 

And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock 



Shall the sons of Clumari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? 



Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase 

But those scarfs of bl l-red shall be redder, before 

The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 



Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 

6. 

I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
My sabre Khali win what the feeble must buy ; 
Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 



7. 
I love the fair faco of the rnaid in her youth, 
Hit caresses shall lull me, her music shall sooth; 
Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre 
And sing us a soul' on the fall of her sire. 

8. 
Remember the moment when Previsa fell, 3fl 
The shrieks of the conouer'd, the conquerors' yell, 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. 

9. 
I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; 
He neither must know who would serve the Vizier: 
Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like All Pashaw. 

10. 

Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 

Let the yellow-hair'd* Uiaoursj view his horse-tailj 

with drea I ; 
When his Delhis§ come dashing in blood o'er the banks, 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks'. 

11. 

Seliclar! || unsheathe then our chief's scimitar: 
Tambourgi! thy 'laruni gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more! 

I.XXIII. 

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! 1 * 
Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
And Inn . ! bondage uncreate ? 

Not sueh thy Bona who whilomc did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thermopylae sepulchral strait— 
Oh! who that ^allani spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Kuiotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit of freedom! when on Phyle's brow 34 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmann'd. 

LXXV. 

In all save f>rm alone, how changed ! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
Who bul would deem their bosoms hurn'd anew 
Wi'li thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty 1 
And many dream withal the hour is ni>'h 
Thai give* them bach thi ir fathers 1 heritage: 
For foreign .urns and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dari encounter hostile rage, 
Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful pa<*e. 

LXXVI. 
Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not 

Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 
But not for you will Freedoms altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your (be! 
Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame. 



• y/tllow i« ilie cfiitliet kivcd to Ibfl Ruiilnni. 
J Hor»e-UiU in the iusignj* of ft 1'aclii. 
$ Honemea, answering lo cir forlorn tn)ji«. 



t it,r.it«i. 

I Swortl-bMrsr. 



Caxto II. 



CHILDE, HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



17 



LXXVII. 

The city won fir Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest ; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; 34 
Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared divest 
The 3 * prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, 
May wind their path of blond along the West; 
But ne'er mil freedom seek this fated soil, 
Cut slave succeed to slave through years of endless tuU. 

I.XXVII1. 

Vet marl; their mirth — ere ltntcn days begin, 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man bis weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
But ere las sackcloth garb Repentance wear, 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment than thine, 
Oh Stamboul! once the empress of their reign? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain: 
(Alas! her woes will still pervade ray strain!) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, 
All felt the common joy they now must feign, 
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song, 
As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. 

LXXI. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, 
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
And timely echo'd back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan: 
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. 

X.XXXI. 

Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
Wliile many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
Or gently prest, rcturnd ih<» pressure siiil : 
Oh Love ! young Love ! bound in thy rosy band, 
Let sage or cyme prattle as he will, 
These hours, and only these, redeem Life's years of ill ! 

LXXXII. 

But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Even through the closest searment half betray'd? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain ; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain: 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud ! 



This must he feel, the true-horn son of Greece, 
If Greece one true-bom patriot still can boast: 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
Ah ! Greece ! thi y love thee leas! who owe thee most ; 
Tneir birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
Of hero sires, who shame thv now degenerate horde! 
C 



LXXXIT. 

When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
When Athens' cliildren are with hearts endued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, 
Then may'st thou be restored ; but not till then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; 
An hour may lay it in the dust: and when 
Can man its shattered splendour renovate, 
Recal its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate *? 

LXXXV. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of wo, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men! art thou! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, 37 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now ; 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 

LXXXVI. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; 3a 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave; 
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
While strangers only not regardless pass, 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh "Alas I" 

I.XXXVII. 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as w ild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountair.-air ; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
Still in his beam Mendelis marbles glare; 
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 

X.XXXVIII. 

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground ; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathc* 

X.XXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same , 
Unchanged -in alt except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
When Marathon became a magic word ; 3 * 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear * 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. 



The flying Mede, his shafllcss broken bow; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; 
Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below. 
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear! 
Such was the scene — what now remaineth here? 
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust thy courser's hoofj rude stranger ! spurns around . 



kS 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Canto II L 



Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
Shall pilgrim throng; 

Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; 
Lont; ; ."i immortal ; 

Fill with th] , ■ , : . many a shore; 

Boast of the aged! lesson of t] - young! 
Which sages venerate ami bards adore, 
As Pallas and the Muso unveil their awful lore. 



The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 

If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; 

He that is lonely hither lei him ro tm, 

And gaze complacent on c ugeniaJ - arth. 

Greece is do lightsome land of social mirth: 

But he whom Sadrn ahide, 

And scarce regret the region of bis birth) 
Wh< i wan by I telphi's sacred side, 

Or gazing o'er the plai ! nan died. 

zcin. 

Let such approach this consecrated land) 
And pass in peace along the magic wb 
But spare its relics — let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how defaced! 
Not fbr such purpose were these altars placed; 
Revere the remnant nations once revered: 
So may our country's name be undisgraned, 
So may's! thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, 
By every honest joy of love and life endearM! 

XI IV. 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hast soothed thine idlesso with inglorious lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lust amid the ihrong 
Of louder minstrels in these lad I 

To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 

Winch heeds nor 1 i proacb nor partial praise ; 

Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
And none are left to please when none arc left to love. 



Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one! 
Whom youth and youth's alh-ruons limmd to me ; 
Who did tor me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
\\ hat is my being ' th >u hast ceased to he! 
N\>r staid hi re thy wanderer hornc, 

"Who mourns o*er hours which we no more shall see— 
Would they had never been, or were t" i row ' 
"\\ wild he had ne'er rcturn'd to find fresh cause to main 

XCVI. 

( >\ ! ever lo\ ing, toi ely, and bi loi ed ' 

How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 

And clings to thoughts now better far removed! 

B it Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 

All thou couldsl have of mine} stern I teath! thou hast 

The parent, friend, and now the more than friend: 

Ne'er y el I arrows flew so fast, 

And grief with grief continuing still to bli nd. 
Hath snatch'd the tittle joy that lift bad yel to lend. 

Then must I plunj ■ i the crowd, 

And follow all that Peace disdains to seek \ 
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly \\ 
Still oVr the features, which perforce they cheer, 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pi 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear, 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-disscmblcd sneor. 



What is the wi that wait on age? 

What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
And be alt ne id ■ I am now. 

numbly let m 

; ■ v'd : 
Roll on, vain days! may ye How, 

Sin© I ' soul enjoy'd, 

And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. 



CANTO III. 



' A/in t\*nt telle R] pMKT i oulrt cboM ; ■ 

ii',- i i ■ 

Lt.irt du A li Aiembert, Stpt.T, 1TJ6, 



Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! 

Ada ! 0i mi I. and heart ? 

When last I saw thy yourj 'hey smiled. 

And then we parted) — not as now we part, 

But with B hop'-. — 

Awaking v\it!i a start, 
The watei hi ave around me; and on high 
The winds lift up then roio : 1 depart, 
Whither I know aoi\ but the hour "s gone by, 

When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
mine eye. 

ii. 
Once more upon the waters! yet once more! 
Ami the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rid" r. W elcome, to their roar! 
Swift be then rheresoe'er it lead! 

Th' iugh tlie - : ' '-..in I ma I I as a reed, 

And the rent canvass Buttering strew the gale, 
Still musl 1 "ii : for I am as a weed] 
Flung from the rock, on ( '<■• anV foani] to sail 

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
prevail. 

in. 
In my youth's summer 1 did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; 
A gain I seize the theme then but begun, 
And hear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onward* : in thai Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing leave a teril track behind^ 
O'er which all heavily the journeying \ears 

Plod the last sands of life, — where not a llower appears. 

IV. 

Since my or pain, 

Perchance my heart and harp h i[l »gi 

And both ma} jar: il maj be, thai in vain 
i would i i 

Yet, though a dreary strai I < ling, 

So thai n ween me fi m the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so ii 

kd me — it .shall ■ i m 

i , though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 

v. 
He, who grown aged in this world of wo, 
In deedi pien ing the depths of life, 

So thai no wonder waits him; nor below 
i '.in love, or sorrow, lame, ambition, strife^ 
Cut to Ins heart again with the ke* n Unifo 
Of silent, sharp endurance: be can tell 
w . though! sei ta refuge in lone eaves, yet rue 
With which dwell 

Still uiumoairVl, though old, in the soul's haunted ceU. 



Canto III. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



i9 



'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I .' Nothin •: but nol so art thou, 
Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mi\ ■' : it. blended with thy birth, 

And feeling still with thee in my cruih'd feelings' dearth 

VII. 

Yet must I think less wildly: — I ftow (nought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own edd | i rought, 

A whirling gulf of pi I flame: 

And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
My springs of life were poi ion' I. 'Tis too late! 
Vet am I 'hanged; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time can not abate, 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 



Something too much of this : — but now 'tis past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Lon^' absent Harold reappears at last; 
He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er hea! 
Yet Til II, had alter'd him 

In soul and aspect as in a^e : years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 



His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood ; but he nll'd again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deem'd its spring perpetual; but in vain! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
"Which gall'd for ever fettering though unseen. 
And heavy though it clank' 1 not; worn with pain, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew L>-< n, 
Entering with every step he took through many a scene. 

x. 

Secure in guarded coldness, he had nuVd 
Again .. >ofery with his kind, 

And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And shcath'd with an in 1 mind, 

That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind*; 
And he, as one, might stand 

led, .searching through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation ; such a land 

He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. 



But who ran view th se, nor seek 

To wear it? who can curiously behold 

>thness and the sheen >A' beauty's cheek, 
Nor (eel the heart can never all grow old? 
\\ ho can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb? 
Ha ro roll'd 

On with the _: Time, 

Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. 

XII. 

But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with .Man; with whom he held 
Little in common; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd 
In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelPd, 
He would nol yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell'd; 
Proud though in desolation; which could find 
A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. 



Where rose the mountains, there to liim were L.c-nds, 
Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his nome ; 
1 e a Hue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 

He had the passion and the power to roam : 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
Were unto him companionship; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on th ) lake. 

XIV. 

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jar^ 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite: 
Could I lave kept his spirit to that Might 
He had been happy ; but this clay will sink 
l ark immortal, envying it the 

To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink 

xv. 

But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with cbpt wing, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home: 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 

XVI. 

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom; 
The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
That all was over on this side the tomb, 
Had made Despair a smilingness assume, 
Which, though 'twere wild, — as on the plundered wreck 
When mariners would madly meet their doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,— 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 

xvii. m 

Stop !— -For thy tread is on an Empire's dust! 
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below I 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
None ; bul the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As die ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow' 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee. 
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory? 

XVIII. 

And 1 I is pi ice of skulls, 

The grave of Fran< Waterloo; 

How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
I ifls, transferring fame as fleeting too! 
In "pride of place" 1 here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with b! >ody talon the rent plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through; 
Ambition's life and labours all were vain ; 
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain 



Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam to fetters ; — but is Earth more free ? 
I >id nations combat to make One submit; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? 
What 1 shall reviving '1 hraldom again be 
The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days? 
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
Pay the W.. If homage? proffering lowly yaze 
And servile knees to thrones? No ; prove before ye praise ! 



20 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Canto III. 



If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair checks were furrow'd with hot leans 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years 
Of death} depopulation, bondage, fears. 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions: all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes n. sword 
Such as Ilarmodius 2 drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
Soft eves lookM love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a man m»e-bell ; 3 
Put hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell 1 

XXII. 

Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas bul the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance! let joy be onconfined; 

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure moct 
m'o chase the glowing Hours with Hymg feet — 
But, hark! — thai heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm! Arm! it is— it is — the cannon's opening roar! 

XXIII. 

Within a windowM niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophi tic ear: 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
llis heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could qtiell : 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 

XXIV. 

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and trei ibl n ofd b n 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush 1 d at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The lift from out young hearts, and choking sighfl 
"Which ne'er might be repealed ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Rince upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? 

XXV. 

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
\\ nit pouring forward with impetuou pi ed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Ri M ed up the ■' lier ere the morning star; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 

■ V whispering with white lips — ''The foe! They como! 
they come!" 

xxvi. 
And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albynta lulls 
Have heard, and heard, too, hav t foes: — 

How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years 

And * Evan's, b Donald's fame rings in each clansman's 

Mrs' 



XXVII. 

And Ardennes" waves above them her green leaves. 

I >ewy with nature's tear-drop*, as they pass, 

tin. Yin inimate e'er g 

Ovei thi urn ■ i lvc, — alas ! 

Ere evening to be trodden Uke the grass 

\\ hich now beneath them, bul above shall grow 

In us next verdure, win d this fiery mass 

( if Living valour, rolling on the foe 

And burning with high liope, shall moulder cold and low 
xxvm. 
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Lasl eve in Beauty^ circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought Ihe signal-sound of strife, 
i m irn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array! 

, i close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is covert thick with other cl 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and p p nt, 

Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent! 

XXIX. 

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine, 
> i i one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some v.rong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 
They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant 
Howard! 

XXX. 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing had I such to give; 
Bul when 1 stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
Willi fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turiul from all she brought to those she could not bring/ 

XXXI. 

I turn'd i" thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 

In his hah kind and kindred, whom to teach 

Forgetrjuness were mercy for their sake; 

The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 
i ho e whom they thirst for ; though the sound of Fame 
\l i\ t >r a moment sooth, il cannot slake 

The fever of vain longing and the oarni 
So honour^ but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 

xxxn. 
They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn 

The ii ,\ I w nh' i it fall ; 

The hull drives nn, though ill be torn; 

The ttree Bmksj bul moulders on the hall 

In in : runi'd «al! 

Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; 

: ;u i survive the captive they enthral; 
The day drags through tho 1 storms keep out the sun 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on: 

XXXIII. 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies; and makes 

lusand images of one thai was. 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; 
And thus the bear) will do which not forsakes, 
Living in shaiter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
Yet withers on till all without is old, 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 



Canto III. 



C1IILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



21 



XXXIV. 

There is a very life in oar despair, 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were 
As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, 
Like to the apples on the " Dead Sea's shore, 
All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would he name 
threescore'? 

XXXV. 

The Psalmist number'd out the years of man: 
They are enough ; and if thy tale be true, 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! 
, Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 

Their children's lips shall echo them, and say 

"Here, where the sword united nations drew, 
" Our countrymen were warring on that day !" 
And ihis is much, and all which will not pass away. 

XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On little objects with like firmness Ext, 
Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; 
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
Even now to reassume the imperial mien, 
/nd shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was r.e'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. 



If, like a tower upon a headlong rock. 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock; 
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy 
Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; [throne 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
( Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.' 

XLII. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 
And llure hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest; a fever at I he core, 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
By their contagion ; Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet tilings 
Which stir too strongly the soul 's- secret springs, 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
Are theirs! One breast laid open were "a school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or ru.e ; 

xliv. 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by 
Which cats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 



XXXVIII. 

Oh, more or less than man — in high or low, 
Battling with nations, flj ing from the field ; 
Now making monarehs' necks thy footstool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield ; 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor. 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, 
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the tumin» tide 

With that untaught innate philosophy, 

Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deop pride, 

Is sail and wormwood to an enemy. 

When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, 

To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 

W Hh a sedate and all-enduring eye ; 

When Fortune fled her spoU'd"and favourite child 
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. ' 

XL. 

Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them 
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
Men and their thoughts ; 'twas wise to feel, not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow: 
'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
Bo hath it proved to thee, and all iiuch lot who choose. 



He who ascends to mountain-tops, shaU find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow , 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 

XLVI. 

Away with these! true Wisdom's world will be 
Within its own creation, or in thine, 
Maternal Nature ! fur who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine, 
And chiefless castles breathing stem farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells 

xlvii. 

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and proud, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below; 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
And those wliich waved are shredless dust ere now. 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 



22 



CHTLDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



Canto III. 



Beneath these battlements, within those walls, 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing bis evil will, nor leu elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws' conquerors -hould have? 
But History's purchased page to call them great? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full 
as brave. 

XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
Willi emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would «lide ; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 

L. 

But Thou, exulting and abounding river! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
Willi the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem such to me, 
Even now what wants thy stream ? — that it should Lethe 
be. 

LI. 

A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, 
But these and half their fame have pass'd awav, 
And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks; 
Their very graves are [one, and what arc they? 
Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass 'd with its dancing light the sunny ray; 
But o'er the blacken'd mem >r\ fa blighting dream 
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. 

LIT. 

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear: 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face, 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. 

LIU. 

Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us; the heart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings: thus he felt, 
For there was soft remembrance] and sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 

And in its tenderer hour on that Ins bosom dwelt. 
LIT. 
And he had learn'd to love, — I know not why, 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood,— 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, 
To change like tJiis, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know; 
But thus it was; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 

In hun tins gloVd when all beside had ceased to glow. 



And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
\\ In eh unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal; and, though unwed, 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
Had Btood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 

Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour*. 
I. 
The i . of Drachenfels " 

Frowns oVr the wide and winding Rliine, 
Whose breast ol waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine, 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, 
And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
Whose far white wails along them shine, 
Have strewM a scene, which I should see 
Willi double joy wert thou with me. 

2. 
And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, 
And hands which offer early flowers, 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise; 
Above, tin- frequent feudal towers 
Through green haves lift their walls of gray, 
And many a rock which steeply lowers, 
And noble arch in proud decay, 
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,— 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

3. 
I send the lilies given to me ; 
Though long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither'd be, 
But yet reject them not as such; 
For 1 have cherish'd them as dear, 
Because they yet may meel thine eye, 
And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
\\ hen thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
And olhVd from tuv heart to thine! 

4. 
The river nobly foams and flows, 
The charm of this enchanted ground, 
And all its thousand turns disclose 
Some fresher beauty varying round : 
The. haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
Nor could on earth a spot be found 
To nature and to me so dear, 
Gould thy dear eves in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhino! ■- 

i.vi. 
By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
There is a small and simple pyramid, 
Crowning the summit of (he verdant mound, 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 
Our enemy's — but let not that forbid 
Honour lo Marccau ! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tear-, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid, 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 

Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume, 

LVII. 

Brief) brave, and glorious was his young career,— 
Bus mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she b. -tows 
On such as wield her weapons; he had kept 
Tho whiteness of Ids soul, and thus men o'er luni wept. 1 * 



Canto III. 



CmLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



23 



LVIII. 

Here Ehrenhreitstein,' 3 with her shattered wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 
A tower of victory! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain : 
But Peace destroyed what War could never blight, 
And laid those proud roofs bare to Summers rain — 
Or. which the iron shower for years had pour'd in vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might strav ; 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemn big bosoms, it were here, 
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 
There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; 
The mind is coloured by thy every hue; 
And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
Their cherish 'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine! 
'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise ; 
More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine, 
But none unite in one attacliing maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days. 
LXI. 

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the while city's sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, 
The wild rocks shaped as thev had turrets been 
In mockery of man's art; and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene, 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, [fall. 

Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near them 

LXII. 

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanolic-jjhe thunderbolt of snow! 
All that expands, the spirit, yet appals, 
Gather around these summits, as to show [below. 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man 

LXIII. 

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, — 
Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man 
May g&ZB on ghasUy trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument ; — the Stygian coast 
wdchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering 
ghost. 1 * 

LXIV. 

While Waterloo with CannaVs camage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
They were true Glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
All unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-entail 'd Corruption ; they no land 
Dooir'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making king*' rights diviuc, by some Draconic clause. 



By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief- worn aspect of old days, 
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with the wild-bcwilderM gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell'd I5 Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. 

LXVI. 

And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the name !— 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — crave 
Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave 
The life she lived in, but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, ono 
dust. 16 

LXVII. 

But these are deeds which should not pass away, 
And names that must not wither, though the earth 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth ; 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its wo, 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, 17 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 

LXYTII. 

Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their fair height and hue: 
There is too much of man here, to look through 
With a ht mind the might which I behold; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold, 

LXIX. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind: 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wronw 
Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. 

LXX. 

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears, 
And colour things to come with hues of Night; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness: on the sea, 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite, 
But there are wanderers o\r Eternity 
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchord ne'er shall he. 

lxxi. 

Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, 1 * 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care, 
Kissing i's cries away as these awake ;— 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
Than join the crushing crowd, doora'd to inflict or bear? 



24 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Canto III. 



LXXII. 

I live not in nryselfj hut I become 
Portion of that around me : and to me 
High mountains are a feeling, hut the hum 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
Nothing to loathe ui nature, save to he 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
And with the a£y, the p iak, the hearing plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in rain. 

I.XXIII. 

And thus I am absorbM, and this is life; 
I look upon the peopled desert past, 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Whore, for some sin, to Sorrow I was ca-r, 
To act and suffer, hut remount al last 
With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring, 
Though young, ret waxing rig >rou8] as the blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing 
Spuming the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling 

LXXIV. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements lo elements conform, 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? 
The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? 
Of which, even now, 1 share at times the immortal lot ? 

LXXV. 

Arc not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 

Of me and of my soul, as I of them? 

Is not the love of these deep in my heart 

With a pure passion? should I not contemn 

All objects, if compared with these? and stem 

A tide of suffering, rather than forego 

Such feelings fur the hard and worldly plilegm 

Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, 

Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not 
glow? 

txxvi. 
But this is not my theme ; and I ••"'urn 
To that which is immediate, and reijuire 
Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
Where he became a being, — whose desire 
Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest. 

The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. 

LZXTJI. 



Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from wo 
Wrung overwhi lining eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly an, fast, 

LXXVIII. 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to bo 
Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. 
But his was not the love of living dame, 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of idea! beauty, which became 
In him existence, and overflowing teems 
Along his burning page, disUmperVt though it seems. 



LXXIX. 

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable Kiss 
Which every morn his fever*d hp would greet, 
From hers, who but with friendship his would meet, 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast 
[ i the ilinll'd spirit's Isve^evourmg heat; 

In that absorbing sigh pen bance more bles^ 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek D06geaL H 

I. XXX. 

His life was i I og war with self-sought foes, 

Or friends by him | fbl his mind 

Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its ow d cruel kind 

1 ■ ■ -i whom he raged with jury strange and blind. 
But he was phrensiedj — wherefore, who may know? 

ich skill could never find' 
But he was phrensied bj disease or wo, 
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show. 

I.XXXI. 

For then he was inspired, and from him came, 
As from the Pythian*s mystic rave of yore, 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: 
Did he not this for France? which lay before 
Bow 3 d to the inborn tyranny of years? 
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown 
liars .' 

LXXXII. 

They made themselves a fearful monument! 
The wreck of old opinions — things which grew. 
Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they rent, 
And wkii behind it lay all earth shall view. 
But good with ill they also overthrew, 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour rc-filTd, 
As heretofore, because ambition was self-wuTd. 

LXXXI1I. 

But this will not endure, nor be endured! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
Thcv might have used it better, but, allured 
By thi i, sternly have they dealt 

On one another ; pity ceased to molt 
With her once natural charities. But they, 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
They were nut eagles, nourished with the 
What marvel then, at times, if thcv mi ii prey? 

LXXX1V. 

What deep wound i ed without a scar? 

The heart's bleed longest, and hut heal to wear 

That which disfigure s it j and they who war 
With theii o oi hope i L have boen vanquished, bear 
Silence, but n ion: in his lair 

Fbr*d I ' liis breath, until the hour 

Which shall atone for years; Hone need despair: 
It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 

I, XXXV. 

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a tiling 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once 1 loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft, murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voico reproved, 
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so mo .-ed 






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Camo III. 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



as 



LXXXVI. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 

MeJIowM and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 

e darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yel fresh with childhood; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; 

L\ XXVII. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His tile an infancy, and sings his fill; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
"Weeping themselves awav, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye stnrs'. which are the poetry of heaven! 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be great, 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, [a star. 

That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves 

LXXXIX. 

All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
All heaven and earth are still : From the high host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concenterM in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being;, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 



Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone; 
A truth, which through our being then doth melt 
And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cvlherea's zone, 
Binding all tilings with beauty ;— 't would disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 

XCI. 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the liigh places and the peak 
Of earth- o'er gazing mountains, 20 and thus take 
A fit and unwalfd temple, there to seek 

Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, 
TJprear 1 d of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r ! 

xcn. 
The sky is changed ! — and such a change '. Oh night, 21 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
BocJt to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 
D 



And this is in the night: — Most glorious night! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me bo 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mount am- mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birux 

XCIV. 

Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted! 
Tho' in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed: 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 



Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand * 
For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, 
Flashing and cast around : of all the band, 
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. 



Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye . 
Witt night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To fnake these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
• -Q£do ye find, at length, Like eagles, some high nest ' 

. xcvn. 
Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me,— could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, 
And that one word were Lightning, I would speak, 
But as it is, I five and die unheard, 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 

XCVIII. 

The mom is up again, the dewy morn, 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
And glowing into day : we may resume 
The march of our existence : and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. 

XCIX. 

Clarens! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep Love 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought ; 
Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above 
The very Glaciers have his colours caught, 
And sunset into rose hues sees them wrought M 
By rays which sleep there lovingly : the rocks, 
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, [mocks. 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then 



26 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Casto III. 



Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, — 
I Hi', in.: Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains; where the god 
Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
Not "ii those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest; o'er the llower 
His eye is sparkling and his breath hath blown, 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 

Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. 
ci. 
AH things are here of mm; from the black pines, 
Which are lus shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the shore, 
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
But light leaves, young xs joy, stands where it stood, 

Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude, 
en. 
A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form' d and many-colour'd things, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, 
And innocently open their glad wings, 
Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 

Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 

CHI, 

He who liatb loved not, here would learn that lore, 

And makd tiis heart a spirit ; he who knows 

Tiiat tender mystery, will love the more, 

For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, 

And the world 's waste, have driven him far from those, 

For 'tis his nature to advance or die ; 

He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 

Into a boundless blessing which may vie 

With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 
civ. 
'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
Peopling it with affections; but he found 
It was the scene which passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground 
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
And hallo wM it with loveliness: 'tis lone, 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 
And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone 

Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rcar'd a 
throne. 

cv. 

Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes 23 
Of names which unto vou bequcath'd a name; 
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, 
A path to perpetuity of fame; 
They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile [flame 
Thoughts which should call down thunder] and the 
< if I leiivi'ti, again assail'd, if Heaven the while 
On man ami man's research could deign do more than 
smile. 

CVI. 

The one was fire and fickleness, a child, 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind, 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher, combined ; 
He multiplied himself among mankind, 
The Proteus of their talents: Hut his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 
Blew whero it listed, laying all things prone, — 
Now to o'eruVow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 



The othi ■■■! slow, exhaustkig thought, 

And hiving wisdom with ndi studious yir. 

In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought^ 
And shaped Ins weaj evere, 

ins a solemn i 
The lord of irony, — that master-spell, 
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from ftar 

And doom*d him to the sealotta ready Hell, 

\\ im ii answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 
c vra. 
Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
If merited, the pi oalty is | 

It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn; 

The hour musl come when such things shall be made 

Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 

By slun -in the dust, 

\\ hi ttj thus much we are sure, must lie decayMj 

And when it shall rei our trust, 

'Twill he to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 

cix. 
But let me quit man's works, again to read 
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 

. This page, which from mj reveries I feed, 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, 
And I must pierce them, and survey what e'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 

The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air- 
ex. 
Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee, 
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
Since the in ire Carthaginian almost won thee, 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 
Who glorify thy coi 

Thou wert the thn.ne and grave of empires; still, 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, 

Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hilL 

CXI. 

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
ReneVd with no kind auspices: — to feel 

ire not what we have been, and to deem 
We arc not what we should be, — audio steel 
The heart against itself; and to 'unreal, 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,-* 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, — 
Which is the tyrant spirt: of OUT thought, 
Is a stern task of soul: — No matter, — it is taught. 



And for these words, l litis; woven into * 

It may be thai they are a harmless wile, — 
'Ilie colouring of the seem a which fleet along, 

W bich I would ■ .■!/. , in |,a -mi', fu beguile 

My breast, 01 thai ol otht rs, for a while. 
Fame is the durst of youth, — but 1 am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
As loss or gui rdon of a : lorious lot; 
I stood and stand alone, — remembered or forgot. 

CZZII. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such; I stood 
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud [coidd 
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still 
Had I not fded 24 my mind, which thus itsolf subdued. 



Canto IV. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



27 



cxiv. 
[ have not loved the world, nor the world me, — 
But let us part fair foes ; I do believe 
Though I have found them not, thai there may be 
Words which art- things, — hopes which will not deceive, 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares I >r the failing: I would also deem 
O'er otl i i ■■' :mi :'. thai some sincerely grieve; 85 
That two, or one, arc almost what they seem, — 

That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. 
cxv. 
My daughter! with thy name this song begun — 
My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end — 
1 see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend: 
Albeit my brow thou never should'sl 1>< hold, 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend, 
Ajid reach into thy hear:, — when mine is cold, — 

A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 

CXVI. 

To aid thy mind's development, — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's Kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
I know not what is there, yet something like to this. 

CXVII. 

Yet, though tail hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim: 
Though the grave closed between us, 'twere the same — 
I know that thou wilt love ine ; though to drain 
My blood from out thy being, were an aim, 
And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 

Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain, 
cxvin. 
The child of love, — though born in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 
Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher. 
Sweol I"- thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea, 
And from the mountains where I now respire, 
Fain would I wafl such blessing upon thee, 

As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me ! 

CANTO IV. 

Vltto in To* mi Lorn lardia Roratgoa, 
Q,uel Monte i he divide, e q»el the *erre, 
lulu, e uii mare e V akin, ■ he 1 1 bo) m 

Arioslo, S.i lira iii. 

Venice, January 2, 1813. . 

TO 

JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S. 

4*r„ fyc. $*C. 
MV PF \R HOBHOUSE, 

Afteb an interval of eight years between the 

composition of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, 
the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to 
the public. In parting with so old a friend it is not ex- 
traordinary that I should recur to one still older and 
better, — to one who has beheld the birth and death of 
the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the 
social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than — 
though noi ungrateful — 1 can, or could be, to Childe 
Harold) for any public favour reflected through the poem 
on the poet, — to one, whom I have known long, and 
accompanied far, whom 1 have found wakeful over my 
Hrckne&Sjand kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity, 



and firm in my adversity, true in counsel, and trusty in 
peril — to a friend often tried and never found wanting ; 
— to yourself. 

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in 
dedicating to you in its complete, or at least concluded 
state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most 
thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I 
wish to do honour to myself by the record of many 
years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of 
steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like ours 
to give or to receive flattery ; yet the praises of sincerity 
have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship ; and 
it is not for you, nor even for others, but to relieve a 
heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been so much 
accustomed to the encounter of good-will as to with- 
stand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to comme- 
morate your good qualities, or rather the advantages 
which I have derived from their exertion. Even the 
recurrence of the date of this letter, the anniversary of 
the most unfortunate day of my past existence, but 
which cannot poison my future, while I retain the re- 
source of your friendship, and of my own faculties, will 
henceforth have a more agreeable recollection for both, 
inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt to 
thank you for an indefatigable regard, such as few men 
have experienced, and no one could experience, without 
thinking better of his species and of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various 
periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable — 
Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy: and what 
Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, 
Venice and Rome have been more recently. The 
poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me 
from first to last; and perhaps it may be a pardonable 
vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency on 
a composition which in some degree connects me with 
\e spot where it was produced, and the object, it would 
fain describe; and however unworthy it maybe deemed 
of those magical and memorable abodes, however short 
it may fall of our distant conceptions and immediate im- 
pressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, 
and of feeling for what is glorious, it has'been to me a 
source of pleasure in the production, and I part with it 
with a kind of regret, which I hardly suspected that 
events could have left me for imaginary objects. 

With regard to -the conduct of the last canto, there 
will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the pre- 
cei litis, and that little slightly, if at all, separated from the 
author speaking in his own person. The fact is, that I 
had become weary of drawing a line which every one 
seemed determined not to perceive: like the Chinese in 
Goldsmith's "Citizen of the World," whom nobody 
would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I as- 
serted, and imagined that I had drawn, a distinction be- 
tween the author and the pilgrim ; and the very anxiety 
to preserve this difference, and disappointment at finding 
it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the composi- 
tion, thai 1 determined to abandon it altogether — and 
have done so. The opinions which have been, or may 
be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of indiffer- 
ence ; the work is to depend on itselij and not on the 
writer ; and the author, who has no resources in his own 
mind beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, 
which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the 
fate of authors. 

In the course of the following canto it was my inten- 
tion, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched 
upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps 
of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed; 
I soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of external 
objects and the consequent reflections; and for J.he 
whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am 
indebted to vourself, and these were necessarily limited 
to the eluci iation of the text. 

It is alsc a cejeate, and no very grateful task, to dis- 
sert upon tl « -3*,?ature and manners of a nation so dis- 



28 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Canto IV. 



similar; and requires an attention and impartiality 
which would induce us, — though perhaps no inattentive 
observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of 
ihe people amongst whom we have recently abode, — to 
distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more nar- 
rowly examine our information. The state of lit- ran, 
as well as political party, appears to run, or to have run, 
so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between 
them is next to impossible. It tnav be enough then, at 
least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful 
language — "Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, chc 
vanta la lingua la piu nobile ed insiemc la piu dolce, 
tutte tutte la vie diverse si pnssnno tentare, e che sinchc 
la patria di Allien e di Monti non ha perduto I' antico 
valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima.' 1 Ita! y 
has great names still — Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, 
Pindemontc, Visconti, MoreDi, I 'icognara, Albrizzi, 
Mezzopbanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca,will 
secure to the present generation an honourable place in 
most of the departments of Art, Science, and Belles 
Lettrcs ; and in some the very highest ; — Europe — the 
World — has but one Caimva. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that "La 
pianta uomo nasce piu robusta in Italia che m qua* 
Unique altra terra — e che gli s'.essi atroci dclitti che vi 
si commcttono ne sono una prova." Without subscrib- 
ing to the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous 
doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed on better 
grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect more 
ferocious than their neighbours, that man must be wil- 
fully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with 
the extraordinary capacity of this people, or, if such a 
word be admissible, their capabilities the facility of their 
acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of 
their genius, their sense <>{ I, canty, and amidst all the 
disadvantages of repeated revolutions] the desolation of 
battles and the despair of ages, their BtiU unquenched 
"longing after immortality," — the immortality of inde- 
pendence. And when we ourselves, in ruling round the 
walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the labourers 1 
chorus, "Roma! Roma! Roma! Roma non c. piu come 
era prima," it was ditRcult not to contrast tins melan- 
choly dirge with the bacchanal roar of the songs of ex- 
ultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the 
carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of 
Italy, of Fiance, and of the world, by men whose con 
duct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the 
better days of our history. For me, 

"Non movero mai crmla 

Ove tn I111I1.1 di sue ciance assonlu." 

What rtaly has gained by the late transfer of nations, 
it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes 
ascertained that England has acquired something more 
than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Cor- 
pus; it is enough for them to look at home. For what 
thev have done abroad, ami especially in the South, 
u Verily they will heme their reward," and at no very dis- 
tant period. 

Wishing you, mv dear Hobhouse, a safe and agree 
able return to that country whose real welfare can be 
dearer to none than to yourself) I dedicate to you this 
poem in its completed state ; and repeat once more how 
truly 1 ant ever 

Your obliged and affectionate friend, 
BYRON. 



I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of sighs ;* 
A palace and a prison on each hand: 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look'd to tlie winged Lion's marble piles, 
Where Venice sate w state, throned on her hundred '•!»» 



She looks a sea-Cybele, fresh from ocean, 1 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers 
And such she was; — her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhwstlees East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarch* partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 



Tn Venire Tasso's echoes are no more, 5 
An I silent rows the songless gondolier; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shores 
And music meets not always now the ear: 
Those days are gone — but beauty still is here. 
States mil, airs fid. — but Nature doth not die: 
Nor vet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy. 



But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Hetiiame in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the dogelcss city's vanished sway ; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er. 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 



The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And mulnplv in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which late 
Prohibits to dull life, m tins our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 



Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And, mav be, that which grows beneath mine eye, 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
And the strange constellations which the Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilfid to diffuse : 



I saw or drcam'd of such, — but let them go — 
Thev came like truth, and disappear^] like dreams 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so: 

I could replace them if I would; still teems 
Mv mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found; 
Let these too go — for waiting reason deems 
Such overweening phantasies unsound, 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 



IVc taught me other tongues — and in strange eyea 
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind 

Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
Vet was I born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should 1 leave behind 
The inviolate island of tlie sage and free, 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 



}iKTO IV. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



29 



Perhaps I loved i; well : and should I lay 
Mv ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 

lied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of be in f rememher'd in my line 
With my Ian e: if too fond and far 

These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
1 1" my fame should be. as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 

x. 

My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honoured by the nations — let it be — 
And light the laurel.; on a loftier head ! 
Ami be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
* Sparta hath many a worthier son than he. 8 * 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed : 
I should have known what fruit would spring from such 
a seed. 

XT. 

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
St. Mark yet ^ees his lion where he stood 5 
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, 
Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
Wlun Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 

XII. 

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 6 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like tauwine loosen 1 *] from the mountain's belt; 
Oh for one hour of bUnd old Dandolo ! ' 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 

XIII. 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Tiieir gilded collars glittering in the sun; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass? 8 
Are they not bridled/ — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done 

ike a sM-nt'i'd, into whence she rose ! 
Better be whelnVd beneath the waves, and shun, 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 

x:v. 
In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
The "Planter of the Lion," 9 which through fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite; 
Witness Troy^a rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight 1 
For yc are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 

XT. 

Statues of glass — all sliiver'd — the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 10 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 



When Athens' armies fell at Svracuse, 
An ! fettered thousands bore the yoke of war, 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 11 
Her voice their only ransom from afar: 
See ! as they chant the tragic hvmn, the car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains, 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. 



Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion! to thee: the Ocean queen should not 
Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 
Of Venice tliink of thine, despite thy watery wall. 

XVIII. 
I loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
And Otway, Radclitfe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art, 11 
Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, 
Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
Perchance even dearer in her day of wo, 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show 

XIX. 

I can repeople with the past — and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought, 
And meditation chasten'd down, enough ; 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; 
And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught: 
There are some feelings Time cannot benumb, 
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. 

xx. 

But from their nature will the tanncn grow Ia 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelterM rocks, 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
i if i! supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite into life it came, 
And grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the same, 

XXI. 

Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolated bosoms : mute 
The camel labours with the heaviest load, 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
In vain should such example be ; if they, 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII. 

All sufTcrin? doth destroy, or is destroyed, 
Even bv the sufferer ; and, in each event, 
Ends:— Some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, 
Return to whence they came — with like intent, 
And weave their web again; some, bow'd and bent 
Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, 
And perish with the reed on which they leant; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb : 



30 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Canto IV. 



XXIII. 

But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
There comes a taken like a scorpion's sting 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; 
Ami slight withal may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside for ever: it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's awe — or spring — 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — winch shall wound, 
Striking the electric chum wherewith we are darkly bound ; 

XXJV. 

And how and whv wc know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can elFace 
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, 
When least we deem of such, calls U|j i 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, 
The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — anew, 
The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — loo many ! — yet how 
few! 

XXV. 

But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea, 

XXVI. 

The commonwealth of kinjrs, the men of Rome ! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; 
Kven in thy desert^ what is like to thee? 
Thy very weeds arc beauiitlil, thv waste 
More rich than other climes' fertility ; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. 

XXVII. 

The Moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 
Ivlehed to one vast Iris of the West, 
Wnei e the Day joins the past Eternity ; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest ! 

XXVIII. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still 1 * 
Yon Bimny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
RolPd oYr the peal; of the far Rhsstbui hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order: — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hoes instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, [glows, 

Which streams upon her stream, and glassVi within it 

XXIX. 

Filfd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes down upon tin- waters ; all Us hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
Their magical variety diffuse: 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new colour as it gasps away, 
The last still loveliest, till— 'tis gone— and all is gray. 



There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air, 
PillarM m their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Lauras lover: lure repair 
Many familiar with Ins well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 

Fr the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: 

Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 1 * 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 

XXXI. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; ! * 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
To offer to the | e ssing sti 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as i 
A feeling more accordani with his strain 
Than if a pyramid fbrm'd his monumental fane. 



And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain displayed, 
For they can lure no further ; ami the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, 

x \ x 1 1 r . 
Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
And sinning in the brawling brook, wherc-by, 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
[dlesse it seem, hath its morality. 

If from society we Warn to live, 

'Tie solitude should teach us how to die; 
It bath no flatter" rs; vanity can give 
No hollow aid; alone — man with his God must strive. 



Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 1T 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their p<«? 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
OC moody texture from their earliest day, 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is nut of the pangs that pass away; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

XXXV. 

Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
Whose symmetry was do) i>t solitude, 
Then seems as 'twere a curse uporj the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Bate, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or ivrani, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impcll'd, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had wom before 



And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark tO his strain! and then survey his cell! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell: 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
W T here he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scalter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 



Canto IV. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



31 



XXXVII. 

The tears and praises of all time; while thine 
Would rol in its oblivion — in the sink 
Of wonhless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing; but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee! if in another station born. 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn 

XXXVIII. 

Tfom ! fbrm'd to eat, and be despised, and die, 
Even as die beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sly: 
He! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now, 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 
And Buileau, whose rash envy could allow 18 
No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, 
That whetstone of the teeth— monotony in wire! 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
AimVl with her poison'd arrows, but to miss. 
Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song! 
Kadi year brings forth its millions; but how long 
The tide of generations shall roll on, 
And not the whole combined and countless throng 
Compose a mind like thine? though all in one 
Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a 
sun. 

XL. 

Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those, 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, 
The Bards of H^ll and Chivalry: first rose 
The Tuscan father's comedy divine; 
Then not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 
A new creation with his magic line, 
And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. 

XLI. 

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 19 
The iron crown of laurel's mimic' d leaves; 
Nor was the ominous element unjust, 
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 20 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow ; 
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, 
Know, that the lightning sanctifies below 21 
What e'er it strikes; — yon head is doubly sacred now. 

XLII. 

Italia! oh Italia! thou who hast 22 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
Oh God! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
I bss lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress ; 

XLIII. 

Then might'st thou more appal ; or, less desired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms; then, still untired, 
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
Down the deep, Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. 



XLIV. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 33 
The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind, 
The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
jEgina lay, Piraeus on the right, 
And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 

XLV. 

For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 
Which only make more mourn'd and more endear d 
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, 
And the crushM relics of their vanish a" might 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral Lesson bears, drawn from Mich pilgrimage. 

XLVI. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country's ruin added to the mass 
Of perish'd slates he mourn'd in their decline, 
And I in desolation: all that was 
Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to 2ie storm, 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form, 24 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 

XLVII. 

Yet, Italy! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side 
Mother of Arts! as once of arms ; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
Parent of our Religion! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
Shall yet redeem ihee, and, all backward driven, 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 

XXVIII. 

But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wme, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
And buried Learning rose, rcdeem'd to a new morn. 

XLIX. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills as 
The air around with beauty; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality ; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What mind can make, when Nature's self would fail ; 
And to the fond idolaters of old 
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould. 

L. 

We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness; there — for ever there — 
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We >tand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise, 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes: 
Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan Shep- 
herd's prize. 



32 



CinLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Canto IV. 



Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise ? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of War? 
And gazing in thy i u e as toward a star, 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy aweel cheek! •"■ while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they bum, 
Ehower'd on Ins eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an 
urn! 

MI. 

Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 

That feeling t" express or I" improve, 

The gods become as m .rials, and man's fate 
Has moments like thoir brightest , but the weight 
Of earth recoils upon us; — let u go! 
We can recall such visions, and i I 
Prom what has been, or might b hich grow 

Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 

LUX. 

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, 
The artist and his ape, to leach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell: 
Let these describe the undescribable : 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream 
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 



In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 37 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality, 
Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos: — here repose 
Angelo's, Alliens bones, and his, 38 
The starry Galileo, with bis woes; 
Here Macluavelli's earth relurn'd to whence it rose. 39 



These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
Might furnish forth creation:— Italy ! [rents 

Time, which hath wrong'd theo with ten thousand 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity. 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 

LVl. 

But where repose the all Etruscan thret — 
Dante, and Petrarch, ami, scarce less than diey, 
The Bard of Prose, creative .spirit! ho 
Of the Hundred Titles of love — where did thl 

Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay 
In death as life? Are they resolved to dust, 
And have their country's marbles nought to say? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? 

Did they not to her breast their filial earth intrust? 

I- VI I. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar, 30 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; 31 
Thy factions, m their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown 33 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had frown, 
His lifc,his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine own. 



LVIII. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeatb'd " 
His dust, — and las it not her Great among, 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him who fonn'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? 
That in" ic in i ong, 

The poetry of >i — oven his tomb 

rjptorn, must I "a bigot's wrong, 

No mon amidst the me ir dead find room, 

Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for uiAom.' 
LIX. 

And Santa I " : ' Iheir mighty dust, 

Vet for this want more i I, as of yore 

The ('; horn of Bru u ' bust, 

Did but ol R tni i best Son remind her more : 
i I,. i ! on thy hoar. 

P . ■ ■ mpire! honourM sleeps 

The immortal exile;— Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful ' 

While Finn ii' lish'd dead and weeps. 

IX. 

What is her pyramid of precious stones? 34 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
( If gi in ami marble, to encrusl the bones 
Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews 
\\ hi !i, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Preshni reen turf that wraps the dead, 

Whose nami i ar lusoleums of the Muse, 

Arc gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever pat ed the slab which paves the princely head. 



There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Arno's dome of An- most princely shrine, 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies; 
There be more m trvi Is yet — but not for mine; 

For I have been accu tomVI itwine 

My thoughts with Naturo rather in the fields, 
Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for mv spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon winch it wields 



Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the di G 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home, 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as Ins skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore, 
\\ hi re i 'ourage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents, swoln to rivers with then 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions * aiter'd o'er, 

LXIII- 

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain win 
Ami such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, Beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reel'd unheededly away!" 
None fell stern Nature rocking at his feel, 
A,,,! yawning I irth B [rave for those who lay 
Upon Iheir bucklers for a winding sheet; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! 



The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity; they law 
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
The motions of thi ir vessi I; Nature^ law, 
In lie in suspended, reck'd not of the awo 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw 
From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds 
Stumbling o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no 
words. 



Canto IV. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



33 



Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where there mots are ; but a brook hath la'en — 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and tum'd the unwilling waters red. 

LXTI. 

But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 3G 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, ihou dost rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
Gra7.es ; the purest god of gentle wffters ! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — 
A minor and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters ! 

LSVII. 

And on thy happy shore a temple still, 

Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 

Upon a mild declivity of hill, 

Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps 

Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 

The finny darter with the glittering scales, 

Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 

While, chance, some scalter'd water-hlly sails [tales. 

Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling 
Lxvnr. 
Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
SprinWe its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must m 

Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 
I.XIX. 
The roar of waters '. — from the headlong height 
Velino chaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
The Hashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 

That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 

LXK. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground, 
Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
The gulf! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 



To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
M ire like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly 
With many windings, through the vale : — Look back! 
Lol where it comes like an eternity, 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cataract, r 



LXXII. 

Horribly beautiful ! but on (he verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 3 * 
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn : 
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 



Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
The thundering lauwine — might be worshipp'd more j 39 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mount-Blanc both far and near, 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, 
For still they sour'd unutterably high ; 
I 've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
Athos, Olympus, ./Etna, Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 
AM, save the lone Soracte's heights display'd 
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 

LXXV. 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
May he, who will, his recollections rake 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorr'd 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word 40 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXVI, 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which tum'd 
My sickening memory ; and, though Time hath taught 
My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, 
Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
That, with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have sought^ 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. 

LXXVII. 

Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so, 
Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 
Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, 
Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 

LXXTUI. 

Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
In their shut breasts their potty misery* 
What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye ! 
Whose agonies are evils of a day— 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 



34 



CHTLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Canto IV, 



TheNiobe of nations! thert' she stands 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless wo, 
An empty urn, within her wither'd hands, 
"Whose holy dust was scattered long ago; 
The Scipio's tomb contains no ashes now ;" 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 



The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride ; 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarch's ride, 
Where the car climb'd the capitol ; far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the Wild, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light. 
And say, " here was, or is," where all is doubly night ? 



The double night of a^es, and of her, 
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and map 
All round us>; we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry " Eureka !" it is clear — 

When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 
Lxxxn, 
Alas ! the lofty city . and alas ! 
The trebly hundred triumphs'. 4 - and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! 
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, 
And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall bo 
Her resurrection ; all beside— decay. 
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 

'f hat brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free ! 

LXXX1II. 

Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel,'' 3 
Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the duo 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too, 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 

LXXXIV. 

The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which made 
Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? 
fcshe who was named Eternal, and array'd 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and displayed, 
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, 
Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was Almighty hail'd ! 

LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
Too swept off senates while be hew'd the throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! Sco 
What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. 



LXXMI. 

The third of the same m rOWf course 

H id all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 41 
And show'd ii"i Fortune thus how fume and sway 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each acduous way, 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb .' 
Were they but so in man'&jhow different were his doom. 

LXXXV] I. 

And thou, dread statue! yet exist in* 5 
The austerest form of naked majesty, 
Thou who beheld'st, 'mid the assassins 1 din, 

At thy bathed base the bloody C&Sai lie, 

; g his robe in d\ ing dignity, 
An offering to thine aliar from the queen 

Of gods and nun, great Nemesis ! did he die, 
And thou, too, pel ish 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 

LXXXVMI. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Home 46 

She-wolf! whose iira/in-iiiii^'i il liu^s impart 
The milk of conqu> is1 V6l w ithin the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art, 
Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart, 
Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's elherial dart, 
And thy limbs black with lightning — dosl thou yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy foud charge forget? 

L XXXIX. 

Thou dost; — but all thv roster-babes are dead- 
Tin- men of iron; and the world hath n 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear*d, 
And fought and conquer'd, and the same course stecr'd, 
At apish distance ; but a> yel none have, 
Nor could, the same supremacy have mar'd, 
Savftoue vain man, who i- nor m the grave, 
But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave— 

xc. 
The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Caesar, following him of old 
With steps unequal; for the 1 Ionian's mind 
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould,'' 7 
With passions fiercer] yel a judgrrjonl cold, 
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
The frailties of a hearl so soft, yet hold, 
Alcides with the distaff now heseem'd 

At Cleopatra's feet,— and now himself he beam'd, 
x I i . 
And came — and saw — and conquer'd ! But the man 
Who would have lamed down to flee, 

Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
With a dial' hear) which never seem'd to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed; 
With bul one weakest weakness — vanity, 
Coquettish m ambition — still he aim'd — 

At what ? can he avouch — or answer what he claim'd 



And would be all or nothing— nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him; few years 
Had hVd him with the Coesars in Ins fate. 
On whom we tread : Kor thin the conqueror ream 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth Bow OD as they have flow'd, 
An universal deluge, which appear! 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow! — Renew thy raiubuw^Godl 



Casto IV. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRrMAGE. 



35 



What from this barren being do we reap? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 45 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; 
Opinion and omnipotence, — whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
Lest their own judgments should become too bright, 
Aud their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too 
much light. 

XC1V. 

And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and sodie, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the now race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 

Their felio*\s fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 
CSV. 
I Speak not of men's creeds— 1 they rest between 
Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
Averr'd and known, — and daily, hourly seen— 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud, 
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; 

Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 

XCVl. 

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 
And Freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? 
Or must such minds be nourished in the wild, 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast^ or Europe no such shore ? 

XCVII. 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; 
Because Lhe deadly days which we have seen, 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man an 1 bis hopes an adamantine wall, 
And tie base pageant last upon the scene, 
Are crown the pretext tor the eternal thrall 

Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his 
second fail. 

xevm. 
Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, 
Screams like the thunder-storm against the wind ; 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy ire.' hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by lhe axe, looks rough and little worth, 
But the sap lasts,— and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 

So shall a better spring iess bitter fruit bring forth 

XCIX. 

There is a stern round tower of other days, 49 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over alt by tim^ o'erthrown \ — 
What was this tower of strength? within its cave 
What treasure lay 60 tock'd, so hid ?— A woman's grave. 



But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb'd in a palace ? Was she chaste and fair? 
Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed? 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 
How lived — how loved — how died she ? Was she nd 
So honoured — and conspicuously there, 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to coinmeuiorate a more than mortal lot ? 

ci. 
Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others ? such have been 
Even m the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 

Love from amongst her griefs? — for such the affections 
are. 

CIL 
Perchance she died in youth : it mav be, bow'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favourites — early deadi ; yet shed 50 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 

Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf like red. 

cm. 

Perchance she died in age — surviving all, 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
It may be, still a something of the day 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 

By Rome But whither would Conjecture stray? 

Thus much alone we know — Metella died, 
The wealthiest Roman's wife ; behold his love or pride i 
civ. 

I know not why — but standing thus by thee 

I I seems as if I had thine inmate known, 
Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me 
Wnh recollected music, though the tone 

Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
Forms from the flowing wreck which Ruin leaves behind ; 

cv. 

And from the planks, far shattered o'er the rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all ties founder'd that was ever dear: 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is 
here. 

cvi. 

Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets* cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, 
Answering each other on the Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, 
And sailing pinions.— Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs? — let me not number mine. 



36 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Canto IV. 



Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown 
In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep'd 
In subterranean damps where tin owl |ieepM, 
Deeming it midnight : — Temples, baths, or balls .' 
Pronounce who can ; for al! that Learning reap'd 
From her researcli hath been, that these are walls- — 

Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'lis thus the mighty falls. 51 
cvrri. 
There is the moral of all human tales ; - 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails, 
Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 
Ami History, with all her volumes Past, 
Hath but one page, — 'tis better written here, 
Where gorgeous Tyranny had thus amass'd 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 

Heart, sou! could seek, tongue ask — Away with words! 
draw near, 

< IV. 

Admire, exult — despise — laueh, weep, — for here 
There is such matter for all feeling : — Man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
Till the sun's ravs with added Same were till'd ! 
W hate are its golden toofs? where those who dared to 
build ? 



Tolly was not so eloquent as thou, 
Thou nameless column with the buried base 
"What are the laurels of the Cesar's brow .' 
Crown in'- with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch er pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajans? No — 'lis that of Time: 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scufling ; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, 5 -* 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars : they had contain'd 
A spirit which with these would find a home 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, 

The Roman globe, fur after none sustained, 
Bat yielded back his conquests: — he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd. 

With household bloud and u me, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore.^ 1 

(Ml. 
Where is t!i<> rork of Triumph, the high place 

Where Kome embraced her heroes? where the steep 
Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race. 
The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition. I nd the conquerors heap 
Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 

The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 

And si ill the eloquent air breathes*- burns with Cicero! 

C X 1 1 1 . 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
But long before had freedom's (ace been veil'd, 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till every lawless soldier who atsail'd 
Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 



Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
ch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi ! last of Romans ! While the tree w 
lout's withered trunk puis forth a leaf, 
Ev< n fbi thy tomb a garland let it be — 

urn's champion, and (he people's chief— 
Her new-born Numa diou — with reign, alas! too brief. 

CXV. 

Eg) rial sweet creation of some heart 66 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art 
' >r wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
The oympholepsy of some fond despair; 
t >r, ir might be, a beauty of the earth, 
Who found a mort than common votary there 
Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth] 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. 



The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water drops; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, 
Reflects the meek-eyed ger.ius of the place, 
V\ bose green, wild margin now no more erase 
Art's works ; nor must tin* delicate waters sleep, 
Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base 
Of die cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep 

• 
Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
The tjnick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer-birds -my welcome as ye y \ 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class 
Implore the pausing al p, and with their dyes 

I t.inre in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its 
skies. 

czTin. 

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom healing 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
The purple Midnight veild that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyselfby thine adorer, what befi 11 ' 
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle! 

CXIX. 

And didsl thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
Blend a celestial h ith a human heart ; 
And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, 
Share with immortal transports ? could thine art 
IVIake them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity ofheavep to earthly joys, 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And rout from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys? 

cxz. 

Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
t »r water but the desert ; whence arise 
Bui weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the i 
Flowers whits,- wild odours breathe but agonies, 
And trees whose gums are poison ; such the planti 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
For snnie celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 



Caitto IV. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



37 



Oh Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — 

An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 

A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 

Bui never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 

The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 

The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 

Even with its own desiring phantasy, 

And to a thought such shape and image given, 

As haunts the unquench'd soul— parch 1 d — wearied — 
wrung — and riven. 

i\ \it. 
Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
And fevers into false creation : — where, 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 
The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, 
Which u'er-iuforms the pencil and the pen, 

4nd overpowers the page where it would bloom again? 

CXXIII. 

Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but the cure 
Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
[deal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
Reaping theVhirlwind from the oft-sown winds j 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Peems ever near the prize — wealthiest when most undone. 

CXXIY. 

We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick ; ruifound the boon — unslaked the thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first- 
Hut all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the same, 
Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name, 

And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the Same. 
ex xv. 
Few — none — find what they love or could have loved, 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
EnvenomM with irrevocable wrung; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, [trod. 

Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we all have 

exxvr. 

Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 
The harmony of things, — this hard decree, 
This uneradicable taint of sin, 
This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 
The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew — 
Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see— 
And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 

CXXVIf. 

Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base 6? 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thought — our lasr and only place 
Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine : 
Though from our birth the faculty divine 
Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
Too brightly on the unprepared mind, 
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch tho blind. 



Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 

exxx. 

Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart bath bled— 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
Which never loses though it doth defer— 
Time, the avenger ! unto the I lift 
My handstand eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift : 

CXXXI. 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate, 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate :— 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn? 

CXXXII. 

And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! M 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long— 
Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss, 
For that unnatural retribution — just, 
Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
Dost thou not hear my heart '/—Awake ! thou shalt, and 
must. 

CXXXIII. 

It i3 not that I may not have incurr'd 

For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 

I bleed withal, anil, had it been conferr'd 

With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound ; 

But now my blood shall not sink in the ground; 

To thee I do devote it — thou shalt lake 

The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, 

Which if / have not taken for the sake 

But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 

CXXXIV. 

And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
I shrink from what is sulTerM : let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this vt-rse, 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse ! 



38 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Canto IV 



cxxxv. 

That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I not — 
Hear me, ray mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven ! — 
Have I not had to wrestle with my loj ' 
Have I not sufler'd things to be (brgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain soar'd, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life tied away ? 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survi J . 

CXXXVI. 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 

Have I not seen what human things could do? 

From the loud roar of foaming calumny 

To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venoin of the reptile crew, 
The Janus glance of whose significant « 
Learning to lie with silence, would srem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or ugh, 

Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 
exxxrxx. 
But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its tire, 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain ; 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre, 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 

In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 
CXXZTHI, 
The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk's! in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear J 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Thwir ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been, 

And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

(XXXIX. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmurM pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man. 
And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

CXL. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie i 59 
He leans upon his hand — bis manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low— 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch 
who won. 



He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away. 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — m 
All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire 
And unavenged? — Arise ! yo Goths, and glut your iro ! 



CXLU. 

But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam 
And lure, where buzzing nations choked the ■■■■ 
And roarM or murmurM like b mountain stream 

Dashing 01 winding as its torrent strays ; 

Hero, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playlhinj ofs crowd, 81 
Mj voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 
On the arena void — seats crush'd — walls bow'd— 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. 

CXLIII. 

A ruin — yt't what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rcar'd ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton J c pass, 
And marvel where the spoil Could have appcar'd. 
Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
Ala-- ! 'i' reloped, opens the decay, 
When the < olossal fabric's form is near'd: 
It will not bear the brightness of the day, [away. 

Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft 

CXLIV. 

But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of limo, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-Sorest, which the gray walls wear, 
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ;C'i 
When the light shines serene but dolh not glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the doad : 
Heroes have trod this spot— 'tis on their dust ye tread. 

CXLV. 

" While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ;° 
" When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; [land 
" And when Rome falls — the World."' From our own 
Thus spake ihc pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon limes, which we are wont to call 
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all; 
Koine and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, [will. 
The World, die same wide den — of thieves, or what ye 

CXLVI. 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; r '* 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
His way through thorns to ashes— glorious dome ! 
Shalt thou not last ? Time's scythe and tyrants' rods 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and homo 
Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome '. 

CXLVII. 

Relic of nobler days, and nobles' 
Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, Glorv 
Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are attars fur their beads 
And they who feci l<ir genius may repose 
Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around them 
close. 65 

CXLVIII. 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 6 * 
W nat do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again 1 
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain: 
It is not so; I see them full and plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar :— but what dolh she there, 
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare? 



Canto IV. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



39 



CXLIX. 

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
Where on the heart and from the heart we took 
Our firel and sweetesl nurture, \ihen the wife, 
Blest inio mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of tips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — [Eve's. 
What may the fruit be yet? — I know not — Cain was 

CL. 

But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift : — it is hpr sire 
To whom she renders back the debr of blood 

with her birth. No; he shall not expire 
Wliile in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 
Than Egypt's river :— from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and livo, old man! Heaven's realm holds 
no such tide. 

CLI. 

The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Where spark!-- di-tant wurh's :— Oh, huliest nurse ! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To tby sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CLII. 

Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high, 67 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 
C- lossal copyist of deformity, 
Whose travelled'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
To budd fur giants, and for his vain earth, 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, 
To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth ! 

ci in. 

But lo ! — the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, 68 
To which Diana's marvel was aci ' — 
Christ's mighty shrine above Ins martyr's tomb! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Irs columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyaena and the jackal! in their shade ; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survcy'd 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd; 

CLIV. 

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook his former city, whal could be, 
Of earthly structures, in his honour piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect 1 Majesty, 
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
In this eternal ark of worahip'undefiled. 

CLV. 

Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God face to face, as thou dosi now 
Ilis Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 



Thou movest — but increasing with the advance, 
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, 
Deceived by its gigantic elegance; 
Vastness which grows — but grows to harmonize — 
All musical in its immensities; 
Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines were flame 
The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 
In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground — and this die clouds must 
claim. 

CLV II. 

Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break, 
To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 
And as the ocean many bays will make, 
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thv thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part, 
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 

CLVIII. 

Not by its fault — but thine: Our outward sense 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
That what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
Defies at first our Nature's littlenesss, 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then pause, and be enlighten'd ; there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder phased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan : 
The fountain of sublimity displays 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 

CLX. 

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain— 
A father's love and mortal's agony 
With an immortal's patience blending: — Vain 
The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, 
The old man's clench : the long envenom'd chain 
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 

Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 
clxi. 
Or view the Lord of the unerring how, 
The God of life, and poesy, and light— 
The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 
And ncstril beautiful disdain, and might 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 

Developing in that one glance the Deity. 

CLXI1. * 

But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Long'd for a deathless lover from above, 
And madden'd in that vision — are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
The mind with in iis most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly guest— 

I A ray of immortality — and stood, 

| Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god ! 



40 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Canto IV. 



CLXIII. 
And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this pontic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glory — which, if m idi 
By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
And Time himself hath hallowed it, not laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 

A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas 
wrought. 

CLI1V. • 

But where is he, (lie Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the pasl .' 
Mel h inks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his last . 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing : — ifhe was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be Hass'd 
With forms which live and sutler — lei that pass — 

His shadow fades away into Destruction's mi--. 
CLXV. 

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 
That we inherit in its mortal shroud, 
And spreads the dim and universal pall [cloud 

Through which all things grow phantoms; and the 
Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allowM 
To hover on the verge of darkness ; rats 
Sadder than saddest night, for they disiract the gaze, 

CI. XVI. 

And send us prying into the abyss, 
To gather what we shall be when the frame* 
Shall he resolved to something Uss than this 
It wretched essence ; and to dream of fame, 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but in v- r iimn , 
Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same : 
It is enough in south that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat was 
gore. 

CLXVU. 

Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nationoleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound; [ground, 
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, hut the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 
CLXVIII. 
Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
Fond hope of many nations, art tlmu dead ? 
Could not the grave f.rgt-t thee, and lay low 

Some less majestic, less beloved head? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother "f a moment, o'er ihy boy, 
Death hush'd that pang fat ever: with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 

CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! 



< LXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
The love of millions ! How we did intrust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above oui b n i, yet Jbndlydeem'd 
Our children should obey her child, andbless'd 
Her and hei hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
Like stars to shepherd's eyes: — 'twas but a meteor 
beam*d. 

tt.xxt. 
Wo unto us, not her: fir Bhe sleeps well: 
The fickle reek of popular breath, die tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth oi monarchy hadi rung 

Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 

Nations have arm'd in madness, the Btrangeiale 9 
Which stumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung 

Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or laic,— 
ci.xxn. 
These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe; 
But now a bride and mother — and now thi n- ! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
From thy Sire's to Ins humblei-a -.object's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock] was as an earthquake's, and opprcst 
The land which loved thee so that none could love thee 
best, 

cLxxm. 

7n Lo, Nemi ! navell'd in the woody hills 
Sn lar, thai the uprooting wind which tears 
The oak from ins foundation, and which spills 

The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the ski. s, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake; 
And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, * 
All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 

CLXXIV. 

And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley ; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprang the Epic war, 
" Arms and the Alan," whose re-ascending star 
Rose o'er an empire : — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome; — and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight 

The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bards delight. 71 
clxxv. 
But I forget.— My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, — so lei i' be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
' lur friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
B'-held it last by Calpe's rock unfold 

Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Eoxine roll'd 

CLXXVI. 

Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — 
Long, though not very many, sine.- have done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun: 
Yet not in vain our moral race hath run, 
We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 



Canto IV. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



41 



CLXXVII. 

Oil! that ihi? Desert were my dwelling-place. 
With one fair Spirit fur my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her! 
Ye Elements! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
Accord me such a being '? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Though witli Uicui to converse can rarely be our lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal, 

CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
Ho sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoflin'd, and unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for htm, — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wield.- 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashe'st him again to earth : — there let him lay. 



The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, Lidding nations quake, 
And moiiarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They ntetl into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 



CLXXXII. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dtied up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play- 
Time writes no wi inkle on thy azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

CLXxxni. 
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests : in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime— 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy sJime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 



And I have loved thee, Ocean f and rny joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if Lhe freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 

CLXXXT. 

My task is done — my song hath ceased — my theme 
Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be exlinguish'd which hath lit 
My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ, — 
Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me — and the glow 
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low, 

CLXXXVI. 

Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been— 
A sound which makes us linger; — yet — farewell i 
Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell ; 
Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, 
If such there were— with you, the moral of his strain' 



NOTES TO CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO I. 



1 

Yes ! sighed o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine. 

Stanza i. line 6, 
The little village of Castri stands partly on the site 
of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from 
Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in ami 
from the rock. "One," said the guide, "of a king who 
bioke his neck hunting." His majesty had certainly 
chosen the fittest spot kjr such an achievement. 

A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, 
■ of immense depth ; the upper part of it is paved, and 
now a cow-house. 

On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monas- 
tery ; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, 
with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and appa- 
rently leading to the interior of the mountain ; probably 
to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From 
this part descend the fountain and the " Dews of 
Castalie." 

2. 
Aud rest ye at our " Lady's house of wo." 

Stanza XX. line 4, 
The Convent of "Our Lady of Punishment," JVossa 
Senora de Pena*, on the summit of the rock. Below, 
at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St 
Honorius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From 
the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of die view. 
3. 

Throughout this purple land, where law srntrrs not life, 
Stanza xxi. line last 
It is a well known fact, that in the year 1809 the 
assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity 
were not confined by the Portuguese to their country- 
men ; but that Englishmen were daily butchered : and 
so far from redress being obtained, we were requested 
not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defend- 
ing himself against his allies. I was once stopped in 
the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, 
when the streets were not more empty than thev t»«'ne- 
rally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop and in 
a carriage with a friend; had we not fortunately been 
armed, I have not the least doubt that we should have 
adorned a tale instead of telling one. The crime of 
assassination is not confined to Portugal : in Sicily and 
Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome 
average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever 
punished I 

4. 
Behold the hail where chiefs were trtte ennt t iu<! ! 

Stanza xxiv. line 1. 
The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace 
of the Marchcsc Marialva. The late exploits ol Lord 
Wellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. Ho has, 
ndced, done wonders; he has perhaps changed the 
chararacter of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, 
and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his 
predecessors. 

5. 
Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. 

Stanza x.xix. line I. 



* Since the inil.Ikntiim Ol this jioum, I have l.een Informed of the 
mUn|>j)rrhriui..u of the term Nossn Senora tie Pena. Ii wns owing to 
the want of the tilde, or mark over tlic R, which niters (he signification 
of the won! : with it, Perm signifies a rock ; without il, Pena has the 
«tiso I uUojrttil. ) do not think il mccsmry to otter the |Kissn$e, as 
though ihe common acceptation affixed toil is " Our I,m|yoftlie Kock," 
I may wall uuume the other scow troiii Utc seventies practised there. 



The extent of Mafra is prodigious ; it contains a 
palace, convent, ami most superb church. The six 
organs are the most beautiful 1 ever beheld, in point of 
decoration ; we did not hear them, but were told that 
their tones were correspondent to their Bplendour 
Mafra is termed the Eseurial of Portugal 

6. 
IV dl dotii the Spanish hind the difference know 
'Tinxt him and Ijusuih stave, tfi£ lowest of the low. 
Stanza xxxiii. lines 8 and 9. 
As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterizeo 
them. That they are since improved, ai least in cou- 
rage, is evident. 

7. 
When Cavil's traitor-sire first calVd the hand 
That dyed thy mountain streams with GoUixc gore. 

Stanza xxxv. lines 3 and 4. 
Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pela- 
gius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of 
the Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after 
some centuries, completed their struggle by the con- 
quest of Grenada. 

8. 
No ! as he speeds t he chants, " Vied el Rey /" 

Stanza xlviii. line 5. 
"Viva el Rey Fernando!" Long live King Ferdinand ! 
is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic 
they are chiefly in dispraise of the old king CI 
the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have heard 
many of them; some of the airs are beautiful. Godoy, 
the Principe dr la Pa?, was born at Badajoz, on the 
frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks 
of the Spanish Guards, till his person attracted the 
queen's eyes, and raised him lo the dukedom of Alctidia, 
&c. &c. It is to this man that the Spaniards univer- 
sally impute the ruin of their country, 

9. 

Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet. 
Stanza I. lines 2 and 3. 
The red cockade, with " Fernando Scplimo" in the 
centre. 

10. 
The bull-piled pyramid^ tlie ever-lduzing match. 

Stanza Ii. line last 
All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyra- 
midal form in which shot and shells are piled, 'rhu 
Sierra Moreno was fortified in every defile through 
which I passed in my way to Seville. 

11. 

FoiCd hy a woman's hitn 7, hrforr a batta'd trail. 

Stanza Ivi. line last. 
Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saraeozo. 
When the author was at Seville she walked daily on 
the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by com- 
mand of the Junta. 

12. 
The seal Lotf* dimpling finger hath impressed 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch. 

Stanza km. lines I and 2. 
11 Sigilla in incnto impressa Anions digitulo 
Vestigiodcmonstrant molliuulinem." Aul. Gel. 

13. 

OA, thou Parnassus ! 

Stanza Is. line 1. 
These stanzas were written in Castri, (Delphos,) at 
the foot of Parnassus, now called Atanvpa — Liakura. 



Canto II. 



NOTES TO CIIILDE HAROLD. 



43 



14. 

Fair is proud Seville; let lier country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days. 

Stanza Ixv. lines 1 and 2. 
Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 
15. 
Ask ye, Boeotian shades ! the reason why ? 

Sianza Ixx. line 5. 
This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the 
best situation for asking and answering such a question; 
not as the birthplace of Pindar, but as the capital of 
Bceotia, where the first riddle was propounded and 
solved. 

16. 
Some bitter o'er tfxe Jlowcrs its Intbbling venom flings. 
Stanza lxxxii. line last. 



"Medio de fbnte leporum 
Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis flonbus angat." 



Lit. 



17. 



A traitor only felt beneath the feud. 

Stanza Ixxxv. line 7. 
Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the 
Governor of Cadiz. 

18. 
11 War eve* to tiie knife !" 

Stanza lxxxvi. line last. 
11 War to the knife." Palafox's answer to the French 
general at the siege of Saragoza. 
19. 
And thou, my friend ! &c. 

Stanza xci. line 1. 

The Honourable I*. W* *. of the Guards, who died 

of a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, 

ihe better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. 

In the short space of one month I have lost her who 

fave me being, and most of those who had made that 
eing tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no 
fiction : 

" Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? 
Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, 
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn." 

I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the 
late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing 
College, Cambridge, were he not too much above all 
praise of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the 
attainment of greater honours, against the ablest can- 
didates, than those of any graduate on record at Cam- 
bridge, have sufficiently established his fame on the 
spot where it was acquired : while his softer qualities 
live in the recollection of friends who loved him too 
well to envy his superiority. 



CANTO II. 



1. 

despite of war and wanting fire — — 

Stanza i. line 4. 
Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explo- 
sion of a magazine during the Venetian siege. 
o 
But worse than steel and flamCj and ages slow, 
Is the drca/l sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men wlto never felt the sacred glow 
Tliat thoughts of thee and thine on potish'd breasts bestow 

Stanza i. line 6. 
We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which 
the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are 
beheld ; the reflections suggested by such objects are 
too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the 
littleness o( man, and the vanity of his very best virtues 
of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his coun- 



what Athens was, and the certainty of what she now 
is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, 
of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposi- 
tion of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, 
is now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual 
disturbance, between the bickering agents of certain 
British nobility and gentry. " The wild foxes, the owls 
and serpents in the ruins of Babylon," were surely less 
degrading than such inhabitants. The Turks have the 
plea of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have 
only suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the 
bravest ; but how are the mighty fallen, when two 
painters contest the privilege of plundering the Par- 
thenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of 
each succeeding firman ! Sylla could but punish, 
Philip subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens ; but it re- 
mained for the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable 
agents, to render her contemptible as himself and his 
pursuits. 

The Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by fire, 
during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a church, 
and a mosque. In each point of view it is an object of 
regard: it changed its worshippers; but still it was a 
place of worship thrice sacred to devotion : its viola- 
tion is a triple sacrilege. But 

" Man, vain man, 

Drest in a little brief authority, 

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 

As make the angels weep." 
3. 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps. 

Stanza v. line 2. 
It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn 
their dead ; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred 
entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their 
decease ; and he was indeed neglected, who had not 
annual games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of 
his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, 
&c. and at last even Antinous, whose death was as he- 
roic as his life was infamous. 

4. 

Here, son of Saturn ! was tlty favorite throne. 

Stanza x. fine 3. 
The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen 
columns, entirely of marble, yet survive : originally 
there were 150. These columns, however, are by 
many supposed to belong to the Pantneon. 
5. 
And bear these altars o^er the long-reluctant brine. 
Stanza xi. line last. 
The ship vras wrecked in the Archipelago. 

6. 
To rive what Gotli, and Turk f and Time hath spared. 
Stanza xii. line 2. 
At this moment, (January S, 1809,) besides what has 
been already deposited in London, an Hydriot vessel is 
in the Pyrauis to receive every portable relic. Thus, 
as I heard a young Greek observe, in common with 
many of his countrymen — for, lost as they are, they 
yet feel on this occasion — thus may Lord Elgin hoast 
of having ruined Athens. An Italian painter of the 
first eminence, named Lusieri, is the agent of devasta- 
tion ; and like the Greek finder of Verres in Sicily, who 
followed the same profession, he has proved the able 
instrument of plunder. Between this artist and the 
French Consul Fauvel, who wishes to rescue the re- 
mains for his own government, there is now a violent 
dispute concerning a car employed in their conveyance, 
the wheel of winch — I wish they were both broken 
upon it — has been locked up bv the Consul, and Lusieri 
has laid his complaint before the Wavwode. Lord 
Elgin has deen extremely happy in his choice of Signor 
Lusieri. During a residence of ten years in Athens, 
he never had the curiosity to proceed as far as Sunium,* 



* Now Cnpe Colon na. 
Marathon, there i 



In nil Allien, if we exeept Athens itself and 
■ne more interesting than Cape Colonna. To 
the antiquary anil artist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible »ouree of 
observation and design ; to the philosopher, the supposed scene of some 
of Plato's conversations will not I*" unwelcome : and the traveller will be 
■ - struck wilh the beam v of the prospect over" Irtet that crown the Mgean 
try, appear more conspicuous than in the record 0i|rf, e ^." but foren fc'nejishmen, Colonna hai yet en edditionel interest, 



44 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Canto IT. 



till he accompanied us in our second excursion, How- 
ever, his works, us far as they go, are most b< 
but they art- almost all unfinished. While lie and hi 
patrons confine themselves to tasting medals, apprecia- 
ting cameos, sketching columns, anil < ■ J ■ * . i j > ■ hum l>ui 
their little absurdities are as harmless as insert or fox- 
hunting, maiden speechifying, bamueh driving, or any 

such pastime; hut when tiny carry awav three or four 

shiploads of the most valuable and ma ) i 
time and barbarism have left to the mo3l injured and 
most celebrated of cities; when they destroy, in a vain 
attempt to tear down, those works which hare been the 
admiration of ages, I know no motive which can 
no name which can designate, the perpetrators of this 
dastardly devastation. It was not the least of the ci imea 
laid to the charge of Verves, that he had plundered Si- 
cily, in the manner since imitated at Athens. The 
most unblushing impudence could hardly go farther than 
to 'affix the name of its plunderer to the walk of the 
Acropolis ; while the wanton and useless defacement 
of the whole range of the basso-relievos, in one com* 
pariment of the temple, will never permit that name to 
be pronounced by an observer wi'hout execration. 

On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a col- 
lector or admirer of collections, consequently no rival; 
but I have some early prepossession in favour of : '' i & 
and do not think the honour of England advanced 1>\ 
plunder, whether of India or Attica, 

Another noble Lord has done better, because he has 
done less: but some others, no >re or less noble, vet '■ ajl 
honourable men," have done best, because, after a deal 
of excavation and execration bribery to the W 
mining and countermining, tney have d me nothing ;t' 
all. VVc had such ink-shed, and wine-shed, which al- 
most ended in bloodshed ! Lord E.*S " priir" — see Jona- 
than Wylde tor the definition of "priggism — quarrellet 
with another, Gropius* by name, (a pery good narat 
too for his business,] and muttered something about sa- 
tisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of the poor Prus- 
sian : this was Btated al table toGropius, who laughed, 
but could cat no dinner afterwards. The rivals were 
not reconciled when 1 lefl Greece. I have reason tr 
remember their squabble, fur they wanted to make me 
theft arbitrator. 

7 

Her tin* too weak the sawed shrine f I i ' \ 

Yet Jcit $oms portion of their mother**, pains. 

Stanza xii. lines 7 and 8. 

I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of 
my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no com- 
m ml with the public, but whose sanction will add ten- 
fold weight to my testimony, to insert the following ex- 
tract from a very obliging letter of his to me, as a not 
to the above tines. 

"When the last of the Metopes was taken from th 



ft* the aeiunt epot of Pateoner'a ShtjiwncV. Pal Ins find Pluto are foi 

gotleo, in the recollection of FVIc -r ind I tampbell i 

" Here in the dead of night br 1 ft'i teep, 

The teaman 'i cry vu heard along the deep." 

This temple of Mlntrva m.i? he seen nt sea 1'iom a great i list a nre. In 
two Jonnieyn which I made, ami one voyage 10 Cape Coloona, the view 
from eii her tide, bj land, was Its* striking than the approach from the 
tales. In our aeeond land excursion, we had a narrow eaenpa from n 
party of Mtootu, i necmled in the cnvenis heuaatb. We a/an told 

oll,.T«':ir,h. I. y ,,,,,. ,,i i\, r \, |„|. ,,-■> .uUs.-.jirentlv imunm.-d. 'hat Ihrv 

weredeterrrd from attHrkine n» t hV i' 

conjecturing very »n»iclou*ly, bill inlsi'ly, lhat we hitd it com pi eta guard 
ol thcie Amaonte al hand, the? remained ilationary, and ih n 
party, which arai too > m .ill i on .im lunl reeiataoco. 

Coloona is no less n rnorl of palntere than of plratei ! there 
11 Tlu- hlrttlug niii-i uUiitahie palli y disk, 
Aad in ikei degrad n eeqna." 

(S e Hodgson's Lady Jane Hrrv, Ac.) 
But there Nature, with the aid of Art, hn* dom lhat for htm If. I wm 
lortonata enough Co engage a aira iiipcrior l ■ 

i en.-* mv acqualoUni I With Ihll and many Other Levantine scenes, hv 
the arrival of hii performance*. 

* This Sir Groplue was employed !■? a notdo tiord for the note purpose 
of ikelching, in which he ezcata ; but 1 am torrj t.i *.\y, that be hi., 
through the abused sanction of that most respectable name, I 

ingat humble distance in the itepi of Br. I Lshli f his tro 

nhies was dm dnad, aad I '. at I oniununople, in 1810 

I am most happy to he now enabled to state, that " thai wai not In his 

bond ;" that he waa employed solely as a painter, and that Ins h pt 

tron disavows all connexion wiih him, except n» an nrtlsl. If the error 

In thefirat and aecond edition of this poem has eivni the n.Mel.ord n mo- 

tneui'i paiu, I am very sorry for It ; Sr. Qroptui lias MMlOh, I 

the name of his agent and' though I cannot much conilemn 

enuring in the miscuke of so many, I am happy in being one or the first to 

MUaoacsli ■ , i, | have .« much pleiuuii' in cuuli adiaing this us 

I Hit regret in stilling" 



Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the super- 
structure with one ot the iriglyprtfl was thrown down by 
the workmen whom Lord blgin employed 
who beheld the mischief done to < 
I > 1 1 . < from his mouta, dropped a tear, ami, iii a supplica- 
ting tone ol voice, .-aid to Lusieri, TiXos 1 - — I waa pre- 

Bt Dl 

The Distlar alluded to was the father of the | 
Disdar. 

8. 
Where was thine JE ' . Palia ' thai mq ttWd 
Stern Ataxic and Hwooc on thiir way? 

Stanza xiv. lines 1 
According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achillea fririit- 
ened Ala ric from the Acropolis ; but others relate that 
the Gothic kino was neaih as tnischievoua as the Scot- 
tish peer. — See Chandler. 
9. 
the netted canopy. 

The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from falling 
on deck during action, 

10. 
But not in silence pass Cali/pso's isles. 

Stanza udx. line I. 

Gozais said to have been the island of Calypso. 
11. 
I^and of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On Viee. thou rugged nurse of savage men! 

Stanza uxviii. lines 5 and 6. 

Albania comprises part of Macedonia, Illyria, Chao- 
nia, and E pirns. 1 Lni<l< i i the Turkish word Ibi a 
under; and the celebrated Scanderberg (Lord 1 
der) is alluded to in the third and fourth Imes of th* 
thirty-eighth stanza. I do no) know whether I am cor- 
net * tn making Scanderberg the countryman of Alexan- 
der, who was l-orn ai Pella in Macedon, but Mr. Gib- 
hou t. nits him >", and adils l'virlius lo t h*: list, in 
speaking of his exploits. 

Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country " within 
sight of Italy is Less known than the bterior of Ameri- 
ca." Circumstances, ol Little conseqi :e to mention 

ted Mr. Hobhouse and myself into thai country before 
I any other part of the Ottoman dominions; 
and with the exception of Major Leake, then ofl 
residenl at Joannina, no other Englishmen have ever 
advanced beyond the capital into the interior, as that 
gentleman very lately assured me, Alt Pacha waa 
at that time (October, 1809) carrying on war 
[brahim Pacha, whom he had driven to Herat, b Btron 
fortress which he was then besieging : on our arrival al 
Joannina we were invited to Tepoleni, bis hi 
birthplace, and favourite Serai, only one day's distance 
from Berat; at this juncture the Vizier had made it 
Ins hi adnuarters. 

After some stav in the capital, we accordingly fol- 
lowed; bui though furnished with every accommoda- 
tion, and escorted by one of the Vizier's seeretarii 5, we 
were nine days (on areount of the ranis) in accomplish- 
ing ;t journey which, on our return, barely occupit d four, 

i in our route we passed two citii 
Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina in size; 

and no peiii il or pen ran i-v< r do justire to the 

in the vicinity ol Zitza and Delvmachi, the frontier 
village of Epirua and Albania Proper, 

i in vicuna and its inhabitants I am unwilling to 
descant, because this will be dune so much better by 
my fellow-traveller, in a work which may probably |>" - 

in publication, that I as liitle wish to fo 
I would to anticipate him. But some few observations 
are necessary to the text 

The Arnaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by 
their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in 
dress, figure, and manner of living, Theirvery moun- 
tains seemed Caledonian, with ■ kinder climate. The 
kilt, though while; the spare, active form; their dialect. 
Celtic in its sound, and ilinr hardy habits, ail cirxzad 
me back to Morvcn. No nation are so detested and 
dreaded by their neighbours as the Albanese; the 
Greeks hardly regard them as Christians, or the Turkr 
as Moslems ; and in fact they are a mixture of both, and 



Casto II. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



45 



sometimes neither. Their habits are predatory — all are 
armed ; and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the Montene- 
grin-. ChimariotS, and < regdes, are treacherous ; tlie 

litfei somewhat in garb, and essentially in cha- 
racter. As far as mv own experience goes, I can speak 
favourably. I was attended l»v iwo, an Intidel and a 
Mussulman, Lo Constantinople and ev< ry other part o( 
Turkey whi h came within mv observation; ana more 
faithful in periL or in lufatigable in service are rarely 
to be. found. The [nfi i ■! was nam <1 Basttius, the Mos- 
lem, Dervish Tallin ; the farmer a man of middle age, 
and the r' ab ml mv own. Basiti was strictly 

d by All Pacha in person to attend us; and Der- 
vish was one of til'y wii , accompanied us through the 

■ of Arcaaania to the hanks of Acheloua, and on- 
ward to Messalooghj in ^Btolia. There I took him into 
my own service, and never had occasion to repent it 
tu! ihe mom nt of ray departure. 

When m IS10, auer the departure of my fiiend Mr. 
II. for England, 1 was seized with a severe fever in 
the Morea, these men saved my life by frightening 
away my physician, whose throat they threatened to 

cut it 1 wj.s ii, m iMii,,| within a given ti:n,\ To this 
consolatory assurance of posthumous retribution, and 
a resolute refusal i>C Dr. Romanes's prescriptions, I 
attributed my recovery. I had left my last remaining 
English servant ut Athens; my dragoman was as ill 
If, and my poor Arnaouts nursed me with an 
attention winch would have done honour to civilization, 

They had a variety of advi ntures ; fur the Moslem, 
Dervish, b iing a remarkably handsome man, was always 
s |uabblino wi h the husban is of A; hens ; insomuch that 
four of the principal Turks paid me a visit of remon- 
strance at the Convent, on the subject of his having 
taken a woman from the bath — whom he had lawfully 
bought however — a thing quite contrary to etiquette. 

tittsih also was extremely gallant among his own 
persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the 
church, mixed with the highest contempt of churchmen, 
whom he cuffed upon occasion in a most heterodox 
manner. Yet he never passed a church without cross- 
ing himself; and I remember the risk he ran in entering 
St. Sophia, in Stamb »l, because it had once been a 
place of his worship. On remonstrating with him on 
his inconsistent proceedings, he invariably answered, 

ir c lurch is h i j our priests are thieves ;" and then 

sed himfi ilf as » ual, and boxed ihe ears of the 

first •* papas" who refused to assist in any required ope- 

r.o 'ii. as was always found to be necessary where a 

pries! had any influence with the Co^ia Bashi of his 

[ndei i b mi ire abandoned race of mi- r< inti 

i a the lower o ders of the Greek clergy. 

When preparations were made for my return, my 
Albanians were summoned to receive their pa . Ba- 
■ ik Jus with an awkwai I show of regret at my in- 
tended departure and marched away to his quarters 
with his bag of piastres. I sent f>r Dervish, but for 
i ■ he was n •' to be found : ai last he entered, 
jusl as Si mor Logotheti, father to the ci-di vanl Anglo- 
of Athens, and some her of my Greek acquaint- 
ances, paid me a visit. Dervish took the money, but 
on a sudden dashe 1 r to the ground; and clasping his 
bands, which he raised to his forehead, rushed out of 

the room, w ling bitterly. From that moment to the 

hour of my embarkation he co itinued his lament uions, 
and all our efforts to console liim only produced this an- 
swer, ' bid travel," " H<- leaves me.' 1 Signer Logotheti, 
who never wept befire P>r anv thing less than thi 
[osg of a para,* melted : the padre of the convent, my 
attendants, my visitors — and I verily believe that even 
Stern »n" would have 1,-fi her " 6sh 

to sympathize with the unaffected and unex- 
! sorrow of this barbarian. 

For my own par', when I remembered that, a short 
time before my departure from England, a noble and 
most intimate associate had excused himself from tak- 
ing leave of me because ho had to attend a relation " to 
a milliner's," I felt no less surprised than humiliated by 
the present occurrence and the past recollection. 

That Dervish would leave me wnh some regret was 



to be expected : when master and man have been scram- 
biing over the mountains of a dozen provinces together, 
they are unwilling to separate ; hut his present feelings, 
contrasted with his native ferocity, improved my opinion 
of the human heart. I believe this almost feudal fide- 
lity is frequent among them. One day, on our journey 
over Parnassus, an Englishman in my service gave him 
a push in some dispute about the baggage, which he 
unluckily mistook lor a blow; he spoke not, but sat 
down leaning his head upon his hands. Foreseeing the 
consequences, we endeavoured lo explain away the af 
front, which produced the following answer : — I have 
been a robber; I am a soldier; no captain ever struck 
me; you are mv master, I have eaten vour bread, but 
by that bread J ( an usual oath) had it been otherwise, 
I would have stabbed the dog vour servant, and gone to 
the mountains." So the affair ended, but from that 
day forward he never thoroughly forgave the thought 
less fellow who insulted him. 

Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, conjec- 
tured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic: be that 
as it may, it is manlv, and requires wonderful agility. 
It is very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the dull 
round-about of the Greeks, of which our Athenian 
party had so many specimens. 

The Albanians in general (I do not mean the culti- 
vators of the earth in the provinces, who have also that 
appellation, but the mountaineers) have a fine cast of 
countenance ; and the most beautiful women I ever be- 
held, in stature and in features, we saw levelling the 
road broken down bv the torrents between Delvinachi 
and Libochabo. Their manner of walking is truly the- 
atrical ; hut this strut is probably the effect of the ca- 
pote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. Their 
long hair reminds you of the Spartans, and their courage 
in desultory warfare is unquestionable. Though they 
have some cavalry amongst die Gegdes, I never saw a 
good Arnaout horseman ; my own preferred the Eng- 
lise saddles, which, however, they could never keep. 
But on foot they are not to be subdued by fatigue. 
12. 



-and passed the barren «/">/, 



* P«nj, Bbuvit the fourth of • fcrtiUflg. 



Where sad Penelope overlook* d the won e. 

Stanza xxxix. lines I and 2. 
Ithaca. 

13. 
Actium i Lcpanto t fatal Trafalgar. 

Stanza xl. line 5. 
Aciium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The 
battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, but 
less known, « as fought in the Gulf of Patras. Here 
the author of Don Quixote lost his left hand. 
14. 

And liaiCd the last resort of fruitless love. 

Stanza xli. line 3. 
Leucatlia, now Santa Maura. From the promon- 
tory (the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown 
herself. 

15. 

. many a Roman chief and Asian king. 

Stanza xlv. line 4. 
It is said, that on the day previous to the battle of Ac- 
tium, Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. 
16. 
Ijook where the second Casar's trophies lose I 

Stanza xlv. line 6. 
NicopoliS] whose ruins are most extensive, is at some 
distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippodrome 
survives in a few fragments. 
17. 

. Acherusiu's lake. 

Stanza xlvii. line 1. 
According to Pouqueville the lake of Yanina; but 
Pouquevillc is always out. 

18. 
To greet Albania's chiej. 

Stanza xlvii. line 4. 
The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary 
man there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's Tra- 
vels 



46 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Canto II. 



19. 

Yet here and there some daring mountain band 
Disdain his power, ft w I from their rocky hold 
JHurl their dtfianct Jar f nor yield) unless to l 

S anza ilvii, lines 7, 8, and 9. 

Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the 
castle of Suli, witlistood 30,000 Albanians for eighteen 
years; the castle at last was taken by bribery. Ln this 
contest there were several acts performed not unwor- 
thy of the better Jays of Greece. 
20. 
Monastic Zit:a t fyc. 

Stanza xlviii. lino I. 

The convent and village of Zttza are four hours' jour- 
ney from Joannina, or Vannm, the capital of the I'arh.i. 
licK. In the valley of the river Kahunas (once the 
Acheron) flows, and not far from Zitza forma a fine 
cataract. The situation is perhaps the finest in I rrei ce, 
though the approach to Delvinacni and parts of Acar- 
nania and /Stolia may contest the palm. Delphi. Par- 
nassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonna and Port 
Raphti, are very inferior; as also every scene in Eonia, 
or the Troad ; I am almost inclined to add the approacl 
to Constantinople; but from the different features of 
the last, a comparison can hardly be made. 

21. 

Here d wills the ccdoi/cr. 

Stanza xli.x. line 6. 
The Greek monks are so railed. 

22. 

Nature's volcanic amphitheatre. 

Stanza h. lini I 

The Chimariot mountains appear to have been vol- 
canic. 

23. 

behold black Acheron ! 

Starua h. line 6. 
Now called Kalamas. 

24. 

in his irhifi: capote 

Stanza 1 
Albanese cloak. 



i. line 7. 



, which are generally chanted in dancing by 
men or wumen indiscriminately. The first words are 
merely a kind of chorus without meaning, like some in 
our own and all other languages. 



1. 

Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 
Naciarura, popuso. 

2. 
Naciarura na cii in 
Ha penderini ti hin. 

3. 
Ha pe udcri escrotini 
Ti vin u mar servetini. 



Caliriote me surme 
K.i ha pe pse dua tivc. 

5. 
Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 
i ii eg( in spii La esuniro, 

6. 
Caliriote vu le fundc 
Edi irete Umde tunda 



Caliriote me surme 
Ti mi put e poi mi le. 

8. 
Sc ti puta citi mora 
Si mi ri ni veti udo gia. 



9. 
Va h- ni il che cadale 
Celo more, more celo. 

10. 
Plu hari ti tirete 
Pin Duron uia pra seti. 



I, 

Lo, Lo, 1 come, I come; be 
thou silent. 
2. 
I come, I run ; open the door 
thai I may enter. 
3. 
Open the door by halves, 
that I may lake my tur- 
ban. 

4. 

Cahriules* with the dark 

• \ • s, Open the gate that 

I may enter. 

5. 

Lo,Lo, I hear thee, my soul. 

6. 

An Arnaout girl, in costly 
garb, walks with graceful 
pride. 

7. 
Caliriot maid of the dark 
■eyes, give me a kiss. 
8. 
If I have kissed thee, what 
hast thou gained? My 
soul is consumed with fire. 
9. 
Dance lighty, more gently, 
and gently still. 
10. 
Make not so much dust to 
destroy your embroidery 
hose. 



The sun had tunk behind rust Tomerit, 

Stanza Iv. hue 1. 
Anciently Tomarus. 

26. 
And Laos vnde and fierce came roaring by. 

Stanza Iv. line 2. 
The river Laos was full at the time the author passed 
it; and, immediately above Topalen, was to the eye 
as wide as the Thames at Westminster; at least in the 
opinion of the author and his fellow-traveller, Mr, Hob- 
house. In the summer it roust be much narrower. It 
certainly is the finest river in the Levant; neither Ache- 
lous, Aipheus, Acheron, Schamonder, nor Cayster, ap- 
proached it in breadth or beauty. 

27. 

Ami fellow-countrymen have stood a/ 

Stanza Ixvi. line S. 
Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. 
28. 
Oie red u in* i '■■■ Ungfhst, 

Stanza ban, line 2. 
The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wm.\ 
and indeed very few of the o 

29. 

Each Palihar his sahre from him east, 

Stanza btxi. Sne 7. 
Palikar, shortened when addressed to a siin.de person, 
from IlaXiKapi, a general name for a soldier amongst tin- 
Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic — it means pro- 
perly " a lad." 

30. 
JVhdt this in concert , »$*c. 

Stanza ban. line last. 
As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of 
|he lllyric, T horp insert two of * u vx most popular cho- 



The last stanza would puzzle a commentator; the 
men have certainly buskins of the most beautiful texture, 
but the ladies (to whom the above is supposed to be 
addressed) have nothing under their little yellow boots 
and slippers hut a well-turned and sometimes very 
white ankle. The Arnaout girls are mucli handsomer 
than the Greeks, and their dress is (ar more picturesque. 
They preserve their shape much longer also, from be- 
iny always in the open air. It is to Be observed, that 
the Arnaout is not a written language ; the words of 
this song, therefore, as well as the one which follows, 
are spelt according to their pronunciation. They are 
copied by one who speaks and understands the dialect 
perfectly, and who is a native of Athens. 



1. 
Ndi sefila unde utavossa 
Vettimi upri vi lo&a. 



Ah vaisisso mi privi lofso 
Si mi run" mi Ja vosse. 



r T ti tasa roba stua 

Sitti eve tulaii dua. 



Roha Btinori ssidua 
(iu mi sun vein* dua. 
6. 

Qurniirti dua eivih ni 
Koha ti siarmi tildi em. 

6. 

ITltara pisa vaisisso me 

sum nn ti hapti 
Eti mi hire a piste si gui 

dendroi tiltati. 



1. 

I am wounded by thv love, 
and have loved but to 
scorch mvself. 

Thou hast consumed me ! 
Ah, maid! thou hast 
struck me to the heart. 
3. 
I have said I wish no dow- 
ry, but thine eyes and 
eye-la i 

4. 
Tho accursed dowry 1 
want not, but thee 
5. 
Give me thy charms, and 
let the portion feed the 
flames, 

6. 
I have loved thee, maid, 
with a sincere soul, hut 
thou hast left me like a 
withered tree. 



• The Alhanece, particularly ttie women, are frvqotatlf Urmtd 

" U&UriotM ," for -vhat re«»on 1 >i ' 



i inquired io vain. 



Canto II. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



47 



Udi vura udorini udiri ci- 

cova ciiti mora 
Udorini talti halliiaucde 

caunoni mora. 



If I have placed my hand on 
thy bosom, what have I 
gained? my hand is with- 
drawn, but retains the 
flame. 
T believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a differ- 
ent measure, ought to belong to another ballad. An 
idea something similar to the thought in the last lines 
was expressed by Socrates, whose arm having come in 
contact with one of his "vkokqXttioi" Critobulus or 
Cleobtllus, the philosopher complamed of a shooting 
pain as far as his shoulder for some days after, and 
very properly resolved to teach his disciples m 
future without touching them. 
31. 
Tambourgi! Tambourgi ! thu larum afar, »$-c. 

Song, Stanza i. line 1. 

These Stanzas are partly taken ironi different Alba- 

tiese songs, as far as I was able to make them out by 

the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic and Italian. 

3-2. 

Remember the moment when PrevisafelL 

Song, Stanza viii. line 1. 
It was taken by storm from the'French. 
33. 
Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth, i$-c. 

Stanza lxxiii. line i. 
Some thoughts on this subject will be found in the 
subjoined papers, 

34. 
Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 
Thou safst with Thrasyhulus and his train. 

Stanza Ixxiv. lines 1 and 2. 
Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, 
has still considerable remains: it was seized by Thra- 
sybulus previous to the expulsion of the Thirty. 

35. 

Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest. 

Stanza lxxvii. line 4. 
When taken by the Latins, and retained for several 
years. — See Gibbon. 

36. 
The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. 

Stanza lxxvii. line 6. 
Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the 
Wahabecs, a sect yearly increasing. 

37. 

Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow — 

Stanza lxzzv. line 3. 
On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, tht 
snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the in 
tense heat of the summer; but I never saw it lie on 
the plains, even ui winter. . 
38. 
Save where some soli tar jj column mourns 
jlbove its prostrate brethren of the cave. 

Stanza Ixxxvi. lines 1 and 2. 
Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was 
dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. 
The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense 
cave formed by the quarries still remains, and will till 
the end of time. 

39. 
When Marathon became a magic word 

Stanza Ixxxix. line 7. 
"Siste Viator — hcroa calcas!" was the epitaph on 
the famous count Merc'i ; — what then must be our feel- 
ings when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred 
(Greeks) who feu on Marathon? The principal bar- 
row has recently been opened by Fauvel ; few or no 
relics, as vases, &c. were found by the excavator. The 
plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum 
of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine hundred 
pounds ! Alas ! — " Expende, — quot libras in duce sum- 
mo — invenies'." — was the dust of Miltiades worth no 
more? It could scarcely have fetched less if sold by 
weight. 



PAPERS REFERRED TO BV NOTE 33. 
I. 

Before I say any thing about a city of wliich every 
body, traveller or not, has thought it necessary to say 
something, I will request Miss Owenson, when she next 
borrows an Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to 
have the goodness to marry her to somebody more of 
a gentleman than a "DisdarAga," (who by the by is 
not an Aga,) the most impolite of petty officers, the 
greatest patron of larceny Athens ever saw, (except 
Lord E.) and the unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, 
on a handsome annual stipend of 150 piastres, (eight 
pounds sterling,) out of which He has only to pay his 
garrison, the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-regulated 
Ottoman Empire. I -speak it tenderly, seeing I was 
once the cause of the husband of "Ida of Athens" 
nearly suffering the bastinado; and because the said 
" Disdar" is a turbulent husband and beats his wife ; so 
that I exhort and beseech Miss Owenson to sue for a 
separate maintenance in behalf of "Ida." Having pre- 
mised thus much, on a matter of such import to the 
readers of romances, I may now leave Ida, to mention 
her birthplace. 

Setting aside the magic of the name, and all those 
associations which it would be pedantic and superfluous 
to recapitulate, the very situation of Athens would ren- 
der it the favourite of all who have eyes for art or na- 
ture. The climate, to me at least, appeared a perpe- 
tual spring ; during eight months I never passed a day 
without being as many hours on horseback : rain is ex- 
tremely rare, snow never lies in the plains, and a cloudy 
day is an agreeable rarity. In Spain, Portugal, and 
every part of the East which I visited, except Ionia 
and Atuca, I perceived no such superiority of climate 
to our own ; and at Constantinople, where I passed 
May, June, and part of July, (1810,) you might "damn 
the climatej and complain of spleen," five days out of 
seven. 

The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, but 
the moment you pass the Isthmus in the direction of 
Megara the change is strikingly perceptible. But I 
far Hesiod will still be found correct in his description 
of a Bceotian winter. 

We found at Livadia an " esprit fort" in a Greek 
bishop, of all free thinkers ! This worthy hypocrite ral- 
lied his own religion with great intrepidity, (but not be 
fore his flock,) and talked of a mass as a " coglioneria." 
It was impossible to think better of him for this; but, 
for a Boeotian, he was brisk with all his absurdity.— 
This phenomenon (with the exception indeed of Thebes, 
the remains of Cha?ronea, the plain of Platea, Orcho- 
menus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of Trophonius) 
was the only remarkable thing we saw before we passed 
Mount Cithsron. 

The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least my com- 
panion (who, resolving to be at once cleanly and clas- 
sical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain of 
Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth while may con- 
tradict him. At Castri we drank of half a dozen stream- 
lets, some not of the purest, before we decided to our 
satisfaction which was the true Castalian, and even that 
had a villanous twang, probably from the snow, though 
it did not throw us into an epic fever, like poor Dr. 
Chandler. 

From Fort Phyle, of which large remains still exist, 
the Plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hymettus, the JEgean, 
and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once ; in my 
opinion, a more glorious prospect than even Cintra or 
IstamboL Not the view from the Troad, with Ida, the 
Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Athos, can 
equal if, though so superior in extent. 

I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but excepting 
the view from the monastery of Megaspelion, (which is 
inferior to Zitza in a command of country,) and the 
descent from the mountains on the way from Tripolitza 
to Argos, Arcadia has little to recommend it beyond the 
name. 

"Sternitur, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos." 

Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none but an 
Argive, and (with reverence be it spoken) it does not 
deserve the epithet. And if the Polyniccs of Statitfs, 



48 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Cabto II. 



.'Inmediis audit dab htora campis" did «*^/ n '" 
both shops hi croesingthe isthmus of Corinth, he had 
better cars than have ever been worn m such a journ. <J 

^■Athens" says a celebrated topog.«j»her " U .^ 

the most, * Icity-I Un-.ee. perhaps it »" * 

Gran; bul Dot of trie Greet. ; for Jo, ..a. IM 

is universally allowed, among tbjemseives, to be supe- 
rior^ fl» wealto, refinement, 1 I'"*** 

tainhabil . The A ajar* are renwtaMe io, 

eunnin.; and the lower orders are not improp, 
SSed in that pro«rb, which classes.hemwnh''th, 

.,, .„.. ofSalooica, 'and the Turks ol l.K^* 

Amon» the various foreigners residenl in Athens, 
FrlmTltalians, Germans; Ragusans, fee. there f was 
never a difference of opinion in their estimate ol die 
Greek character, thougl all other topics theydis- 

^/^vttFS'consul, who has passed thirty 
.ears'nrincipnta at Athens, and to whose talents as an 

EK Eaters as agenueman none h.ve>mown 

him can refuse their tesSi y, has Ireon-mly d, i ' 

Limy hearing, that the Greeks do no deserve to be 
emancipated ; reasoning on the grounds ol heir na- 
£S and individual depravev-'wlnle he for £ that 

■such depravity is to be attributed to causes :h can 

only be removed by the measure he reprobates. 

Mr Ronue a French merchant ol respectability long 
sen' J in' Athens, asserted with .he most a..,,, in j 
cravttv "Sir, they are the same conoiKe that existed 
K I day, of zWistocfcs."' an alarming remark to 
Se«LSitortemporis acti." The ancients banished 
Thenriftocles; me moderns cheat Monsieur Roque: 
thus great men have ever been treated. 

[..short all the Frank, who are Sxtures, and most 
of the En dish... ■.., Uerm,,,, Danes, ke. ol r „^,"e. 
ea, ■ over by degrees to their opinion, or. .much ,&e 
S™ grounds that a Turk in England would condemn 
Z ™ nation by wholesale, because he was wronged b 3 
h, Scquey, and overcharged by his washerwoman 
Certainly il was not a little staggering .when the 

Sta^sFauvelandLusieri, »Pf«*3W 

oftheday who divide between them the power ol Pen- 
See and the popularity of Cleon, and purfe *e poor 

wlyWewim P perpei ifference* agreed mfceuUsr 

condemnation, "nufia virtute redemptum, ol the Greeks 
in general and of the Athenians in parhciilar. 

For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard ,t, 
know,,,., aside that there be nov, in MS. no less than 
f iv. ms of h lir-t magnitude and of the most threat. 

e,„n,a.,,ee., all... lyr-r..,.! a;, by I»t- ; «m 

wit, and honour, and regular nmon-plaee 1 ks ,. 

if 1 „,..v say this without off nee, ,. seems to me rather 
hard to deeh.re so positively and pert......."" ... ■' • 

most every body has declared, thai ihe Greeks, because 
thev are verv bad, will never be better. , 

Kate,, and So,,,,,,., have led us astray by 'their pane- 
eyries and projects ; but, on the other hand De Pauv. 
and Thornton have .1-1.,, ed the Greeks lay 1 ll.c.r 

''The" Greeks will never be independent; they wffl 
never be rov«reigns as heretofore, and God forbid they 

evers 1.1! but, hey may be snbj, ett w .thou be me 

slaves. Our colonies are not independent, but they ax. 

fr- and industrious, and such may Greece be hereafter 

At ores,,,,, hk, the Catholics of Ireland and the 

Jew. il,,,....!.-,,, the d, and such »*er cudgelled 

indheterodSi le.fl.ey suffer all the ,,, .ral and phy- 

aical .Us that can afflict humanity. Then Id is 
atruUle aeainst truth ; thev are v.e.ous ... th.-.r own d. • 

f ; •- Tl 'van- sou la to kin, s, that when ftcy 

occasionally u,«-t w„h it they look opon .1 w» JB™- 
cion as a dog often beaten snaps al your fingers if you 
attempt to clress him. "They are ungrateful, noton- 
„u s ly, P ab„minably ungrateful ?>-tbis > <>' W""*«7- 

Now in the „„,, ' Nemesis! for what are they to be 

mtendl Where is the human being thai ,.,,-,- 
grred a benefit on Greek orGreeks? They an , to be 
grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and to the Frank: 
for their broken promises and Wing counsels. 1 hey arc 
to be grateful to the artist who eneraves their ruins, 
and to the antiquary who carries them away, to toe 



traveller whose janissary Bogs lh| DJ, and to Ihe - 

■ " "" ■"" UU "' °' 
their obligations to fbreignei 

II. 

Franciscan Cannot, Athens, January 23. 1811. 

Amona the remnantsof ll f '*• 

eirl" ."••- «e Ihe nacesol bondage which yet east 

" ,,,,.-,' , blries; whoso inhahiianUj. B, 

Lided in r,..,..'„ and r-, al t al , 



i y, haYe at last compassionated their Ne- 

efee ; ra£S=E 

dew. have 
^Cindent^reekswel - « ^;. 

h.s age in the stud) of to. lan( 

.-,.,.. aih. , , ,,, i ma ;o u. a m favpur ol free- 

Z;'",;,;, i.: r ',.;'; ."..1.1 -:-...'.«...-< .1.. >.■»»"■, 

repu&arelel w„,,ny -. ,l,-,r ...as,.^ 

,:!l ah a vei rl is required to sink, ofl 

*To C tolk! S as the Greeks themsel , do.ol fliefrrHBlvg 
a„ai . '.th. .r prisUne superiority, wouli be ndiculous ; 

J the world mus ' »». 

Lf.er7eassertine ihe *.^r.„uu ol Greece: tatthere 

■e,, oh- no.., .cle, «ceptm l,. ; i .,*- 

thvrf the Franks, t ,l " 1 ""- 

,-v orevenTrVe, '""" ; - 

, I" 'eorreei.on, however, be it spoken f5r many and 

"nanlorUKal UK., doubl -'-"> ' ' "' ° f 

''"i h, Greeks have never lost their hope tl.ouuh they 
e lividedino, ! g ;;' , r 

, ., ,, K_„ rRrs R,.| n r-' o. K ||s - 

,'''"' „;'V haVetwic! been deceit 
SS 'h„. -, r^ and Ihe dreadful lesson 

',,. I.fl.r.l,' Al„ "" •» •!■«■ »'•■'.■ 

never been fbi >'• "■ The French they d.sl.k e : al- 

?hZh*fsobTSgation of the rest of Europe w.ll. p- ■ 

alt ,,„led bv the deUverance -I ; tinental 

e^TheiSanderelool English for suc«,ur 

; have v. IV lal.lv possessed, In, "selves ol the 

,lav arrive Heaven have mercj on th. W 
Iheycannol expect it from the G.aou 

rlut instead of considermg what l -j^ 

BpecdaUng on what ihq may ut, 

"AnYhwil U imposobletorec fl.theconl 

oftputionsl. .part 

■he Greeks in the strongesl langi 

ally haveners, taming periods m 

lublishine very curious BpeculaUons grafted on heir 
I ,',-,„. wl,„l, can hav, no more eflect on the» 
,,; . ..Vl,.,..!...... riste. Ino on the future 

fori s ol Peru. „,,!,„ ,,„nlur„l 

One very ingenious person terms them the natura 
a,! ,"„fEn..h s l„..en;" another, no less u,ee,„ous w.ll 

; allow ,!,-.„ tob, lh alUes of anybody^ («»« 

,,, r verv .1, scenl from the ancienu; a third, more .m- 
•erious^aleitoer. builds a Greek empire on a F 

t,ld,, , I »a^e. (on paper) all *.ctam. 

Pa.herii.e II As lo the question ol their descent 

to which they once Kkened themselves? Wtot Bng. 



Canto II. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



43 



things of this world, as to render even their claims lo 
antiquity an object of envy; it is very cruel, then, in 
Mr. Thornton to disturb (hem in the possession of all 
that time has left them ■ viz. their pedigree, of which 
they are the m w tenacious, a^ il is all they can call 
tin ir n.vn, It would be worth while to publish together, 
and compare, the works of Messrs. Ihornton and De 
Pauw, titon and Sonnini; paradox on one side, and 
prejudice on the other. Mr. Thornton conceives him- 
self to have claims to public confidence from a fourteen 
years' residence at Pera; perhaps he may on the sub- 
ject of the Turks, but this can give him no more insight 
into the real state of Greece and her inhabitants, than 
rears spent in Wapping into that of the West- 
ern Highlands. 

The Greeks of Constan'inople live in Fanal ; and if 
Mr. Thornton did not oftner cross the Golden Horn 
than his brother merchants are accustomed to do, I 
should place no great reliance on his information. I 
actually heard one of these gentlemen boast of their 
Utile general intercourse with the city, and assert of 
himself, with an air of triumph, that he had been but 
four times at Constantinople in as many years. 

As to Mr, Thornton's voyages in the Black Sea with 
Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece 
as a cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would of 
Johnny Grot's house. Upon what grounds then does 
he arrogate the right of condemning bv wholesale a 
body of m n, of wh im he can know hide? It is rather 
a curious circumstance that Mr. Thornton, who so 
lavishly dispraises PouqueVille on every occasion of 
m ntioning the Turks, has yet recourse to him as 
authority on the Greeks, and terms him an impartial ob- 
server. Now Dr. Pouqueville is as little -untied to 
that appellation, as Mr. Thornton to confer it on him. 

The fact is, we are deplorably in want of information 
on the subject of the Greeks, and in particular their 
literature, nor is there any probability of our being bet- 
ter acquainted, till our intercourse becomes more inti- 
mate, or their independence confirmed : the relations of 
passing travellers are as little to be depended on as the 
invectives of angry factors ; but till some tiling more 
can be attained, we must be content with the little to 
be acquired from similar sources.* 

However defective these may be, they are preferable 
to the paradoxes of men who have read superficially of 
the ancients, and seen nothing of the moderns, such, as 
De Pauw ; who, when he asserts that the British breed 
of horses is ruined by Newmarket, and that the Spar- 
tans were cowards in the field, betrays an equal know- 
ledge of English horses and Spartan men. His "ph." 
Ictsophica] observations" have a much better claim to 
the title of (t poetical.** It could not be expected that 
■ so liberally condemns some of the most celebra 
ted institutions of the ancient, should have mercy on 
the modern Greeks; and it fortunately happens, that 
the absurdity of his hypothesis on their forefathers re- 
futes his sentence on themsi Ives. 

Let us (rust, then, that in spite n\" the prophecies of 
De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there is a 
reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of men, 
who, whatever maybe the errors of their religion and 



• A word,- an pitwant, with Mr. Thornton awl Dr. Pouqueville, who 
have l>*en guilt* between them of jidly clipping the Sultan' ■ Turkish. 

Dr. Ponqnev.llo tell* alottgatory of a Moslem who swallowed corrosive 
t'tbltmate In such q lantilies thai lie ■■■ , lireel the nam.- of " Suleyman 
^ r'/rn," i. e. quoth the Doctor, " Sultt/mnn, the eater of corrosive tvt- 

:..' i Mr. Thornton, (angry with the Doctor for the 

have I ?hl you?"— Then, in a mile twice the ibiclc- 
Heia of the Doctor's anecdote, he questions the Doctor's proficiency in the 
Turkish loufue, ai in his own.— " For," observes Mr. 

Thornton, (o ler Inflicting on us the tough participle of a Turkish verb,) 
■.. nothing more lh in Salesman thr eolev," and quite cashiers 
■ " tublimftfe." Now both »re right, and both are 
wrong. It .Mr. T'homton, when ho next resides " fourteen years In the 
factory," will con ! ■ ■ ■ iuy of hla Stambo- 

mtanee, he will d SWeyna'fl yeurn," put to- 

gether discreetly, mean the '* Svattovw of sublimate,," without any 
" SuZeymvi'' ill the case : " Suleyma" signifying " corrosive subti- 
mn'e," an l not being n proper name on tins occasion, although it be an 
orthodox name enough with the addition of "■ after Mr. Tbornlon'i 
frequent hints of pi li narOrii lalism, he might have found this out be 
fore he snng such pssans over Dr. Pcniqueville. 

After this, I think " Travellers versus Factors" shall be our motto, 
though the above Mr. Thonitui has condemned " hoc genus omne, 
for mistake and misrepresentation, " Ne Sutor ultra creptdara," " N< 
merchant beyond Ma bales." N. B. Fur the benefit of Mr. Thornton 
" Sulor" is not a proper name. 



policy, have been amply punished by three centuries and 
a halt* of captivity. 

III. 
AtkenS) Franciscan Convent^ Mar, 17, 1S11. 
" I must have some talk with this learned Theban." 

Some time after my return from Constantinople to 
this city, I received the thirty-first number of the Edin- 
burgh Review as a great favour, and certainlv at this 
distance an acceptable one, from the captain of an 
English frigate off Salamis. In that number, Art. 3. 
containing the revii w of a French translation ofStrabrx 
there are introduced some remarks on the modern 
Greeks and their literature, with a short account of 
Coray, a co-translator in the French version. On 
those remarks I mean to ground a few observations, 
and the spot where I now write will I hope be sufficient 
excuse for introducing them in a work in some degree 
connected with the subject. Coray, the most cele- 
brated of living Greeks, at least among ihe Franks, was 
born at Scio, (in the Review Smyrna is stated, I have 
reason to think, incorrectly, ) and, besides the transla- 
tion of Beccaria and other works mentioned by the 
Reviewer, has published a lexicon in Romaic and 
French, if I may irust the assurance of some Danish 
travellers lately arrived from Paris; But the latest we 
have seen here in French and Greek is that of Gregory 
Zolikogloou.* Coray has recently been involved in 
an unpleasant controversy with M. Gail.j a Parisian 
commentator and editor of some translations from the 
Greek puis, in consequence of the Institute having 
awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates 
" TltfA bSdrtov" &c. to the disparagement, and conse- 
qm u'l, displeasure, of the said Gail. To his exertions 
literary and patriotic great praise is undoubtedly due, 
but a part of ( hat praise ought not to be withheld from 
the two brothers Zosimado, (merchants settled in Leg- 
horn,) who sent him to Paris, and maintained him foi 
the express purpose of elucidating the ancient, and 
adding lo the modern, researches of his countrymen. 
Coray, however, is not considered by his countrymen 
equal to s^nie who lived in the two last centuries; more 
particularly Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hellenic 
writings are so much esteemed by the Greeks that 
Meletius terms him, " Msra riv OovkvcIStiv teat "Zevo- 
<f>mvra apirrros 'EXAjJi wv." (P. 224 Ecclesiastical His- 
tory, vol. iv.) 

Pana*giotes, Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, 
and Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on 
the Universe into French, Chris todoulus, and more 
particularly Psalida, whom I have conversed with in 
Joannina, are also in high repute among their literati. 
The last-nu-niioned has published in Romaic and Latin 
a work on "True Happiness," dedicated to Catherine 
II. But Polyzo'is, who is staled by the Reviewer to 
be the only modern except Coray who has distin- 
guished himself by a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be 
the Polyzois Lampanitziotes of Yanina, who has pub- 
lished a number of editions in Romaic, was neither 
more nor less than an itinerant vender of books ; with 
the contents of which he had no concern beyond his 
name on the title-page, placed there to secure his pro- 
perty in the publication , and he was, moreover, a man 
utterly destitute of scholastic acquirements. As the 
name, however, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois 
may have edited the Epistles of Aristfenetus. 

If is to be regretted that the system of continental 
blockade has closed the few channels through which 
i he Greeks received their publications, particularly Ve- 
nice and Trieste. Even the common grammars for 
children are become too dear for the lower orders. 
Amongst their original works the Geography of Mele- 
tius, Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude of theolo- 
gical quartos and poetical pamphlets, arc to be met 



• I have in mv possession nn exCehVnt Lexicon rpty\waaoi' which 
I I .11 exchange from S. G — , Esq for a small gem : my antiqua- 

rian friends have never forgotten it, or forgiven me. 

t in Gail's pamphlet against Coray, he talks of" throwing the insolen* 
Hellenists owl of the windows." On Una « French critic .>*claims, "Ah. 
my God ! throw nn Helleni&le out of the window ' what sacrilege t" I' 
certainly would be n serious business for those BUthora who dwell in (lis 
attics : but I have quoted the passage merely to prove the aimilarily of 
style among the con trove rsiulitts of all polished countries ; London or 
Edinburgh coutJ hardly parallel this Parisian ebullition. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



60 

with; their grammars and lexicons of two, three an, I 
four languages, are numerous and i sxellent. fneir 
poetry is" in rhyme. The most singular piece 1 have 
lately seen is a satire in dialogue between a Kut tan, 
English, and French traveller, and the V?»ywode ol 
"Wailach.a (»r Blackbey, as they term linn,) an arch- 
hishop a merchant, and Cogia BachL [or primate,] m 

B jsion; to all of whom under the Turks the writer 

i i a their present degen iracy. Their si 

Bomi times pretty an I pathetic, but their tunes generall) 
unpleasin.r In the ear ..I a Frank: the best IS Ihi famous 
"Acert iroiterSv 'EWuJv»v," by ihi unfortunate Riga 
But from a catalogue of inure ihan sixty authors, now 
before me, onli fifteen can lie found wbtejuwe touched 
on any theme except theology. 

I am intrusted with a commission by a Greek ol 
Athens, named Marmarotouri, to make arrangements, if 
possible, for printing in London a translation of Barthe- 
lemi's Anacharsis in Romaic, as he has i ther oppor- 
tunity, unless he despatches the MS. to Vienna by the 
Black Sea ami Danube. 

The Reviewer mentions a school established at 
Hecatonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of Sebas- 
tian! : he means ( 'nli mies, or, in Turkish. Hawaii; a town 
on the continent, where thai institution fir a hundred 
students and three professors still exists. It ls ,rl " 
that tins establishment was disturbed by the Porte, 
under the ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were con- 
structing a fortress instead of a college: but on inves. 



Casto II. 



issions, as the whole A'.tic race are barbarous to a 

" a hOnva irporrj X"P° „ 

Ti yuioupoi's TfHifui Twpa. 
In Gibbon, vol x. p. 161, i tence:— 

" '| he vul ■■■< di 

church and pala 

,.,,1 ,;, copj ihe purity of ihe All* ■ 
Whatever may be asserted i n the subject, il is difficult 
in conceive that the " I Conslanimople, inlha 



reign ol Ihe lasl ( i I ike a purer dial' cl lhan A i 



tigationTand the payment of some purses to Ihe Divan 
it lias been pcrmitte'd to continue. The principal pro. 
feasor, named Ueniamin, (i. e. Benjamin,) is stand to 
be a man of talent, but a freethinker. He was born in 
Lesbos, studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, Latin 
and some Frank languages; besides a smattering of the 
sciences 

Though it is nut my intention to enter farther on this 
topic than may allude to the article in question, I cannot 
but observe that the Reviewer's lamentation ovr tie 
fall of the Greeks appears singular, when he .loses it 
with these words: "The change is to be a&ritndtd to 
their misfortunes rather than to tmy ' physical degrada- 
tion.'" It may be true that the Greeks an notphj i 

cally degenerated, and that Constantinople ■ tained, 

on the day when it changed masters, as many men ol 
six feet and upwards as' in the hour of prosperity ; but 
ancient history and modem politics instruct us that 
something more than physical perfection is necessary 
to preserve a slate in vigour and independence : and the 
Greeks, in particular, are a melancholy example ol the 
near connexion between moral degradation and national 
decay. 

The Reviewer mentions a plan " ice believe by 
Potcnvkm for the purification of the Romaic, and 1 have 
endeavoured in vain to procure any tidings or traces "I 
its existence. There was an academy in St. Peters- 
burgh for the Greeks; but it was suppressed by Paul, 
and has not been revived by Ins successor. 

There is a slip of ihe pen, ami it can only be a slip 
of the pen, in p. 58, No. 31, of the Edinburgh Review, 
where these words occur : — " We are told than when the 
capital of the East jjelde 1 to Socman"— il may be pre- 
sumed that this last word will, in a future edition, be 
altered loMabotnet II." The '• ladira of Constantin |do." 
il seems, at that period spoki a dialect, "which wool. I 
not have disgraced the lips of an Athenian.' 1 I do nol 
know how thai mighl be, but am sorry to say the ladies 
in general, and the Athenians in particular- are much 
altered; being far from choice either in their dialect or 



to conci 

reign ol ■... 

Comnena wrote three cen ones ot fori : and those royal 

, te I the l» -i models ol • po 

Ithough thi princi J yXurrav «xev AKPIBflS Arrui. 
,,„„,. In the Fanal, and in Vaniua, Il i 
is spoken: in the latter Here is a noun rig 
under the direction oi Psalida. -__,.,. t • 

There is now- in Aliens a pupil ol Psalida s, who IS 

making a tour oi observation through Greece: lie is 

intelligent, and better educated than a fellowicommonei 

of most colleges. 1 mention ties as a proof that the 

3 pi r i1 of in, pun is not dormant among the Grei ks. 

Tin- Reviewet mentions Mr. Wright, the autl 

the beautiful poem " Hone lonicse," to give 

i. tails ol these nominal Rom i Greeks, 

of ilieir language: but Mr. Wright, though a 

e iod poet and tin able man, has made a mistake where 

i, Albani in di dt 1 1 of the Romaic to approxi- 

,,, Lt urest to Ihe Hellenic: for the Albanians apeak 

a Romaic as notoriously corn. pi as the Scotch of Aber- 
deenshire, or the Italian of Naples. Yanina, (where, 
next 10 the F.mal, Ihe Greek is purest,) although 

the capital of All Pacha's domin . i nol in Albania 

but Epiius; and beyond Delvinachi in Albania Proper, 
up to Argyroeastro and Tepaleen, (beyond which I did 
not advance,) they speak worse Greek than even the 
Athenians. I was attended for a year and a half by two 
of lie-, singular mountaineers, whose mother tone,,, is 
Ulyric, and 1 never heard mem or their countrymen 
(whom 1 have seen, not only at home, but to the amo u n t 
of twenty thousand in the army of Vely P 
for their'Grcek, but often laughed at for Iheii proi incial 
barbarisms. 

I have in my possession about twenty-live 
among which some from the Bey of Corinth, written to 
me by Notaras, ihe t'ogia Ha. hi, and others by ihe 

Irago i of the Caimacam of the Mores, (which last 

governs in Vely Pacha's absence,) are said to be favour- 
able specimens of then epistolary style. I also received 
some at Constantinople from private persons, written 
in a most hyperbobcal style, but in the true antique 
character. 

The Reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on the 



• Inn former number of the Edinburgh Retiow, 1808, II 11 ohsrrved ! 

■i] . , Br pasted lome ol hlei orly year* In Scotland, n 

have learned thai pioroca doae liol I I I "e 7" any mors mnnrjiiel 

meana K /lit, He." vViery,— Was il in Scotl ind that the young !„„',„„n 
ol oi Edl rah RerlewJonmod thtil Sotymaa moans Mo/toma //.any 

more lhan crilifitrm mean. Infallibility 7— hul UlUI 

" Cajdimue inqoe vicem prcbomtie crura msilUa. 

The mistake seemed so cm,, : ''"'I I ; Die mal f lull 

InriO/ of the two words, and ihe total OOOOflca O/tTTOi t' ',,, ,ei 

i,,-,'» „l the literary leviauiaul that I ehouW have pe .*,■<! It over oe In thi 
teal, had I nol per. Used In IM E hnb-irgh Review much [aceUove cs»l 
tation on all such detections, particularly a recent one , where words anc 
syllables are subjects of disquisition anl transposition ; an,t Iheabnve- 
menUoned parallel passage in my own case trrcsial.l.ly propelled 010 to 
limt how much easier il is to he critical lhan correct. The sentlemtn, 
having enjoyed many s triuvip/i on such victories, will hardly begrudge 
B*s a slight oeofton for the present. 



, its past and present stale, to a paradox (page 

;,'.)) on Ihe : iv;J mis, 1, 1,1' .,f ihe knowledge of his own 
alienage has done to Coray, who, it seems, is less 
likely to understand the an, ii nl Greel 
feet master of the modem! Tins observation fo 

paragraph, rec nending, in i gplicil lenns, ihe study 

of ihe Romaic, as "a powerful auxiliary," not onlj to 
the traveller and foreign merchant, bul also to thi 
, short, lo ■ i, rj body except 11 
person vi ho can be thi |t ainted « uh i 

ami by a panic of reasoning, ,,,i r ol,l languagi is ji c- 

'nr, d lo be probably more 

than by ourselves! Now I am inclined lo think, thai a 
Dutch Tyro in our tongue (albeit himself of Saxon 
bio,,,!) would tie sadly perplexed with " Sir Tristrem," 
other given "Aucninleck MS." with or without 
a grammar or glossary ; and lo most apprehensions it 
-, , m evident that none but a native can acnuire a 
competent far less complete, knowledge of our obsolete 
idioms. We may give tie- , ritic i redil for his ingenuity, 
but no more believe him than we . Lisma- 

hago, who maintains thai thepuresl English is spoken 
in Edinburgh. That Corny may err is very jiossible; 
but if he does, the fault is in Ihe man rather than in his 

mother tongue, which is, as u ought >,, be, of ihe greatest 
aid to the native student. — Here the Reviewer pro- 
ceeds to business on Strabo's translators, and here I 
close mv remarks. 

Sir W. Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen, 



Canto II. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



51 



Dr. Clarke, Captain Leak.-, Mr. Gull, Mr. Walpole, 
and many others d >w in England, have all ihe requisites 
to furnish details of tins fallen people. The few obser- 
vations I have offered E should have left where I made 
them, had not the article in question, and above all the 
spot where I read it, induced me to advert to those 
pag ss, which the advantage of my present situation 
Boa tied me to clear, or at least to make the attempt. 

I have endeavoured to wave the personal feelings, 
which rise in despite of me in touching upon any part 
of the Edinburgh Review; not from a wish to conciliate 
ihe favour of its writers, or to cancel the remembrance 
of a syllable I have formerly published, hut simply from 
a si nse of the impropriety of mixing up private resent- 
ments with a disq lisition of (lie present kind, and more 
particularly at this distance of time and place. 



ADDITIONAL NOTE, OS THE TURKS. 

The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have b ;cn 
much exaggerated, or ra her have considerably dimi- 
nished of fate years. The Mussulmans have been 
beaten into a kind of sullen civility, very comfortable to 
b jers. 

Ir is hazardous to say much on the subject of Turks 
and Tiirkey; since it is possible to live among them 
twenty years without acquiring information, at least 
from themselves. As far as my own slight experience 
carried me I have no complaint to make; but am in- 
debted for many civilities, (I might almost say for 
friendship.) and much hospitality, to Ali Pacha, Ins son 
Veli Pacha of the Morea, and several others of high 
rank in the provinces. Suleyman Aga, late Governor 
of A then?, and now of Thebes, was a oon vivant, and as 
social a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a 
table. During the carnival, when our English party 
were masquerading, both himself and his successor were 
more* happy to "receive masks" than any dowager in 
Grosvenor square. 

On one occasion of his supping at the convent, his 
friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, was carried 
from table perfectly qualified for any club in Christen- 
dom; while the worthy Waywode himself triumphed 
in hi 

[nail money transactions with the Moslems, lever 
found the strictest honour, the highest disinterestedness. 
In transacting business with them, there are none of 
■■ dirty peculation?, under the name of interest, 
difference of exchange, commission, &c. &.c. uniform!) 
found in applying to a Greek consul to cash bills, even 
on the firsl houses in Pera. 

With i" tear I to pr isents, an established c istom in 
the Ea^t, you will rarely find yourself a loser; as one 
worth i'- eptance is generally returned by another of 
similar value— a horse, or a shawl. 

[11 ili capital an I al court the citizens and courtiers 
are formed in the un ch i »1 with those of Christiani- 
ty ; hut there does not exisl a more honourable, friendly, 
and high spirited character than the true Turkish p-o- 
mm i:ii \- i, <>r Moslem country gentleman. It is not 
meant here to de-ignate the governors of towns, but 
those Agai who, bv a kind of feudal tenure, possess 
lands and houses, of more or less extent, in Greece and 
A-ia M'nor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable disc'pline as the 
rabble in con h greater pretensions to civiliza- 

tion. A Moslem, in walking the streets of our country- 
towns, would be more incommoded in England than a 
Prank in a similar situati m in Turkey. Regimentals 
.in- the be it irai elling dress. 

The 1> sst accounts of the religj n. and different sects 
of Islaraism, mav be found in D'Ol ison's French; of 
their manners, &<\ perhaps in Thornton's English. The 
Ottomans, with all then delects, are not a people to be 
despised. Equal, at least, to the Spaniards, they are 
superior to the Portuguese. If it he difficult to pro- 
nounce what they are, we can at least say what they 
arc not : thev arc not treacherous, they are not cowardly, 
they do not burn heretics, thev are not assassins, nor 
has an enemy advanced to their capital. They are 
faithful to their sultan till he becomes unfit to govern, 
and devout to their God without an inquisition. Were 



they driven from St. Sophia to-morrow, and the French 
or Russians enthroned in their stead, it would become 
a question, whether Europe would gain by the exchange? 
England would certainly be the loser. 

With regard to that ignorance of which they are so 
generally, and sometimes justly accused, it may be 
doubted, always excepting France and England, in 
whal useful points of knowledge they are excelled by 
other nations. Is it in the common arts of life ? In 
their manufactures 7 Is a Turkish sabre inferior to a 
Toledo? oris a Turk worse clothed or lodged, or fed 
and taught, than a Spaniard? Are their Pachas worse 
educated than a Grandee? or an Effeudi than a Knight 
of St. Jago. I think not. 

I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, 
asking whether my fellow-traveller and myself were in 
i lie upper or lower House of Parliament. Now this 
question from a boy of ten years old proved that his 
education had not been neglected. It may be doubted 
if an English boy at that age knows the difference of the 
Divan from a College of Dervises ; but I am very sure 
a Spaniard does not. How little Mahmout, surrounded, 
as Vie had been, entirely by his Turkish tutors, had 
learned that there was such a thing as a Parliament it 
were useless to conjecture, unless we suppose that his 
instructors did not confine his studies to the Koran. 

In all the mosques there are schools established, 
which are very regularly attended ; and the poor are 
taught without the church of Turkey being put into 
peril. I believe the system is not yet printed ; (though 
there is such a thing as a Turkish press, and books 
printed on the late military institution of the Niznm 
Gedldd;) nor have I heard whether the Mufti and the 
Mollas nave subscribed, or the Caimacam and the 
Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingenious youth 
of the turban should be taught not to "pray to God 
their way." The Greeks also — a kind of Eastern Irish 
papists — have a college of their own at Maynooth — no, 
at Haivali ; where the heterodox receive much the 
same kinrl of countenance from the Ottoman as the 
Catholic college from the English legislature. Who 
shall then affirm that the Turks are ignorant bigots, 
when they thus evince the exact proportion of Christian 
charity which is tolerated in the most prosperous and 
orthodox of all possible kingdoms? But, though they 
allow ^11 this, they will not suffer the Greeks to partici- 
pate in their privileges: no, let them fight their battles, 

d pay their haratch, (taxes,) be drubbed in this world, 
I damned in the next. And shall we then eman- 
cipate our Irish Helots? Mahomet forbid! We should 
then be bad Mussulmans, and worse Christians; at 
present we unite the best of both— Jesuitical faith, and 
something not much inferior to Turkish toleration. 



APPENDIX. 



A mono an enslaved people, obliged to have re- 
course to foreign presses even for their books of reli- 
g'mn, it is less to be wondered at that we find so few 
publications on general subjects than that we find any 
at all. The whole number of the Greeks, scattered 
up and down the Turkish empire and elsewhere, may 
amount, at most, to three millions; and yet, for so 
scan'y a number, it is impossible to discover any nation 
with so great a proportion of books and their authors, 
as the Greeks of the present century. "Ay," but say 
the generous advocates of oppression, who, while they 
assert the ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent 
them from dispelling it, " av, but these are mostly, if not 
all, ecclesiastical tracts, and consequently good for no- 
thing." Well, and pray what else can they write about? 
It is pleasant enough to hear a Frank, particularly an 
Englishman, who may abuse the government of his own 
country; or a Frenchman, who mav abuse every govern- 
ment except his own, and who may range at will over 
everv philosophical, religious, scientific, skeptical, or 
moral subject, snnenng at the Greek legends. A Greek 



52 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Canto II. 



must not write on politics, ami cannot touch on acii ni - 
for want of instruction ; if he doubts, he is excommu- 
nicated and damned; therefore In- countrymen are noi 
poisoned with modern philosophy; and as to morals, 
thanks to the Turks! there are no such things, Whai 
then is lefl him, if he has a turn for BcribWing? Reli- 
gion, and holy biography: and it is natural enOU 
those who have so little in tin- lil should look to the 
next. It is no great wonder then that in a catalogue 
n.t'.\ ln.-forti me of hTiv-live (Ireck writers, many of 

whom were lately living not above fifteen should nave 
touched "ii ;inv thing but religion. The catali 
laded to is contained in the twenty-sixth chapter of the 
fourth volume of Melelius's Ecclesiastical History. 
From this I subjoin an extract of those who Inv 

te i gem ral subjects ; which will be followed by 

some specimens of the Romaic. 



LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS.* 

Neophitus, Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morca, has 
published an extensive grammar, and also Bome politi- 

i i m ulationS] which last were left unfinished at his 
death. 

Prokopius. of Mosconolis, (a town in Epirus,) has 
written and published a catalogue of the learned 
Greeks. 

Seraphin, ofPericlea, is the author of many works 
in the Turkish language, but Greek character; for the 
Christians of Caramama, who do nut speak Romaic, hut 
read the character. 

Eustatliius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a physician, made 
the tour ol England for the purpose of study {%&pu> 
(juih'/aaoi) : but though his namr is enumerated, il is 
not staled that he has writl ■ 

Kalluukiis Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantinople : 
manj poems of Kis are extant, and also prose tracts, 
and a catalogue of patriarchs since the last taking of 
Constantinople, 

Anastasius Vfacedon, of Naxos, member of the royal 
.1 :ademy of Warsaw. A church biographer, 

D metritis Pamp res, a Moscopolite, has written 
many works, particularly "A Commentary on Hesiod's 
Shield ojf Hercules," and two hundred tales, (of what is 
ecified,) and has published Ins correspondence 
wnli the celebrated George of Trebizond, his cotem- 
porary. 

Meletius, a celebrated geographer; and author of the 
book from whence these notices are taken, 

Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philosopher: 
his Hellenic works are in great repute, and, he is es 
teemed by the modems (1 quote the words of Meletius) 
fttTu rbv QovKvtitSrjv teat Hei'O^urro aptaroi 'EXXfJybH'. 
T add further, on the authority of a well-informed 
Greek, thai he was so famous amone his countrymen, 
that they were accustomed to Bay, ifThucydides and 
Xenophon were wanting, he was capable of repairing 
the loss. 

Marions Count Tharboures, of Cephalonia, profes- 
sor of chemistry in tie' aca lem^ of Padua, and member 
of that academy, ami those of Stockholm and Upsal 
He has published, at Venice, an account of some ma- 
rine annual, and a treatise on the properties oCiron, 

Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechanics. 
He removed to St. Petersburg the immense rock on 
winch the statue of Peter the Great was fixed in itch. 
Si e the 'ii tsertation which he publii bed in 1 'aris, 1 777. 

George Constantino has published a foui 
lexicon. 

George Vcntotc; a lexicon in French, Italian, and 
Romaic. 

There exist several other dictionaries m Latin and 
Romaic, French, &e. besides grammars m < m i v mo- 
dern language, except English. 

Among tin- living authors the following are most 
celebrated : — t 

Athanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhetoric 
in Hellenic. 



* It I> to be obnervetl, thai the nime« Riven arc not In ctironologicnl 
•trdei i 'it consist of Borne Pttoctad it ■ rsotun \> DID amonc ihoae who 

I !:■■ iii Lbe taking of < !ootUoUaopIs to uti tin i f M I 

T TW»* nftlMl nrt net mltm frnm *nv jvihllcali-'n. 



Christodoulos, an Ararnanian, has published, in Vi- 
cuna, some physical treatises in Hellenic 

Panagjotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic trans- 
lator of FonteneUeV "Plurality of Worlds, 11 (afavounte 
work amongst the Greeks.) is stated to be a tea- 
the Hellenic and Arabic languages in Paris ; in both 
of b Inch he is an adept. 

Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on rhe- 
toric. 

Vicenzo Damodos of Cephalonia, has written u tU 
rb pccoSdpGapov" on logic and physii 

John Kamaraa i Byzantine, has translated into 
French Ocellus on the Universe. lie is said to be an 
excellent I Ei Uenist, and I i»tin scholar. 

Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a e 
phical work : he has also translated several Raban au- 
thors, and printed his versions at Venice. 

Of Coray and Psalida some account has been already 
given. 

GREEK WAR SONG.* 

1. 

AET'TE, Tra7&ts tuv 'EXA^wv 
b K(i7{>o$ Tt)^ h6%n$ ^\0tv t 
ii '••fiti 2£<oi IksIi wv 

ttov fttis idaav ritv apxfif 
"A? irnrjjffopev avfiptltas 

rfv ^vybv rrj$ rvfmU'tSof. 
EffoiJttfffUfini irarptSoi 

Ka8* tivei&os ala\p6v. 

T'i oVXa «s AaStd/icv 

iratSes 'EAAi0vti>v Xymtepi 
roTafttottiv ^\8(iwv rb atpa 

u£ rpt^t) lirb jroStltv. 



"OOtv claOt twv 'EXXf/i'wv 

KdKKnXn AvSpttQiUvctj 
irveAfiara ttrK0fiir*9fitva % 

ru>pa \a\3trt KVOffl ; 

*0T*r}v ffxai'ttv rift au\r:t\K6i pov.\ 
WVilyQi'tTe 3X« bfinv • 

K it ttKfirt ~pb wavTov. 
'I'd bVXa aS \d6tap£i', &c. 



Y.Z'Idt.i, SirdpTCt, rt KvtfiaaOt 
Zievov \i)0apyov paditv \ 

<TVl')UI\OV TTaVTOTlli'l'/l'. 

^Ei'OvfttiOtjTt Atoii'Mou 

J)pWOf TOV ^dKOOTOVy 

tou aif'pbi htaivtflivon 
ipoQtpuv Kai TQopt[ 



* O rrou eU rrfg Ocn^oJrdAa$ 

TrdXf/Jov alrbf Kporti, 
Kui rovi nincai (i(/i(iii-i 

AMI QVTUtV KOTu Ka.ITU " 

Mfrptaffoff/ovs a vSpat 

ii< to Ktvrpov np6x">pcif 
kui ojj Xtwr OVftUtfltVOSi 
t.\ rb ntpa rffil< (iovru. 

'I'd SirXe us XdGwjitVf &c. 



ROMAIC EXTRACTS. 

Pwuots, "AycXoj, Kai IVAXof Kapvovrcq ri)v irtpti}yrjat% 
T?)i 'EXXrt'^05, XOf /3XlJrovr£f riiv aOXtav rtfv Kurd- 
araaiv, glpt&rqffav Karapx^'t tva rpatxbv ipiXiWrjva 
ilA vd pdOovv Ttjv afrlav, uer' alrbv Zva pqrpo- 
iroX/rTjv, lira tva /JXu'^oTTf iv, tirctrti tva irpayfta- 
Tevrt/Vj Kai tva irpoecT&Ta. 



A trantliition of l!n» *ong w ill be found tunong the imdller Poem*, i» 



Cabto II. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



53 



"Etirt f*a$ <5 tpiXiXXrjva, irif <pipei$ rt)v (TKXaSiav 
kiu ri)v airap(yo(ji}TOv rutv Tovpnutv rvpavviavi 
jrwf Tats %vXais Kai vftptcftovs teat etj&iipoStOfklav 
rralcWe, jrapS/rwv, yvvaiKuiv avijuovoToi' tpdopttav J 
A^ ao-^ui /axis airoyoMM fadvtav t&v ' T^XX^viav 
rdiv iXevOtpwv Kat ao<p&v Kai tuv (piXoirarpiStiiv ' 
Kai ttSj (KtivQi dviQvijoKov did tijv iXtvQtptav, 
Kai Tibpa ecdi'virovKctaOat eh rirotav rvpavvtaVj 
Kut xoiov yivo$ wf iffetS to-rdOn (ptario-fiivov 
cii tiiv ff o^idt', ^iica/i»;v, c/f le* 3Aa ^aKOixrp/i'Ql' * 
ffflf *»3v CKaTaaTTJaaTc rtfv <pioTtvr}v 'EAAd«5a. 
im'm ! hi Zva o-KfArfpov, i»f OKoretVifv AapTrddav ! 
O/i'Acc, (ptXrarc Tpaocf, rfirf pas n;v a/ri'av ' 

fill KOVnTltf Tt-QTTIS f}flU>V, XvC Ttjlt &lTOpia.V. 



which is in fact the present heroic couplet of the 
Romaic. 



'O WAE'AAHNOE. 

*Ptoa<T-ayic\o-ya\\ot, 'EAAdf, Kai 6\i a'AAoi, 
jjror. w$ Acre- tocov fteydXi], 
ni' i * dOXia t Kai dva^ia 

»< dpx^ev h auadla. 
6gt iift—opovo'av rd tt\v ^OKi'i'/an 
Tour' el$ to %£tpov rtjv bdnyovct 
aitTi) arevd^et rd TtKva Kpde^et. 
ot6 va trpoK6-Tovv oXa Tpoard^ti 
Kai t6tc tXvit^u brt Ktpli^ti- 
tvpctv, bnov J x £i w>v t!]v <j>Xoyi£ct 

Md' OOTJS ToXflTjGT} va TllV %V7TVliGTI 

irdyci orbv ddfjv x u P*S rtva *(>"** "• 

The above is (he commencement of a long dramatic 
satire on the Greek priesthood, princes, and gentry ; it 
is contemptible as a composition, but perhaps curious 
as a specimen of their rhyme: I have the whole in 
MS. but this extract will be found sufficient. The 
Romaic in this composition is so easy as to render a 
version an insult to a scholar ; but those who do not 
understand the original will excuse the following bad 
translation of what is in itself indifferent. 

TRANSLATION. 

A Russian, Englishman, and Frenchman making the 
tour of Greece, and observing the miserable state of 
the country, interrogate, in turn, a Gieek Patriot, to 
learn the cause; afterwards an Archbishop, then 
a Vlackbcy,* a Merchant, and Cogia Bachi or 
Primate. 

Thou friend of thy country ! to strangers record 

Why bear ye the yoke of the Ottoman Lord? 

Why bear ye these fetters thus tamely displayM, 

The wrorrgs of the matron, the stripling, and maid ? 

The descendants of Hellas's race are not ye I 

The patriot sons of the sage and the free, 

Thus sprung from the blood of the noble and brave, 

To vilely exist as the Mussulman slave ! 

Not such were the fathers your annals can boast, 

Who conquer'd and died fur ihe freedom you lost! 

Not such was your land in her earlier hour, 

The day-star of nations in wisdom and power ! 

And still will you thus unresisting increase, 

Oh shameful dishonour! the darkness of Greece? 

Then tell us, beloved Achcean ! reveal 

The cause of the woes which you cannot conceal. 

The reply of the PliileUenist I have not translated, 
as it is no better than the question of the travelling tri- 
umvirate; and the above will sufficiently show with 
what kind of composition the Greeks are now satisfied. 
I trust I have not much injured the original in the few 
lines given as faithfully, and as near the 

'.' Oh, Miss Bailey ! unfwtuQate Miss Bailey I" 

measure of the Romaic, as I could make them. Almost 
all their pieces, above a song, which aspire to the name 
of poetry, contain exactly the quantity of feet of 

" A captain bold of Halifax, who lived la country quartm," 



SCENE FROM 'O KA<I>ENE2. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF G0LD0NI, 
BY SPERIDION VLANTI. 

ZKHNH Kr'. 

ITAATZIAA eU rifv irdpTav tov, xavteu, kq\ ol avuiSsv. 

ITAA. ii Oet . airb to itapaOvpt ftoii i<ftdvt) va aKoiaui 

tijv <p<avr)v tqv dv$p6$ pov' uv avros uvat f<5u>, ttf>8aaa ae 

ouv va t6v ^ivrpoTztdoia. [Kvyaivet cvas iovXos drd 

rb fpyacrripi ] UaXtKapttris pov ci izapaKaXu jrotos elvat 

(Kcl eh ixtlvovs Toi'i ovTaSts ; 

AOYA. Tpui xpi/cifioi av$pe$. "Evas b Kvp Efcy/rfOf, 
o oAXof b (top Mifprioc NaTroAira'i'oc, Kai b rphos b Kvp 
K6vt£ Aiavtpos 'ApdivTw. 

PAA. ( Avdfico-a f(? aVTovs $ii> uvat b ^Xa^itvtoSt av 
3/iws H v aXXa&v Svopa.) 

AEA. Nu %jj i; KaXlj tvx^tov Kvp Evyevio*. (Tl(- 
vuivras-] 

OAOI. N« C5, vet g. 

IIAA. (Ayrustfrnt b at Apas fiov X^ptS aXXo.) KaXi 
avdpuiire Kdut uov tijv \apiv vd fit crvvTpo<pe{icyji dndvtH 
c/$ auroiU tovs dtAtvTddcs, bxov 5Aw vd tovs ralfa play* 
[ripa? tov fiQvXov.] 

AOT. 'Optaudi aa$ ' {ovvrjOtauhov 6<f>ff>(ictov Tuiv 
6ovXevtQv.) [TiV ift-d^it otto rd tpyaoTrjpi tov iratyvt- 
Stou.] 

PIA. Kapt^/d, KapStd, KdfiCTE KaXftv Kap6tdv, Siv ttvai 
TtiroTcq. |ITpoc7->> Birrtfotav.] 

BIT. 'Eyut aiaOdvouai tti2c dittQatvw* [Suv/pyerac 
£^5 tov favr/iv rjjs'.J 

[ Ard rd 7Tapd#upa twv ivTa^uv dtaivovrat '6Xot y 
birov at)Kuvu}vTat dit& to* Tpairi^i avyxtaytivoiy 
iid tov ^a^via\tbv tqv Atdvdpov pA/ruuraj 
r^v HXdr\,tda t Kai Start avrdi ^ei'^vfii nwy 
5fAct vd tijv Aovevai/.] 
EYr. "Ox*, (TTaOnrc. 
MAP. Mitv Kdftv£TC. ■• 
AEA. EiVw, <pvyz utt' iSu>. 

IIAA. Bofjdtta> (for'/dcta. [<j>ivya d^S Tqv CKaXav, b 
AiavApo$ StXtt vd tijv aKoXovOi'/aj] fit to oxadi, Kai 6 Evy. 
rbv /jfdord.] 

TPA. [Mt £va Vidro fit <f>ayi els piav irtT^ira vt}S^ 
(tTrii to izapaSvpt y xai ^>evy£i eif rbv Kafytvi.] 

ITAA. [Evyatrti dffd to ipyatrrtjpi too jratyrt^iotJ 
Tpixwras, Kai <ptvy£i sh rd X<fv(.] 

EYT. [Me lipfiara ds rd x/pt irpd$ Siatpivrcvatv Tij$ 
TIXaTynuc, tvavrtov tov Acdvopov, ottw rtjv *faTaTp/x£'.J 

MAP. [Evyafrct Kai avrbs aiyd atyd and to ipya~ 
crTjJpi, Kai tpztiyct Xiywras-] Rumores fuge. ['Povudpcs 
(f>o6y£.]* 

Oi AovXoi. [ Atto to fpyuQTt'ipt anepvovv e't$ rb x<* v h 
Kai kXuovv Tffv irrfpTar.] 

BIT. [Mmt ei's rbv Katptvi ffotj8t]uivT] dnb tqv *Pi- 
ZdXtpov.] 

AEA. Adctrt Td?roi' ' &iXu<pti'd Cfi&io vd iftSut tl$ 
Ikcivq to x4vt. [Mi rb ewaOi ds rb x f ' " tvavrtov tov 
Kvycrlov.} 

EYT. "Ox', ^i? yivoiro nori tlaat 'iva% cXr\p^Kapho% 
tvavrtov rrjs yvvatKdg aov, Kal iyH> S/Aa Tijv btatytvrevatu 
wf ch rd bartpov at/ta. 

AEA. 2oD Kdftvu) 6'pKov irajj SiXu to fi£Tavotu>G}}(. 
[Kiv^y^ rbv 'Evytviov fit tu tntaOi] 

EYT. Aiv ai (boftovuat. [Kararpfx^i r ^ v Aiavtipov, 
Ka] rbv (itd^ct vd cvpdjj &nfoi*) r6cov, ojtoD cvplcKoivraf 
dvotKTOv rd airt}Tt Tijs xoptvrpiai ffi6aivct tl$ avrb t xal 
awverat,] 

TRANSLATION. 

Plaiiidafrom the Door of the Hotel, and the Other). 

Via. Oh God ! from the window it seemed that I 
heard my husband's voice. If he is here, I have arrived 
in time to make him ashamed. [A Servant enter i from 



• Vl»ekb»y, Prince of W«il»chii. 



* biyoi \fiTiviick, otrow $i"Xuva etfr;?* tpaye rait «rttyxt«j. 



54 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Casto II. 



the Shop.] Boy, tell me, pray, who are in those 
chambers. 

Serv. Throe gentlemen: one, Signor Bugenio; the 
olher, Signor M irtio, the Neapolitan ; and the third; 
my Lord, the Count Leander Ardenti. 

Pta. Flaminio is not among these, unl<ss he has 
Changed his name. 

Leaiultr. [ Within drinking,] Long live the good 
fortune of Signor Eugenio* 

[The whole Company, Lon^ live, &c.] (Literally, 
N(i y), v'i 5.5j May he live.) 

Pta. VVih .ut doubt that is my husband. [To the 
Serv.] My good nun, do me tin- favour to tua 
mc above to those gentlemen; I have some bounces, 

Serv. At your commands. [.I^'i, | The old office 
of us waiters. [He goes out of the Oammg-Houae.] 

Rulolpfo). [To Victoria on another part of the stage.] 

Courage, courage, be of good chr*-r, il n noihmg. 

Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [Leaning on him 
OS if In tuting.] 

[From the win/low* above all within an 
from table in confusion: Leander Harts ut the 
right of Platzida, and appears by Ids gestures to 
threaten her life. 
Eugenia. N", stop ■ - 

Martio. Don't attempt 

Leander. Away, fly from hence ' 

Pla. Help ! Help ! [F^ies down the stairs, Leander 
attempting to follow with his sword, Eugcmo hinders 
him A 

[Trappola with a plate of meat leaps over the balcony 
from the window, and runs into the Ct/Tee- House.] 

[Platzida runs out of the G timing- House, and takes 
sh Itrr in the Hotel.] 

[Martio steals softly aid of the Gaming-ffouse, and 
goes off % exclaiming '■ Rumor es fuge." The Servants 
from the OamingSouse inter the ffotelj aud shut the 
door.] 

[Victoria remains in the Coff'ee-House assisted by 
Ridolpho.] 

[Leander sw>rd in hand opposite Eugenio exclaims^ 
Give way — I will enter that hotel.] 

Eugenia. No, that shall never be. You are a scoun- 
drel tn your wife, and I will defend her to the last drop 

of tnv blood. 

leander. I will give you cause to repent this. [Me- 
nacing with his sword. ] ' 

Eugenio. I fear you not. [He attacks Leander, and 
makes him give back so much, that finding the door of the 
dancing girl's house open, Leander escapes through^ and 
wjiitishes.]* 



Zmi't pov. 

AKpitjl) uov t£i»X'V 

Ayuirqri uov, uKptGi uov, 
KapSir^a uov. 
'Ayrfinj pov. 

A(-< i'i £&%ajM0T#ffi7f] va na- 

fiJJS TT(p(T7UI»J(T£i, ft*Ul IptXl- 

Kali ieflWes- 

Eyii eras tvxaptcrio, 
£«? yviopi^io \dptv. 
23s ifpat inrdxpeoi Kara 
xoXXd. 

Eyto SiXui TO Kauti UCTU 

Mi bXt'iv pov rr)v Kapclav, 

Mi K'i\i}v uov Kap&tav. 

£ij ttpai Itt6x<xos. 

Efyai SAof. Idtxos aac t 

EEliiai ^ovXoc iraj. 

Tairuvdraros ioDAoff. 

Faotc kqtu iroXXd ivyeviK&s. 

TIoAXd irctpd^toBe. 

Ti ?x w ^ (( * Xap&v u° v va 

rdc &o\ivau>. 
EJutc ebytvtKQ's ko\ cv~po<ri)- 

yooos. 
A bra tivai npiirov. 
TJ 5 Acre ; rt bpi^tre ; 



AIA'AOrOI OI'KIAKOI. Familiar Dialogues. 

Aui vH ^ijTJ/ffns tva vpHyua. To ask for any thing. ~ 

Sas TTapaKaAui, Idatri ut av I pray you, give me if you 

bpi^cre. please. 

4>ipcri ut. Brum me. 

Aavdatri uc. Lend me. 

Xltjyatvcrc vi ^rjrfioere. Go to seek. 

Twpa tbdbs. Now directly. 

T ii anptfti uov Kvpic, Kdptri My dear Sir, do me this 

ut avrfjv t!)v \dptv. favour, 

'Eyut eras xapaKaAQ. I entreat you. 

> Ryu> vac c t {bpjcf£u. f conjure yon. 

'Ey<*» oai to svw Sta xfyiv. I ^k * l ofyotl as a favour. 
Ynoxptuctri pt th rdaov. Oblige mc so much. 



Suvtrai- " ftoUbee"— awkwimlly rnoogt), hut il Isthr litcrnl trniu. 
Iniion of Hie lliininu-. Th,- original o( M » l oc*tr 

rend, bul it (loeii itoi npjiear one of hi* heil. "II Bueinnlo" i» one of the 

moii lively ; but I do nut tlnnk it hu been tran.tla.fed luia Romaic i II - 

much more n ■ than our own " Liar," bj Toole. Tlie chortCltl ol 

l.t'iin is better drawn than S*oun| Wlldlogi Ooldont'e comedlei an mi 
to lil'iy ; iome (>eih&pi the best in Kuropc, &tid utheri the WoraL Hia hf 
il alio one of the best specimens of autobiography, anil, n> < 
obaerred, " more dramatic ihun unv ■>( hi* plnya." The above teen 
wni select eil ai cttnUiiriiug •omc ol the mmt funUIar Rom:m: tdiome ( no 
for tiny wit which it displays, since there is more done than said, i!i 
gretiler part consisting of singe direction!. The original Is one of the f • v 
comedies by tiolduiil which ia without the buffoonery of the ipeakiug 
Harlequin. 



Adyta fpuTtKa, % ay&rns. Affectionate expressions. 



Say TraoaicaAuJ va ut utra- 

Xttpt^taOt IXetiBi a i, 
"X toots irtpiTToinati. 
l-i s ,iyuTii l\ SXns uov Kap- 
Sta s. 
Kai iyw bu6iuii. 
Ttuiioert ut rats Trpoaayats 

oae. 
v Ext T t rlrroTti va ut irpoo- 

ra\trt ; 
npoard^trt t6v SooAov eras;. 
WpoaphfD rai irpoaayuz otic. 
Mf Kdfiftri utydbriv tiutjv. 
•lOdiovv !} TTtptTroinaci aai 

trapaicaXioi 
TlpoGKvvfjctTt tKfiioovc: pov 

riv apx ovra t % T ^ v *Hptov, 
BtSatdtatrt rov ttuis rbv ivOv 

p.oupau 
HtSuttotrtTC. rbv TT(3y rbv 

ayairio, 
AfV SAui Aefi/'Ct va rov rb 

tlnti. 
TlpocKvvt'ipara in rijv ap- 

Xovnoaav. 
ITiiyatviTt ipxpocOa Kai adc 

aKoAovQio. 
ii j KaXa rH \pio( pov. 

y ll$tvp<d rh etvat fiov, 
Mc nduvtTc yi ii rphnouai 

fie ra7i r6aatc <ptXu<f>pocv- 

vat$ Gas, 
0{Xert AoiTrdi' va Kauta (ttav 

apx^ ornTa i 
'Tirdyio iuirpooBa oia va oa$ 

ffVaKQVOUt 
Ai'i ill napM rijv npoffrayf/v 

aa$* 
&iv ayarrui rdcatc irtptnocn- 

<rtc. 
Aev ttuai eriXitwc. rrtpfnoU 

tJTtKOi. 

Atrd aval rb Ka\lrtpov. 
Tboov rb KaXlrepov. 
"Excrs Xdyov, extrtblKatov. 

Sh) vu PcSatwonc, va &pvTj6?jS To 
vd cvyKarattvenc, teal rf. 

fvataXT* 
orarov, 



My life. 

My dear souL 

My dear. 

My ht-art. 

My love. 

To thank, pay compliments^ 
and Ustify regard. 

I thank you. 

I return you thanks. 

I am much obliged to you. 

I will do il with pleasure. 

With all mv heart 

Most cordially. 

I am obliged to you. 

I am wholly yours. 

I am your servant. 

Vour most bumble servant 

You are too obliging. 

You take too much trouble. 

I have a pleasure in s<tv. 

iiii; you. 
You are obliging and kind. 

That is ri^ht. 
Whal is you pleasure? 
What arc your commands ? 
I beg you will treat me 

freely. 
Without ceremony. 
I love you with all my heart. 



o-iiyjruruiaiff/jj, nat re,. 

ETvai aXndtvbv, ilvai iXrjdi-lt is 
arov. 



And I the same. 

Honour me with your com- 
mands. 

Have you any commands 
fc»r n 1 1 

Command your servant. 

I wait your commands. 

You do me great honour. 

Not so much ceremony I 
beg. 

Prefli n( my respects to the 
gentleman, or his lordship. 

Assure him of my remem- 
brance. 

Assure him of my friend- 
ship. 

I will not fail to tell him of 
it. 

My compliments to her 
ladyship. 

Go before, and I will follow 
you. 

I well know mv duty, 

I know mv situation. 

You conxound m< with so 

much civility. 

Would you have me then 
lUty of an incivility ? 

I "■ I" nl-.i y you. 

To comply with your com- 
mand. 

I do not like so much cere- 
mony. 

I am not at all ceremonious. 

This is better. 

So much the better. 

You are in the right. 

affirm, deny, content^ 
true, it is very true. 



Canto II. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



55 



Atii vd c.is *"tii> r;;r tW/jOuav To (ell vou the truth. 

Oi*ru)s, iKjj tTiat. Really, it is so. 

Rotas (I/i0i6'iA,\f( ; Who doubts it '? 

A('c etvui iroffw; afA<f>t6o\(a. There is no doubt. 

Td -i<mtfu>, ii^ rd n-urrstfu. I believe it, I do not believe 

it. 
Aiyta r& lit. T say yes. 

A/yoi rb ox'* I sa y "0. 

I! t W.i .T-f'\fn, r i flri cTvai. I wager it is. 

^Xlr 1 * ^ r| ^ ^>' al ^ wager it is not so. 

Nui ftd 7rji- irforn pou. Yes, by my faith. 

Ei\" rijv cweUnatv fiov. In conscience. 

M ! r?)v v^-Ji' jiou. By my life. 

N'ii, o£; o/*viftf. Yes, I swear it to vou. 

'iuu) idoiIv TCjuipfvos I swear to you as an honest 
1 jToy. man. 

Saj o/nv'o hr&vu dg- r>iv\ swear to you on tnv 

rtftt'iv ftov. honour. 

Xltarct'tjtre fit. Believe me. 

'HjurapcS i u it (>• rd fizSaiuHTU). I can assure you of it. 
"HOiXa tfaXn CTi^rjjiaj 8n I would lay what bet you 

SiXers did tqvtq please on this. 

Mi) rvxn *'" avrtfyoOt Your jest by chance? 

(XopardsT£\) 
O/nXctTc fii Tfi bXa <ras ; Do you speak seriously? 
*Ey«t ffiis 6/iiAui uz Tit 3Xa I speak seriously to you, 
u Kni ff&s Xiyut tijv and tell you the truth. 

•i \>;thtav. 
*Eyt& <r«s ^d {JzGtiiwia. I assure you of it. 

TtJ hf>Q$t]Ttv<jiTi. You have guessed it. 

To f-invxcre. You have hit upon it. 

S«s" 7T(tTrfiiij>. I believe vou. 

tlpfirst va (t3j mars6aw. I must believe you. 
Aurd btv tlvdi aSvyarou. This is not impossible. 

To" Aoiirdv as tiVai //c xaAifi* Then it is very well. 

WOSI'. 

KaAa\ *aXA. Well, well. 

An- £?f«( «-\t/f?iviv. It is not true. 

ETvai ipev5es- If is false. 

Aff £?frt( rfs-ores o-i aird. There is nothing of this. 
E(Va( era i^eubog fiia andnj. It is a falsehood, an impos- 
ture. 
'E)'u> aarct^ofiow (txoad~l was in joke. 

TEllrt.) 

'Eyu> to uira $ta va ycXdtru). I said it to laugh. 
Tft aXti$slq\. Indeed. 

M* aoiact Kctra iroAAd. It pleases m? much. 

2 try Kara vftfu n; roiiro, I agree with you. 

AjVu> Tiii' tpij^ov [iuv. I give my assent. 

iin AvrtorfKOftat eh touto. I do not oppose this. 
Ei/iai (tu'^^uji'us, tx cvfttpu>- 1 agree. 

you. 
'Eyii Wv S/Aw. I will nnt 

'Ey& ^airtwi'O/iai cf$ rouro. I object to this. 

Ai'i i ■■( Tu^6ouAeu0';f, va aro- To consult, consider, or re- 
Xoo-dni, h va anotyaaiam. solve. 

TtTrpfitct va KdftfHfitv\ What ought we to do ? 

17 Sn Kduuftcv; What shall we do ? 

Tt fii trvpSouXevcrz va KiipM ; What do vou advise me to 

do? 
*Ojtq7ov rp6^ov $f\opzv fit- What part shall we take? 

T:i\C(nt(rO) fiptiii ; 
"A; K&fi&nzv ir^n* Let us do this. 

Eumi KaXfre^ov lyi vii Ii is hetier that I — 

"LraOrjTc dXlyov. W nt a little. 

Aiv i'i'h\cv elvai KaXfrzpov Would it not be better 

i i — thai — 

*F.y<h aya-novra Ka\tT(pi. I wish it were better. 
©Acre xdtizt KaXircpa uv — You will do better if — 
J A<f>rifTtT[ ftr.. L'*t me go. 

*Av rj^iovv els rbv rfaov oa$ If I were in your place I — 



AtJyos* Kal 6 \6yoi Tjrov ptra Kat o Adyoy Ijv TTpS? ror Qtbv, 
Qeou' Kat Oioi rjrov o Atiyoj. Ka i Qebs ijv b \6yoq. 

2.- Ovtos ^v tv apxjj rods 
rbv Qz6v. 

3. Tlavra ?l avrov lyi* 
vera ' oi \<up?s avrov iyivtTQ 
ahSi tr, 3 yiyovtv. 



ty\ji 

E7kii rb iStov. 



It is the same. 



Tlte rcatlcr by the specimens below will bp enabled to com- 
pare tfte modern with the ancient tongue, 

PARALLEL PASSAGES FROM ST. JOIIN's GOSPEL. 
NfOl'. KvQtVTiKQV. 

Ke^^A. d* RctpdX. d. 

I, EI2 ti)p ipx*)v rjrov b 1. 'EN dpxjj %v h \6yoi, 



2. EroDros tJTov zh rf/v 
ii-)\i)y [lira Qcou, 

3. "OAa [r« npdy/taTa] 
ota fitaov tou [Adyou] iyti'tj- 
Kav, Kat xuph ahrbv btv 
cytve Kavtva z'iri cytrc. 

-4. E?S nlrbv nruv Cro^' 
Kai h ?u>) 'Itov rb 0ws rwv 
ai dptoirttiVt 

5 Kai tu 0'jj tig T$jv 
OKOTttav ij't'yyci, Kat t) gkq- 
rtta StvTb K'tTii\n6e. 

6. "Eytvzv tvas SvBgtairos 
aireo'TaXfiivai arzb rbv Qzd 
tu Svofid tov 'itadvvtjs. 



4. Ei' avTu> t,ta^ Jfvj Kal 
>i %m\ ijv to (fids t£jv dvOpui- 
ittnv. 

5. Ko! rd <puii iv Tfi gkotIq 
•buivzi, 3e i) CKor'ta avTb ob 
KariXaSty, 

6. 'EyivcTo avQptdiros axc- 
araXfAivoi napd 0£oi>, bvojia 
altTv) 'lutdvvjjf. 



THE INSCRIPTIONS AT ORCHOMENUS, 
FROM MELETIUS. 

'OrXOMEVO'S. KotvSs XkoittoP, UdXlS noTe' nXov- 
Guard™ ku\ i<j\vr>u)TdTT)y irpoTtpov KaXovftivn BoturiKni 
A6r}vat, tt$ Tiiv biroiuv ?,tov I Naos rail Xapirwv, eh rbv 
hirotov i-Xrjpuifoi' rtXn o'l Oi,Galot, oItivo$ rb e&atyos 
$£ fiuTc UTib ribv 'AanaXdyKtov. 'F-Travtiytipt^ov 
ll$ alr,)i. t>h> ITijAtv t« xapirfiGta y roB hirotov 'AyaivoS 
evpov £jriypa<pds tv GTi'/Xati evSov rou KTtaOfvrog Nqo? <V 
ovdfiam Tijs QcotSkov, vrsb tov TlpiaroanaQaplov Aiovrog, 
tin T7ibv BactXitjv BrtctActou, Aiovrog, Kal KitivffraVTlvQV 
f\o(!ffrts ourws. 'Ec fiiw tt) ptq Kotvtos. 

' 0Wc cvtKiav rbv aywva r&v xopir^c/air. 

£(iAtt(ot/)s. 
Mjjvts 'AiroXXtovlov 'Arnop^cus drrb yiatdvopov 

Kyv£. 
ZwiAos ZmXov riu0(os. 

'Yaxpwo'bs. 
Nou/ijji'ios Novfirjiiov , A8nva7o$, 

rion;rJ)s {~Cn\ 
'Aftfjvlas AypoKXiavs Qn6u7os. 

A{i\j}T!}S. 

AxqXX6?ioto$ 'A TToAAoJorou Kpijs. 

AijAuj<3os. 
'Pb&tTr-rros 'Po^iVttoh 'Apy^os. 
KtOapifTTi}';. 

$avia$ ^AiroXXoSbrov tou <t>aviov AtoXevs dxb Kvpins. 
KiBaptaSbs* 

AnfifJTptos WapueriaKov KaX^nSdvtos. 

Tpaywbbs. 
'InnoKpaTta 1 Apirjronivovi 'P6$to$, 

KaAAi'arp.iTos 1 F.£aK(<jrov Oi]8a?0S. 

TlonjTiis Xarvpwv. 
AjiTjiias ArjuoKXiovs Q'}Gato£. 
'TlTOKplTtJS. 

AwpdQcas A<op<}Qfuv Tapavrtvbs* 

Uotnr r)S Tpayw&iwv. 
Zo^okA^s £o(/idKAf'ous A0nvaios. 

'Y7ToKptrii$. 
Ka6ipix°i BsuStivov Qrj6a7ng. 

riotJ/ri/j Kuifnu^tHv. 
, AXi^av8pO£ 'Apicrrairos 'Adnvalos. 

'TiroKptr^, 
"ArrnAos' 'Arrr/Aou 'A0>7ra?os. 
QiSt eyUtav rbv vfipijTov dy&va twv bfioitatav. 

Iliii^as avXnaras. 
AiokA^s KaXXiftr}6ov Qtj6a7og. 

Qaidas )iycfi6i>a$. 
Xrparii'os Eiu'i'kou Gij6d?os. 

"A»i5pfis AuAtjtus. 
AioicAfj; KoAAt^^^ou Q^falos* 

"Ai^p'is tiyefitvas. 
'PdviTTirog 'FqMttxqv *Apytios- 

Tpnyw'lds- 
'iTTxoKpdrns Aotcra^ivovs 'V6&io$* 

KaXXloTparog 'E^awforou Gr/6atos. 
T« htvUta. 
KuitiadtSiv r7ocjr»)s- 
'AAi^ai'^pos ^AptffWwvor ^A^^vaToj." 



56 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Caxto II. 



'Ev it rfi Irtpi/i rWpocdls. 

" Mfdtffl'h) clpX' JvT0 S &Yh>l>odcT(oVToS TOV 

Xaptrctatov, tvaptoarta tdvtw os rvct IviKiaVav rd 
j^apintria. 

ZaAmycras 
•MXtvos •I'iAc'vu) 'AOdvKOf. 

Kdpouf. 
VJnuit'ai IwKpdTioS Ot/Cciof. 

Itociruf. 
Mijurutp Mt'itrTnpos fatxattftft 

'?at//a«u0Qf a 
KpuTi^v KX/uii'os Oe/fiiio?. 

Ari,\f(7(i5. 

ncpiyet'ci$ 'HputrAefo'tio KouyKr/vdf. 

A t ^iruc'df. 
Aa/ii/ccros PXaifcu "Apyjoj, 

Kt0apf<rr£f. 

Adparpo; 'A/iaXaid) A/oAcvf dttb Moup/vaf. 

Tpayatvtbs. 
'AoxAajrid'cWpof IlovOfdo Tapavrtio*;, 

KwuafoMf- 
N(K^0Tparo5 ^(Aoffrpdrw Ocftiri"?. 

Td txivUtta Ktapaevfibs. 

Eiuipxoc ' Hpoidrw Kupuvtuj* 

'Ev «XXi : > AfOcp. 

rt Mi'pi\o$ rioXi'«p«rouf ' Idoa'i'17/os Sioytra] 04 Svipsoat 
XopaytloavTts viKdoavrts iinvvaov iviBrfKav rlutavos 
apxovroi auXiovTOi /fA/05 tf&QVTQt iXxtcdiviuS* 

*Ev (Tspit) Af0<j). 

"3uv((p\« np^oi'TOf, ptii'ds 3c(Xow0foJ, ap\t . . . w? Eu- 

tfwAi dp\EOa'/i<u <Hk £ <« °f aitihtaKa aitb Ttis 

ffouyyp«^i3 W<5a twv JToAc/iHpxwv ktj twv Karonrdtav 
dvfAo/iEvo^ Tas aouyypm/iiSs rcis Ki/i/vnj ffdp tv<Ppova, 

ffj) it&taV Kl) TT(I AKAg?V KIT TlftdftuSoV $U)Kct(tf, 

k!) Oaporektiv \vot?dfttii t k>} {.iovvoov Ka(ptao6<a>a x'jpun'eta 

HUT TO yil'Vpl T<d 1 iljfj. 

Swapx*"* dpxotros, fKtvdf dAoiAiro/i.Ei'iui K dni'<5v, noAu'- 
xAftov raftlus a7tf6<i)ne toCiaXv dp%co(f/i(i> 0uk£(C drrd Taj 
ffouyypadiw rd /tUTaXurrov *dr to ^dtfuaua rib cdfita, 
dvcAtf/uvof T(i{ O"orjyypu:0d>s t«s Ki/jevnf irdp aia<f>iXoi\ Ktj 
tvippova <punia$. Ki) irdp (Siui^ocrf 0^ Ka<ptaohtapta x 1 ? " 1 '^ 
ki) Xvai^afiav SapoTiXtos vi6a Ttav TToXepdp\tav } Ki) Ttav 

KaTOTtT&tdV, 

*VHEHE/B>l>IIIOH 

"Apxocro; iv ip\optvb Svvdpxto, ptibs AXaXKouertta, /v 
it K iXarh) Mcvuirao A"\. <A "' J M eH *S JTfldYw. 'O/ioAoyd 
E&JwXtl K iX'trii), o Ki) Trj JttjAl ^pX0/(Cl(UJI'. 'EffEliJi) 
KCKOfiiart] EWwAos 7TiJp Tf'/f n'fiXio? to ^inciof airui' K'ir 
tu? n/ioXoyids *■<(( TtBteas 5ui'*tp\w apxovTOf, fiends 

v*eiXovOiu>, *,■("/ our dipttXirtj alirHi trt obQcv nap riiv iraXtv, 
riXX' drr/x* TT'iira Trept Travros, a;i*j (i7ro^£^«J(*r0i ri) ttiSXi rd 
exoircff '■"5 ofioX»yf(i4, c/ /i*i- jto ri $i&o[iii>oi> \p6vov 
Euu'uiXu fVt voptui K in dirfrrapa /ion'£(T(ri joi'ic TTTfrus cJta 

Karttfi F( Karl J7«o6'<fru( o"ouc J/yuS ^C»Afi7( «PX* rw xp'**' ^, 
6 ivtavT&i b ficru VVVapX 9 ? &PX 0VTa tpXPpwfoi axuypa- 
ibtaOt} &i Ei/awAov kut ivtavrdit ckhotqv it dp r'uv Taptav 
Ki) rdv vtifiuiv dv Tare Ka6}tnTa tu>v TTpofiiirwi-, ki) riav 
iiy&v, k>I tu>v t$ov£}v, ki) Tutv IxwttiV, Ki/ Kartva doafialtav 
31kij ri nXiidos fiel dttoyndtyiao J»Jt itXiava tUv yeypa/t- 

fitvtov iv Ttt couyx^P^t "7 &£KaTi$ 1} rd trvdfuov 

]&v6ta\ov 6<pdXti Xij tuiv ip\ofiti>ltov doyuvpivt 

TCTTaodKOvra Eti6'(jAu kuo Ixaorov twtavrbvj 

Kij t6kov (ptpfTui c5pax/'"f Tr, f / n< *5 iKaarai 

Kara ficr.a tov Ktf ZjiirpaKTOS tarm rbv ipx°' 

pivtov ... . kui rd 1$}S* 

J Ev aXXots A/0015. 

''\Avoi5iipa o-tc^opor Xfllpt.™ NOKYEE. tl KaXXUtruv 
d/i0<fpix«Si *<*( aXXat." 'Ev oiidt fi(a 'EiT(ypua>$ j^ov 
TfJvov, ^ rrccC^a, 3 cS« fillets ixoypatpofitv, oi TuAticai 
»p9oi'yp«^9t'. Ka2 rd rf{ljf« 



The following is the pro^peclus of a translation of 
Anacharsis into Romaic, by nij Roi ir, ISIar- 

marotouri, who wished to publiso 11 in England. 

El^H'Etl TYIlorpA.MKH\ 

Uobi Tois h ^(Aoyo'Cij kq\ QtXlXXrivas. 

"OSOI tU ^ifiA/a itavTO&aitii ivTpv$<i>oiv t if^tbpovv 
it6aov ttvai ri xp'' <T, / /0,/ T '' ( 'laropla^ c5t' alrfjs ydp 
t^ivpioKCTai t) itXfov fiCfiaKpvafiivt] TriiAunSrr;?, Kai ■Scio- 
noi'irat u$ fc *card*:r*fMu j}0q, irptf^CIS *.'<*i jiourffffis TroAXwy 
Kai diax'Jpwi' EfroJi' icoJ rri'wt< u)v ti)v fii'^rjv IttawoaTo 
Kai liaaman tf 'letvptKi) Ai/;)'»)ff!j fi'f aldia rbv aitaxra. 

Mia Tfroin 'EjT(ffr»;^»7 eJVoi rf(ir'Sifr»;T05 1 Ka! iv ravrip 
ii)<ptXtfir} t jj KpttTTov tiittlv dvttYKaia ' Atari Xotirbv fifius 
ftdvot i'i n)n ioTcpou/zcfla, /it) i/^ciipovrcj oijrf rdf dpxd'S 
twv Wpoy6vttiv fiai, tx66tv itdrt k<i\ tHh; ivpiBrjaav tl$ Tii$ 
irarpt&as fia$, uvtc rd ij8t}. rd KiiTopOutuara xat rrjt itot* 
Kifdv twv ; v Av ipu>Ti t au}ptv tovs 'AAAoyetfif, ii^d'povv 
vd fids 6ti>aovv S\tfi6vov \cToptKux; rifv &px^ v Kai T ' l¥ 
irpdo&ov Ttav itpoy&iwv jj.k, dXAd (tul TOffoypa^ncdif fid% 
Sttxvovv rtij 6totts t(3v fI(iTp/f3wi' pas, Kat oUvti x tl P a ~ 
ytayoi ynAftnoi fit tgvs ytu)yo<i<fitKOi''i twv llivaKas. fids 
Xiyovi', i&d) tlvtii (il 'Adt/vai, i6u> /j iiTru'prrj, ikci a\ Or)6ai t 
r6aa aru&ta 1) f/lXta dv(\ct ff fila 'Errapx/a drd Ti}v 
XXXijv. To9ro{ uncui}.6(ti)<T£ t?hi ftiav n6Xiv^ Ikuvos W)v 

uXXtjv, Kat t$. ilpooiri dv ipwrqCinutv avrov; Toy? pi) 
'EAAjjvuj xc ( P' i )"' J >' ''S ^ a 5) ^^£1' iTTiipaicii'/jOiJO'ai' vd 
^£p£i'iii(Toui/ dpx"f nicor ffoAutdf, &vvirotTT6Xu>$ fiat 
iiroKplvomt fii airovs tous \6yov$, " KaQCts f> ik 1>u- 
Qia$ *Ai-«'x'*p<Tcf, av Ctv tittpiiipX lT0 r< * r ' M tu^prfffwi'a 
(Kttva KXlftara n)j 'EAAn'^of, ac ofr IfifyoptiTo rd d(iw- 
;i«rn, rd »;0r/ KriJ foflj Nd/i0U5 rdiv 'EAAi/vwv, ^Ot'Af ptii'P 
Xki'Ot?? ««i t^ orojia tcai rd irpuy/m* oi>ra> vut b fjuirepos 
^lurpOf, ac rlc'v ifidt'Oavc rd tov 'iTTitoKpdrovf, iiv it 6wtt 
vd TT0i\<.>'ii/iTr; ((( n'/c r fx vt l v TOV > *Av k iv l/utv No/10- 

"<V>/, Mi /' s f r.^- , rd ro3 EtfXuvaf 1 Aoirot/pyov, *r«ii riirrawoP, 
5«v Hvvaro vd fivOpijcti Kai va KaXupy^c'i rd tjdif t&v 
'Ofioyivuiv tov ' Hvb'YJJTWpoh ivfi»6i%ITO rds (t^pudtiuj 
«a£ rows \<ipirir((T/(ofjs Top ^rjfioaOti-ov^ £iv ivtpyovacv 
d$ rdf 4-n\ ^c nJ>» Atcpoar&v tov ■ 'Av 6 N^os 'Aw/* 
Y'lOffic. /» KuplOj A'.' ts I' "if/uAo/inios fJfv dKy/vwffJf£ /it 
fttydXriv bripoviiv teal trxfipiv tabt rXiov iyKpirovs Ecy- 
ypa^j£i{ rfiy ' EXXijvwW) U-spatviav avro&s Kara 0dQo$ int 

TptaKQVTa iSutl) (>'/, ('('l' //fiAEV i^vpdl-T] TOVTTfV TtJV VCpl 

'EAAfJi'aiv 'loTop/ai' tov, 'ifTti rifpi»/y77<Ti( rov Hhv 
1 Avaxdpottai Tap' airou vpoauti'Ofiao&t}, Kai £i$ SAoj rd? 
EipurruiVds AkiA/ktowj /jErfyAuiTr/ffoV Kn* (»- #1 1 
Atfyw, at Neiurepoi, dv <5ev rrrtpeav ^fa i^yoijf to«5 
ripoydvot'j fiag, ijOeXav ("o*ojs jrfpi^/puivrui fiaralui /if'xpt 
toD i'5v. AiiTd ^fv ctvat Adyia ivQvctaofiivov Old rd 
dttXoycvis rpaiJCov, Hvat ii tytXaX/iOovs Ycpfiavov, fortf 
itmTiiytviot rbv N/ov "Avdxapfftv drro toD TuXAikoC tii Td 

Fsp/iavixdv* 
"Av Aoittuv *a\ butts SiXoutv vd ficBifaticv ti)s yv&ontt 

tujv Xauitp&v KaTopOuipdrwv bvov CKa/iav oi SavftaaroX 
Ixstvoi llpoitdropcs ifudii; av ii:tOvfiu>fiev vd fidBmficv r>)v 
itpdohov Kai afyiolv Ttav th rJj Ttjft*S "MM 'BfflffTljpaj 
<ai th kuOc dXXo etSos fiaB/jaws, dv ("xio/iev rrffjN 
vd yvianfautfttv irdOev KarayS/ttft'i. Kai bmtovi ^■tvfiaaroi's 
ical ««ydXous &¥&pas t t! Ka} irpoydvcvi Q/t&Vi ^c9, f^/icif 
i!fv yv(jpis"/<fv, r/s Kiijpiv orrot' of AAAoycvcis 3as 1 I 
ut'roi't, Kut 015 irar/pas ravrotafforiv /iaOiJ^fws o/fiovrai, 
df ffuv(\pdu(J/i(:v airavres irpoBtiftwf tls tijv ^KfJoffiv toD 
Savpaotov Toyrou ovyypd/i/i«Tos Tor- M/ou *Arnxdpfffo>5. 

'H/i£is ovv oi vitoytypaufi(voi SiXoutv iKTtXiati irpoBv- 
fitas H/V fitTtityptatv tov UttiXtov fii ti)v Kara to r^ovaroV 
I'lfi'tv KaXjJv tppdotv Ttjs vuv KaB" ffuds hutXlas', Kai ^K<!dvT£j 
TorJro els Tifirov, SiXofttv rd KaXAwirtaa uc roi>s Vtuypa- 
tftiKOVi WvaKas pi urtXds ' Pot fiat* d$ Xi£cc{ tyKtxapayfii- 
vovs tU l&iKdfias ypdfifiara, rpoartdivrtf b~Tl aXXo 
'Xptjoifiov Kai upfiddiov th ri)v ' Icroplav. 

*OAov rb aiyypapua SiXtt yfitt th Tdfiovi SuStKtt 
Kara filuifatv Tr){ *lTaXiciJ$ Uidctias. 'H ti/ij) SAov rov 
'Svyypdfiuaros thai <f>iop(vta btKalfy rijf Bthi'ns ^*d rffv 
irpocQi'/Ktfv Ttiv yctayoa<ptKu>v xtvdxtav. 'O 0(Aoycv()> Cf 
Zvvhpoyjrrhi itpintt va xXnptaQT} th KdQt T6uov 0iopfvt 
£va Kai Kapavravia ttKoet rfc Bt/w^s, Kai tovto xwpis 
Kafi uiav Ttp6fioatv : dAA' titdvi bttov SiXci rd itapaisoBfi It 
T^ftvi rvnwftlvoi Kai btjtlvoi. 



Canto III. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



57 



'E|>jju)/<fro( *'<■! cv&o[{tovc$ SiaBtCooiTe ' K\hjvi>)v Hai6ts- 
Tijs {'[icripai aydTTijs i^nornphot 

^loidvvns MapfiapoTovpns. 

Eirvoibiiiv HnrfUroi. 
\Ev TpicdWu), Tt} TrpuJrp 'OKrufipwu, 1799. 

THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. 

11 IIATE'PA MAS 6 w/»B iltrat tls rovs ovpavovg, ag 
iyi'tofrfi tu Uvofid aov *Aj cX&t) !/ fiaaiXtia aov. "A? 
yoit) to $iXmid aov, KitQS>s ds rou ovpavdv, erlfl Kut tls 
Tu^'tuftiVaf tq KaOnficpivOv, Sos pas rb aiHitpov. 
Kut ouy\uiaii<r: - \ , utiSi KaO-os teat iuits avy^u)- 

povftcv Too* KOso^aXeras /j<-f- K.ai ///}■' //as tpipets ck 
idf, aXXd l\$v&ipii)ai pas Ami roj/ jrtn f/piir. "On 
fi''iKi)aov chat i) 3uat\da } vi # bvvayus t teal i) 3o£n, ct's touj 

Af'hUtif. 'A/J7/e. 

IN GREEK. 

IIA'TEP v/4u>t' 6 fv Tots ovpmolSj aytaaOt'iToi to SifOfid 
<rm. KXdira l\ flaatXda aov ' ywnd^Tuj to SiXtjpd trou, 

«5 fc ovp'ivio, Kut em Tqs yrj$' Tdv aprov f/pUtV rbv 
fTtooaiov Cos >ll*h- arjfttpov- K-ua0es '/fi" rd ^(ptt^/' l |i.^r<I 

Siputv, us rai fr*£?S {Ltplsfitv Tals ddteiXirais IjfiUv. KaJ 
f<j) tiatviyKys ^f»«S £?S imp-JcT/idy, d.VA'i pvcai >i. ■'•'<< dffJ 
row Tra(-m>oD. "On uou ftrru- 17 jiiaiXttu, cal 1} ^uftt/iij, 
(cai y (5<jfu, th tovs al£iva$. 'Afirjv, 



CANTO III. 

1. 

/;* "pride of place 3 * here last the eagle flew. 

Stanza xviii. line 5. 
" Pride of place" is a term of falconry, and means 
the highest pitch of flight. — See Macbeth, &c. 

"An En^le towerins; in his pride of place 
Wiu by a mousing Owl hawked at and killed." 

2. 
Such as Barmodins drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 
Stanza xx. line 9. 
See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristocjiton. 
— The best English translation is in Bland's Anthology j 
by Mr. Denman. 

" Wuli myrtle my sword will I wreathe," &c. 

3. 

And all went merry as a marriage-bell. 

Stanza x.\i. line 8. 
On the night previous to the action, it is said that a 
ball was given at Brussels. 

4, 5. 
And Evan'* t Dinaltfs fame ring/tin each clansman's ears. 
Stanza wvi. line 9. 
Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the 
"gentle Lochiet" of the "forty-five." 

6. 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. 
Stanza xxvii. line K 
The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant 
of the "forest of Ardennes," famous in Boiardo's Or- 
lando, and immortal in Shakspeare's " As you like it." 
It is also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot of suc- 
r issful defence by the Germans against the Roman 
encroachments. — I have ventured to adopt the name 
connecter! with nobler associations than those of mere 
slaughter. 

7. 

1 turn' d from all she brought to those she could not bring 
Stanza xxv. line 9. 
Mv guide from Mint St. J"an over the field seemed 
intelligent and accurate. The place where Maj 
Howard ffll was not far from two tall and soUtafy trees 
(there was a third cut down, or shivered in the battle) 
which stand a few yard-s from each other at a pathway's 
side. — Beneath these he died and was buried. The 
body has since been removed to England. A small 
hollow for the present marks where it lay, but will pro. 
bahly soon be effaced 5 the plough has been upon it 
and the grain is. 

H 



After pointing out the different spots where Piclon 
and other gallant men had perished, the guide said, 
• here Major Howard lay : I was near him when wound- 
ed." 1 told him my relationship, and he seemed then 
ihl more anxious to point out the particular spot and 
circumstances. The place is one of the most marked 
n the field from the peculiarity of the two trees above 
mentioned. 

I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing 
it with my recollection of similar scenes. As a plain, 
Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some great 
action, though tins may be mere imagination: I have 
viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, 
Leuctra, Chaeronea, and Marathon; and the field around 
Monl St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little 
but a better cause, and that undefinable but impressive 
halo which the lapse of a<fes throws around a celebrated 
sp v, to vie in interest with any or all of these, except 
perhaps the last mentioned. 
8. 
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore. 

Stanza x.wiv. line 6. 
The (fibledj apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes 
were said to be fair without, and within ashes. — Vide 
Tacitus, Histor. 1. 5, 7. 

9. 
/•V sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. 

Stanza xli. line last. 
The great error of Napoleon, " if we have writ our 
annals true," was a continued obtrusion on mankind 
ofhis want of nil community of feeling for or with them-, 
perhaps more offensive to human vanity than the active 
cruelty of more trembling and suspicious tyranny. 

Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well 
as individuals ; and the single expression which he is 
said to have us*ed on returning to Paris after the Rus- 
sian winter had destroyed his army, robbing his hands 
over a fire, " This is pleasanter than Moscow," would 
probably alienate more favour from his cause than the 
destruction and reverses which led to the remark. 
10. 
llliat want these outlaws conquerors should have. 
Stanza xlviii. line 6. 

" Wlnt wtntt that knave 
That a kins ihonld have?" 

was King James's question on meeting Johnny Arm- 
strong anil his followers in full accoutrements. — See the 
Ballad. 

II. 
TVie castled crag of Drachenfets, 

Page 22, verse 1. 

The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest 
summit of "the seven Mountains," over the Rhine 
hanks : it is in ruins, and connected with some singular 
traditions: it is the first in view on the road from 
Bonn, but on the opposite side of the river; on this 
bank, nearly facing it, are the remains of another, called 
the Jew's castle, and a largo cross commemorative of 
the murder of a chief by his brother: the number ol 
castles and cities along the course of the Rhine on both 
sidfs is very great, and their situations remarkably 
beautiful. 

12. 
The whiteness ofhis soul, and thus men o'er him wept. 
Stanza Ivii. line last. 

The monument of the young and lamented General 
Marceau (killed by a riflc-batl at Alterkirchen on the 
last day of the fourth year of the French republic) still 
remains as described. 

The inscriptions on his monument are rather too 
long, and not required*: his name was enough; France 
adored, and her enemies admired \ both wept over him. 
— His funeral was attended by the generals and detach- 
ments from both armies. In the same grave General 
Hoche h interred, a gallant man also in every sense of 
the word; but thouefi he distinguished himself greatly 
in battle, he had not the good fortune to die there: his 
death was attended by suspicions of poison. 

A separate monument (not over his body, which is 
buried by Marceau's) is raised for him near Andernaoh t 
opposite to which one of his most memorable exploits 



58 



NOTES TO C"JLDE HAROLD. 



ClKTO III 



was performed, in throwing a bridge to an island on ihe 
Xhine. The shape and style are different from thai 
of Marceau's, and the inscription more simple and 
pleasing. 

"The Army of the Satnbre and Me use 

"to iii Commander in Chief 

■■ Hoche." 

This is all, and as it should be, Hoche was esteemed 

among the first of France's earlier generals before 

Buonaparte monopolized her triumphs. He was the 

destined commander of thfl invading army of Ireland. 

13. 

Here Ehrenbrcitstii'^ with her shattered mill. 

Stanza lviii. line I. 
Ehrenbreitstein, i.e. "the broad stone of Honour ■ 
one of the strongest fortresses m Europe, was dis- 
mantled and blown up by the French .'it the truce of 
Leoben. — It had been and could only be reduced \<\ 
famine or treachery. I: yielded to the former, aided 
by surprise. After having seen the fortifications ol 
Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much strike by compari 
sonj but the situation is commanding. Genera] Marci au 
besieged ii in vain lor some time, and 1 slept in a room 
where I was shown a window at winch he is said to 
have been standing observing the progress of the siege 
by moonlight j when a hall struck immediately below it. 
14 



XJnsepulchred they roam'tt, and shrieked each wandering 
ghost. 

Stanza l\iii. line last 
The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones 
diminished to a small number by the Bur^unilian legion 
in the service of France, who anxiously effaced this 
record of their ancestors' less successful invasions. A 
few still remain, notwithstanding the pains taken bi 
the Burgundians for ages, (all who passed thai wav 
removing a bone to their own country,) and the less 
{justifiable larcenies of the Swiss postillions, who carried 

them off to sell for knife-handles, a purpose tor which 

the whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of years had 
rendered them in great request Of these relics I 
ventured to bring away as much as may have made a 

Juarterofa hero, tor which ihe sole excuse is, that if 
had not, the next passer by might have perverted them 
to worse uses than the careful preservation which I in- 
tend for them. 

15. 

LtvcWd Aventicum hath strew" d her subject lands. 
Stanza Ixv. line hist. 
Aventicum (near Morat) was the Roman capital of 
Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 

16. 
And hrld within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. 
Stanza Ixvi. line last. 
Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon 
after a vain endeavour to save her father, condemned 
to death as a traitor by Aulus Caucina. Her epitaph 
was discovered many years ago ; — it is thus — 
Julia Alpinula 
Hie jaceo 
Lnfelicis patris, infelut proles 
Deae Aventia? Sacerdos; 
Exorare patris neeem Don potui 
Male mori in fatis ille er-.it. 
Vui arums \ \m. 

I know of no human composition so affecting as this, 
nor a history of deeper interest. These are the names 
and actions which ought not to perish, ami to which we 
turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the 
wretched and etitterjng detail of a confused mass of 
conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused 
for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, from whence 
it recurs at length with all the nausea consequent on 
such intoxication. 

17. 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine mom. 

Stanza Ixvii. -ne 8. 

This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc, (: une 3d, 
1816,) which even at this distance dazzles mine. 

(July 20th.) I this day observed for some une the 



distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont Ar«eniierre 
in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in niv 
boat; the distance of these mountains from their mirror 
is 60 miles. 

18. 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone. 

Stanza Ixxi. line 3. 

The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a 
depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, 
salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archi- 
pelago. 

19. 

Than vulgar minds may be ttith ull they seek possesf. 
Stanza Ivuv. line last. 

This refers to the account in his u Confessions" of 
In- passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot, (the mistress 
of St. Lambert, ] and his long walk every morning for 
the sake of the single Kiss which «as the common salu- 
tation of French acquaintance. — Rousseau's description 
of Ins feelings on tins occasion may be considered as 
the most passionate, yet not impure description and 
expression of love that ever kindled into words; which 
after all must be felt, from their very force, to In- made, 
quale to the delineation — a paintutg can give no suffi- 
cient idea of the ocean. 

20. 
Of earth-o'erguzing mountains. 

Stanza xci. line 3. 
It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and 
impressive doctrines of the divine Founder of Chris- 
tianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on the 
Mount 

To wave the question of devotion, and turn to human 
eloquence, — the most effectual and splendid specimens 
were not pronounced within walls. Demosthenes ad- 
dressed the public and popular assemblies. Cicero 
spoke in the forum. That this added to their effect on 
the mind of both orator and hearers, may be con- 
ceived from the difference between what we read of 
the emotions then and there produced, and those we 
ourselves experience in the perusal in the closet. It 
is one thing to read the Iliad at Sigssum and on the 
tumuli, or by the springs with Mount Ida above, and 
the plain ami rivers and Archipelago around VOU, and 
another to trim your taper over it in a snug library— 
this I know. 

Were the early and rapid progress of what is called 
Methodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the 
enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines 
(the truth or error of which I presume neither tocfinvass 
nor to question) I should venture to ascribe it to the prac- 
tice of preaching in the fields, and the unstudied and 
extemporaneous effusions of its teachers. 

The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least 
in the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore im- 
pressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed 
orisons and prayers wherever they may be i 
hours — of course frequently in ihe open air, kneeling 
upon a light mat, (which they curry for the purpose of 
a bed or cushion as required :) the ceremony lasts some 
minutes, during which they are totally absorbed^ and 
only living in their supplication': nothing can disturb 
them. On me the simple and entire sincerity of these 
men, and the spirit winch appeared to be within and 
upon them, made a far greater impression than any 
general rite which WSJ ever performed in places of 
worship, of which T have seen those of almost every 

persuasion under the sun; including most of our own 

sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, me Armenian, 
the Lutheran, the Jewish, and (he Mahometan. Many 
of the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the Turk- 
ish empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of their 
belief and its rites: some of these I had a distant view 
of a i Patras, and from what I could make out of them. 
they appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, ana 
not very agreeable to a spectator. 
21. 
The sky is changed! — and such a change! Oh night* 

Stanza xcii. line 1. 
The thunder-storms to which these lines refer oc- 
curred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have 



Canto IV. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



59 



seen among the Acrocerauuian mountains of Clumari 
several more terrible, but none more beautiful. 
22. 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrouglU. 

Stanza xcix. line 5. 

Rousseau's Heloise, Lettre 17, part 4, note. "Ces 
mmtaynes soul si hautes qu\me deini-heure apres le 
soleil couche, leurs sommets sunt encore eclaires de 
ses rayons ; doiit le rouge forme sui res cimes blanches 
une belle couleur de rose qu'on appercoit de fort loin." 

This applies mure particularly tu the heights over 
Meilierie. 

"J'allai a Vevay loger a la Clef, et pendant deux 
jours que j'y restai sans voir personne, je pris pour cctte 
vilie on amour qui ui'a suivi dans tons mes voyages, et 
qui ra'y a fait eiablir enfin les heros de rain roman. 
Je dirois volontiers a ceux qui out du gout et qui sont 
scnsibles ; aJlez a Vevai — visiiez le pavs, cxaminez les 
mi es, promenez-vous sur le lac, el dues si la Nature n'a 
pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et 
pour un St- Preuz ; mais ne les y clierchez pas." Les 
Confessions livre iv. page 306, Lyons ed. 1796. 

In July, 1S16, I made a voyage round the Lake of 
Geneva; and as far as my own observations have led 
me, in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all 
the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his " Heloise,'* 
I can safely say, that in this there is no exaggeration. 
It would be difficult to see Clarens, (with the scenes 
around it, Vevay, Chillon, Boveret, St. Gringo, Meilierie, 
Kivan, and the entrances of the Rhone,) without being 
forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation to the per- 
sons and events with which it has been peopled. But 
this is not all: the feeling with which all around Clarens, 
and the opposite rocks of Meilierie, is invested, is of a 
still higher and more comprehensive order than the mere 
sympathy with individual passion; it is a sense of the 
existence of love in its most extended and sublime ca- 
pacity, and of our own participation of its good and of 
its glory : it is the great principle of the universe, which 
is there more condensed, but not less manifested ; 
and of which, [hough knowing ourselves a part, we 
lose our individuality, and mingle in the beauty of the 
whole. 

If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same 
associations would not less have belonged to such scenes. 
He has added to the interest of his works by their adop- 
tion ; he has shown his sense of their beauty by the 
selection; but they have done that for him which no 
human being could do for them. 

I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to sail 
from Meilierie [where we lauded for some time) to St. 
Gingo during a lake storm, which adder! to the magnifi- 
cence of all around, although occasionally accompanied 
bv danger to the boat, which was small and overloaded. 
It was over this very parj ofthe take that Rousseau has 
driven the boat of St. Preux and Madame Wolmar to 
Meilierie f >r shelter during a temnest. 

On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found that the 
wind had been sufficiently strong to blow flown some 
fine old chestnut-trees on the lower part of the moun- 
tains. 

On the opposite height of Clarens is a chateau. The 
hills are covered with vineyards, and interspersed with 
some small but beautiful woods; one of these was 
named the " Bosquet de Julie," and it is remarkable 
that, though lontj a^o cut down |>v the brutal selfishness 
of the monks of St, Bernard. (io whom the land apper- 
tained,) that the ground might he enclosed into a vine* 
yard for the miserable drones of an execrable supersti- 
tion, the inhabitants of Clarens still point out the spot 
where its trees stood, calling it by the name which con- 
secrated and survived them. 

Rousseau has not been particularly (ordinate in the 
preservation of the " loeal habitations" he has given to 
"airy nothings." The Prior of Great St. Bernard has 
cut down some of his woods for the sake of a few i asks 
of wine, and Buonaparte has levelled part ofthe rocks 
of Meillerio in improving the road to the Stmplon. The 
roac* is an excellent one, but I cannot quite agree »vith 
a remark which I heard made, that " La route Vaut 
mieux que les souvenirs." 



Lausanne! and Ferneyl ye have been the abodes. 
Stanza cv. line I. 
Voltaire and Gibbon. 

24. 
Had I not filed my mind i which thus itself subdued. 
Stanza cxiii. line last. 



' If it he thus. 



For Bautjuo's issue have \ Jiled my mind." 

Machelk. 
25. 

O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve. 

Stanza cxiv. line 7. 
It is said by Rochefoucault that " there is always 
something in the misfortunes of men's best friends not 
displeasing to them." 



NOTES TO CANTO IV. 
I. 

/ stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs ; 
A palace and a prison on each haiui. 

Stanza i. lines 1 and 2. 
The communication between the ducal palace ana 
the prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or covered 
gallery, high above the water, and divided by a stone 
wall into a passage and a cell. The state dungeons, 
called " pozzi," or wells, were sunk in the thick walls of 
the palace; and the prisoner when taken out to die was 
conducted across the gallery to the other side, and 
being then led back into the other compartment, or cell, 
upon the bridge, was there strangled. The low portal 
through which the criminal was taken into this cell is 
now walled up; hut the passage is still open, and is still 
known by the name ofthe Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi are 
under the Mooring of the chamber at the foot ofthe bridge. 
They were formerly twelve, but on the first arrival of the 
French, the Venetians hastily blocked or broke up the 
deeper of these dungeons. You may still, however, 
descend by a trap-door, and crawl down through holes, 
half-choked by rubbish, to the depth of two stories 
below the first range. If you are in want of consola- 
tion for the extinction of patrician power, perhaps you 
may find it there; scarcely a ray of light glimmers into 
the narrow gallery which leads to the cells, and the 
places of confinement themselves are totally dark A 
small hole in the wall admitted the damp* air of the 
passages, and served for the introduction of the pri- 
soner's food. A wooden pallet, raised a foot from the 
ground, was the only furniture. The conductors tell 
you that a light was not allowed. The cells are about 
five paces i.i length, two and a half in width, and seven 
feet in height. They are directly beneath one another, 
and respiration is somewhat difficult in the lower holes. 
Only one prisoner was found when the republicans 
descended into these hideous recesses, and he is said 
to have been confined sixteen years. But the inmates 
ofthe dungeons beneath had left traces of their repent- 
ance, or of their despair, which are still visible, and may 
perhaps owe something to recent ingenuity. Some of 
the detained appear to have offended against, and others 
to have belonged to, the sacred body, not only from 
their signatures, but from the churches and belfries 
which they have scratched upon the walls. The reader 
may not object to see a specimen of the records prompted 
by so terrific a solitude. As nearly as they could 
be copied by more than one pencil, three of them are as 
follows : 

1. 

NON TI FIDAR AD ALCCNO PENSA e TACT 
SE FUGIR VUOr DE SPIOW1 1NSIDIF. e LACCI 
IL PENTIRTI PF.NTIRTI NULLA GIOVA 
MA BEN DI VALOR TUO LA VERA PROVA 

1607 adi 2. GE.xino. fui re. 

TENTO P' LA BEST1EMMA P' AVER DATO 
DA MANZAR A UN MORTO 

IACOMO . GRITTI . SC&IS9E. 
n 

TJN PARLAR POCHO et 

NEGARE PRONTO et 

UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO BARE LA VITA 

A NOI ALTRI MESCHINI 

1605 



60 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Carto IV. 



ECO IOHS BAPTISTA AD 
ECCLESIAM CORTELLAHU B. 
3. 
DE CHI MI FIDO GUARDAMI DIO 
DE CHI NON Ml FIDO MI GUARDARO 10 
A 

TA H A XA 

V . EA S . C . K . R . 

The copyist has followed, not corrected the solecism ■ ; 
gome of h fuch are how 1 1 ei do) qi 
ihe letters were evidently scratched in the dark, it 
only need be ob beatemmia and nronj 

he read in the first inscription, which wflts probabl) 
written by a prisoner confined for softie act ot impiet) 
commuted at a funeral; lliat C>rtd!unus is tl> 
of a parish on terra firm a, near the sea; and that the 
Last initials evidently are putfor Viva la santa Ckiesa 
i RomancL 

Site looks a sea Cybclr, fresh / 
Rising with, fu i it a 

Stanza ii. lines I and 2. 
An old writer, describing the appearance of Venice, 

I I ■ use of the above imago, whii h would not be 

I Lical were it not true. 

•• QuoJU ut qui supernc urbcm r.onlcmpUtur, turritam 
. m mt l\ • i ino figUToiam s< putet inspi- 
cerc."* 

3. 
In Venice Tassd's echoes are no more. 

Stanz i iii. line 1. 
The well-known song of the gondoliers, o! alternate 
from Tasso's Jerusali m, has died with the 
independence of Venire. Editions of the poem, with 
inal on one column, and the Veneti in i 

a i sung by the b tatmen, were or i om- 
in m md are Btill to be found. 1 he fo ■ ■■ ing • ■ , u I 
will serve • difference between Ihe Tuscan 

epic and the " Canta alia Barcariola." 

ORIGINAL, 

Canto 1' arme pietose, e 'I capitano 
Che '1 gran Sepolcro Liberb di Cri to 

Mold i egli oprb i ano, e con la mano 
Molto sofiri m i gloi \ »so acquisto ; 

E in van I' Infi rno a tui >' oppose, e in vano 
S' armb d' Am, o di Libia il popol misto, 

Che il Ciel gli die favore, e soltQa i Sauti 

Segni ridusse i sum compagni erranti. 

VENETIAN. 

L 1 arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 
E de Goffredo la immortal braura 

Che al fin P ha libera co strassia, e dogia 
Del nostra buon ' iesti la Sepoltura 

De m ■/ > in mdo unito, e de que] B <_ ia 
Mis -i -r Pltiton non r ha bu m ii p 

Di » 1' ha asiutd, e i c pag li »p u pagnai 

Tuiti '1 gh i ha messi insieme i di del Dai. 

Soul- ni" i l i<- t-'il-T ■..' hi lo! owever, take up 

ami c ue s stan ;a ol th ii once familiar bard 

On the 7ili of las) January, the author of Childe 

Harold, and another Engli »hman, the « i iter of this 

rowed lo the Lido with two sin 'crs, one of whom 

i carpenter, and i he other i gond ilicr, Thi I n mi r 

Ktaoed himself at the prow, the lattei tern of the 

oat A little after leaving the quay of the Piazzetla 

they began I il inin d Iheii exei ci b un i] 

we arrii i .i ■'.. . and. Th iy gave 
essays, the death of Clorinda, and th i of irmida; 

and did not Bing the Venetian, bill the Tuscan, verses. 
The carpenter, however, who was the cleverer ol the 
two, and was frequen ■. obliged to prompt his compa- 
nion, told us that he could translate the original. He 
added, that In- could sing mini..-! three hundred stanzas, 
[mi had not spirits [morbin waa the word he used) to 
learn anj more, or to sing wharf be already knew: a 
man must have idle bine on his hands to acquire, or to 
repeat, and, said the poor fellow, "looJt at my clothes 
ami al me; I am starving. 11 This speech was more 



* IVUrcl Anlonil SabeUi de Venet« Urtia eitu n&rraUo, edit. Taurtfl. 

\$n, lib », foi.m 



than his performance, which habit alone can 
make attractive. The recitative was shrill, aer< 

and monol ius, and the gondolier behind assisted his 

iroice by holding Ins hand Lo one side of hie mouth. 

b quiet action, which he evidi nt y 

rain; but was too much. interested 

in bis subject altogether to repress. From these men 

: thai singing is nol confined to the gondotiere, 

and that, although the chum is seldom, if ever, voluntary, 

e still several amongst the lower classes who 

[jointed w ith a few stan: as. 

not appear that it is usual for the performers 

ron and sing at the Ban i lime Although thi ■ 

of the Jerusalem are no long* i casually heard, there is 
yet much music upon the Venetian canals; and 
lolydaj thosi sn angers who are not near or inl 
enough lo di tinguish the words, may fancy that many 

iH res Hind with the strains of T« 
The writer of some remarks which appeared in ihe 
ies of Literature must excuse his being twice 
quoted; for, with the exception of some phrases a little 
too ambili ravagant, he has furnished a very 

exact, as well as agreeable, description. 

"In Venice the gondoliers know by heart ton 
sag< - from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chant them 
wnJi a pecutiai melody, Bui this talent seems al pre- 
senton the decline: — at least, after taking sonic pains, 

1 could find no more than two persons who delivered 

!■■> Me' iH llns w;iv a passage t"n>in Tasso. I must add, 

that the late Mr. Berrj once chanted lo me a passage 
H, 1 '.. io in ilu manner, as he assured me, of the gon- 
doliei ■- 

" There are always two concerned, who alternately 
sing the strophes. We know the melody eventually by 
Rousseau, to whose songs il is printed; it has properly 
no melodious movement, and is a sort of moduli 
twecn the canto fersao and the canto figurato; il ap- 
proaches to the Ebrmei b) recitativical declamation, and 
to the latter b ind course, by which one 

syllable is detained and em 

" 1 entered a gondola b^ moonlight; one singer placed 
himself forwards, and th< other an, and thus pro 
to St. Qeorgio. One beean the song: when he had 
ended his Btrophe, the other took up the lay, and so 
continued the song alternately Throughout trie whole 
of it, the same notes invariably returned, but, according 
to the subject matter of the strophe, they laid a greatei 

,.r a simliri sirrss, s.'iiii hnn - mi un--, a -oim linn -■ 

on another note, and indeed ehan^ed the rniineiaiiun nf 
the whole atropne as the object of the poem altered. 

"On tin 1 whole, however, the Bounds wore hoarse anc, 
screaming : they seemed, in the manner of all rude un- 
civilized men, to make the excellency of their singing m 
the '■'"■' , "i their voice: one seemed desirous of con- 
quering the other by ihe strength of his lungs; and so 
far from receiving delight from this scene (shut up as I 
was in the box "i die gondola,) 1 found myself in a very 
unpleasant situation. 

"My companion, '<> whom I communicated Ihia cir- 
nC0) Q«ing verj desirous to keep np the credit «-f 
his countrymen, assured me thai this singing was very 
deh>h(fiil when heard at a distance. Accordingly we 
got out upon the Bhore, leaving one of the aingei 
gondola, while the othorwenl to the distance of some 
hundred pat es, Th< j aov< i i gan to sine against one 
another, and I kept walking up and down between them 
both, so as always to leave lum who was to begih 1 
par'. I frequently stood still and hearkened to the OBe 
ami to 'lie other. 

"Here ihe scene was properly introduced. The 
strong declamatory, and, aa it were, shneking aoaod, mrt 
the ear from far, and called forth the attention; the 
quickly succeeding transitions, which necessarily re. 
,|M ,, ,| to i"' sung in a loww tone, set mod tike plaintive 
strains succeeding the vociferations ol emotion or of 
pain. Theother, who listened attentively, immediately 
began where the former lefi oil", answering him in milder 
vehement nous, according as the purport of 
the strophe required The sleepy canals, the lofiy 
buildings, tin- splendour of the moon, the deep shadows 
of the few gondolas thai moved like spirits hither and 
thither, increased the striking peculiarity of the sceno ; 



Can-to IV. 



NOTES TO CIIILDE HAROLD. 



61 



and amidst all these circumstances it was easy to con 
fess 'he character of this wonderful harmony. 

'• It suits perfectly well with an idle, solitary mariner, 
tying at length in his vessel at rest on one of these 
canals, waiting for his company, or for a fare, ihe tire- 
someness of which situation is somewhat alleviated by 
the songs anrl poetical stories he has in memory. He 
often raises his voire as loud as he can, which extends 
itself to a vast distance over the tranquil mirror, and as 
all is still around, he is, as it were, in a solitude in the 
midst uf a large and populous town Here is no rattling 
of carriages, no noise of foot passengers ■ a silent gon- 
dola glides now and then by him, of which the Bplashings 
of the oars are scarcely to be heard. 

"At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly 
unknown u, him. Melody and verse immediately attach 
the two Strangers: he becomes the responsive echo to 
the form -r, and exerts himself to be heard as he had 
heard the other. By a tacit convention they alternate 
; though the song should last the whole 
night through, they entertain themselves without fatigue : 
the hearers, who are passing between the two, take part 
in the amusement. 

Phia vocal performance sounds best at a great dis- 
tance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only 
fulfils its design in the sentiment of remoteness. It is 
plaintive, but not dismal in its sound, and at times it is 
scarcely possible to refrain from tears. My companion, 
who Otherwise was not a very delicately organized 
laid i|uite unexpectedly: e singolare come quel 
canto intenerisce, e molto piii quando Io cantano meglio. 
" I was told that the women of Libo, the long row of 
islands that divides the Adriatic from the Lagouns * 
particularly the women of the extreme districts of Ma- 
lamocco and Palestrina, sing in like manner the works of 
Tasso to these and similar tunes. 

'* They have the custom, when their husbands are 
fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the evenings 
and vociferate these songs, and continue to do so with 
great violence, till each of them can distinguish the 
responses of her own husband at a distance "f 

The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all 
classes of Yen. nans, even amongst the tuneful sons of 
Italy, The city itself can occasionally furnish respect- 
able audiences for two and even three opera-houses at 
a time ; and there are few events in private life that do 
no' rail forth a printed and circulated sonnet. Does a 
physician or a lawyer take his degree, or a clergyman 
preach his maiden sermon, has a surgeon performed an 
in, would a harlequin announce bis departure or 
his benefit, are you to be congratulated on a marriage 
or a birth, or a lawsuit, the Muses are invoked to furnish 
the same number of syllables, and the individual 
triumphs blaze abroad in virgin \\ Iiite or party-coloured 
phi- ails on half the corners of the capital. The last 
courtesy of a favourite "prima donna" brings down a 
shower of these poetical tributes from those upper re- 
gions, from which, in our theatres, nothing bul cupids 
and snow-storms are arcustomed to descend. There 
is a poetry in the very life of a Venetian, which, in its 
common course, is varied with those, surprises and 
changes so recommendable to fiction, but so different 
from the sober nunc tony o r northern existence; amuse- 
ments are raised into duties, duties are sofiened into 
amusements, and every object being considered as 
equally making a part of the business of life is an- 
I and perform/d with the same earnest indiffer- 
ence and gay assiduity. The Venetian gazette con- 
stantly closes its columns with the following triple adver- 
tisement. 

Charade. 



Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the church 
of St. 



Theatres. 
St. Moses, opera. 



• The writer meant Lido, which ts not n long row of Utanili, but a 
long iitand : lilttu, the shore. 

+ Curin.itiei of Literal. ire, vol. H. p. 156, edit. 1807 : and Apnethii* 
iw\j to Bltek't Mfc of Tumo. !**«"*- 



St. Benedict, a comedy of characters. 
St. Luke, repose. 

When it is recollected what the Catholics believe 
their consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think it 
worthy of a more respectable niche than between poetry 
and the play-house. 

4. 

Sparta hath many a worthier son than he. 

Stanza x. line 5. 
The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the stran- 
gers who praised the memory of her son. 

5. 

St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 

Stand, 

Stanza xi. line 5. 

The lion has lost nothing by his journey to the Inva- 
lides but the gospel which supported the paw that is 
now on a level with the other foot. The horses also 
are returned to the ill-chosen spot whence they set out, 
and are, as before, half hidden under the porch of St. 
Mark's church. 

Their history, afier a desperate struggle, has been 
satisfactorily explored. The decisions and doubts of 
Krizzo and Zanetti, and lastly, <>f the Count Leopold 
Cicognara, would have given them a Roman extraction, 
and a pedigree not more ancient than the reign of Nero. 
But M. de Schlegel stepped in to teach the Venetians 
the value of their own treasures, and a Greek vindi- 
cated, at last and for ever, the pretension of his coun- 
trymen to this noble production.* Mr. Mustoxidi has 
not been left without a reply ; but, as yet, he has re- 
ceived no answer. It should seem that the horses are 
irrevocably Chian, and were transferred to Constan- 
tinople by Theodosius. Lapidary writing is a favourite 
play of the Iialians, and has conferred reputation on 
more than one of their literary characters. One of the 
best specimens of Bodoni's typography is a respectable 
volume of inscriptions, all written by his friend Pacci- 
audi. Several were prepared for the recovered horses. 
It is io be hoped the best was not selected, when the 
following words were ranged in gold letters above the 
cathedral porch. 

QUATUOR * EQL'ORUM ' SIGNA A* ' VENETIS ' BT- 
ZANTIO • l APT A ■ AD * TEMP ■ D ' M AR * A ' R "S ■ MCCIY* 
POSITA • HVK ■ HOSTII.IS • CDPIDITAS ' A ■ MDCCIIIC * 
AESTULERAT * FRASC * I ' IMP ' PACIS ' ORBI " DATA: 
TROPH.EUM • A * MDCCCXT ' VICTOR ■ REDUXIT. 

Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be 
permitted to observe, that the injustice of the Venetians 
in transporting the horses from Constantinople was at 
least equal to that of the French in carrying them to 
Paris, and that it would have been more prudent to 
have avoided all allusions to either robbery. I An apos- 
tolic prince should, perhaps, have objected to affixing 
over the principal entrance of a metropolitan church an 
inscription having a reference to any other triumphs 
than those of religion. Nothing less than the pacifica- 
tion of the world can excuse such a solecism. 
6. 

The Su l ian med t and now Hie Austrian reigns — 

An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt. 

Sianza xii. lines 1 and 2. 

After many vain efforts on the part of the Italians 
entirely to throw off (be yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, 
and as fruitless attempts of the emperor to make himself 
absolute master throughout the whole of his Cisalpine 
dominions, the bloody struggles of four and twenty 
years were happily brought to a close in the city of 
Venice. The articles of a treaty had been previously 
agreed upon between Pope Alexander III. and Barba- 
rossa, and the former having received a safe conduct, 
had already arrived at Venice from Ferrara, in company 
with the ambassadors of the king of Sicily and the con- 
suls of the Lombard league. There still remained, 
however, many points to adjust, and for several days 
the peace was believed to be impracticable. At this 



• a ui qui .*.ro cavh,'i della Sasilica i. S. Marco in Veneila Lettera dl 
indre* W^itixid"' Coreirw*. Partw», per BVtoni e compag. .. 1616. 



62 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Carto IV. 



juncture it was suddenly reported thai the Emperor had 
arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the eapn;il 
The Venetians rose tumultuou.sly, and inaiati d upon 
immediately conducting him to the city. The Lombards 
took the alarm, and departed towards Treviso, The 
Pope himself was apprehensive of somi disaster ii 
Frederic should suddenly advance upon him, but was 
reassured by the prudence ami address of Sebastian 

Ziani, the Doge. Si'Vral einbas-u.s pas>.d between 

Chioza and the capital, until, al last, the Emperor re- 
hudiu somewhat of his pretensions, "laid aside his 
leonine ferocity, and pul on the mildness "1 the lamb,"* 
On Saturday the '23d of July, in the yeai 1177, six 
Venetian galleys transferred Frederic, in great pomp, 
from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile from Venice. 
Early the nexl morning the Pope, accompanied hy the 
Sicilian ambassadors, and by the envoys of Lombardy, 

Whom he had recalled from llie main land, together with 

a great concourse of people, repaired from the patriar- 
chal palace to St. Mai k's church] and solemnly absolved 
die Emperor an. I his partisans from the excommunica- 
tion pronounced against him. The Chancellor ol the 

Empire, on the part of his master, renounced the anti- 
popes and their schismatic adhen nts. Immediately Uje 
Doge, with a great suite both of the clergy and laity, 

fot on board the gallej , and waiting on Frederic, rowed 
im in mighty state from the Lulu io the capital. The 
Emperor descended from the galley at the quay of the 
Piazzetta. The Doge, the patriarch, his bishops and 
clergy, and the people of Venice with their crosses and 
their standards, marched in solemn procession before 
him to the church of Saint Mark. Alexander was seated 
before the vestibule of the basilica, attended by his 
bishops and cardinals, by the patriarch of Aquileja, by 
the archbishops and bishops of Lombardy, all of them 
in state, and clothed in their church robes. Fred«-ne 
approached — "moved by the Holy Spirit, venerating 
the Almighty in the person of Alexander, laying aside 
his imperial dignity, and throwing off his mantle, he 
prostrated himself at full length at the feet of the Pope. 
Alexander, with tears in his eyes, raised him being- 
nantly from the ground, kissed him, blessed him ; and 
immediately the Germans of the tram sang, with aloud 
voice, ' We praise thee, O Lord.' The Emperor then 
taku the Pope by the right hand, led him to the 
chunm, and having received Ins benediction, returned 
to the ducal palar.e."| The ceremony oi humiliation 
was repeated the next day. The Pope himself, at the 
request of Frederic, said mass at St. Mark's, The Em- 
peror again laid aside his imperial mantle, and, taking 
a wand m his hand, officiated as verger, driving the 
laity from the choir, and preceding the pontiff to the 
altar. Alexander, after reciting the gospel, preached to 
the people. The Emperor put himself close to the 
pulpit in the attitude of listening; and the pontiff] 
touched by this mark of his attention, for he knew that 
Frederic aid noi understand a word he said, commanded 
the patriarch of Aquileja to translate lheLaluidiseour.se 
into the German tongue. The creed was then chanted. 
Frederic made his oblation and kissed the Pope's feet, 
and, mass being over, led him by the hand to Ins white 
horse. He held the stirrup, and would hive led the 
horse's rein to the water side, had not the Pope ac- 
cepted of the inclination for the performance, ami affec- 
tionately dismissed bun with Ins benediction. Such is 
the substance of the account left by the archbishop of 
Salerno, who was present at the ceremony, and whose 
story is confirmed by every Bubsequi nl narration. It 
would be not worth so minute a record, were it not the 
triumph of liberty as well as of superstition. The states 
of Lombardy owed to it the continuation of their privi- 
leges; and Alexander had reason in thank the Almighty, 

who had enabled an infirm, unarmed old man, to subdue 

a, terrible and potent sovereign. J 



" " (1'iibus audit)*, imperator, opcrante to, cm I cordn pHnclpum sicut 
vuU el quaodo full humlHtar Incllnal, leonine (tmtte dapoatta, ovinatn 
mnntiiettidinem i ml nil." Komualdi SnK-niitaoi Chrouicon. apm! Script. 
Rt. lul.Tom. Vll.p.Stt. 

t IMd. p. '231. 

J BaaUwabova cited RomnnM ufSnlemo. In « second iermon which 
Alaxandti | ., ifti in-.], on the ftril day of Ausutt, before the Emperor, b 
compared Frederic io the prodigal ton, iuid hunielf to the forgiving lather . 



Oh } for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 

Th 1 octogenarian chi'J, Byzantium's conquering foe. 
Stanza xii. lines 8 and 9 

The reader will recollect the exclamation of the 
bighlander, Oh j«r one hour of Dundee! Henry Dau- 
dolo, when elected Doge, in 1192, was eighty*nV< 
of age. When he commanded the Venetians at the 
taking of Constantinople, ho was consequently ninety- 
Seven years old. At this age he annexed thq fourth 
and a half of the whole empire of Romania,* for so the 
Roman en. jure was then called, to the title and to the 

U rritories of the Venetian Doge. The three-eighths of 
- ., empiri were preserved in the diplomas until the 

dukedom of Giovanni Dolfino, who made use of the 
above designation in the year 1357. f 

Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in person: 
two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were tied to- 
gether, and a drawbridge or ladder hi down from their 
higher yards to the walls. The Doge was one of the 
first to rush into the city. Then was completed, said 
the Venetians, the prophecy of the Erythraean sibyl. 
"A gathering together of the powerful shall be made 
amidst the waves ot ihe Adriatic, under a blind leader; 
they shall beset the goat — they shall profane Byzantium 
— they shall blacken her buildings — her spoils shall be 
dispersed ; a new goat shall bleat until they have mea- 
ni rj mit and run over fifty-four feet, nine inches, and a 
half"J 

Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, having 
reigned thirteen years, six months, and five days, and 
was buried in the church of St. Sophia, at Constanti- 
nople. Strangely enough it must sound, that the name 

of the rebel apothecary who received the Doge's sword, 
and annihilated the ancient government, in 1 796—7, was 
Dandolo. 

8. 

But is not Dorias menace come to pass ? 

Axe they not bridled? 

Stanza xiii. lines 3 and 4 
After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking ot 
Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by the united 
armament of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara, 
Signor of Padua, the Venetians were reduced to the 
Utmost despair. An embassy was sent to the conquerors 
with a blank sheet of paper, praying them to prescribe 
what terms they pleased, and leave to Venice only hei 
independence. The Prince of Padua was inclined to 
bsiin to Uiese proposals, but the Genoese, who afler 
the victory at Pola, had shouted " to Venice, to Venice, 
and long live St. George, 1 ' determined to annihilate theil 
rival, and Peter Doria, their commander in chief, re- 
turned this answer to the suppliants : " On God's faiih, 
gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no peace Jiom the 
Signor of Padua, nor from our commune of Genoa, until 
we have first put a rein upon those unbridled horses of 
yours, that are upon th-- porch of your evangelist St. 
Mark. When we have bridled them, we shall keep you 
quiet. And this is the pleasure of us and of your com- 
mune. As for these my brothers nf Genoa, that you 
have brought with you to give up to us, I will not have 
them : take them hack ; for, in a few days hence, I shall 
come and lei ih< m out of prison myself*, both these ,<ud 
all the others. *§ In fact, the Genoese did advance as 



• Mr. Gilitxin haa omitted the import, ml a, and hni written Roman' 
Intend of Romania lifeline ami lull, cap. 1st. note 9. Butihciiila 
v Dandolo rum thu* in ihe chronicle of Ml iinmeanke, the Dogi 
Andrew llnndolo. Ducati titulo nddidil, " Hunrt* partit tt dimidia 
totiu* imperii Romania.'' And. Dund. Chrordeoii. cop. lii par* xvxvii. 
n|i. Script. Iter. lUil Mf». lit. page 931. And ibC Romania it oUtrved 
in the a'lhtrqufnl Act* of llie Doge*, lull ■ d ibl continental poaaciaiom 
ul tin: limit .; in I'm: in Kiirnj i ill) kunnnliv I hi- nunit 

of Romania, and tliat appellation i* Mill teen lu ilia map* of Turkey ua 
applied Lo Thrace. 

f .See the conlimiation of Dandolo** Chroiiidr, Ibid, pace 49?. Mr. 
Gibson appenra not to include DoUioo, following Mliudo, who »ny», " it 
'/uat titoto ti uto fin at Dogt Giovanni Do 'Jinn, " See Vile de' Duchi 
di Venezia.np. Script. Rrr. Iial. torn, xjttt. 530. Hi. 

t Ftet pottntium in aauu Adriattcii eongregatio, cneo purduct, 
Mrcum ainbigent, Bvtantium prophanabunt , td(/icia denigrnbunt : 
tpotiadirpn ganfur, fluent iiovut bnJahil utuue dum i.IV ptdet el IX 
p'llicet, rt tttnit pran^ntufati ditcarrtml. ' [Chronicon, ibid, para 

§" Allafnli Pio t Signori Veruziani ,nnnhaver«te mc.i pact dal Sig' 
nore di i'adoua, ne dai nottro cominunt di Gtnaua, it primieramtnti 
tion witttemo U bnglit a gutlti voitri cavalh t/'tnati, eh* tono *u /a 



Canto IV. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



63 



far as Malamocco, within five miles of the capital; but 
iheir own danger and the pride of their enemies gave 
courage to the Venetians, who made prodigious efforts, 
ami maiiv individual sacrifices, all of them carefully re- 
corded by their historians. Vettor Pisani was put at 
the head of thirty-four galleys. The Genoese broke up 
from Malamocco, and reiired to Chioza in October: 
but they again threatened Venice, which was reduced 
to extremities. At this lime, the 1st of January, 1380, 
arrived Carlo Zeno, who had been cruising on the 
Genoese coast with fourteen galleys. The Venetians 
were now strong enough to besiege the Genoese. Doria 
was killed on ilie 22d of January by a stone hull" t lit, 
pounds weight, discharged from a bombard called the 
Trevisan. Chioza was then closely invested : 5000 
auxiliaries, among whom were some English Condot- 
fieri, commanded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the 
Venetians. The Genoese, in their turn, prayed for 
conditions, bui Done were granted, until, at last, they 
surrtnd-Tfd at discretion; and, on the 24th of June, 
1380, the Doge Contanni made his triumphal entry into 
Chioza. Four thousand prisoners, nineteen galleys, 
many smaller vessels and barks, with all the ammuni- 
tion and arms, and outfit of the expedition, fell into the 
hands of the conquerors, who, had it not been for the 
inexorable answer of Doria, would have gladly reduced 
their dominion to the city of Venice. An account of 
these transactions is found in a work called the War 
of Chioza, written by Daniel Chinazzo, who was in 
Venice at the time.* 

9. 

The " Planter of the Lion.." 

Stanza xiv. line 3. 
Plant the Lion — that is, the Lion of St Mark, the 
standard of the republic, which is the origin of the word 
Pantaloon — Piantaleone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. 

10. 

Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. 

Stanza xv. lines 7 and 8. 
The population of Venice at the end of the seventeenth 
century amounted to nearly two hundred thousand 
souls. At the last census, taken two vears ago, it was 
no more than about one hundred and three thousand, 
and itdimuushes daily. The commerce and the official 
employments, which were to be the unexhausted source 
of Venetian grandeur, have both expired. f Most of the 
patrician mansions are deserted, and would gradually 
disappear, had not the government, alarmed by the 
demolition of seventy two, during the la-t two years, 
expressly forbidden this sad resource of poverty. Many 
remnants of the Venetian nobility are now scattered 
and confounded with the wealthier Jews upon the banks 
of the Brenta, whose palladian palaces have sunk, or 
are sinking in the general decay. Of the " gentiluomo 
Veneto," the name is still known, and that is all. He is 
but the shadow of his former self, but he is polite and 
kind. It surely may be pardoned to him if he is queru- 
lous. Whatever may have been the vices of ihe repub- 
lic, and although the natural term of its existence mav 
be thought by foreigners to have arrived in the due 
course of mortality, only one sentiment can be expected 
from the Venetians themselves. At no time were the 
subjects of the republic so unanimous in their resolution 
to rally round the standard of St. Mark, as when it was 
fir the last time unfurled: and the cowardice and the 
treachery of the few patricians who recommended the 
fatal neutrality were confined to the persons of the 
traitors themselves. The present race cannot be 
thought to regret the loss of their aristocrat ical forms, 



ftrzi -Irl Vottrn Evansnliitn S. Marco. Imhrenati ehe p/i" hnvrrmo , 
•i ftremo etare in bttona pat*. E quwta e la intension? n'lelra, t del 
noitrn rammune. Queili miei f rated i Gena»8ti che fmvtte menati 
eon vox per dnnarei, non li vnglin ,- rim/inttesli in dieiro perche io 
intendo da qui a poe/ii eiorni vtnirgli a ritcuoter, dalle vottre pri- 
gioni, t loro e £li nltri." 

* '* Chrooaca ftella gnerra di Choia," 4c. Script. Rer. Italic, torn. 
xt. pp. $99 to 804. 

I " NonnnlloriiTn fc nnbilitate immense Mint ope«, nileo ut vlr autimari 
poiitnt : id qijwl iribn* c rebus oritur, parsimonia, eommercio, atqne hi 
emolument)!, ^usi e Repnb. |>ercir>itint, qua; hnnc ob can dam rliulurnn 
forecredilur."— 6te ik Principaiibu* lull*, Tractatui «lit. 1631. 



and too despotic government ; they think only on their 
vanished independence. They pine away at the re- 
membrance, and on this subject suspend ibr a moment 
their gay good humour. Venice may be said in the 
words of the Scripture, "to die daily ;" and so general 
and so apparent is the decline, as to become painful to 
a stranger, not reconciled to the sight of a whole nation 
expiring as it were before his eyes. So artificial a 
creation, having lost that principle which called it into 
life and supported its existence, must fall to pieces at 
once, and sink more rapidly than it rose. The abhor- 
rence of slavery which drove the Venetians to the sea, 
has, since their disaster, forced ihem to the land, where 
Ihev may be at least overlooked amongst the crowd ol 
dependents, and not present the humiliating spectacle 
of a whole nation loaded with recent chains. Their 
liveliness, their affability, and that happy indifference 
which constitution alone can give, for philosophy aspires 
to it in vain, have not sunk under circumstances; but 
many peculiarities of costume and manner have by 
degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a pride common 
to all Italians who have been masters, have not been 
persuaded to parade their insignificance. That splen- 
dour winch was a proof and a portion of their power, 
they would not degrade into the trappings of their sub- 
jection. They reiired from the space which they had 
occupied in the eyes of their fellow-citizens ; their 
continuance in which would have been a symptom of 
acquiescence, and an insult to those who suffered by tho 
common misfortune. Those who remained in the de- 
graded capital might be said rather to haunt the scenes 
of their departed power, than to live in them. The 
reflection, " who and what enthrals," will hardly bear a 
comment from one who is, nationally, the friend and 
the ally of the conqueror.- It. may, however, be allowed 
to say thus much, that to those who wish to recover 
their independence, any masters must be an object of 
detestation; and it may be safely foretold that this 
unprofitable aversion will not have been corrected 
before Venice shall have sunk into the slime of her 
choked canals. 

11. 
Redemption rose up in the Attic ]\fuse. 

Stanza xvi. line 3. 
The story is told in Plutarch's life of Nicias. 

12. 

And Otway, RadclijTc^ Schiller, Shakspeare's art. 

Stanza xviii. line 5. 
Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho ; the Ghost- 
seer, or Armenian; the Merchant of Venice; Othello. 
13. 
But from their nature will the tannen grow 
fytfticst on loftiest and least sheltered rocks. 

Stanza xx. lines 1 and 2. 
Tannen is the plural of tanne, a species of fir peculiar 
to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, 
where scarci ly soil sufficient for its nourishment can be 
found. On these spots it grows to a greater height 
than any other mountain tree. 
14. 
A sin <j!>' star LS at her side, and reigns 
JVith her o'er half the lovely heaven. 

Stanza xxviii. lines 1 and 2. 
The above description may seem fantastical or ex- 
aggerated to those who have never seen an Oriental or 
an Italian sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient 
delineation of an August evening (the eighteenth) as 
contemplated in one of many rides along the banks of 
the Brenta near La Mira. 

15. 
Watering the tree which bean his lady's name 

IVith his melodious tears, he gate himself to fame. 
Stanza xxx. lines S and 9. 
Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, we 
now know as little of Laura as ever.* The discoveries 
of the Abbe de Sade, his triumphs, his sneers, can no 



' See an Historical ami Critical Esiay on the Life and Character o 



64 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Cakto IV. 



longer instruct or amuse.* Wo must not, however, 
think that these memoirs are as much a roffl 
Belisarius or the Ineas, although we ore told so by Dr. 
Beattie, a great name, but a little authority.! His 
"labour" has not been m vain, notwithstanding his 
"love" has, like most oilier passions, made biro ridicu- 
lous .' The hypothesis which overpowered the strug- 
gling Italians, and carried along leafl interested critics 
in us current, is run out. We nave another proof thai 
we 'in lie never sure that the paradox, the tnosl singular, 
ami therefore having the mosl agreeable and authentic 
an, will nut give place U) tin- re-established ancient 
prejudiee. 

It seems, then, first, that Laura was born, lived, died, 
and was buried, not in Aviynon, but in the country. 
The fountains of Hi.- s irga, iii" thickets of Cabrien -, 
may resume their pretensions, anil the exploded de la 
B tslie again be beard with rnmpla- ■> -it* v. The hypo 
thesfs of the Abbe had no stronger props than the 
parchrntnl sonnet ami medal found on the skeleton of 
the wile of Hugo de Sade, and the manuscript D ite to 
the Virgil of Petrarch, now in the Ambrosian library. 
It' these proofs were burn incontestable, the poetry was 

written, l he medal eoiiiposi-d, cast, and deposited 

within the space of twelve hours: and these deliberate 
duties were performed round the carcass of one who 
died of the plague, and was hurried to the grave on the 

day of her death. These documents, therefore, are too 
decisive : they prove not the faet, but the forgery. 
Either the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a falsi- 
fication. The Abbe cites both as incontestably true ; 
the consequent deduction is inevitable — they are both 
evidently false. § 

Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a 
haughty virgin rather than thai tender and prudent wife 
who honoured Avignon by making that town the theatre 
of an huie-sl French pa.ssi.m, and plaved otf for one and 
twenty years her little machinery of alternate favours 
and refusalsj| upon the first poet of the age. It was, 

iii'li'i-'!, ra'lier too unfair Ilia! a female should be made 

responsible fir eleven children upon the faith of a mis- 
interpret eil abbreviation, and the decision ofa UDrarian.1T 
It is, however, satisfactory to think that the love of 
Petrarch was not platonic. Tin- happiness which he 
prayed to possess but once and for a momenl was surely 
not of the mind,** and something so very n 
marriage project, with one who has been idly Called a 
shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected in at least six 
places ofhu own sonnets, ft The love of Petrarch was 
neither platonic nor poetical ; and if in one passe i 
his works he calls it "anion' veementeissimo ma unico 
ed onesto,'* he confesses, in a letter to a friend, that it 
was L'liilty and perverse, that it absorbed him quite and 
mastered Ins heartJJ 



Petri reh ; and a Dissertation on in Historical Hypothesis of the Ai>M «te 
Sii'ii the first appeared Hboiit the year 1 781 . the other ia lnsari nlbi 
fnii ih volume of the Transactions odhe Royal ■'■ ■* ■■■ i\ ol Edinburgh, and 
been Incorporated into iw irk, published, under the Oral title, 
b* Ballantyne In 1810. 

• M.II1.I1IIH pOUT In Vie ill P-Mrnrqiie. 

+ Life of Uealtte.b* BirW Cornea, I, il, p. ins. 

J Mr. Qlbbnn called ids Memoirs " n labour of lore," (See D*el 

and Pall. cap. In note I.) and i Mowed him with conArl md di 

light. The compiler of a *ery mluminom work must lake much ciHtlelsm 

ii, Mm IrUSt; Mi. Gibbon has d ■ to, gh nut »» readily us some 

othi-r auth 

& The * ' h i l bi f ra awakened l he suijjiciona of Mr. Horace Wal- 

p ■ iter ■ ■ Vi oai ic 1768. 

II ■' Pare* petit manege, cttte alternative defai 

imfnagSe, line la is lendi i el - uje smnse, nenilani vinci si un ana, Is 

| i ■ i, .1,- •.in slacle. Bane filrc la moimtre brechi ■ 
iimr." M 'in pour i ■ v.. H 

[oi I hi London edition if Petrarch, who has translated t.ord 

u . ,.iii 1 1... i,-.-, i endi < - the " \- ■ ii n I - • icetta " 

Rifleaa lornoa madonna Uura.ji. 234, vol. M ed. 1811. 

n In a dialogue with St. Autjuatln, Petrarch has described Laura m 
h. (viiii; n body exhausted wiili ' ' 

■irinidl perturbnttoniouM ; bul nil . < ' tpperonler, librarian to the Preni b 
Una in ITS*, who saw the M9 in lh< stteatallon 

that " On lit el Qu'vn d>it lire, jmrttihui txhausiurn." I)> 

Hie names of Mi-aire. Bondot and Bejol with Mr Cappei >r, and in 

the whole -discuaelon on thlapfuos, showed i tell adowni 

rogue. Sfe RtBeesioni, Ike. p, '2S7. Thomas Afimm u Called in (o 
settle whalber IVlrereh's irnttres* wnu chnrte maid or a continent wife. 
•• " Pigmalion, quanta lodar u del 
I ii 'l' imogtai ma. s« mills » .He 
N' avesti quel ch' i' sot una vorr.i " 
SnrelM 58 raajldo giliiut a Simon l* alto concetto. 
/.-■ /,'inif, ic. par. i. nag. 189, edit. Yen. 1756. 
V 8m lUOaukoI, Slc. p. 291. 

;; '■ Ojmdla ira e perversa paasioua die solo tutlo mi ocenpava c id) 
reguav* nel mure." 



In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed foe 
the culpability of his wishes; for the Abbe di 

who certainly would no! have been scrupulously 
delicate if be could have proved Ins descent from Po- 
trarch as well as Laura, is forced into a stunt defence 
of Ins virtuous grandmother. As far as relates to the 
poet, we have no security for the innocence, except 
perhaps in the constancy of his pursuit. He assures us 
in his epistle to posterity, that, when arrived at his lor. 
hi ili \. ;ir, lie not only Had in horror, but had lost all 

i 'ii and image of any " ^regularity."* But the 
birth of his natural daughter cannot be assigned earlier 
than bis thirty-ninth year: and either the memory or 
the morality of the poel must have failed him, when he 
forgot or was guilty of this >/'/' t The weakest argu- 
ment fur the purity of this love has been drawn, from the 
permanence of effects, which survived the object of Ins 
pa i m. The reflection of Mr. de la Dastie, that virtue 
alone is capable of making impressions which death 
cannot efface, is one of those which every body ap- 
plauds, and every body finds nol to be true, the moment 
he examines bis own breasl 01 the records of human 

feeling.! S tlc l» npoph d thing for Pe- 

trari'b or for the cause of morality, except with the very 
weak and the very young. He that has made even a 
little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage cannol be 

edified With any thing but truth, What is called vindi- 
cating the honour of an mdnidiial or a nation, is the 

mosl futile, tedious, and uninstructive of all writing; 

although it will always meet with more applausi 

thai sober ciiticism, which is attributed to the malicious 
desire of reducing a great man to the common standard 
of humanity. It is, after all, not unlikely, that our his- 
torian was ri^ht in retaining his favourite hypothetic 
salvo, which secures the author, although it scarcely 
saves the honour of the still unknown mistress of Pe 
trarch.§ 

16, 
Thnj Keep ftu 'lust in Arqua y where lie ditd. 

Stanza \wi. line 1. 

Petrarch retired to Arqua imm- I return 

from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at 
Home, in the year 1370, and, with the - xception of his 
celebrated visit to V< nice, in company with Francesco 
Novello da Carrara, he appears to have passed the four 
last vear- of lus hfi- between that eharunne M.ilitude and 
Padua. For four months previous to his death he was 
in a state of continual languor, and in the morning of 
July the 19th, iu the year 137-1, was found dead in Ins 
library chair with his head resting upon a book. The 
chair is still shown among the precious relics of Arqua, 
which, from the uninterrupted veneration that ha 
attached to every thins relative to this great man from 
the mom- m . . t " In- <i ath to the present hour, have, it 
may be hoped, a better chance of authenticity than the 
Shaksperian memorials of Stratford upon Avon. 

Arqua (tor the last syllable is accented in pronuncia- 
tion, although the analogy of the English tangus 
been observed in the verse) is twelve miles from Padua, 
and aboul three miles on the right of the high road toRo- 

vigo, ni the bosom of the Ku :_'.uie;ui In I:-, liter a walk 

twenty minutes aernss a Hat well-wooded meadow, vmi 
come to a little blue lake, clear, bul fathom i -- 

lb'- ti'.'t of a sin-e.^vnui of ;ierh\ i'ns and hills, i 

with vineyards and orchards, rich with fir and pi. rue. 

granate trees, an 1 every sunny fruit shrub. From the 

banks of the take the road winds i the lulls, and ihr 

church of Arqua is soon seen between a cleft where 
two ridges slope towards each other, and nearly enclose 
the vi lage. The houses are scattered at irtervais on 
the steep sides ol these summits \ and that of the poet 
is on the edge of a little knoll overlooking two descents, 



* .4zi'ondi*Aonesra am his worrit. 

t " A iiiirsta eonrsselons coal slncen dk-de forse occmone una nuota, 
cadnta en 1 el fcce," Tlnboachli Storia,4c, torn. t. lib. It. par. ii. 
pea 199. 

; " /,' n'a n y>if In otrtli teufe qui eoit capnhle dt fnire de' trnpree- 
• ions que la mart n'eJTare prxm." iM da BI ' ll Hastte, 

In >l,.- \|.' i ] tcarWmti del Ii ■ rf] nuna ct Belles L«ttrcs for 

1740 and mi See alto RtBessloni, ftc. J..295. 

§" And it" the virtue or iinirienceof Lniirn vv . ■ 

iiml might hoaet ■>{ BOjoyuif, tin* nvmph of poetry." Occline and P*ll 
Cap, In. p. 327. vol. ail. ocl. Perharia lUc t/ u hurt; uuaiil for although. 



Caxto IV. 



XOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



65 



and commanding a view not only of the glowing gardens 
>n the dales immediately beneath, but ofthe wide plains. 
above whose low woods of mulberry and willow, thick- 
ened into a dark mass by festoons of vines, tall single 
cypresses, and the spires of towns, are seen in the dis- 
tance, which stretches to the mouths ofthe Po and the 
es of the Adriatic. The climate of these volcanic 
warmer, and the vintage begins a week sooner 
than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, tor he 
cannot be said to be buried, in a sarcophagus of red 
inarlilc, raised on tour pilasters on an elevated base, 
and preserved from an association with meaner tombs, 
li stands conspicuously alone, but will he soon over- 
shadowed by lour lately planted laurels. Petrarch's 
Fountain, for here everything is Petrarch's, springs 
and expands itseU beneath an artificial arch, a little 
he church, and abounds plentifully, in the driesl 
season, with that sofl water which was the ancient 
wealth ofthe Euganean hills. It would be more attrac- 
tive, were it not, in some seasons, beset with hornets 
and wasps. No other coincidence could assimilate the 
tombs of Petrarch and Archiiochus. The revolutions 
of centuries have spared these sequestered valicvs, 
and the only violence which has been offered to the 
ashes of Petrarch was prompted, not by hate, but vene- 
ration. An attempt was made to rob the sarcophagus 
of it? treasure, and one of the arms was stolen by 3 
Florentine through a rent which is still visible. The 
injury is ool forgotten, but has served to identify the 

float with the country where he was born, but where 
ic would not live. A peasant boy of Arqua being asked 
who Petrarch was, replied, "that the people ofthe par- 
sonage knew all about him, but that he only knew that 
he was a Florentine." 

.Mr. Forsyth* was not quite correct in saying that 
Petrarch never returned to Tuscany after he had once 
quitted it when a boy. It appears he did pass through 
Florence on his way from Parma to Rome, and on his 
return in the year 1350, and remained there long 
enough to form some acquaintance with its most distin- 
guished inhabitants. A Florentine gentleman, ashamed 
ofthe aversion of the poet for "his native country, was 
eager to point out this trivial error in our accomplished 
traveller, whom he knew and respected for an extraor- 
dinary capacity, extensive erudition, and refined taste, 
joined to that engaging simplicity of manners which has 
• been so frequently recognised as the surest, though it is 
certainly not an indispensable, trait of superior genius. 
Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxiously 
traced and recorded. The house in which he lodged is 
shown in Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, in order 
tod< i i ■•■ the ancient controversy between their city and 
the neighbouring Aneisa, where Petrarch was carried 
when seven months old, and remained until his seventh 
year, have designated by a long inscription the spot 
where their great fellow-citizen was born. A tablet 
ii raised to him at Parma, in the chapel of St. 
Agatha, at the cathedral,! because he was archdeacon 
of that society, and was only snatched from his intended 
sepulture in their church by a. foreign death. Another 
tablet with a bust has been erected to him at Pavia, on 
account ofhis having passed the autumn of 1368 in that 
tth his son-in-law Brossano. Tiie political con- 
dition which has for ages precluded the Italians from 



* Remarks, &c. on Italv, p. So, note, 2d edit. 
' D.O.M. 

Francisco Peirarche 

Pdrmtuii Arcliidiacono. 

Fsneatibui prBcIaxu genera perantiquo 

Ethic** Christiana.' scriplori eixmio 

Romaox lingux restilutOTl 

Etnuca principj 

Alncs ob carmen hac in urbe pernctum rcgibua acdlo 

S. P- Ct. R. tturea donate. 

Taali Tiri 

Juvenilium Jurenia scnilium senex 

tiaainuia 

Come* Nicolaua Canonicos Cicoenarua 

Marraorea proxin i ara exdinia,. 

It ique ooodiio 

Dive Jaminris rruenlocorpore 

H. M.P. 

BuflectutD 

Sed Infra meriumi FrsocUcl sepulehro 

Summa hac in ode efferri mn.nda.nlia 

Si Parmw occumbaret 

Exleramoric hen nobis erapii. 



the criticism ofthe living, has concentrated their atten- 
tion to the illustration ofthe dead. 

17. 

Or t it may 6e, xvitJi demons. 

Stanza xxxiv. line I. 
The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demons 
as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilder- 
ness for the temptation of our Saviour. And our 
unsullied John Locke preferred the presence of a child 
to complete solitude. 

18. 
Li fore of alt TasfoeS) the Crvsean quire ; 
A.nd SoUcau., whose rash envy, &c. 

Stanza xxxviu. lines 6 and 7. 
Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates 
Tasso, may serve as well as any other specimen to 
justify the opinion given of the harmony of French verse. 

A Malerbe a. Racan, prefere Thfeophile, 

Et le clinquant du Taase a tout 1'or de Virgile. 

Sat. ix. vers. 176. 

The biographer Scrassi,* out of tenderness to the 
reputation either of the Italian or the French poet, is 
eager to observe that the saiirist recanted or explained 
aw ay this censure, and subsequently allowed the author 
of the Jerusalem to be a "genius, sublime, vast, and 
happily born for the higher, Sights of poetry." To this 
we will add, that the recantation is far from satisfactory, 
when we examine the whole anecdote as reported by 
Olivet. | The sentence pronounced against him by 
Bohours)) is recorded only to the confusion of the critic, 
ilinodia the Italian makes no effort to discover, 
and would not perhaps accept. As to the opposition 
which the Jerusalem encountered from the Cruscan 
academy, who degraded Tasso from all competition 
with Ariosto, below Bojardo and Pulci, the disgrace of 
such opposition must also in some measure be laid tu 
the charge of Alfonso, and the court of Ferrara. For 
Leonard Salviati, the principal and nearly the solo 
origin of this attack, was, there can be no douht,§ in* 
rluenced by a hope to acquire the favour of the House 
of Este: an object which he thought attainable by 
exalting the reputation of a native poet at the expense of 
a rival, then a prisoner of state. The hopes and efforts 
of Salviati must serve to show the cotemporary opinion 
as to the nature of the poet's imprisonment; and will 
till up the measure of our indignation at the tyrant 
jailer. || In fact, the antagonist of Tasso was not dis- 
appointed in the reception given to his criticism; he 
was called to the court of Ferrara, where having endea- 
voured to heighten his claims to favour, by panegyrics 
on the family of his sovereign,!! he was in turn 
abandoned, and expired in neglected poverty. The 
opposition ofthe Cruscans was brought to a close in six 
years after the commencement of the controversy ; and 
if the academy owed its first renown to having almost 
opened with such a parodox,** it is probable that, on 
the other hand, the care of his reputation alleviated 
rather than aggravated the imprisonment ofthe injured 
poel The defence ofhis father and of himself, for both 
were involved in the censure of Salviati, found employ- 
menl for many of his solitary hours, and the captive 
could have been but little embarrassed to reply to ac- 



• t.n Vim del TaatO, lit' ill. p. 284. torn. ii. edit. Bergamo, 1780. 

* llisloire de I'Acadgmie Pranqotae, depuia 1652 Jusqu' 1700, par I'ubLe 
d'Ollael, p. 181, edit. Amsterdam, 1730. "Mais, enstiite, venam A 
1 'usage qu'ila foil He ses I ileus, j'auroia monlr* que '.e boo sens n'eal pus 
toujoi.rsce qui domtne ehel l"i,' p. 18S, Boileau BSJd he hud nut changed 
his opinion : " Jen a] i| peu cnangfi, dil-il," . ; c. p. 181. 

J Lei manUra de bleu penaer dana les ouvrogtsde I'eaprit, sec- dial. p. 
89, edit. 1692 Philanihe* is for Tnsso. and says, in the outset. '■ de 1 001 
lea beaux esprit* que 1'Itatie a. pories, le Tasse est peni-etre eelui qu] 
pensc leplus noblemenl." But Bolionra seems to sirrnk in Eudoxua, 
who closes with the absurd i fflpai 11 Faites raioire le Tasse taut 

qu'il vinu plaint, le rn'en Hem poui mol i VTrpas," flic, Ibid. p. 102. 

§l.a Viu, Ac. fib. iii. p. 90, lem. ii. The EngUsii reader may see an 
account of ihe opposition of the Crusca to Tasso, in Dr. Black, Life, &c 
cap. xvii vol. ii. 

II For further, and, U is hoped, decisive proof, that Tasso was neither 
more nor less tlind <i prit-mer of tlate, the reader is referred to " His- 
torical IUxttiraliont of Uie IV th Canto of Childe Harold," png. 5, 
and following. 

■ mi ninrbri . . . dclle lodi di Don I-utgi Cardinal d'Esle . . . 
deUalodldlDoDRoAlfiHiaod'Eate. See La Vita lib. iii. p. 117. 

** It was founded in 1502, and the Cruscan answer lo Pcllegriiio" 
Carajftx or epicapoeiia v. .is published in 1591. 



66 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Caivto IV. 



cusalions, where, amongst other delinquencies, he was 
charged with invidiously omitting, in his comparison 
between France and Italy, to make any mention of the 
cupola of St. Maria del Fiore ai Florence.* The late 
biographer of Ariosto seems as if willing to renew the 
controversy by doubting the interpretation oi Tasso's 
BelF-estimation't related in Serassi's life of the poet. 
But Tiraboschi had before laid that rivalry at restj by 
showing, that between Ariosto and Tasso it is not a 
question of comparison, hut of prefereni i 
19. 
The Ughimng rerUjratQ Ari&bta bwA 

The iron crown qftaurifs munick'il ii.itt*. 

Stanza rii. lines 1 and 2. 
Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from the 
Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, his bust, 
which surmounted the tomb, was. struck bv lightning, and 
a crown of iron laurels melted away. The event has 
been recorded by a writer of the last century. § The 
transfer of these sacred ashes on the 6th of June, 1801, 
was one of the most brilliant spectacles of the short- 
lived Italian Republic; and to consecrate the memory 
of the ceremony, the once famous fallen intrepidi were 
revived and reformed into the An istean ■ ■■ ademy. 
The large public place through winch the procession 
paraded was then for the first time called Ariosto 
Square. The author of the Orlando is jealously claim- 
ed as the Homer, not of Italy, but Ferrara. || The 
mother of Ariosto was of Reggio, and the house 
which he was born is carefully distinguished by a tablet 
with these words: "Qui nacQUB Ludovieo Ariosto il 
giorno Bdi Settemhre ddC anno 1474." Hut the Ferra- 
rcsc make light of the accident by which their poet was 
born abroad, and claim him exclusively for their own 
They possess his bones, they show his arm-chair, and 
his inkstand, and his autographs. 

" Hie illiui&rma 

Hie curru* (nil " 

The house where he lived, the room where he died, are 
designated by his own replaced memorial, IT and by a 
recent inscription. The Ferrarese are more jealous of 
their claims since the animosity of Denina, arising from 
a cause which their apologists mysteriously hint is not 
unknown to them, ventured to degrade their soil and 

climate io a I'm otian mcap-i l\ fur all qu ritual produc- 
tions. A quarto volume has been called forth by the 
detraction, and this supplement to Barotti's Memoirs 
of the illustrious Ferran-s.e has been considered a tri- 
umphant reply to the " Quadro Storico Slatistico dell 
Alta Italia.* 

20. 
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 

Stanza xli. lines 4 and 5. 
The eagle, the sea calf, the laurel,** and the white 
vine,!! were amongst the most approved preservatives 
against lightning: Jupiter chose the first, Augustus 
Caesar the second,*,! an ^ Tiberius never faded io vrea 
a wreath of the third when the skv threatened a thunder- 
storm. §§ These superstitions may be received without 
a sneer in a country where the magical properties of 
the hazel twig have not lost all their credit ; and per- 



• " rolanlopotiwmr** in M il (relenodelfo tna |.f*«imt Tutonticontro 
all i n.i i <ii Fiorenlinn. l.n Yitn,lrl>. ili, p, 96, &4. lorn. It, 

t ! .11 Vita di M. L. Ariosto, scrittn dull' 4 its Qj imo rtaroffiddi 

Q " , ic. Ferrara, 1807, lib. ill. p. £89, Sec Histories! IljualraUniu, 

4e. p. 26. 

* BtorUkdall* Lett. Sc. lib. iii. torn. vli. pnr. iii. p. 1220, Peel. 4. 

§ " Mi raccontarono que' mooiui, oh 1 AMendo eadulo un fulmint neltn 

Inro ctnesn •rhmntdesso dalle lempU II H >Li lnnron. quell' imiiiortnie 

poftB." Op. di Bianeonl, rol, iii. p. l7S.il. Milam I 

Signer GilMo Sarfni Arcifaiocntico, »uj|' indole (ii un fulmine c-uluto in- 

Drnwli* I'nnuo 1759. 

II " Appnaaionntn mnmirntore c*1 InrHto apolo^i*tn dill' Omtro Ftrra- 
r-*c." Tin lillfl was fire t given by Tumo, iuiiI ii quoted (o the confusion 
oft ho Ttm-iitti, lib. iii. pp. 383 268 I ■ Vltadi '1 !.. Arioito, &c. 

TI *' Parri Bed apt a milii, lad nnlli nbnnxin, wril MO 

Sordidn, part a ipeo sed Uuittn arc domut." 

** ATuiln, vitulus mnrinuv, el Uurut. fulmint: tioo feriuntOf. Plin. 

N.i. n!.t. lib. il. cap. It. 
II ColiMHlb, lib. x. 

Ifyurion.in VH. AuglPBt.Clp. xt. 
iS Sue tou, in Vil. Tibcrii, cap. Iiu, 



haps the reader may not be much surprised to find that 
a commentator on Suetonius has taken upon himself 

fravely to disprove the imputed virtues of the crown of 
Hbenus, by mentioning thai a few years before he wrote, 
a laurel was actually struck by lightning at Rome.* 
21. 
Know liial tlie lightning sanctifies below. 

Stan/a xli. hue 8. 
The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the 
Forum, having been touched by lightning) were held 
sacred, and the memory of the accident was preserved 
by a />?j.'trt/ ; or altar, resembling the mouth of a well, 
with a little chapel covering the cavity supposed to be 
made by the thunderbolt. Bodies scathed and persona 
struck dead were ihoughl io be incorruptible \\ and a 
str ike nol fatal conferred perpetual dignity upon the 
man bo distinguished by heaven.] 

Those killed by lightning were wrapped in awhile 
garment! and buried where ihey fell, jrbe superstition 
was not confined lo the worshippers of Jupiter: (he 
i believed 111 the omens furnished by lightning. 
and a Christian priest confesses that, by a dial 
skill in interpreting thunder, a seer foretold to Agiiuil* 
duke of Turin, an event which came to pa- s, am! gave 
him a queen and a crown. § There was, however, 
something equivocal in this signj which the ancient in- 
habitants'of Rome did not always consider propitious; 
and as the fears are likely to last longer than the con- 
solations of superstition, it is not strange that the Ro- 
mans of the age of Leo X. should have been so much 
terrified at some misinterpreled storms as to require the 
exhortations of a scholar, who a-rayedall the learning on 
thunder and lightning to prove the omen favourable ; he- 
ginning wiih the flash which struck the walls of Velitra?, 
and me hiding (hat which played upon a gale at Florence, 
and foretold the pontificate of one of its citizens.|| 

22. 
Italia I oh Italia ! &c. 

Stanza xlii. tine 1. 
The two stan/as, XLU. and XI. III., are, with the 
exceptio.. of a line or two, a translation of the farm us 
sonnet of Filicaja: 

" I tali*, IlaBa, lu cui feola sort?." 

. . 2S - 

M tendering 'm youth, I traced the path of him, 
The Roman ■ friciul of Rome's least-mortal mind, 

Sianza xliv. lines 1 and 2. 
The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero 
on the death of his daughter describes as il then was, 
and now is, a path which I often traced in Greece, both 
by sea and land, in different journeys and voyage s . 

"On my return from Asia, as I was sailim; from 
SSgina towards Megara, I hegan to contemplate the 
prospect of (he countries around me : iEgina was be- 
hind, Megara before mc ; Pirteus on the right, C< th 

on the h-fi ; all which towns, once famous and flourish- 
ing, now lie overturned and buried ui their ruins. Upon 
tins sight, I could ool but think presently within rayselfj 
Alas! bow do we poor mortals fret and vex ourselves 
if any of our friends happen to di.' or to be killed, whose 
lift is \ el bo short, when the carcasses of so many noble 

cities lie here exposed before me ill one View .'H 

24. 
And we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form. 

Stanza xlvi. lines 7 and 8. 
It is Poggio who, looking from the Capiioline hill 
upon ruined Rome, breaks firth into the exclamation, 



* Nole2. p.409. etlit.Lu(rf. Bat. 1«7. 

t Vid. J.C.Bullenptr, rfeTtrrj- Mattel Fiilmiuih. lih. ». cap. xi. 

I *ipnvi'iu"il( irif.os tar., bQtv Kal a>£ $ti% ripdTot. Plot, 

rid. i. C. BuibeDf. m »«p. 
§ PauII DiacOQh <le luntia Lnn^bwrd. lib. UI. cap. xiv. (a. 15. edit. 
Taurin. 1837. 

II I. P. Valerian! tie fulmlnum licmficniiciiibu* decUmntio, ap, Grmv, 
Aniifi. Horn. torn, r, 11, 5^3. The dc<.lum«tkn u addieft^d to Jubwi of 
MadTda. ' 

fl Dr Middltttfa— Iliitorv of tb« Lile of M. Tulliut Cicero, KCt.vii. p. 
371 vol..ii. 



Canto IV. 



NOTES TO CIIILDE HAROLD. 



Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, instar 
gigantei cadaveris corrupti atque undique exesi.* 
25. 
There, too, the Goddess loves m stone. 

Stanza xtix. line 1. 
The new of the Venus of Medicis instantly suggests 
the I nea in the Seasons, and the comparison of the 
object with the description proves not only the correct- 
ness of the portraii, but the peculiar turn of thought, 
and, if the term may be used, the sexual imagination of 
the descriptive poet. The same conclusion may be 



67 

lege ; Corinna has ceased to be a woman — she is only 
an author : and u may be foreseen that many whT repay 
themselves for former complaisance, by a seventy to 
which the extravagance of previous praises may per- 
haps give the colour of truth. The latest posterity, for 
to the latest posterity they will assuredly descend, will 
have to pronounce upon her various productions ; and 
the longer the vista through which they are seen, the 
more accurately minute will be the object, the more 
certain thejustii e, of the decision. She will enter into 
thai existence in which the great writers of all ages and 
nations are, as it were, associated in a world of their 



deduced from Mother hint in the same episode of own and from that superior sphere, shed their eternal 
Musidora; for Ihomsons notion of the privileges of ullll|1 . M1 „ ,;,r the control and consolation of mankind. 

Bui the individual will gradually disappear as the author 



favoured ].»vl- must have been either very primitive, 
rather dtificieal in delicacy, when he made his grateful 
nymph inform her discreet Damon that in some happier 
moment he might, perhaps, be the companion of her 
bath: 

" Tin? time may come yon need iiol fly." 

The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the Life 
of Dr. Johnson. We will not leave the Florentine 
gallery without a word on the IVhetter. It seems 
Strange that the character of that disputed statue should 
n"t be entirely decided, at least in the mind of any one 
who has seen a sarcophagus in the vestibule of the 
Basilica of St. Paul without the walls, at Rome, where 
the whole group of the fable of Marsyas is seen in 
i e preservation ; and the Scythian slave whetting 
the knife is represented exactly in the same position as 
this celebrated masterpiece. The slave is not naked; 
but it is easier to get rid of this difficulty than to sup- 
pose the knife in the hand of the Florentine statue an 
instrument for shaving, which if must be, if, as Lanzi 
R imposes, 'he man is no other than the barber of Julius 
<" r-.ir. Winkelmann, illustrating a bas relief of the 
same subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agostini, 
an I his authority might have been thought conclusive, 
even if the resemblance did not strike the most careless 
observer."! 

Among the bronzes of the same princely collection 
i- still to he seen the inscribed tablet copied and com- 
mented upon bv Mr. Gibbon. J Our historian found 
pome difficulties, but did not desist from his illustra- 
tion : he might he vexed to hear that his criticism has 
been thrown away on an inscription now generally re- 
cognised to be a forgery. 

26. 
His eyes to thee upturn, - 
Feeding on thy tweet cheek. 

S'anza li. lines 6 and 7. 



" Atqui 



27. 



In Santa Croee's holy prrri net* lie. 

Stanza liv. line 1. 
This name will recall the memory, not only of those 
whose tombs have raised the Santa Croce into the 
centre of pilgrimage, the Mecca of Iia'v, but of her 
whose eloquence was poured over the illustrious ashes, 
ami whose voice is now as mute as those she sung. 
Corinna "is no more ; and with her should expire the 
fear, the flattery, and the envy, which threw too dazzling 
(ii I-. i. dark a cloud round the march of genius, and 
forbad the steady gaze of disinterested criticism. We 
have her picture embellished or distorted, as friendship 
or detraction has held the pencil: the impartial portrait 
was hardly to be expected from a contemporary. The 
immediate voice of her survivors will, it is probable, be 
far from affording a just estimate of her singular capa- 
city. The eallantry, the love of wonder, and the hope 
of associated fame, which blunted the edge of censure, 
must cease, to exist. — The dead have no sex ; they can 
surprise by no new miracles ; they can confer no privi- 



* D«fartona nrlatate nrbii Rim*, et tie ruinia ejuiriem deacrlpiic 
■ I' Sclktigrr, Thenar torn. I, l<- 501 . 

* Sei» Motiim. Ant. io»<l. pur. i rap. *»»- n. xliii. |ing. 50 ; nndStori 
delll Arii, e. lib. xl. cap. I. torn. ii. nag. 314. not. H 

; Nomina gemc»qu<; Autiquu: Halite, p. 201, edit, ott. 



s more distinctly seen : someone, therefore, of all those 
whom the charm's of involuntary wit, and of easy hospi- 
tality, attracted within the friendly circles of Coppet, 
should rescue from oblivion those virtues which, al- 
though they are said to love the shade, are, in fact, more 
frequently chilled than excited by the domestic cares of 
private life. Some one should be found to portray the 
unaffected graces with which she adorned those dearer 
relationships, the performance of whose duties is rather 
discovered among the interior secrets, than seen in 
the outward management, of family intercourse; and 
which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of genuine affec- 
tion to qualify for the eye of an indifferent spectator. 
Some one should be found, not to celebrate, but to 
describe, the amiable mistress of an open mansion, the 
centre of a society, ever varied, and always pleased, the 
creator of which, divested of the ambition and the arts 
of public rivalry, shone forth only to give fresh animation 
to those around her. The mother tenderly affectionate 
and tenderly beloved, the friend unboundedly generous, 
but still esteemed, the charitable patroness of all distress, 
cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, and 
protected, and fed. Her loss will be mourned the most 
where she was known the best 5 and, to the sorrows of 
very many friends and more dependents, may he offered 
the disinterested regret of a stranger, wfio, amid the 
sublimer scenes of the Leman hike, received his chief 
satisfaction from contemplating the engaging qualities 
of the incomparable Corinna. 

28. 

Here repose 
Angdos, Alficri's bones. 

Stanza liv. lines 6 and 7. 
Alfieri is ihe great name of this age. The Italians, 
without waiting fur thf hundred years, consider him as 
"a poet good in law." — His memory is the more dear 
to them because he -,s the bard of freedom ; and because, 
as such, his tragedies can receive no countenance from 
any of their sovereigns. Thev are but very seldom, and 
bul verv few of them, allowed to be acted. It was ob- 
served by Cicero, that nowhere were the true opinions 
and feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at the 
theatre.* In the autumn of 1S16, a celebrated impro- 
visatore exhibited his talents at the Opera-house of 
Milan. The reading of the theses handed in for the 
subjects of his poetry was received by a very numerous 
audience; for the most part in silence, or with laughter , 
but when the assistant, unfolding one of the papers, 
exclaimed, * The apotheosis of Vwtor Atjieri" the whole 
theatre burst into a shout, ami the applause was con- 
tinued for some moments. The lot did not fall on 
Alfieri ; and the Signor Sgricci had to pour forth his 
extemporary common-places on the bombardment of 
Algiers. The choice, indeed, is not left to accident 
quite so much as might be thought from a first view of 
the ceremony; and the police not only takes care to 



* The free expreiiloi 
Titiin, ihe friend of A 
Pompry. Thev did no 
iii" 111 memory th.u ihe 
hud murdered ihe ion 1 
CUr*e>, Th- moral «»rv 
wrong. E. 



ofthel 



! (htl 



fiti 



■ iho 



miff,i the l..ill;.u.,v. 
1,111 who furilfehcd 1 

i'. ini " v ■ thej dro 
■ nfn populnre, ■pom 



nls survived their liberllu. 

i'h ■_■ is in (lie i'ie;itreof 

ic)i w eflnce from 

:m wild Hie enlermintneiil 

, ihe theatre with 
ert.ii never 

icit in the c v.-* i niton «i ihe 
10 hid 



... Ibed their brother*, Da G*rmnnh ■ ■ - G 'ii •'<••< triumphant 

Consul, * ; n Buying worth n rei ont, were It hing hut a good pun. [C. 

Veil. Patron li Hill. lib. u.cop.lixix.png. 78, edit. Llievir. 1639. Ibid. 
Iib.it. up. lxxvii.J 



68 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Canto IV. 



lo look at the papers beforehand, but in case of any 
prudential afterthought, steps in to correct the blind- 
ness of chance. The proposal for deifying Allien was 
received with immediate enthusiasm, the rather because 
it was conjectured there would be no opportunity of 
carrying it'mto effect. 

29. 

Here 3Iacfaavellis earth nlunid to whence it rose. 

Stanza liv. line 9. 

The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscriptions, 

win i-h so often leaves us uncertain whether the structure 

before us is an actual depository, or a cenotaph, or a 

simple memorial not of death but life, lias gw i 

tomb of Machiavelli no information as to Una place or 

time of the birth or death, the a«e or parentage, of the 

historian. 

TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM 
NICcOLAVS MACHIAVELLI. 

There seems ai least no reason why the nam 

not have been put above the sentence which alludes 

to it. 

It will readily be imagined that the prejudices whii h 
have passed the name of Maehiavclli into an epithel 

provi rbial of iniquity exist no longer at Florence. 1 lis 
memory was persecuted as his lite had been for an at- 
tachment to liberty incompatible with the m 
of despotism, which succeeded the fall of the free 
governments of Italy. He was put to the torture foi 
Being a K iibeftme" that is, f>r wishing to restore the 
reoublic . .f Flmvuee ; and such are the undying efforts 
of those who are interested in the perversion imi only 
"l iln nature of actions, but the meaning of words, that 
what was once patriotism, has by degrees come to sig- 
nify debauch. We have ourselves outlived the old 
meaning of "liberality," which is now another word far 
(reason in one country and for infatuation in all. It 
seems to have been a strange mistake to accuse (he 
author of the Prince, as being a pander to tyranny; 
and '" ' In ill; that thi Inquisition would coni 
I u 'i'li a delinquency. The fact is that Machiavelli, 
as is usual with those against whom no crimi can be 
proved, was suspected of and charged with atheism 
and the first aad last most violent opposers of the Prince 
were both Jesuits, one of whom persuaded the Inqui li- 
lion u benchfe fosse tardo," to prohibit the treatise, ami 
the other qualified the secretary of the Florentine re- 
public as no better than a fool. The father Possevin 
was jirnvnl never I u have nail I he bimk, :in<l (he fa; her 
Lncchesini not to have understood it. It is clear, how- 
ever, that such critics must have ohjected not to the 
slavery of the doctrines, but to the supposed tendency 
of a lesson which shows how distinct are the interests 
of a monarch from the happiness of mankind. The 
Jesuits are re -established in Italy, and the last chapter 
of the Prince may again call forth a particular refuta- 
tion, from those who are employed once more in 
moulding the minds of the rising generation, so as to 
receive the impressions of despotism. The chapter 
bears for title, " Esortazione a liberate la Italia dai 
Barbari" and concludes with a libertine excitement to 
tin- future redl mplion of Italy. n 3Won si deve adunque 
•Vueior passare questa ■■ ■ la 1 

dopo tanto tempo appc redenton X, possa 

esprimerr con qu <! amort ei J Ute quelle 

ie, eke nannopatitn perquesii Wuviopit ttt me, con 
opualseted} vendetta, con chi ostinata fea\cox 

tytuiti portvst iisrrnrfhr'if) .' Quail «rebheno 

in obbedienza ? i$u<tl< ftaiiatw ti negherebbe I'ossequio? 

AD OGNUNO PUZZA QUESTo B.UOtlKU HUM I Mo.' • 

30. 
Ungrateful Florence! Danii slops afar. 

Stan/a Ivn. line 1. 

Dante was born in Florence in the year 1261. He 

fought in two battles, \\;is fourteen times ambassador, 

ami once prior of the repuhlic. When the party of 

Charles of Anjou triumphed over the Bianchi, he was 



Ml Principe dt Niccol6Ma<-tihv.;l!i, fte, mn !a [irefaiixnc etc nnlc lato> 
.'iiclifl.li Mr. Am.-t.it (fa Is HoUMftTI e I* HUM t conKUnonr 
rtoli upon . . . C'asmopoli 1763. 



absent on an embassy to Pope Boniface VIII., and was 
condemned to two \ ears' banishment, and to a fine of 
8000 lire ; "ti the non-payment of which he was further 
punished by the sequestration of all his property. The 
republic, however, was nol content with this sat 
lion, for in 1772 was discovered in itu archives at Flo- 
rence a si ntence in which Dame is the eleventh of a 
list of fifteen condemned in 1302 to be burnt alive. 
Talis pervenienstgni d Xmoriatur* The 

pretext For this judgment was s proi fof unfair barn r, 
extortions, and illicit gains. Baracteriurum ime/Harum, 
extorsiomtiu, tt iUicitorum lun.tr urn* and with such an 
accusation it is nol strange that Dante should have 
rotested his il ind the injustice of his 

felldw-cilizens. His appeal to Florence was accom- 
panied hv another to Lne Emperor Henry; and the 
death of thai sovereign in ISIS, was the signal for it 
sentence "I irrevocable banishment. He bad before 
lingered near Tuscany with hopes of recall ; then tra- 
velled into the north of Italy, where Verona bad I 
of his Ion settled at Har 

venna, which was Ins ordinary but st abode 

miii! his death. The n fusal <>f theVeni 
him a public audience, on the part of Guido NoveUoda 
Pob nta, lie- protector, is said t" have been the principal 
cause nf i his ev< nt, which happened in 1S21. lie was 

buried ("in sacra niuioruin ade' 1 ) at Ravenna, in a 

handsome tomb, which was erected bj Guido, i 
by Bernardo Bembo in 1463, praetor for that republic 
which hail refused to hear him, a^ain restored by Car- 
dinal Corsi in 1692, aii' I replaced by a more magnificent 
sepulchre, constructed in 17S0, at the expense of the 
Cardinal Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. Tin- offence or 
misfortune of Danu was an attachment to a defeated 
party, and, as bis least favourable biographers allege 
againsl him, too great a freedom of- baughtl- 

manner. Hut the next age paid honours almost 
divine to the exile. The Florentines, having in vain 
ami frequently attempted to recover his body, crowned 

lis image in a church,! and his picture is still one of 
thi idols of their cathedi al. They struck 
raised ttui to him PI i I ies of Itt 
able to dispute about his own birth, cont. . 
of his great poem, and the Florentines thought it for 
ili u h :i iur to prove that he had finished the seventh 
Canto before they drove him from bis native city. 
i after his death, the) endowed a pro- 
fessorial chair for the expounding of hi., verses, and 
Boccaci i was appointed to this patriotic employment. 
The example was imitated by Bologna ami Pisa, and 
the commentators, if they performed but tittle service 
i" literature, augmented Lne veneration which beheld 
;i sacred nr moral allegory in all the images of his mystic 
muse, Bis birth and his infancy were discovered to 
have been distinguished above those of ordinary men ■ 
the author of the Decameron, his earliest biographer) 
relates, that his mother was warned in a dream of the 
importance of her pregnancy: and it was found, by 
others, that at ten years of age he had manifested htf 
that , v- bit hj 

B , had bet n m I :-.■ 

substantia] mistress. When the Divine Comedy had 

■ jni - d as a mere i 
thi distant e of two centuries, whi □ criticism and 
competition had sobered the judgment of [is 
Dante was serious!} di clared superior to Homer \\ 
and though the preference appeared to some casuists 
■ mi\ worthy of the flames," the 
contest u,i- vigorously maintained for nearly fifty 

i ti li. Eater timed it h as made a question which of 

thi Lords of Verona could boast of having patronized 

id the jealous skepticism of one writer would 

not allow Ravenna the undoubted possession of his 

hones. Even the critical Tirahuxhi was inclined lo 



It, tul. torn. r. lib. iii. par. 2. p. U9. Tirabcaeht if 
Eocorrect tin dates of the ihrcc decrees ogams'. Dante are A. I). 1302, 
1314, and 1316. 

t So relnti-s Picloo, but some think hii coronation pnljran ullegory. Sea 
Storia, Ai' i 

hi hi till Krcnlano. The controversy continued from 1570 to 
ifl, Lib, in [mt. ui. p. 1280. 
1 teopo ILojiim Caaoelco d! Vtrona. Sent di Ancddoti, a. S. 
Sec Storia, otc, torn. v. lib t, p*i . t. p.M. 



Canto IV. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



69 



believe that the poet had foreseen and foretold one of 
ovcries of Galileo. — Like the great originals of 
Other nations, his popularity has not always maintained 
M * level. The last a^e seemed inclined tounder- 
value him as a model and a study; and Bettinelli one 
daj rebuked his pupil Munli, for poring over the harsh 
and ubsolete extravagances of the Commedia. The 
present generation, having recovered from the Gallic 
idolatries of Cesarottij has returned to the ancient 
worship, and ihi I' ■ giare of the northern Italians 
is thought even indiscreet by the more moderate 
Tuscans. 

There is still much curious information relative to 
■ ntings of this great poet which has not as 
yet been collected even by the Italians; but the cele- 
brated Uao Kit- 1 olo up (inates to supply this defect, and 
it is not to be regretted that this national work has 
been re>« t\ ed for one so devoted to his country and the 
cause of truth. 

31. 
Like Scipin, buried by the upbraiding sJiore ; 
Thy factions, in tfteir worse than civil UWT, 
Proscribed^ &.C. 

Stanza lvii- lines % 3, and 4. 
The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb if he was not 
buried at Liiernum, whither he had retired lo voluntary 
banishment. This tomb was near the sea-shore, and 
the story of an inscription upon it, Ingrain Patria, 
having given a name to a modern tower, is, if not true, 
an agreeable fiction. If he was not buried, he certainly 
lived there.* 

i ingiista e aolilaria ril!a 

ino the d'Afiica s'nppeOa 
: : prima col ferro at vivo aprilla.f 

Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar 
to republics; and it seems to be forgotten that for one 
instance of popular inconstancy, we have a hundred 
examples of the fall of courtly favourites. Besides, a 
people have often repented — a monarch seldom or never. 
Leaving apart many familiar proofs of this fact, a short 
sturv may show the difference between even an aristo- 
crat- and the multitude. 

Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at Porto- 
longo, and many years afterwards in the more decisive 
action of Po!a, bv the Genoese, was recalled by the 
Venetian government, and thrown into chains. The 
idon proposed to behead him, but the supreme 
tribunal was content with the sentence of imprisonment. 
Whilst Pisani was suffering this unmerited di 
Chioza, in the vicinity of the capita!,! was by the assist- 
ance of the Signor of Padua, delivered into the hands 
of Pietro Dona. At the intelligence of that disaster, 
the great bell of St. Mark's tower tolled to arms, and 
the people and the soldiery of the galleys were sum- 
moned to the repulse of the approaching enemy; but 
they protested they would not move a step, unless 
Pisani were liberated and placed at their head. The 
great council was instantly assembled; the prisoner 
w;i called before them, and the Doge, Andrea Conta- 
rini, informed him of the demands of the people and the 
necessities of the state, whose only hope of safely was 
reposed on his efforts, and who implored him to forget 
the indignities he had endured in her service. "I have 
submitted," replied the magnanimous republican, " I 

uhmitted to your deliberations without complaint 
I have supported patiently the pains of imprisonment, 
for they were inflicted at your command: this is no 
time to inquire whether I deserved them — the good of 
the republic may have seemed to require it, and that 
which the republic resolves is always resolved wisely. 
Behold me ready to lay down my life for the preserva- 
tion of my country." Pisani was appointed generalis- 
simo, and by his exertions, in conjunction with those of 
Carlo ZenO) the Venetians soon recovered the ascend- 
ency over their maritime rivals. 

1* he Italian communities were no less unjust to their 



* VitarnLiternie-UsiiiedeiideriourbU. SeeT.Liv.Hfft.lib.xxxviii 
Li*y rcporta thai sonte aaid he waa buried at LHernum, other* at Rome. 
I!>. cap. Iv. 

j TnonfodellaCaBliti. 

J ties note 8, page 62. 



citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, both with 
the one and the other, seems to have been a national, 
not an individual object : and, notwithstanding the 
boasted equality before the lows, which an ancient Greek 
writer* considered the great distinctive mark between 
his countrymen and the barbarians, the mutual n;hts 
of fellow-citizens seem never to have been the principal 
scope of the old democracies. The world may have 
not yet seen an essay by the author of the Italian Re- 
publics, in which the distinction between the liberty of 
former states, and the signification attached to that 
word by the happier constitution of England, is ingeni- 
ously developed. The Italians, however, when they 
had ceased to be free, still looked back with a sigh upon 
those times of turbulence, when every citizen might 
rise to a share of sovereign power, and have never been 
taught fully to appreciate the repose of a monarchy. 
Sperone Speroni, when Francis Maria II. Duke of 
Rovere proposed the question, " which was preferable, 
the republic or the principality — the perfect and not 
durable, or the less perfect and not so liable to change," 
replied, "that our happiness is to he measured by its 
duality, not by iis duration; and that he preferred to 
live for one day like a man, than for a hundred years 
like a brute, a stock, or a stone." This was thought, 
ent answer, down to the last days 
of Italian servitude, j 

32. 
And Oie croicn 

J I 'hick PeirardCs laureate brow supremely wore 

Upon afar and foreign soil had grou n. 

Stanza lvii. lines 6, 7, and 8. 
The Florentines did not take the opportunity of Pe- 
trarch's short visit to their city in 1350 to revoke the 
decree which confiscated the property of his father, who 
had been banished shortly after toe exile of Dante. His 
crown did not dazzle them ; but when in the next year 
they were in want of his assistance in the formation of 
their university, they repented of their injustice, and 
Boccaccio, was sent to Padua to entreat the laureate 
to conclude his wanderings in the bosom of his native 
country, where he might hnish his immortal Africa, and 
enjoy with his recovered possessions, the esteem of all 
classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him the option 
of the book and the science he might condescend to 
expound: iluv called him the glory of his country, who 
w as dear, and would be dearer to them ; and thev added, 
thai it" there was any thing unpleasing in their letter, 
be ought to return among them, were it only to cor- 
rect their style. J Petrarch seemed at first to listen to 
the flattery and to the enlreaties of his friend, b6t he did 
not return to Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to 
the tomb of Laura and the shades ofVaucluse. 
33. 
Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
His dust. 

Stanza Iviii. lines I and 2. 
Boccaccio was buried in the church of St. Michael 
and St. James, at Certaldo, a small town in the Val- 
delsa, which was by some supposed the place of his 
birth. There lie passed the latter part of his life in a 
course of laborious study, which shortened his existence, 
and there might his ashes have been secure, if not of 
honour, at least of repose. But the " hyaena bigots" of 
Certaldo tore up the tombstone of Boccaccio, and eject- 
ed it from the holy precincts of St. Michael and St. 
.lames. The occasion, and, it may be hoped, the excuse, 
of this ejectment was the making of a new floor for the 
church ; but the fact is, that the tombstone was taken 
up and thrown aside at the bottom of the building. 
Ignorance may share the sin with bigotry. It would 
be painful to relate such an exception to the devotion 
of the Italians for their great names, could it not be 
accompanied by a trait more honourably conformable 



• The Gm*k boanled thnl he wa« ttrov<ipo$. See the Alt chapter oT Um 
firfltbookol H..Iifftnia»su«. 

t " K iniornoatfa magnified rirpottn," &«. Serarsi Vita del Tatao, 
lib. tiL. png. 149. loin. ii. edu.2. Hergnmu. 

j" Aecingiti iniiollre, »r el e lecilo aneor I'raortarti, a tompire 1' immor- 
tal ma Africa . . .Seti avviene d'kKootnre ncl no#ro iUw c°«a ehe (( 
di»r>iaecia,ci&i1e>>b' e»«*reiin atiro mutiToadeaaudire i deaiderjdeila lu» 
patria." Stortadalla I.elt. llal. lom. t. par. i lib. i. p*| 76. 



70 



NOTES TO CIIILDE HAROLD. 



Cavio IV. 



to the general character of the nation. The principal 
person of the district, the last branch of the house of 
Medicis, afforded tliat protection to the memory of the 
insulted dead which her best ancestors Itad dispensed 
upon all contemporary merit. The Marchioness Lcnzom 
rescued the tombstone of Boccaccio from the neglect in 
which ii had sometime lain, and found for it an honour- 
able elevation in her own mansion. She lias done 
more : the house in which the poet lived has been as 
little respected as his tomb, ami is falling to ruin over 
the head of one indifferent to the name of its former 
tenant. It consists of two or three little cliambi r and 
a low tower, on which Cosmo It. atlixed an inscription. 
This bouse she has taken measures to putchfl 

es to devote to it that care and consideration 
which are attached to the cradle and to the roof of 
genius. 

This is not the place to undertake llie defence of 
Boccaccio; but the man who exhausted his little 
patrimony in the acquirement of learning, who was 
among the first, if not the first, to allure the science 
and the poetry of Greece to the bosom of Italy; — who 
no! only invented a new style, hut founded, or nri.unK 
fixed, a new language ; who, besides the esteem of ever} 
polite court of Europe, was thought worthy of employ- 
ment by the predominant republic of his own country, 
and, what is more, of the friendship of Petrarch, who 
lived the life of a philosopher and a freeman, and who 
died in tbe pursuit of knowledge, — such a man might 
have found more consideration than he has met with 
from the priest of Certaldo, and from a lale English 
traveller, who strikes oil" his portrait as an odious, con- 
temptible, licentious writer, whose impure remains 
should be suffered to rot without a record.* Thai 
English traveller, unfortunately for those who have to 
deplore the loss of a very amiable person, is beyond all 
Criticism ; but the mortality which did not protect Boc- 
caccio from Mr. Eustace, must not defend Mr. Eustace 
from the impartial judgment of his successors. — Death 
may canonize his virtues, not his errors ; and it mav 
be modestly pronounced that he transgressed, not only 
is an author, but as a man, when he evoked the shade 
'A' Boccaccio in company with that of Aretine, amidst 
he septdchres of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it 
villi indignity. As far as respects 

"Ilflnpellodc' I'. ... pi, 
II iliriu Pk-tro Amino/' 
tt is of little import what censure "is passed upon a 
coxcomb who owes his present existence to the above 
burlesque character given to him by the poet whose 
amber has preserved many other grubs and worms : 
but to classify Boccaccio with such a person, and to 
excommunicate his very ashes, must of itself make us 
doubt of the qualification of the classical tourist for 
writing upon Italian, or, indeed, upon any other litera- 
ture; for ignorance on one point may incapacitate an 
author merely for that particular topic, but subjection 
to a professional prejudice must render him an unsafe 
director on all occasions. Any perversion and injustice 
may he made what is vulgarly called " a case of con- 
science," and this poor excuse is all that can be offered 
lor the priest of Certaldo, or the author of the Classical 
Tour. It would have answered the purpose to confine 
the censure to the novels ( ,f Boccaccio, and yratilude 
to that source which supplied the muse ofDryden with 
her last and most harmonious numbers might perhaps 
have restricted that censure to the objectionable quali- 
ties of the bundled tales. At any rate the repentance 

of Boccaccio might have arrested Ins exhumation, and 
it should have been recollected and told, thai in hie 



• Claaaienl Tour, enp. I*, vol. ii. p. 353 edlt.W. " Of Boceaeeio, the 
nodera Rttmnlua, »<- uy nothing ; tbe abuae <>t e ■ b n 

■ ml mOM l- - ■ i n . ;ii|>til.| t - limit it:, ■.OHOI .- , Uld ll llDpOTU llttlt When UH 

Impure ratnalni of a ItccoUou* iuUioi lo their kHudred duet. 

For (he Mint reason iiic tranlkr mnji ytm uudotlced ifat uunfa of ihi 
malignant A re lino." 

Tim <lnUi.ni* phraae <* tinntly enough to envc- the tonnit from Hip gin. 
('iii.li dI ftoolwr blunder rafMCttaf the t>i>nal-plac« of Aretine, who*r 
tomb ni in ihe church of at. Lu£« it Vance, and nn rite to tlw 
fummiK controversy of which aorne notice if Inkm in Beyle. Now ih.- 
WOrda of Mr. Kuataxe would k-ail na lo think the tomb wan ul Florence, 
oral Iruxl wna to be somewhere recagntwfl, Whether tbe llIK 

" ■ UtpntedwM ever written on the (t»mt> c« t now Dtdcci '• I, foi 

eft BtemorUJ ol Una auOjyr Lj8 dleanpeejml Iroiti the church ol Si. J.uke. 



old age he wrote a letter entreating his friend to dis- 
COUrage the reading of the Decameron, for ihe sake of 

i testy, and for the sake of ihe author, who would not 

have au apologist always at hand lo slate in his excuse 
thai he wrote it when young, and at the command of 
his superiors. 4 It is neither the licentiousness of the 
writer, nor the evil propensities of ihe reader, which 
have given to the Decameron alone, of all the works of 
Boccaccio, a perpetual popularity. The establishment 
of a new and delightful dialect conferred an immortality 
on the works in which it was first fixed. The sonnets 
ol Petrarch were, for the same reason, fated to survive 
admired Africa, the "favourite, of kings. n The 
invariable trails of nature and feeling with which the 
novels, as well as the verses, abound, have doubtless 
been the chief source of the foreign celebrity of both 
authors ; but Boccaccio, as a man, is no more to bo 
estimated by that work, than Petrarch is to be regarded 
in no other light than as the lover of Laura. Even, 
however, had the father of the Tuscan prose been 
known only as the author of ihe Decameron, a consi- 
derate writer would have been cautious to pronounce a 
sentence irreconcilable \\ uh the unerring voice of many 
ages and nations. An irrevocable value has never 
been stamped upon any work solely recommended by 
'impurity. 

The true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, 
which began at a very early period, was the choice of 
his scandalous personages in tic- cloisters as well as the 
courts; but the princes only laughed at the gallant ad- 
ventures so unjustly charged upon queen Theodelinda, 
whilst the priesthood cried shame upon the debauches 
drawn from the convent and the hermitage; and most 
probably for ihe opposite reason, namely, that the pic- 
ture was faithful to the life. Two of the novels are 
allowed to be facts usefully turned into tales, to deride 
the canonization of rogues and lavmen. Ser Ciappel- 
letto and Marcellinus are cited with applause even by 
ihe decent Muratori.| The great Arnaud, as In ts 
quoted in Bayle, states, tha' a new edition of ihe novels 
was proposed, of which ihe expurgation consisted in 
omitting the words " monk" and "nuii^'and lacking (he 
immoralities to other names. The literary history of 
Italy particularizes no such edition ; but it was not long 
before the whole of Europe had but one opinion of ihe 
Decameron ; and the absolution of the author seems lo 
have been a point settled at least a hundred years ago: 
"On se feroit sifiler si 1'on pretendoit convaincre Boc- 
cace de n'avoir pasete honnete homine, puisqu'il a fail 
le Decameron." So said one of the best men, and per- 
haps the best critic, (hat ever lived — the very martyr 
to impartiality.| But as this information, that in the 
beginning of the last century one would have been 
hooted at for pretending that Boccaccio was not a ?ood 
man, may seem to come from one of those enemies wfio 
are to be suspected, even when they make us a present 
of truth, a more acceptable contrast with the proscrip- 
tion of the body, soul, and muse of Boccaccio may be 
found in a few words from the virtuous, the patriotic 
cotemporarv, who thought one of the tales of this impure 
writer worthy a Latin version from Ins own pen. " / 
have remarked tforvhrrr" savs Petrarch, writing lo 

B LCCio, "that the ftnok itself has hern vnrried by rrr. 

tain </'»*,'«, but stoutly defended by your staff and voire. 
Nor was I ttttenuhetLjor I have had proof of Ute vigour 
of your mind, and I know you have fallen on that unac- 
commodating incapable race of mortals who, whatever they 
either like not, or know not, or cannot do, are sure to 
rejirehend in others ; and on those occasions only put on u 
show of learning and eloqutnce, but otherwise are entirely 
dumb. '§ 



• " Non enim tibique cat , qui In e*cuanlionem mcam conaurgens i Ileal. 
JdVenb ■Crlpall, rt m;i juris enact us imperii*." The letter wai mldresaad 
[0 Mucfiin.inl iitCuvjlcuiiU, manlnil ul Ihi ktofdoO) of Sicily. Nee Tire* 
beech), Storia, 4c. lorn. v. par. ii. lib. iii. pea, 5-25., -.1. Ven. 1795. 

• DieMrierionl sopre le autiehitA llalinnc. Dim. Inn. p. 253. lem. Ul. 
edit, Milan, 1751, 

[f«emenf, &c. ic. p. 638. edit. Rule, 1741, in tbe Supplement 
to Da? le's Dictionary. 
§ " Animadvert! alicubi librum ipsinti canum daotlbui lacetsitnm, loo 
lo egn-pd maqtie voce oefensani. Nee mlratna mm : wmrt 
'ire* ingenii mi novi, el acio expertua eases homim-m genua insolent «t 
i-ritavum, qui quicqwd ipel eel nolunt eel neeclunt, *el non poena!, In 
..In* roiirnhendUDl jj ad hocununuloctieiarguti, *eil illngitca ad reliuua." 
. Gpkt, Joun. Boccalio. Opp. torn. I, \>. 540. cciii , Uuau. 



Ca.ito IV. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



It is satisfactory to find tliat all the priesthood do nol 
resemble those of Ccrtaldo, and that one of them who 
did not possess the hones of Boccaccio would not lose 
the opportunity of raising a cenotaph to his memory. 
Bevius, canon of Padua, at the beginning of the sixteenth 
century, erected at Arqua, opposite to the tomb of the 
Laureate, a tablet, in which he associated Boccaccio to 
the equal honours of Dante and of Petrarch. 
34i 
IV hat is her pyramid of precious stones ? 

Stanza be. line I. 
Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo and 
expires with his grandson ; that stream is pure only al 
the source; and it is in search of some memorial ofthe 
virtuous republicans of the family that we visit the 
church ofSt. Lorenzo at Florence. The tawdry, °laring 
unlinished chapel in that church, designed for 'the mau- 
soleum ofthe Dukes of Tuscany, set round with crowns 
and coffins, gives birth to no "emotions but those of 
contempt fur the lavish vanity of a race of despots 



71 



man in his dominions. Yet that excellent prince him- 
selt had no other notion of a national assembly, than of 
a body to represent the wants and wishes, not the will, 
or Hie people. ' 

So. 

An earthquake redd unkecdedly avtay. 

Stanza Lviii. hue 6. 

"And such was their mutual animosity so intent were 
<• < 7 upon the battle, that the earthquake, which overtlireu, 
in great part many „J the cities of Italy, which turned the 
course of rapid streams, poured back die sea upon the 
rivers, and taie dawn the eery mountains, was not felt b>i 
one oj the combatant!.''* Such is the description of 
J."v. | niay be doubled whether modern tactics 
would admil ol such an abstraction. 

The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not'to be mis- 
taken. Hie traveller from the village under Cortona 
to Casa di Piano, the next stattc on the way to Rome, 
las lor the Inst two or three miles, around him, but 



|r . .„, ,,, v iav.au .Miii', ol a race Ot d'SDots ----- -, H.uu.iu nun, uui 

whilst the pavement slab, simply inscribed to the Father B FY '^j - ' U "" "P hl > ,hit " at land «"'<* 

of Ins Country, reconciles us to the name of Me.he * .' | ; """ bal la "' " asl .« »• order to induce the Consul 

It was very natural for Corinnat to suppose that the r lil, """" s """"« rum Arezzo. On bis left, and in 

«:i>i„„ „i/_j .„ .u.. r-,.., .r ,, ■ suppose tnai tne | R , n ,- , -., , ,. , ' 



statue raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capeUa oV 
depositi was mlended f,r his great namesake; but the 
magnificent Loreazo is only the sharer of a coffin half 
hidden in a niche uf the sacristy. The decay of Tus- 
cany dates from the sovereignty ofthe Medici. Of tne 
sepulchral peace which succeeded to the establishment 
ot the reigning families in Italy, our own Sidney has 
given us a glowing, but a faithful picture. "Notwith- 
standing all the seditions of Florence, and other cities of 
Tuscany, the horrid factions of Guelphs and Ghibelins !« 
*V,i and Bianchi.noblcs^nd commons, they oi,,,„, ,"' J ,'„ ',' , *" % U '\ P"P*^ a " d ^^ for twenty 

populous, strong, and exceeding i-l-h . k„. ;"„ .t minutes, llie lake is soon seen bek - 

of I 



is a ridge of hills bending down towards 
the i- i I hrasiiiiene, called by Livy "monies Cor- 
tonenses, and now named the Gualandia. These hills 
he approaches al Ossoja, a village which the itineraries 
pretend tu have been so denominated from the bones 
lound there: but there have been no bones found there, 
•oi,i tne bailie was fought on ihe other side of the hill 
I- rom Ossaja the road begins to rise a little, but does' 
not pass mio the roots ofthe mountains until the sixtv- 
seveillh milestone from Florence. The ascent thence 



rich ; but in the space ' wuh Bordiei 
less than a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable 
it'll of the Medices is thought to have destroyed nine 

Among 



parts in ten of the people of that province 

other things it is remarkable, ' 

Second of Spain gave Sienna to 

his embassador then at Rome sent 

had given away more than 650,000 subjects ; 'and it is 

not believed there are now 20,""' 

city and territory. Pisa, Pi t 

other towns, that were then 

the like proportion dimimshe. 



seen below on the right, 

round tower close upon the water: 

and the undulating hills partially covered with 

Destroyed nine | among which the road winds, 



wood, 
, sink by degrees into the 



any. When that city had been long troubled I „l sedi- SJTrfSTSffi'S S ' I "?''' "^ "rT"" ^ * ^'"^ 
te.ns, tumults, and wars, for the moll pan unprosnerous I ™ r- P ' "**? opens fu "- v "l* on him as h ° 



of France, being admitted as a friend with hi; who] 
army, which soon after conquered the kingdom of Na- 
ples, thought to master them, the people, takin- arms 
struck such a terror into him, that he was glad to"deparl 
upon such conditions as they thought hi to impose 
Machiavel reports, that in that time Florence alone' 
with the Val d'Arno, a small territory belonging to that 
city, could, in a few hours, by the sound ofa bell brins 
together 135,000 well-armed men; whereas DOM thai 
city, with all the others in that province, are brought to 
such despicable weakness, - 



enclosed to the left and in front and behind bin, by (he 
UuaJandra hills, bending round in a segment larger than 
a semicircle, and running down at each end to the lake 
which obliques to the right and forms the chord of this' 
mountain arc. The position cannot be guessed at from 
the plains of Cortona, nor appears to be so completely 
enclosed unless to one who is fairly within the hills. 
It then, indeed, appears "a place made as il were on 
purpose lor a snare," locus insidiis nntns. " Borghelto 
is then found to sland in a narrow marshy pass close to 
the hill and to the lake, whilst there is no other outlet 




T mi • > "...on, iioine, riapies am 

Lucca. This is not the effect of war or pestilence 
they enjoy a perfect peace, and sutler no other plague 
than the government they arc under."! From the 
usu.per Cosmo down to the imbecile Gaston we look 
in vain for any of those unmixed qualities which should 
raise a patriot to the command of his fellow-citizens 
The Grand Dukes, and particularly the third Cosmo' 
had operated so entire a change in the Tuscan character 
that the candid Florentines, in excuse for - 



fecti 



some imper- 



ii - — . — v..... inyi I ■ 

the philanthropic system of Leopold, are 
obliged to confess that the sovereign was the only liberal 

* rn, m „. Malice*, Deereto Publico. Pair Patrias. 

* ' ontiiir?. it. miil i-an ::i >,j :;: mo 



* Corirw.e, Hv. wtfl. c *p. iij. -„|. jji. page 2i8," 



Passignano and on this stands a wljito village called 
lorre. Polybius seems ,„ allude to this eminence as 

he one on which Ha bal encamped and drew out Ins 

heavy-armed Africans and Spaniards in a conspicuous 
position.ll From this spot he despatched his Balearic 



" Tantusqi 
cum lerne moti 
pvertitquc cura 
tfigenti pruruit, 
x ii. 



e fnii ardor ptnlmorum, mien intent 1 

mqttl .nillinrt -Iii.hu IlHlllr in,.;; 

rapldo tiiniii". n nre flun 
oemo pqgDaotinm icuserit 



ptttrnre euiinua, ut 
Lrnu parte. proKravit, 
[uvea it, montaa Inpsu 
'i'ii. Llr.lib.xxli.cap. 



T. 



t " Eqolteiad ip-M* faucea «ahua tumulisflp[« icgenlilma local " 
I.ivn. iilj xxn. cap. iv. 

I " OW maxitne rn'iues Cononeowa ThrasimcDuo aubit." Ibid 

§ lutle colics nssurpini." Ibid. 

II Tdv (LlvKard npncrwnni' r})c Tooti'.ic Ufov dfroj KartXdBtro col 
r*C« At flyas t Kai r**j l.'^ac, t Xav tr.' dxrof- KaT,<neaTorti,- t v«i 



KO-TtlTTQaTOXli'lVol. 



«ol.„. . , on. w iu.i< ■ a-e^iroit," r , Bhl „ d M , rf lh , p„ , d , a||cy . bul whep F|jn)illin5 m{mi ™ 

lb. lule .lltic nglil nf b-ith. ^ 



72 



NOTES TO CH1LDE HAROLD. 



Canto IV. 



and light-armed troops round through the Gualandra 
heights to the right, so as to arrive unseen and form an 
ambush among the hroken acclivities which the- road 
now passes, and to be re;idy to act upon the left Hank 
and above the enemy, whilst the horse shut up the pass 
behind. Flaminius came to the lake near ISorghetl-o at 
sunset; and, without sending any spies before him, 
matched through the pass the next morning before the 
day hail <piite broken, so that be perceived nothing of 
the horse and light troops above and about him, ami 
saw only 'lie heavy-armed Carthaginians in front on 
the bill of Torre.* The consul began lo draw out his 
army in the flat, and in the mean time the horse in 
ambush occupied tin.- pass behind him at Borghetto. 
Thus the Romans were completely inclosed, having 
the lake on the right, the main arm} on the lull of Turn- 
in front, the Ciualandra hills filled with the light-armed 
on their left flank, ami being previ nted from receding 
by the cavalry, who, the farther thoy advanced, stopped 
up all the (unlets m the rear. A fog rising from the 
lake HOW spread itself over the army of the consul, but 
the high lands were in the sunshine, and all the diffcrem 
corns in ambush Looked towards the hill of Torre for 
the order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and 
moved down from his post on the height. At the same 
moment all his troops on the eminences behind and in 
the flank of Flaminius, rushed forwards as it were with 
one accord into the plain. The Romans, who were 
forming their array in the mist, suddenly heard the 
shouts of the enemy among them, on every sidi , and 

before they could fall into their ranks, or draw their 
swords, or see by whom liny were attacked, felt at 
once that they were surrounded and lust. 

There are two little rivulets which run from the Gua- 
landra into the lake. The traveller crosses the first of 
these at about a mile after lie comes into the plum, and 
this divides the Tuscan from the Papal territories The 
jecond, about a quarter of a mile further on, is called 
" the bloody rivulet," and the peasants point out an open 
spot to the left between the " San^iuueUo" and the hills, 
which, they say, was the principal scene <>f slaughter. 
The oih«-r part of the plain is covered with thick set 
olive-trees in corn grounds, and is nowhere quite level 
except near the edge of the lake. It is, indeed, most 

probable, that the battle was fought noar tins end of (he 
valley, for the six thousand Romans, who, at the begin- 
ning of the action, broke through the enemy, escaped to 
the summit of an eminence which must have been in 
this quarter, otherwise they would have had to traverse 
the whole plain and to pierce through the main army 
of Hannibal. 

The Romans fought desperately for three hours, but 
the death of Flaminius was the signal for a general 
dispersion. The Carthaginian horse then burst in Upon 
the fugitives, and the lake, the marsh about Borghetto, 
but chiefly the plain of the Sanguinetto and the passes 
of the Gualandra, were strewed with dead. Near some 
old walls on a bleak ridge to the left above the riviilel 
many human bones have been repeatedly found, and 
this has confirmed the pretensions and the name of the 
"stream of blood." 

Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north 
some painter is the usual genius of the place, and the 
foreign Julio Romano more than divides Mantua with 
her native Virgil, f To the south we hear of Roman 
names. N--ar Thrasimene tradition IS slill faithful to 

the fame of an enemy, and Hannibal the Carthaginian 
is the only ancient name remembered on the banks of 
the Perugian lake. Flaminius is unknown; but the 

postillions on that road have been taught to show the 
very spot where // Console Romano was slain. Of all 
who fought and fell in the battle of Thrasimene, the 
historian himself has, besides the generals and Mahar- 
bal, preserved indeed only a single name. You over- 
take the Carlliatniimii a^ain on t lie same road to Rome. 
The antiquary, that is, trie hostler, of the posthouse at 
Spoleto, tells you that his town repulsed the victorious 



* " A tereo ct inner caput rteeepere inaltllff." T. Lit. &c. 

t About UW iniiMlenf iho XI I tit icninry the cnltta of Mantua bore on 
pnriuic the [man ™d fi-ure of Vinnl. Z'-cca d'llalia, pi. xril, |. 6. . . 
Vo*Age dun? k- MiUnaii, &c. par. A. Z. MiDin. tum.ii. pag.'^M. Pari*, 
1017. 



enemy, and shows you the gate still called Porta dt 
AnnibaU, It is hardly worth while to remark that a 
French travel writer, well known by the name of the 
President Deputy, saw Thrasimene in the lake of I)ol- 
sena, which lay conveniently on his way from Sienna 
lo Rome. 

36. 
Bui dunt, Clitumnus. 

Stanza lxvi. line 1. 
No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on the 
temple of the Clitumnus, between Fobgno and Spoleto, 
and nosiii', or scenery even in Italy, is more worthy 
a description. For an account of the dilapidation of 
this tempi.', ihe reader is referred to Historical Illustra- 
tions of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 
37. 
Charming the eye uitJi dnaa\ — a 7nat>-hL$s cataract. 

line 9. 
I saw the " Cascata del marmorc" of Terni I 
different periods ; once from the summit of the pri 
and again from the valley below. The lowei 
far to be preferred, if the traveller has time for one 
only; hut in any point of view, either from above or 
In-low, it is worth all the cas a l< s and torrents of 
Switzerland put together: the Staubach, Reiebenbach, 
Pisse v*ache, fall of Arpenaz, &c. are mis in compara- 
tive appearance. Of the fall of Schati hausen I cannot 
speak, not yet having seen it. 

ss. 

An iris sits amidst 0\e infernal surge. 

Sian/a Ixxii. line 3. 
Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of iris 
the reader may nave seen a short account in a note to 
Manfred. The fall looks so much like "the hell of 
waters 1 ' that Addison thought tin- descent alluded toby 
the gulf in which Alecto plunged into the infernal re- 
gions. It is singular enough that two of the fine 
cades in Europe should !"■ artificial — this of the \ • inn., 
and the one at Tivoli. The traveller i- stri 
mended to trace the Velino, al least as high as the little 
lake called Pie 1 tit Lap. The Re a tine territory was 
the Italian Tempe,* and the ancient naturalist, among 
other beautiful varieties, remarked the daily rain 
of the lake Velinus.f A scholar of great name has 
devoted a treatise lo this district alone. \ 
39. 
The tJmndcring lauwxne. 

Stanza IzxiU. line 5. 
In the greater part of Switzerland the avalanches are 
known by the name of lauwine. 
40. 

/ ahhorrd 
Too much, to conqwrfar the potCs sakcy 
The driWd dull /< ssorttforced down word by tvord. 

Stanza l\w. Inns 6, 7, and 8. 
These stanzas may probably remind the reader of 
Ensign Northertnns remarks : " D — n Homo," &c. 
but the reasons foi our dislike are n >i ezactlj th< 
1 wish to express thai we become tired ol Ihe 'ask be- 
fore we can comprehend the beauty; that we I 
rote before we can gel by hearl ; thai the freshness is 
worn away, and the future pleasure and advantage 
deadened and destroyed, by the didactic anticipation, 
at an age when we can neither feel nor understand the 
ji.iw . t < if compositions which it requires an acquaintance 
with life, as well as Latin and ' rreek, to relish, or lo 
reason upon. For ihe same reason we never can be 
aware of the fulness of some of the finest p;i o| 

Shakspeare, ( M To be, or not to be," for instance,] from 
the habit of having them hammered into us at eight 
years old, as an exercise not of mind but of memory: 
so that when we are old enough to enjoy them, the taste 



lib. I> 



' Rcatinl mo ad aua Tempe iluxemnt." (icer. epist. ad Attic, jt, 

t " la eodem Incu oullo non die npparere areu*." Flic. Hist. Nut. 
lib.1i.can.lxii. 

I AM. Muiiut. tie Beolina urbe nsfwjue, np. Sollengrc, Thcsaur. torn. 
i.p.773. 



Caxto iV. 



NOTES TO CIIILDE HAROLD. 



73 



is gone, and the appetite palled. In some parts of the 
Continent, young persons are taught from more common 
authors, and do not read the best classics till llieir 
maturity. I certainly do nol speak on this point from 
any pique or aversion towards the place of my education. 
1 was nol a slow, though an idle boy; and I believe no 
our could, or ran ho more attached to Harrow than I 
have always been, and with reason , — a part of the time 
passed there was the happiest of my life; and my pre- 
(ihe Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury) was the best and 
worthiest friend 1 ever possessed, wliose warnings I 
hav< remembered but too well, though loo late — when 
I bavc erred, and whose counsels I have but followed 
when I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect 
record of my let-lings towards him should reach his 
i ii remujd bim of one who never thinks of him 
but with gratitude and veneration — of one who would 
more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if, by more 
closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any 
honour upon his instructer. 
41. 
The Scipios tomb contains no ashes now. 

Stanza hoax, line 5. 
For a comment on this and the two following stanzas, 
ader may consult Historical Illustrations of the 
Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 
42. 
The trebly hundred triumphs. 

Stanza Ixxxii. line 2. 
Orosius gives three hundred and twenty for the num- 
ber of triumphs. He is followed by Panvinius ; and 
Panvuiius by Mr. Gibbon and the modern writers. 
43. 
Oh thou-, whose chariot roWd on Fortune's wheel, &c. 
Stanza Ixxxin. line 1. 
Certainly were it not for these two traits in the life 
of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should regard him 
as a monster unredeemed by any admirable quality. 
The atonement of his voluntary resignation of empire 
may perhaps be accepted by us, as it seems to have 
satisfied the Romans, who if they had not respected 
must have destroyed him. There could be no mean, 
no division of opinion-, they must have all thought, like 
Eucrates, that what had appeared ambition was a love 
of glory, and that what had been mistaken for pride was 
a real grandeur of soul.* 

44. 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 

Stanza lxxxvi. fine 4. 
On the third of September, Cromwell gained the vic- 
tory of Dunbar; a year afterwards he obtained "his 
Crowning mi rcy" of Worcester ; and a few years after, 
on the same day, which he had ever esteemed the most 
fortunate for him, died. 

45. 
Ami tJunt) dread statue ! still existent in 
Tlie austcrestform of naked majesty. 

Stanza Ixxxvii. lines 1 and 2. 
The projected division of the Spada Potnpey has 
already been recorded by the historian of the Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon found it 
in the memorials of Flaminius Vacca,f and it may be 
added to his mention of it that Pope Julius III. gave 
the contending owners five hundred crowns for the 
statue; and presented it to Cardinal Capo di Ferro, 
who had prevented the judgment of Solomon from being 
executed upon the image. In a more civilized age this 
statue was exposed to an actual operation: for the 
French who acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the Coli- 
seum resolved that their Caesar should fall at the base 
of that Pompey, which was supposed to have been 
sprinkled with the blood of the original dictator. The 
nine-foot hero was therefore removed to the arena of 



the amphitheatre, and to facilitate its transport suffered 
the temporary amputation of its right arm. The re- 
publican tragedians had to plead that the arm was a 
restoration : but their accusers do not believe that the 
integrity of the statue would have protected it. The 
love of finding every coincidence has discovered the 
true ('a sariun ichor in a stain near the right knee ; but 
colder criticism has rejected not only the blood but the 
portrait, and assigned the globe of power rather to tho 
first of the emperors than to the last of the republican 
masters of Rome. Winkelmann* is loath to allow an 
heroic statue of a Roman citizen, but the Grimani 
Agrippa, a cotemporary almost, is heroic; and naked 
K. man figures were only very rare, not absolutely for- 
bidden. The face accords much better with the "homi- 
n, in integrum et castum et gravem*] than with any of 
the busts -of Augustus, and is too stein for him who was 
beautiful, says Suetonius, at all periods of his life. The 
pretended likeness to Alexander the Great cannot be 
discerned, but the traits resemble the medal of Pom- 
pey.J The objectionable globe may not have been an 
ill-applied flattery to him who found Asia Minor the 
boundary, and left it the centre of the Roman empire. 
It seems that Winkelmann has made a mistake in think- 
ing that no proof of the identity of this statue, with thai 
which received the bloody sacrifice, can be derived from 
the spot where it was discovered. § Flaminius Vacca 
says sotto una cantina, and this cantina is known to hav<» 
been in the Vicolo de' Leutari near the Cancellaria, a 
position corresponding exactly to that of the Janus be- 
fore the basilica of Pompey's theatre, to which Augustus 
transferred the statue after the curia was either burnt 
or taken down.]] Part of the Pompeian shade, IT the 
portico, existed iji the beginning of the XV th century, 
ami the atrium was still called Satrum. So says Blon« 
{Jus.** At all events, so imposing is the stern majestj 
oi the statue, and so memorable is the story, that the play 
of the imagination leaves no room for the exercise of 
the judgment, and the fiction, if a fiction it is, operates 
on the spectator with an effect not less powerful than 
truth. 

46. 
And tho-Uy the thundcr-striclien nurse of Rome! 

Stanza bexxviii. line 1. 
Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded most 
probably with images of the foster-mother of her founder : 
but there were two she-wolves of whom history makes 
particular mention. One of these, of brass in ancient 
work, was seen by Dionysius"ft at the temple of Romulus, 
under the Palatine, and is universally believed to be 
that mentioned by the Latin historian, as having been 
made from the money collected by a fine on usurers, 
and as standing under the Ruminal fig-tree. tj The 
oilier was that which Cicero§§ has celebrated both in 
prose and verse, and which the historian Dion also re- 
cords as having suffered the same accident as is alluded 
to by the orator. |||| The question agitated by the anti- 



• " St-igiieur, Toua changes toutet meeidfeeade la fooondont Je "rous 
tots ngir, Je croyoisque toui avier de 1'ambition, mais oucun amour 
pool li» Kloire ; Je voyon bien Que votre Amcetoil haute ; mots je ne aoup- 
;onnoU r a»qu'ellc Cut grande. — Dialogue de Syllael d'Eutrale. 

♦ Memorie, num. Ivii. pag. 9. ai>. Montfaucou, Diarium Ilalicum. 

E 



• gloria th'lte Arti.&c.hb.ix.eap. I. pag. 321, 322. torn. ii. 
1 Clcer. Eptrt.ftd Atltcum, xi, S. 
I Published by Uau»eu« En his Museum Roraanum. 
■■ km. [s delle Aril, &e. Ibid. 

; SuetOD. in vit. August, cap. 31, and in vit. C. J. Cesar, cap. 88 
Ipplan ha v., ii wus burnt down. See a note of Pitiscus to Suetonius, pag. 
!B l 
fl " Tu modo Pompeia lenla spatiare sub umbra." 

Ovid. Ar. A man. 
•• Roma Inalanrula, lib. ii. fo. 31. 

tt XdA«c«t noiijuara naXaias {pyaatas. Antiq. Rom. lib. 1. 
tj " Ail licum RiiiuiiKil.-in simulacra infanlium coodilorum urbia sub 
uberibiialup«poeiii;riiut." Liv. Hist. lib. x. cap. Ixix. Thiswasintha 
yearU.C.455, or 457. 

§§ " Turn Btiiiua Natle, turn simulacra Deoruro, Romnluarjue et Re- 
mus cum altrice bellua vl hjlminis Ictis concidenmt." De Divioat. it 
20. " Taclusesi ille etiam qnihaneurbem condidil Romulus, quern inau 
ralum in Capltolio parvum titque lacluutem, uberibua lupinia tnhianlem 
FuIlM meminis'.is." InCaUtin. Ul< 8. 

" Hie dilvestris erat Romani nominis allrix 
M.irim | qua: pnrvoa MavoiUB semuie nutos 
Uberibua graMdia viiali rore rigebat _ 
Q,us: turn cum pueris flammato fulminia icttl 
Concidit, atuue avulsa pedum veitigia liquit." 

De Cunaulalu, lib. ii. (lib. i. de Divinat. cap. Ii.) 
Ill) 'Ev' Vip t$ KannroH<f/ dv6p\dvris t* ttoXM fird Kipatrvffiv 
trvvtxmvtv07)trav, <ai dyd^ftara aXXart, Kal Wj inl Kiovoqiepv^ 

£V0V' ilKVV Tt TtS ^VKdtVVS Cfiv Tt T0 -Putfltfi Kal <ti>V Tffl •Pu.^lrA^ 

Unvuivi} initTT). Dion. Hist. lib. mvu. pag. 37. edit. Rob. Steph. 
1548. He goes on to mention that the letters of the columns on which the 
laws were written were liquefied and become d/iut'pd. All that tue 



74 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Cakto IV. 



quarics is, whether the wolf now in the conservators' 
palace is that of Livy and Dionysius, or that of Cicero, 
or whether it is neither one nor the other. The earlier 
writers differ as much as the modems : Lucius Faunus* 
says, that it is the one alludrd to l>y both, which is im- 
possible, and also by Virgil, which may be. Pulvius 
Ursinus j calls it the wolf of Dionysius, and MarlianusJ 
talks of it as the one mentioned by Cicero. To him 
Rycimius tremblingly assents. § Nardini is inclined to 
suppose it may be one of the many v. -Ives preserved iti 
ancient Rome ; but of the two rather bends to the Cice- 
ronian statue. |l MontfauconIT mentions it as a poinl 
without doubt. Of the latter writers the decisive \\ m- 
fcelmann** proclaims it as having been found it the 
church of Saint Theodore, where, or near where, was 
the temple of Romulus, and consequently makes it the 
wolf of Dionysius. His authority is Lucius Faunus, 
who, however, only says that it was placalj not found, 
at the Ficus Ruminalis, by the Comiiium, by which he- 
does not seem to allude to the church of Saint Theo- 
dore. Rycquius was the first to make the mistake, and 
Winkelmann followed Rycquius. 

Flaminius Vacca tells quite a different story, and says 
he had heard the wolf with the twins was foundjf near 
the arch of Septimius Severus. The commentator on 
Winkelmann is of the same opinion with that teamed 
person, and is incensed at Nardini for not having 
remarked that Cicero, in speaking of the wolf struck 
with lightning in the Capitol, makes use of the past 
tense. But, with the Abate's leave, Nardini does not 
positively assert the statue to be that mentioned by 
Cicero, and, if he had, the assumption would not per- 
haps have been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate 
himself is obliged to own that there are marks very like 
the scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of the present 
wolf; and, to get rid of this, adds, that the wolf seen by 
Dionysius might have been also struck by lightning, or 
otherwise injured. 

Let us examine the subject by a reference to the 
words of Cicero. The orator in two places seems to 
particularize the Romulus and the Remus, especially 
the first, which his audience remembered to have been 
in the Capitol, as being struck with lightning. In his 
verses he records that the twins and wolf both fell, and 
that the latter left behind the marks of her feet. Cicero 
does not say that the wolf was consumed; and Dion 
only mentions that it. fell down, without alluding as the 
Abate has made him, to the force of the blow, or the 
firmness with which it had been fixed. The whole 
strength, therefore, of the Abate's argument hangs upon 
the past tense ; which, however, may be somewhat 
diminished by remarking that the phrase only shows 



RomMis did wag to creel a Urge statue to Jupiter, looking; towards the 
cut : no mention j* afterwards made of the wolf. This happened in A 
U. C 689. The Abate Pea, in noticing Mils pnssuge "I" Dion (Storll dalle 
Aru, \i . torn, l.pag.202. note x.) tnytt, Non ustivite , aggiwif:'' Dlont. 
e/le/ttie ben fermata (\.he wolf.) by which il is clear the AIjmh- Iraneleted 
the i ylundro-Leuucltivian version, which pins gmmsil tta/iilitn for the 
on S i..il Itpvpivi), a word that does not mean ben fernmta, but only 
rnieel. as in.iy be distinct I y seen Iron) another pasture of the same Won : 
'H^evAijfln^tvovvo' Aypiirua$ xal tAv AvyavvTov lvrav<ia tdftyras. 
Hist. lib. m. Dion suys that Agnppa "wished lo raise a ttatue of 
Augustus in the Pantheon." 

*■• IfiMttom porticu cenea Inpa, cujua uberihni Romulus ac Remus 
lacianlea tnblani, oonaplcltur de ha< Cicero et Vtrzillue eemper Inlet 
lexere. LWui hoc lignum ah JEdilibua ex pecnniis Ullibus muklali 
enen fenernlorea, posiutm Innult. Anii-ii Id ComilHaad Ficurn Hurtil. 

nalera.quo Icko puemuejrant expoelU loc m procertoeel." i uc. Faunl 

fl> Anti<|. Pro. Horn. lib. ii. cap. ftl. up. Sallengre, torn. i. p. 217. In hit 
XVI Ith chapter he repeals Ihat the statues were there, but not that liicy 
were found [here. 

t Ay. Nardini Rmna Veins, lib. *. cap. I*. 

I Mori, i in i"iii. Ron. topograph, lib. ll.cap.be. He mentions another 
w.)ir«mi twine iii (hj v.iu.u, lib r.cap • tl. 

$ * Nun draunt qui hauc lp»am awe putcnl. miam adptnximus, que 4 
esmillo in Hinilicam I.aleranum, cum nuiimilhs aliia autiqoilutum reli 

quiU, aiqui' i tpUoUum poitei raIataelt,qwunTbMarUanuaaiiU< 

u in, ( npKoltfiam esse ma I o it & TitfUo deec/iptem, ml u( in re ninth 



> deecripta 
duhia, irepHeadaaoUrQur." Jim. Ryuull de Caplt. Roman. Comra. 
cap. xx.v. pag. 250. edit, l.iigd. Bat. 1696. 

II Nardini Roma Vetue, lib. v. cap. iv. 

IV'I.upa hodleqoelD capitoliuis prosir.Ufflditu)*,cum*callgio fulmiuls 
quo ic tarn narrat Cicero. '' Diartiim Italic, torn. i. p, 114. 

** Sloriadelle Arti.ic. lib. iii. cup m. | n. note 10. Winkelmann has 
made a strange blunder in the note, by aaymg the Ciceronian wolf was 
not in the Capitol, and thai Dion was wrong in saying bo. 

ft " luteal dire, che I'Ereolodl bronio, che ogjri si Irota nclla sala di 
Carapldogllo, fu trovato net foro Romano aVpreaao I'arco di Setlirnio : . 
elfu tro»al« anche la lupa dihronioche ailuu Romolo e Remo, e sl4 
nella Loggia deconservaton.'' Flam. Vacca, Menwne, num. iii. rag. 
i. ap. MoAtfaucou, Diur. hel.tem. f. 



that the statue was not then standing in its former posi- 
tion. Winkelmann his observed, that the present 
twins are modern ; and il is equally clear mat there 
are marks of gilding on the wolf which might therefore 
be supposed to make part of the ancient group. Il is 
known that the sacred images of the Capitol were not 
destroyed when injured by time or accident, but were 
pul into certain under-ground depositaries called favit- 
»<b.* It may be thought possible that the wolf had 
been BO deposited, and had been replaced in some con- 
spicuous situation when the Capitol was rebuilt by 
Vespasian. Rycquius, without mentioning his authority, 
tells that it was transferred from the Comiiium to the 
Lateran, and thence brought to the Capitol. If it was 
found near the arch of Severus, it may have been one 
of the images which Oroshis'f says was thrown down in 
the Forum by lightning when Alaric took ihecity. That 
it is of very high antiquity the workmanship is a decisive 
proof; and that circumstance inclined W inkelmann to 
believe it the wolf of Dionysius. The Capitoline wolfj 
however, may have been of the same early dale as that 
at the temple ofRomulus. LactantiusJ asserts that in 
his time the Romans worshipped a wolf; and it is known 
that the Lupercalia held out to a very late period § after 
every other observance of the ancient superstition had 
totally expired. This may account for the preservation 
of the ancient image longer than the other early sym- 
bols of Paganism. 

It may be permitted, however, to remark, that the 
wolf was a Roman symbol, but that the worship of that 
symbol is an inference drawn by the zeal *>f Lactantius. 
The early Christian writers are not to be (rusted in the 
charges which thev make against the Pagans. Euse- 
bius accused the Romans to their faces of worshipping 
Simon Magus, and raising a statue to him in the island 
of the Tyber. The Romans had probably never heard 
of such a person before, who came, however, to [day a 
considerable, though scandalous part in the church 
history, and has left several tokens of his aerial combat 
with St. Peter at Rome ; notwithstanding that an in- 
BCription found in this very island of the Tyber showed 
the Sinniii Magus of Eusebius to be a certain indigenal 
god, called Semo Sangus or Fidius.|| 

Even when the worship of the founder of Rome had 
been abandoned, it was thought expedient to humour 
the habits of the good matrons of the citv by sending 
them with their sick infants to the church of'Samt Theo- 
dore, as they had before carried them to the temple of 
Romulus. H The practice is continued to this day; and 
the site of the above church seems to be thereby iden- 
tiried with that of the temple: so that if the wolf had 
been really found there, as Winkelmann says, there 
would be no doubt of the present statue being that seen 
by Dionysius.** But Faunus, in saying that it was 
at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comiiium, is only talking 
of its ancient position as recorded by Pliny; and even 
if he had been remarking where it was found, would 
not have alluded to the church of Saint Theodore, but 



• Luc. Faun. ibid. 

t See note toatenia I. XXX. in Blalorhol IH'iitr." 

1" Riimuli iiutiix Lope honbrlbue «i afleeta (Heinle, et ferrem at 
animal ipsum fu level, eulu* f nurum uertl." Laelanl. de Falsa RoUgfotia 
lib. I. cap. 30. pa« 101. edit. ** lor. 1660: th.it is to say, he v* ...1,1 
rather adore a wolf than a proetttute. His commentator has obaenrecf 
that the opinion of Livy concerning Launirila belug Ifured In tins e/oil 
was not universal. Strabo thought lo. RvCCJuiUJ is wrong in saying that 
Lactanthu piantloni the Woll m ae En il" Capitol. 

§ To A. H. 496. " tin-, credere poeeH," > ;tr* Hom^nis (Ann. Feelee. 
tOm. 'in. j), &r_\ ir. ,in. 4%.. | " dgaitM BllhuC RoflUI ad (ielaaiii len> 
iwra, o,nr fuere ante exordia uroE allate in Italian) l.npercnlia 1" Uela- 
ii ii* wrote a li-tier which occupies (burTollo puces to Androinacbua Uto 
senaiur, and ulhere, to ahow lhat tl,e rltei should tx- rim up. 

ii Buteblue bae these word- : koI ivc'ptdvn trap" tfiiv <is 5««e nrft> 

ftnrat, Iv Tf. T(/T(pt norafiQ jisra^i rtSv iJtio yi^vfiCiv, tyoiv twu 
ypa^ijv 'fmpaXKfp r*4nv tifiuivi ttta Eay*rai. Kcclei. Ilial. lib. 
ii.cap.xlii. p. 40. Juslin Martyr hud told the story bafon i hut Bnronlue 
himself wae obliged lo detect this fuble. See NanUni Roma Vet. lib. til. 
cap. xii. 
Tt •• In essa gli antithi poottfld per toglier la memoria de' giuoehl L»* 
>rcaH istiiiim In ooora dl " OM, [ntroduaaero I'oao di partajfl Bam- 
bini oppressi da infermita ottnitr, aocloel llbcrino par I'lalaKeaeJaODe dl 

lU Saaio, comedi continue si sperimniia." Rione xii. Ripa accit. 

. e eaccInCU descrmone, ttc. di Roma Moderua dell' Ab. Rid,,|f. 
Vennii, I7ti6. 

* Nardini, lib. v. cap. It. convicts Pomponitis Lietua emtri grrorit, 
io putting the [luminal fig-tree at the church of Saint Theodore : but aa 
I. Ivy aaya the wolf was at the Fleua Ruminalis. and Pionysius at the tem- 
ple of Romuhia, ha is obliged (cap. it.) to own that the two were doee 
togvdier, a* w«U u tha Lupercalta>c, shaded, ae U were, by the flg-lrce. 



Canto IV. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



75 



to a very different place, near which it was then thought 
the Flcus Rumtnalis had been, and also the Comitium ; 
that is, the three columns by the church of Sanla Maria 
Liberatrice, at the corner of die Palatine looking on 
the Forum. 

It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image was 
actually dug up,* and perhaps, on the whole, the marks 
of the gilding, and of the lightning, are a belter argument 
ill favour of its being the Ciceronian wolf than any that 
can be adduced for the contrary opinion. At any rate, 
It is reasonably selected in the text of the poem as one 
of the most interesting relics of the ancient city,t and 
is certainly the figure, if not the very animal to which 
Virgil alludes in his beautiful verses: 

*' Geminos huk libera eireum 
I.udere pendente* puems, el lara!>ere matrem 
fmpavidos : illam tereli cervice reflexam 
M iiken; altei'uos, el curjiora fuigere luigui. J 

47. 

For tlie Roman's mind 
Was modelfd in a less terrestrial mould. 

Stanza xc. lines 3 and 4. 
It is possible to be a very great man and to be- still 
very inferior to Julius Ca?sar~the most complete cha- 
racter, so Lord Bacon thought, of all antiquity. Nature 
seems incapable of such extraordinary combinations as 
composed his versatile capaci'v, which was the wonder 
even of the Romans themselves. The first general — 
the only triumphant politician — inferior to none in elo- 

3uence — comparable to any in the attainments of wis- 
om, in an age made up of the greatest commanders, 
statesmen, orators, and philosophers that ever appeared 
in the world — an author who composed a perfect spe- 
cimen of military annals in his travelling carriage — at 
one time in a controversy with Cato, at another writing 
a treatise on punning, and collecting a set of good say- 
ings — fighting§ and making love at the same moment, 
and willing to abandon both his empire and his mistress 
fur a sight of the Fountains of the Nile. Such did 
Julius Caesar appear to his cotemporaries and to those 
of the subsequent ages, who were the most inclined to 
deplore and execrate his fatal genius. 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his sur- 
passing glory, or with his magnanimous, his amiable 
qualities, as to forget the decision of his impartial coun- 
trymen : 

HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN. || 

48. 

JfHiat from this barren being do we reap? 
Our senses narrow, and ow reason frail. 

Stanza xciii. lines 1 and 2. 
". . . . omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci, nihil 

• " Art eomillum ficus olim Ruminalis evrminabat, sub qua lupie ru- 
mam. hoc est, rnammam, docrnte Van-one, sjuxerant olim Romulus et 
Reinm ; no» procul a templo hodie D. Maris Liberatricis appellato ubi 
forian Invent* nobilis ilia a?nea slalua tup* geminos puerulos lactantis, 
quam hodie in capilolio vidimus." OIni Borridm Antrim Urbii Ro- 
man* 1 Katies cap. x. See also cop. id!. Borrichiua wrote after Nardiui 
In 16*7. Ap. Gr«v. Anliq. Rom. torn. iv. p. 1522. 

| DonatUl, lib. (1. cap. 18. gives a medal representing on one aide the 
wolf in the same position hi th.it In the Capitol; and in t lie reverse the 
wolf wiili th< li'-.ul not reverted. It is of the lime of Antoninus Pius. 

; Kn. viii. 631. See — Dr. Middle ton, in his Letter from Rome, who 
incttf>i*« io tli>- ' Icerooian crolf, but witlmul examining the subject. 

§ In ht» tenth book, Lucan shows him sprinkled with the blood of Phar- 
fcmua In the hi ma of Cleopatra, 

Sanguine Theaanltcs clad'is perfusus adulter 
Adnuail Vetiertm curis.et miscuil armLs. 
After feasting with his mistress, he vita up all night to converse wilh 
the .Egyptian siifies, and tells Achoreus, 

Spes «lt mihi certa videndl 
Xiliacos fnutrs, bellum civile reliuquarn. 
" Sic velut in tuta securi pace Irahebanl 
Noctit iter medium." 
Immediately afterwards, he is lighting again Bud defending every 
position. 

" Sed adest defensor uhioue 
Csaaret hosadituagladiia, hoa ignibus arcet 

cceca nnclecarinis 

tnailuit Cssar semper feliciter usua 
Prccipiti cursu bcllorum et tempore rapto." 
I! " Jure casus existimelur," says Suetonius, after a fair estimation 
•f his character, and making use of a phrase which was a formula in 
Livy's lime. " Mel i urn jure cssum pronunliavit, etiam si regni crimine 
insons fueril t" [lib. iv. cap. 4S.| and which was continued in the legal 
Judgments pronounced in Justifiable homicides, such as killing house- 
breakers. See Sue ton. in Vit. C. J. Cesar, with the commentary of 
PiUscui, p. 184. 



percepi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt; angustos sensus, 
imbeciilos animos, brevia curricula vita? ; in profundo 
veritatem demersam ; opinionibus et institutes omnia 
tenen; nihil ventati relinqui: deinceps omnia tenebris 
circumfusa esse dixerunL''* The eighteen hundred 
years which have elapsed since Cicero wrote this have 
not removed any of the imperfections of humanity; and 
the complaints of the ancient philosophers may, without 
injustice or affectation, be transcribed in a poem written 
yesterday. 

49. 

Tliere is a stern round tower of other days. 

Stanza xcix. line I. 
Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called Capo 
di Bove, in the AppianWay. See — Historical Illustra- 
tions of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold. 
50. 
Prophetic of the doom 
Heat en gives its favourites — early death. 

Stanza cii. lines 5 and 6. 
'Ov 01 C£0( ipi\oi<oiv, Airodvf/GKEi v/off. 
Td yap Savtiv ovk uicxpov, aAA' aloxP&S $avc7v. 

Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. PoeUe Gnomici, 
p. 231, edit. 1784. 

51. 

Belxold tlie Imperial Mount ! Vis thus the mighty falls. 
Stanza cvii. line 9. 
The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the 
side towards the Circus Maximus. The very soil is 
formed of crumbled brickwork. Nothing has been told, 
nothing can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but a 
Roman antiquary. See — Historical Illustrations, page 
206. 

52. 
There is the moral of all human tales: 
Tw but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and then Glory, &c. 

Stanza cviii. lines 1, 2, and S. 
The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the 
opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and his 
cotemporary Romans, has the following eloquent pas- 
sage : u From their railleries of this kind, on the barba- 
rity and misery of our island, one cannot help reflecting 
on the surprising fate and revolutions of kingdoms ; how 
Rome, once the mistress of the world, the seat of arts, 
empire, and glory, now lies sunk in sloth, ignorance, 
and poverty, enslaved to the most cruel as well as to 
the most contemptible of tyrants, superstition and reli- 
gious imposture: while this remote country, anciently 
the jest and contempt of the polite Romans, is become 
the happy seal of liberty, plenty, and letters; flourishing 
in all tlie arts and refinements of civil life; yet running 
perhaps the same course which Rome itself had run 
before it, from virtuous industry to wealth ; from wealth 
to luxury; from luxury to an impatience of discipline, 
and corruption of morals : till, by a total degeneraey and 
loss of virtue, being grown ripe for destruction, it fall a 
prey at last to some hardy oppressor, and, with the loss 
of liberty, losing every thing that is valuable, sinks 
gradually again into its original barbarism."! 
53. 
And apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime. 

Stanza ex. lines 8 and 9. 
The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter; 
that of Aurelius by St. Paul. See— Historical Illustra- 
tions of the IVth Canto, &c. 
54. 
Still we Trajan s name adore. 

Stanza cxi. line 9. 
Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roman 



* Acaitem. I. 13. 

t The Historv of the Life nf M. Tullius Cicero, sect. vt. vol. ii. p. 109. 
The contrast has been reversed in a late extraordinary Instance. A 
gentleman *sl thrown Into prison at Paris ; • If ■> is were marie >""' his 
release. The French minister continued to delaut h.m, under theprelena 
that he «mj not an Englishman, but only a Roman, See " Interesting 
Facts relating to Joachim Mural," peg 138. 



76 



NOTES TO CHILDk. HAROLD. 



• IV. 



princes;* and it would be easier to find a sol rei 
uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than one 
possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to this 
emperor. "When he mounted the throne, m 
nistor.an Dion.t "he was strong in ho.lv, he wa 
ousin roiodjage had impaired none ol Ins (acuities; 
he was altogether free from envy and horn detraction; 
he honoured all the good, and he advanced l... in ..... 
on this account they could not he the objects ol his 
fear, or of his hate ; he never listened to ml innera ; he 
cave not wav to his anger; he abstained equally from 
unfair exactions and unjust punishments ; he had rather 
be loved as a man than honoured as a soyerei n 
was atrable with his people, respectful to the sen tti . 
and universally beloved by both ; he inspired none with 
dread hut the enemies of his country." 
55. 

Rienzi, l/isl of Roman*. 

Stanza cxiv. line 5. 

The name and exploits of Rienri must be familiar to 
the reader of Gibbon. Some details and irisdited 
manuscripts relative to this unhappy hero will be seen 
in the Illustrations of the IVlh Canto. 
56. 
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 
I Vldch found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As tlunc ideal breast. 

Stanza cxv. lines 1, 2, awl 3. 

The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would 
inrline us to believe in the claims ol the l-.genuu grot'".. 
He assures us that he saw an inscription in the pave- 
ment, stating that the fountain was thai "I Kgeria, 
dedicat-J to the nymphs. The inscriptionis not there 
at thus day ; but Montfaucon quotes two lines* "I Ovid 
from a stone in the Villa Gitistiniani, which he seems 
to think had been brought from the same potto. 

Tins ..roito and valley were formerly frequented in 
summer and particularly the firal Sunday in May, by 
the modem Romans, who attached a Balubrious quality 
to the fountain which trickles from an orifice at the 
bottom of the vault, and, overflowing the hide pools, 
creeps down the matted grass inl i the brook below. 
The brook is the Ovidiail Almi, whose in 
qualities are lost m the modern Aquataccio. The valley 
itself is .ailed Valledi Cnffarelli, from the dukes ol that 
name who made over their fountain to the Pallau. mi 
with sixty rubbia of adjoining land. 

There can be little doubt that this long dell is the 
Egerian valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place ol 
Umbritius, notwithstanding the gi nerality of Ins com- 
mentators have supposed il"' descenl ol the sal 
his friend to have been into the rVrician grove, where 
the nymph met Hippolitus, and where she was more 
peculiarly worshipped. 

The step from the Porta Capena to Hie Alan hill, 
fifteen miles disiant, would he t.... considerable, unless 
we were to believe in the wild conjecture of Vossius, 
who makes that gate travel from lis present Station, 



1, Usque ft. I n '»lr.'m .Tl.il.-n 
,..l„r' .lis. . I I II ton 

.'..,■. Mm. to.ni 



• " H..]ui inntum mcmorla, delnlum *.i 
noo olncr in s.n.tii principil 
4V01 STO • MELIOR . TiMJANO. 

JiD. Vlii. CUI). V. 

t TC, re yap to/iOti epoioro *ai rv;".*7 "*/"■><". ..<S- 

unf*' ind vnM.ui .1..' ... 11 uri jcetfnaetTiva, 

Jam ml iavvirdvras rove rtyoOoes lrl|i« ml e>eydA>.. ■■ «al .'.a 
To&raovri r^oaUrd riva ai'r&v, wvre tuftm . . .'iafioA.it,' re t|«:iix ra 

iiriffrev*, ml OPT*) iJ^." WovAoero* riv ri ,v,..,,^ru.v T«3i- 
.AWrpiov ■..'.. «1 .'..■ .»■ T'av Ml* <iTciv<ro .Vio.un.dc ri 

..(..- H' tt<.ri>I, uoAAuv t, n|*u,(iiwo5 >XakBC, ml toi ri a 

• rtj yr/povWa eriuvltoecirais w^.Ai. dya. 



r. tends it was during the reign of the kings, 
as far as the Arician grove, and then makes .' recede 
io us ..I.I site with the shrinking city.* The tufo, or 
pumice, ioel prefer* to marble, is the sub- 

mposing the bank in which the grotto is sunk. 

The m rapherel hud in the grotto the 

statue of ii..' nymph and nine niches for the Mu 
a late traveller] has discovered that the cave is n 

10 that simplicity which tie poet regretted hi. 

id us ornament, lint the headless 

statue i- palpabh rather a male than a nymph, and has 

none "i" the attributes a. nil... I to u at pr. 

I , ,,, ... . stood m six n 

an 1 .lu\. nal CI rla.n.v .1".'- not allude to any individual 

rave.S Nothing .an I.- collected from the satirist but 
, ..... ...;., re i,, ,,, the Porta Capena "as a spol in 

which it was supposed Numa held nightly consu 
with his nymph, and where there was a grove and a 
.,,, ..... and i .in s once conse. I 

AIus. s , and ' spot there was a .1 

into the valley of Egeria, where were several artificial 

caves, li is clear thai the slatui - of th< Muses made 

no pan .,f i he decoration which the satirist t 

misplaced in these cavi 9 ; for I..' exp 

fanes (.1. Libra) to these divinities above ihevalli 

i i, lis us that they had been ejected t" make 

t or the J"«s. Ill fuel, the little tempi., now .-alio. I 

ih ,t of Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong to the 
; ud Nardini|| places them in a poplar grove, 

which was in his time above the valley. 

It is probable, from the inscription and position, that 
the cave now shown may bo one of the "artificial 
caverns," of which, indei d then is another a little way 
higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder bushes : but 
a tingle grotto of Egeria is a mere modern invi ntion, 
grafted upon th. application of the epithet Egerian to 
t m general, and which might send us lo 
] .ok l.r the haunts of Numa upon the banks ol the 
Thames. 

Our Engli h Juv< nal •■■ I nol SI duced into li" 

anon by his acquaintance with Pope: he carefully 
preserves the correct plural — 

"Tl.r.ir. lalowl? W....1.I. 

The Egerinn gr^n , oh, hom .u.liWr ti 

Tie- valley abounds with springs,!! and over these 

springs, which the Mu u n haunl from their neigh* 

bouring groves, Egeria presi 1: heme she was -aid 

to supply them with water; an. I she was the nymph ot 
ih,- grottos through which the fountains were taught to 
flow. ... 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity ol the 
Kgeriim valley have received names at will, which have 

I,.., I, , hanged 1 al will. \ enuti* ' owns 1 u 

traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, and 
Diana, which Nardini found, or hoped to find. Tho 
im of Caracalla's circus, the temple ol Honour 
and Virtue tin- temple of Bai chus, ami. ibi 
temple of the god Rediculus, are the antiquaries' 

, i r i 

The circus nfCaracalla depends on a medal "I that 
emperor, ited by Fulvius Prainus, of which the reverse 
-I,.,'- - ., circus, supposed, however, by son.. 
ihe Circus Maximus. li gives .. very good idea of that 
place ol' exen ... 'I'll.- •".! has been bul littli 
|f we maj I - from the small cellular structure at 
i , , n i ol il i Spina, which was probably the 

of the god t'ouius. TVs cell is half beneath the soil, 



(ociias e 



.,,,,.„ 



e#iel 
t6« iUv ruiffe 4bf(O0< tl V lloin. ,iu - 

ho/ill. cap. •... >.. u>m. i. p. 1 13S. 1 134. a<i ' H 1750. 

• '• 1'..,.. 1. ......... .Inl Cklto l.ioeosi .rrutlr. d .. 

tfiouo Pa.lr....i I. < '..l.vo.ll., ,(.. , |dMl m6*ehlomato II l.ioco; vi 

«.i.,iil'oni.iiin,..ltni.na (fein vt.ltn u.,l..'n.c|.r.il (.. 

RoiMaJ vi v., I'uIbui n ricrMrtl ; ...-I pftvimenlo di . ironleal luet;.' 

lii ua rpimilni eattra quells In knu dj I 

quctn, diet r.-ni.i.ir.u, enai rain ...ol.. ...... i in cut ru . 

.v.c.m>. Nftrdini, psg. 18, It.- .I..,- BU* 

^ " lu viiu ju.inii...ia emi ingMU la|..« quftdratui Mltdai la 4.10 
sulpta bac duo Ovlau car. ..inn ....a : 

fgrria eat qui- prirtn-t aquaa den FT^laCamceuia 
III., N.i m* 011)1111 x fon.ni.imq.ie full. 
I tidetur ax ftodern FcerUfontc, aul ejua vkiAia ialhuc compor- 
Uavnum Italic, p 133. 



• De Maenll. Vet. Ttom. np. r.r*T. Ant. Rom.lom. iv. p. 1507. 

I Echina . ..... R...nni,», crrettoilair 

', ft, I l.-'v b.l.rvr ... ibeBTOltO ni.,1 nTmph. 
. icolplu lc acque a pie ill e.ao.o 
» Claaaieel Tour,chep. v. 1.. M7. rot. ... 

I 0s.. 1 .... . 1 .. area areiia madldamque CnpenaTj, 

Hie im Numa canal I 

Nunc anrrlfbn ml ir 

.1. 1, 1. ,.,..,..,., .1 phlnum feanamqiia aupellaz. 

... i„ populo ....'..' ,!.... pi ...i. re luanseel 

A. el. ■ '■ 11 

In aall. m, i la '- el spel.ii 



. .1,11:,. 00, : quuoto prtseuuiuaa eeeee 

N..1111 ., .-.]>. is, v.o.ll .1 .... 



idaa 



|| Mh. lii cap. til. 

1 o Undique e aolo eqne aei 

•• E. ..a, te.i k ell p WJ.SSS 



Nar.ln.1,1.1. lit. cnp.UI. 



Canto IV. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



77 



as it must have been in the circus itself, for Dionysius* 
could not be persuaded to believe that this divinity was 
the Roman Neptune, because his altar was under 
ground. 

57. 
Yet let us ponder bnUUy. 

Stanza cxxvii. line I. 
" At all events," says the author of the Academical 
Questions, "I trust, whatever may be the fate of my 
own speculations, that philosophy will regain that 
estimation which it ought to possess. The free and 
philosophic spirit of our nation has been the theme of 
admiration to the world. Tins was the proud distinc- 
tion of Englishmen, and the luminous source of all 
their glory. Shall we then forget tin* manly and dignified 
sentiments of our ancestors, to prate in the language 
of the mother or the nu*se about our good old preju- 
This is not the way to defend the cause of 
truth. It was not thus that our fathers maintained it 
in the brilliant periods of our history. Prejudice may 
be trusted to guard the outworks for a short space of 
time while reason slumbers in the citadel; but if the 
latter sink into a lethargy, the former will quickly erect 
a standard for herself. Philosophy, wisdom, and liberty, 
support each other: he who will not reason is a bigot ; 
he who cannot, is a fool ; and he who dares not, is a 
slave." Preface, p. xiv, xv. vol. i. 1S05. 

68. 

Great Nemesis'. 
//ire, where the ancient paid thee homage long. 

Stanza exxxii. lines 2 and 3. 

We read in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a warning 
received in a dream, f counterfeited, once a year, the 
beggar, sitting before the gate of his palace with his 
hand hollowed and stretched out for charity. A statue 
formerly in the Villa Borghese, and which should be 
now at Paris, represents the Emperor in that posture 
of supplication. The object of this self degradation was 
the appeasement of Nemesis, the perpetual attendant on 
good fortune, of whose power the Roman conquerors 
were also reminded by certain symbols attached to 
their cars of triumph. The symbols were the whip and 
the erotaloj which were discovered in the Nemesis of 
the Vatican. The attitude of beggary made the above 
statue pass for that of Belisarius: and until the criti- 
cism of WinkelmannJ had rectified the mistake, one 
fiction was called in to support another. It was the 
same fear of the sudden termination of prosperity that 
made Amasis king of Egypt warn his friend Polycrates 
of Samos, that the gods loved those whose lives were 
chequered with good and evil fortunes. Nemesis was 
supposed to lie in wait particularly for the prudent; 
that is for those whose caution rendered them accessi- 
ble only to mere accidents: and her first altar was 
raised on the banks of the Phrygian -iEsepusby Adras- 
tus, probably the prince of that name who killed the son 
of Croesus by mistake. Hence the goddess was called 
Adrastea.§ 

The Roman Nemesis was sacred and au gust : there 
was a temple to her in the Palatine under the name of 
Rhamnusia:|| so great indeed was the propensity of 
the ancients to trust to the revolution of events, and to 
believe in the divinity of Fortune, that in the same 
Palatine there was a temple to the Fortune of the day.H 
This is the last superstition which retains its hold over 
the human heart ; and from concentrating in one object 
the credulity so natural to man, has always appeared 
strongest in those unembarrassed by other articles of 
belief. The antiquaries have supposed this goddess to 



* Anti.(. Rom. lib.ii. cap. xxxl. 

) Sueton. in Vil. Auj;u«ii, cap. 91. Casaubon, tn the note, refers to 
Plutarch.'* Lives of Camillus and /Eini'i'js Puulus and also to hi* apoph- 
thegms, for the character of this deity. The hollowed hand was reckoned 
the Last decree of de^radntion ; nnd when the dead body of the pnefect 
Rufiiini was borne about in triumph by the people, the indignity wan in- 
created by pulling hia hand In that posi:ion. 

I Nloria dellc Arti, &C lib. iti. cap. iii. torn. 11. p. 422. Vlsconti calls 
the itKtue, however, n ( vl-'li. It ia given in the Museo Pio-Clemenl. 

.1 40. The AU'te Fea (SpiegaTJone dei Rami. Storia, fcc. torn. 
In. p. 613.1 crdl* it a Clinsippii?. 
% Diet, de Bayle, article Adrastea. 

II It is enumerated by the regmnary Victor. 

Tl Fortius hujuice diei. Cicci-o mention* Ur, de Legib. lib. it. 



be synonymous with Fortune and with Fate ;* but it 

was in her vindictive quality that she was worshipped 

under the name of Nemesis. 

59. 

J see before me the Gladiator lie. 

Stanza cxl. line 1. 

Whether the wonderful statue which suggested this 
image be a laqueanan gladiator, which in spite of 
Winkelmann's criticism has been stoutly maintained,! 
or whether it be a Greek herald, as that great antiquary 
positively asserted, { or whether it is to be thought a 
Spartan or barbarian shield-bearer, according to the 
opinion of his Italian editor, § it must assuredly seem a 
copy of that masterpiece of Ctesilaus which represented 
" a wounded man dying who perfectly expressed what 
there remained of lite in him."|| M on t fa u con IF and Maf- 
fei + * thought it the identical statue ; but that statue was 
of bronze. The gladiator was once in the villa Ludo- 
vizi, and was bought by Clement XII. The right arm 
is an entire restoration of Michael Angelo.jt 
60. 

He^ their sire. 
Butcher d to make a Roman holiday. 

Stanza cxb. lines 6 and 7. 

Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and volun- 
tary ; and were supplied from several conditions: from 
slaves sold for that purpose; from culprits; from bar- 
barian captives either taken in war, and, after being 
led in triumph, set apart for the games, or those seized 
and condemned as rebels ; also from free citizens, some 
lighting for hire (auctorati,) others from a depraved 
ambition : at last even knights and senators were exhi- 
bited, a disgrace of which the first tyrant was naturally 
the first inventor. {£ In the end, dwarfs, and even 
women, fought ; an enormity prohibited by Severus. 
Of these the most to be pitied undoubtedly were the 
barbarian raptives : and to this species a Christian 
writer§§ justly applies the epithet " innocent," to distin- 
guish them from the professional gladiators. Aurelian 
and Claudius supplied great numbers of these unfortu- 
nate victims; the one after his triumph, and the other 
on the pretext of a rebellion. |||| No war, says Lipsius,H1T 
was ever so destructive to the human race as these 
snorts. In fpite of the laws of Constantine and Constans, 
gladiatorial shows survived the old established religion 
more than seventy years; but ihey owed their final 
extinction to the courage of a Christian. In the year 
404, on the kalends of January, they were exhibiting 
the shows in the Flavian amphitheatre before the usual 
immense concourse of people. Almachius or Telema- 
chus, an eastern monk, who had travelled to Rome 
intent on his holy purpose, rushed into the midst of the 
arena, and endeavoured to separate the combatants. 



* DEAE NEMESI 

SIVE FORTUNAE 

PISTORIVS 

RVG1ANVS 

V. C LEGAT. 

LEG. XIII- G. 

CORD. 

See flneitinnes Romanic. &c. ftp. Gra*v. Antiq. Roman. Inm, v. p. 942. 

See also Muralori, Nov. Thesnnr. insciip. Vet. torn. i. p. 8S, H9. where 

there are three Latin and one Greek inscription to Nemesis, and others 

to Fate. 

I By the Abate Br acci.dismertaTione supra un clipen votiro, &e. Preface, 
pag. 7. who accounts for the cord round the neck, but not for the horn, 
which it does not nppearthe gladiators themselves ever used. Note A, 
Storiadelle Arti, loot. II. p. 2fVS. 

J Kiiher Polil'ontes, hrm'd of Lain", killed by CEdipns ; or repress, 
herald of F.nritheus. killed by the Athenians when he endeavoured to drag 
the Herftclide from the altar of mercy, and in whose honour they insti- 
tuted animal games, continued to the ume of Hadrian ; or Anlhemo- 
crilu*. the Athenian herald, killed hv the Mesnrenses, who never recov- 
ered the impiety. See Sturiadelle Arti.&c. lom. ii p. 203, 204, 205, 206, 
207. lib. is. cap. ii. 

§ Storia, &c. torn, it. p. 207. Not. (A.) 

II " Vulnera turn defu-iiMi tern feel! In (]«"> possjl intelligi quantum restat 
animai." Pirn. Nat. Hist. lib. xnxiv. cap. 

IF Antiq. lom. iii. par. 2. tab. 1S5. 

•* Racc.atat. tab.64. 

tt Mil*. Capitol, torn. iii. p. 154. edit. 1755. 

XX Julius Csssar. who rose by the fall of the aristocracy, brought Furiosi 
Lepiinua and A. Calenus upon the arena. 

§§ Terlidlian, " certe iiuidem el innocente* gladiatore* in ludum ven(- 
tint, el volupiatis puUicas hostile fiaut." Just. Lips. Saturn. Sermon. 
lib. ii. cap. iii. 

Illi Vopijcus, in vit. Aurel. and in vlt. Clau J. ibid. 

TIT! " Credo irooseio nullum helium Innl am clmVm vtntftiemque penerl 
hunianoinlulis*e,quam bos ad voluptatero 'idos." Just, l.ips. Ibtd lib. 
Leap, xii. 



73 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Canto IV. 



The pnctor Alypius, a person incredibly attached to 
instant orders to the gladiators to 
slay him; and Telemachus gained the crown of mar- 
i and the title of saint, which surely has never 
either before or since been awarded for a more noble 
exploit. Honorius immediately abolished the shows, 
which were never afterwards revived. The story is 
told by Thcodorel and Cassiodorus,] and seems wor- 
thy of credit notwithstanding its place iri the Roman 
martyrology.§ Besides the torrents of blood which 
flowed at the funerals, in the amphitheatres, the circus, 
the forums, and other public places, gladiators were in- 
troduced at feasts, and tort* each other to pieces amidst 
the supper tables, to the great delight and applause of 
the guests. Yet Lipsius permits lu'mself to suppose 
the loss of courage, and the evident degeneracy of man- 
kind, to be nearly connected with the abolition of these 
bloody spectaclcs.|| 

61. 

Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
IV as death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 

Stanza cxlii. lines 5 and 6. 
When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted, 
he htu it," "hoc habct," or " habet." The wounded 
combatam dropped Ins weapon, and advancing to the 
edge of the arena, supplicated the spectators. If he had 
fought well, the people saved him ; if otherwise, or as 
they happened to be inclined, they turned down their 
thumbs, and he was slain. They were occasionally so 
that ihey were impatient if a combat lasted 
longer than ordinary without wounds or death. The 
emperor's presence generally saved the vanquished; 
and it is recorded as an instance of Caracalla's ferocity, 
that he sent those who supplicated bun li>r life, in a 
spectacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people ; in other 
words, handed them over to be slain. A similar cere- 
mony is observed at the Spanish bull-tights. The 
magistrate presides ; and after the horsemen and picca- 
dores have fought the bull, the matadore steps forward 
and bows to him for permission to kill the animal. If 
the bull has done bis duty by killing two or three horses, 
or a man, which last is rare, the people interfere with 
shouts, the ladies wave their handkerchiefs, and the 
animal is saved. The wounds and death of the horses 
are accompanied with the loudest acclamations, and 
manv gestures of delight, especially from the ti ma! 

fiortion of the audience, including those of the gentlest 
dood. Every thing depends on nabit. The author of 
Cbilde Harold, the writer of this note, and one or two 
other Englishmen, who have certainly in other days 
borne the sight of a pitched battle, were, during thi 
Bummer of 1809, in the governor's box at the great am- 
phitheatre of Santa Maria, opposite to Cadiz. The' 
death of one or two horses completely satisfied their 
curiosity. A gentleman present, observing them shud- 
ill -r and look pale, noticed that unusual reception of so 
delightful a sport to some young ladies, who stared 
and smiled, and continued their applauses as another 
horse fell bleeding to the ground. One bull killed three 
horses off his own horns. He was saved by acclamations, 
which were redoubled when it was known be belonged 
to a priest. 

An Englishman, who can be much pleased with see> 
ing two Mini beat themselves to nieces, cannot hear to 
look at a horse galloping round an arena with his 
bowels trailing on the ground, and turns from ihe 
spectacle and the spectators with horror and disgust. 
62. 
IJJte laurels on the baldjirst Cttsar y s heail. 

Stanza cxliv. line 6. 

Suetonius informs us that Julius Cesar was particti- 



* AugUttlDUl (lib. vi. eonfcu.cnp. fill.) "Alvptum »miin gladintori Bpec- 

i,i ■- nil ini.intu locredLblliter tbreptum," icribu. lb. lib. i.eap. Eli. 

1 Hi«t . RcclM. cft|i. jlxv\, I ill . v. 

1 '.' ti.-i.i.l, I'mimi liU, I. X. C. XI. S.'iliirn. lb. lb. 

4 Baroiiltu. ad. nnn. et in noiia ml Mwtnvl. Rom. 1, Jnn. 9« — 
Marmngonl civile memorie sacre e profane deli' Anfilcatro Flavfo, p. 25. 
edit. 1746. 

||"Q,»ioil? non tu Lipil momentum illqood babobH MlMMad Hrtu- 
tera? MtgniiQi Temporm nostra, nofqua lci*<>» vidutaui. Oppldum 
a -u,-. .i.nTr captain, dirtplurn sit lutnulliu circa no»,non in 
DnbU et Umto concldimiu et lurbkmur, ubl robur, nU lot pa unoi 
loplCDUJi atudia i ubl ilk- animu« qui dqmIi dlttfe, II fractua 
illahnitir orbit?" 4c. ibid lib. II. cnp. xiv The prototype o( Mr. 
Win lli.un t pnaugyric ou buU-taiiuig 



larlv gratified by that decree of the senate, which ena 
ill linn to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. 
He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror 
of the world, but to bide that he was bald. A stranger 
at Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, not 
should we without the help of the historian. 
63. 
While stands Ote Coliseum, Rome shall stand. 

Stanza cxlv. line I. 
This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Roman 
Empire J and a notice on the Coliseum may be seen in 
[he Historical Illustrations to the IVth Cai^to of Childe 
Harold. 

64. 

spared and hkst by time. 

Stanza cxlvi. line 3. 
" Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring 
which was necessary to preserve the aperture above ", 
though exposed to repeated fires, though sometimes 
flooded by the river, and always open to the rain, no 
monument of equal antiquity is so well preserved as 
this rotunda. It passed with little alteration from the 
Pagan into the present worship; and so convenient 
were its niches for the Christian altar, that Michael 
Angela, ever studious of ancient beauty, introduced 
their design as a model in the Catholic church." 

Forsyth's Remarks, &c. on Italy, p. 137. sec. edit. 
65. 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honour Vi farms, wfiose bust* around them close. 
Stanza cxivii. lines 8 and 9. 
The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for the 
busts of niodern great, or, at least, distinguished, men. 
The Hood of light which once fell through the large Hrfa 
above on the whole circle of divinities, now shines on a 
numerous assemblage of mortals, some one or two of 
whom have been almost deified by the veneration of 
their countrymen. 

66. 
There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear tight. 

Stanza cxlviii. line 1. 
This and the three next stanzas allude to the story 
of the Roman daughter, which is recalled to the traveller 
by the site, or pretended site, of that adventure, now 
shown at the church of St. Nicholas in earcere. The 
difficulties attending the full belief of the tale arc stated 
in Historical Illustrations, &c. 
67. 
Turn to the Mole, which Hadrian reared on high. 

Stanza clii. tine 1. 
The castle of St. Angelo. See — Historical Illustra 
tions. 

68. 
Stanza cliii. 
This ami the six next stanzas have a reference to the 
church of St. Peter's. For a measurement of the com- 
parative length of this basilica, and the other great 
churches of Europe, see the pavement of St. Peter's, 
and the classical Tour through Italy, vol. U. pag. 125 
et seq. chap. iv. 

69. 

Vte strange fate 
TVhich tumbles miglUiest sotxreigns. 

Stanza clxxi. lines 6 and 7. 
Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken 
heart; Charles V. a hermit; Louis XIV. a bankrupt 
in means and glory; Cromwell of anxiety ; and, "the 
greatest is behind, ' Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these 
sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added 
of names equally illustrious and unhappy. 
70. 
to, Nemi ! navelTd in the woody fails. 

Stanza clxxiii. line I. 
The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of 
Egeria, and from the shades which embosomed the 
temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinc* 



Canto tV. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



79 



uve appellation of The Grove. Nemi is but an even- 
ing's ride from the comfortable inn of Albano. 
71. 



nile, anil by following up the rivulet to the pretended 
Bandusia, you come to the roots of the higher mountain 
Gennaro. Singularly enough, the onlv spot of ploughed 
land in the whole valley is on the knoll where tins Ban- 
nusia rises. 



And afar 
The Ttf>cr winds, and the broad ocean laves 
T)ie Lilian coast, &c. &c. 

Stanza clxxiv. lines 2, 3, and 4. 
The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled 
beauty, and from the convent on the highest point, which 
has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupiter, the 

prospect embraces all the objects alluded to in the cited trickles over into the Diffenti 
stanza; the Mediterranean; the whole scene of the 
latter half of the jEncid. and the coast from beyond the 
mouth of the Tiber to the headland of Circseum and the 
Cape of Terracina. 

The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either at 
the Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince Lu- 
cien Buonaparte. 

The former was thought some vears ago the actual 



"... . tu frigns atnabile 
Fessia vomere tauria 
Prmbes, et peeon vago." 

The peasants show another spring near the mosaic 
pavement which they call "Oradina, and which flows 
down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and thence 

ickles over into the Dige 

But we must not hope 

"To irace Uie Muses upwards lo Ibelr spring " 

by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in 
search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange 
that any one should have thought Bandusia a fountain 
of the Digentia — Horace has not let drop a word of it ; 
and this immortal spring has in fact been discovered in 
•ite, as may be seen from Middleton's Life" of Cicero, possession of the holders of many good .things in Italy, 
At present it has lost something of its credit, except for tiie monks - Tt was attached to the church of St. GeV- 
the Domenichinns. Nin« mnnU nf iK« (Zr<> a \, nv ,i„ vais and Protais near Venusia, where it was most likely to 

be found.* We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller 
in rinding the occasional pine still pendent on the poetic 
villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, hut there 
are two cypresses, which he evidently took, "or mistook, 
[for the tree in the ode.j The truth is, that the pine is 
now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a garden tree, and 
it was not at all likely to be found in the craggy aci LWi- 
ties of the valley of Rustica. Horace probably had one 
of them in the orchard close above his farm, imme- 
diately overshadowing his villa, not on the rocky heights 
at some distance from Ins abode. The tourist may have 
easily supposed himself to have seen this pine figured 
in the above cypresses, for the orange and lemon trees 
which throw such a bloom over his description of the 
royal gardens at Naples, unless thev have been since 
displaced, were assuredly only acacias and other com- 
mon garden shrubs.} The extreme disappointment 
experienced by choosing the Classical Tourist as a 
guide in Italy must be allowed to find vent in a few 
observations, which, it is asserted without fear of con- 
tradiction, will be confirmed by every one who has 
selected the same conductor through the same country- 
This author is in fact one of the most inaccurate, unsa- 
tisfactory writers that have in our times" attained a 
temporary reputation, and is very seldom to be trusted 
even when he speaks of objects which he must be pre- 
sumed to have seen. His errors, from the simple 
exaggeration to the downright misslatement, are so 
frequent as to induce a suspicion that he had either 
never visited the spots described, or had trusted to the 
fidelity of former writers. Indeed the Classical Tour 
has every characteristic of a mere compilation of former 
notices, strung together upon a very slender thread jjf 
personal observation, ana swelled out hy those deco=- 
rations which are so easily supplied by a systematic 
adoption of all the common places of praise, applied to 
every thing, and therefore signifying nothing. 

The style which one person thinks cloggy and cum- 
brous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of others, and 
such may experience some sa'utary excitement in 
ploughing through the periods of the Classical Tour. 
It must be said, however, that polish and weight are 
apt to beget an expectation of value. It is amongst the 
pains of the damned to toil up a climax with a huges 
round stone. 

The tourist had the choice of his words, but there 
was no such latitude allowed to that of his sentiments. 
The love of virtue and of liberty, which must have dis- 
tinguished the character, certainly adorns the pages of' 
Mr. Eustace, and the gentlemanly spirit, so recommen- 
datory either in an author or his productions, is very 
conspicuous throughout the Classical Tour. But these 
generous qualities are the foliage of such a performance, 
and may be spread about it so prominently, and pro- 



live there, and the adjoining villa is a cardinal's sum- 
mer-house. The other villa, called Rufinella, is on the 
summit of the hill above Frascati, and many rich re- 
mains of Tusculum have been found there, besides 
seventy-two statues of different merit and preservation, 
and seven busts. 

From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, 
embosomed in which lies the long valley of Rustica. 
There are several circumstances which tend to esta- 
blish the identity of this valley with the " Ustira" of 
Horace ; and it seems possible that the mosaic pave- 
ment which the peasants uncover by throwing up the 
earth of a vineyard may belong to his villa. Rustica is 
pronounced short, not according to our stress upon — 
u Ustira cubanlis." — It is more rational to think that 
we are wrong than that the inhabitants of this secluded 
valley have changed their tone in this word. The addi- 
tion of the consonant prefixed is nothing; yet it is neces- 
sary to be aware that Rustica may be a modern name 
which the peasants may have caught from the antiqua- 
ries. 

The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a knoll 
covered with chestnut trees. A stream runs down the 
valley, and although it is not true, as said in the guide 
books, that this stream is called Licenza, yet there is a 
village on a rock at the head of the valley which is so 
denominated, and which may have taken its name from 
the Digenlia. Licenza contains 700 inhabitants. On a 
peak a little way beyond is Civitella, containing 300. 
On the banks of the Anio, a little before you turn up into 
Valle Rustica, to the left, about an hour from the villa, 
is a town called Vicovaro, another favourable coinci- 
dence with the Varia of the poet. At the end of the 
valley, towards the Anio, there is a bare hill, crowned 
with a little town called Bardela. At the foot of this 
hill the rivulet of Licenza flows, and is almost absorbed 
in a wide sandy bed bofore it reaches the Anio. Nothing 
can be more fortunate for the lines of the poet, whether 
in a metaphorical or direct sense : 

" Me quotient relicil gelidua Digentia rirut, 
Uucm Mandela bibil rugoius frigore pagns." 

The stream is clear high up the valley, but before it 
reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yellow like 
a sulphur rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half an 
hour's walk from the vineyard where the pavement is 
shown, does seem to be the sight of the fane of Vacuna, 
and an inscription found there tells that this temple of 
the Sabine Victory was repaired by Vespasian.* With 
Jiese helps, and a position corresponding exactly to 
every thing which the poet has told us of his retreat, 
we may feel tolerably secure of our site. 

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Campa- 

• IMP. CSSAR VESPASIANVS 

PONTIFBX MAX1MVS. TR1B 

POTEST. CBNSOR. jEDEM 

VICTOR!*. VETV5TATE ILLAPSAK. 

*VA. UJPBXSA.. RXSTITVIT. 



• See— "Historical Illustration* »f the Fourth Canto, p. 43. 

tSec— Clawicd Tour, fte. chap. »ii.p.250. »ul. il. 

{" Under our windowe, ami bordering on the beach, is the royaler, 
den, laid out in parterret. and walk* ahadcrl by rowi of orange lrci»." 
ClwLc&l Tour, 4c. cb»i - xi. vol. u, ocl. 965. 



80 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 



Caitto \\. 



fusely as to embarrass those who wish to see and find 
the fruit at hand. The unction of the divine, and the 
exhortations of the moralist, may have made this work 
something more and belter than a book of travels, but 
they have not made it a book of travels ; and this ob- 
servation applies more especially to that enticing method 
of instruction conveyed by the perpetual introduction 
of the same Gallic Helot to reel ami bluster before the 
rising generation, and terrtfy it into decency by the dis- 
play of all the excesses of the revolution. An animosity 
against atheists and regicides in general] and French- 
men .specifically, may be honourable, and may be useful 
as a record ; but that antidote should okhex be admi- 
nistered in any work rather than a tour, or, at least 
should be served up apart, ami not bo mixed with the 
whole mass of information and reflection, as to give b 
bitterness to every page: for who would choose to have 
the antipathies of any man, however just, for his travel- 
ling companions ? A tourist, unless be aspires to the 
credit of prophecy, is not answerable for the changes 
which may take place in the country which he describes ; 
but his reader may very fairly esteem all his pollticaJ 
portraits and deductions as so much waste paper, the 
moment they cease to assist, and more particularly if 
they obstruct, his actual survey. 

Neither encomium nor accusation of any government, 
or governors, is meant to be here offered ; but it is 
stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the change ope- 
rated, either by ihe address of the late imperial system, 
or by the disappointment of every expectation by those 
who have succeeded to the Italian thrones, has been so 
considerable, and is so apparent, as not only to put Mr. 
Eustace's antigallican philippics entirely out of date, 
but even to throw some suspicion upon the competency 
and candour of the author himself. A remarkable ex- 
ample may be found in the instance of Bologna, over 
whose papal attachments, and consequent desolation, 
the tourist pours forth such strains of condolence and 
revenge, made louder by the borrowed trumpet of Mr. 
Burke. Now Bologna is at this moment, and has been 
for some years, notorious amongst the states of Italy 



for its attachment to revolutionary principles, and vai 
almost the only city which made any demonstrations in 
favour of the unfortunate Murat. ^his change may. 
however, have been made since Mr. Eustace visited 
this country; but the traveller whom he has thrilled 
wnli horror at the projected slrinping of the copper from 
the cupola of St. Peter's, must be much relieved to find 
that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or any 
other plunderers, the copula being covered with lea'l.* 

If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics had 
m<i given considerable currency to the Classical Tour, 
it would* have been unnecessary to warn the reader, 
that however it may adorn his library, it will be of little 
or no service to him in his carriage ; and if the judg- 
ment of those err ics had hitherto been suspended, no 
attempt would have been made to anticipate their deci- 
sion. As it is, those who Stand in the relation of pos- 
terity to Mr. Eustace may be permitted to appeal from 
cotemporary praises, and are perhaps more likely to be 
just in proportion as the causes of love and hatred arc 
the farther removed. Tins appeal had, in some mea- 
sure, been made before the above re murks were written ; 
for one of the most respectable of the Florentine pub* 
lishers, who had been persuaded by the repeated inqui- 
ries ol'those on their journey southwards to reprint a 
cheap edition of the Classical Tour, was, by the con- 
curring advice of returning travellers, induced to aban- 
don his design, although he had already arranged his 
types and paper, and had struck off one or two of the 
first sheets. 

The writer of these notes would wish to part (like 
Mr. Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the 
Cardinals, but he does not think it necessary to extend 
the same discreet silence to their humble partisans. 



* " Whnt then, will 1>e the nstnniihment, or rather the horror, of toj 

render, when 1 inform him the French commi-.'.ee turned 

■u nutrition U Saint Pater'*, toil employed a companv of Jews to esti- 
mate ond purchase the gold, silver, antl bronre that adurn Ihe insiite of 
the edifice, at well i\» the co|>[i«r that covers the vaulia and dome on the 
ouulde." I . hnn. iv. p. 13u. vol. ii. The story about '.lie Jews U posi- 
tively denied al Home. 



THE GIAOUR; 

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 



Oue fnl»l remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes— 
To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no sling. 

Moore. 



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.. 

AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS, 

RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 

BYRON. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The Tale which these disjointed fragments present, is 
founded upon circumstances now less common in the 
East than formerly ; either because the ladies are 
more circumspect than in the "olden time;'' or be- 
cause the Christians have better fortune, or less en- 
terprise. The story, when entire, contained the 
adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the 
Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and 
avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time 
the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of 
Venice, and soon after the Arnaouts were beaten 
back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for 
some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The 
desertion of the Mauiotes, on being refused the plun- 
der of Mtsitra, led to the abandonment of that enter- 
prise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during 
which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unpa- 
ralleled even in the annals of the faithful. 



THE GIAOUR. 



No breath of air to break the wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tomb J which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
First greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
High o'er the land he saved in vain : 
When snafl such hero live again ? 
****** 
Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 
There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 



Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave ; 
And if, at times, a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the odours there! 
For there — the rose o'er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the nightingale, 2 

The maid for whom his melody, 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
His queen, the garden queen, his rose^ 
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, 
Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by Nature given, 
In softest incense back to heaven; 
And grateful yields that smiling sky 
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
And many a summer flower is there, 
And many a shade that love might «hare, 
And many a grotto, meant for rest 
That holds the pirate for a guest ; 
Whose bark in sheltering cove below 
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow 
Till the gay mariner's guitar 3 
Is heard, and seen the evening star 
Then stealing with the muffled oar, 
Far shaded by the rocky shore, 
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 
And turn to groans his roundelay. 
Strange — that where Nature lovM to trace 
As if for gods, a dwelling-place, 
And every charm and grace hath mix'd 
Within the paradise she fix'd, 
There man, enamour'd of distress, 
Should mar it into wilderness, 
And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 
That tasks not one laborious hour ; 
Nor claims the culture of his hand 
To bloom along the fairy land, 



82 



THE GIAOUR. 



But springs as to preclude his care, 

And sweetly woos him — but to spare! 

Strange — that where all is peace beside 

Then passion riots in her pride, 

And lust and rapine wildlv 

To darken o'er the fair domain. 

Ii is as though the fiends prevail'd 

Against the seraphs they assaiPd, 

Ami, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell 

The Greed inheritors of hell; 

So soft the scene, so fbrm'd for 

So curst the tyrants thai destro; 

He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 
Ere the first day of death is fled, 
The first dark day of nothtngn* 
The last of danger and di 
(Before decay's effacing Gngi rs 
Have swept the hues where beauty lingers,) 
And mark'd the mild angelic air, 
The rapture of repose that's there, 
The uaM, yet tender traits that streak 
The languor of the placid cheek, 
And — but for that sad shrouded aye. 
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
Where cold obstruction's apathy' 1 
Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
As if to him it could impart 
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; 
Yes, but for these, and these alone, 
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour 
He still might doubt the tyrant's power; 
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 
The first, last took by death revearM!' 
Such is the aspect of this shore; 
T is Greece, but living Greece no more! 
So coldly sweet, so deadly f.iir, 
We start, f_-r soul is wanting there. 
Hers is the loveliness in death, 
That parts not quite with parting breath; 
But beauty with that fearful bloom, 
That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 
Expression's last receding ray, 
A gilded halo hovering round decay, 
The farewell beam of feeling past away! 
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
Which gleams, but warms no more its ch< 
earth ! 

Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 

Was freedom's home or glory's grave! 
Shrine of the mighty! can it be, 

That this Is all remains of thee? 
Approach, thou crave:) crouching slavo 

Say, is not this Thermopylae - / 

These waters bine that round you lave, 

Oh servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce what sea, whal shore Is this? 
The gulf, the rock of Satsmis ' 
These scenes, their story not unknown, 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear 
That tyranny shall quake to hear, 
And leave his sons a hope, z, fame 
They too will rather die than shame : 
For freedom's battle once begun, 
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, 
Though baffled oft, is ever wmi. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
Attest it many a deathless age ! 



While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 

Have l< fl a nameless pyramid, 

Thy heroes, though the general doom 

Hath swept the column from their tomb, 

A mightier monument commi 

The mountains of their native land! 

rtl eye 

The g] a that cannot d 

"]' u. re long to tell, and sad to trace, 
Each step from 'o disgrace; 

Enough — no foreign (be could quell 
Thy soul, dll IV «n itself it fell; 
Yes ' self-ab ed the way 

To villain-bonds and despot-sway. 

What can he tell who trends thy shore? 

No legend of thine olden lime, 
No theme on which the muse might soar 
High as thine own in days of yore, 

When man n ta worthy of thy clime. 
The hearts within thy valleys bred, 
The fury souls that might have led 

Thv ime, 

Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 

nay, the bondsmen of a slave,* 

And callous, save to crime; 
StainM with each evil that p 
Mankind] where leasl above tho brutes; 

Without cviMi savage virtue blest, 

Without one free or valiant breast. 
Still to the neighbouring ports they waft 

.' n :'.-, .in ! ant 1 1 nl craft; 
In this the subtle Greek is found, 
For this, and this alone, renowtrtl. 
In vam might liberty ii 

Or raise the neck that courts the yoke: 

! wail, 
Yei this « ill be mournful tale, 
And they who listen may I < 
Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 
****** m 

Far, dark, along the blue-sea glancing 
The shadows of the rocks advancing, 
Start on the fisher's eye like- boat 

Of island-pirate or Mainote; 
And, fearful for his light caique, 

lie shuns the near, hut doubtful creek: 

Though worn and weary wi h his toil, 

And cuinb.nl with his scaly spoil, 

Slowrj , yet'stroi I be oar, 

Till Port Leone's safer shore 

Receives him by the lovely light 
Thai best becomes an eastern night. 
**»* + ** 

"Who thundering comes on blackest steed 
Willi slackened bit, and hoof of si 1 
Beneath the clattering iron'e 
1 wake around 

In lash for lash, and bound for b-und; 

1 1 that streaks the courserfe side 

Seems gathered from the ocean-tide; 
Though weary waves are sunk to rest 
'I'll. T. 's none within his rider's breast ; 
And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour T 
I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 
But in thy hmanjents I trace 
What rune shall strengthen, not efface: 
Though young and pale, that sallow front 
Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; 
[h bent on earth thine evil 1 

\- meteor-like thou glidest by, 
Right well I view and deem thee one 
Whom Utliman's sous should slay or shun 



THE GIAOUR. 



83 



On — on he Lastentd, and he drew 
My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
Though like a demon of the night 
He pass'd and vanished from my sight, 
His aspect and his air imprcss'd 
A troubled memory on my breast, 
And long upon my startled ear 
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep, 
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 
He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 
For well I ween unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fiVd on those that flee 
And not a star but shines too bright 
On him who takes such timeless flight, 
lie wound along; but, ere he pass'd, 
One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 
A moment check'd las wheeling steed, 
A moment breathed him from liis speed] 
A moment on his stirrup stood — 
Why looks he o'er the olive-wood ? 
The crescent glimmers on the hill. 
The mosque's high lamps are quivering still: 
Though too remote for sound to wake 
In echoes of the far tophaike, 6 
The flashes of each joyous peal 
Aie seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun; 
To-night the Bairam feast's begun; 
To-night — but who and what art thou, 
Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 
And what are these to thine or thee, 
That thou shouldst either pause or flee ? 
He stood — some dread was on his face, 
Soon hatred settled in its place 
It rose not with the reddening flush 
Of transient anger's darkening blush, 
But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 
Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 
His brow was bent, his eye was glazed, 
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 
And sternly shook his hand on high, 
As doubting to return or fly : 
Impatient of bis flight delay 'd, 
Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 
Down glanced that hand, and grasped his blade ; 
That sound had burst his waking dream, 
As slumber starts at owlet's scream. 
The spur hath lanced his coursers sides ; 
Away, away, for life he rides ; 
Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed, 9 
Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 
The rock is doubled, and the shore 
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more ; 
The crag is won, no more is seen 
His Christian crest and haughty mien. 
'Twas but an instant he restrain' d 
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd : 
T was but a moment that he stood, 
Then sped as if by death pursued ; 
But in that instant o'er his soul 
Winters of memory seem'd to roll, 
And gather in that drop of time 
A life of pain, an age of crime. 
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 
Such moment pours the grief of years 
What felt he then, at once opprest 
By all that most distracts the breast? 
That pause, winch ponder'd o'er his fate, 
Oh, who its dreary length shall date '. 
Though in time's record nearly nought, 
It was eternity to thought ! 
For infinite as boundless space 
The thought that conscience must embrace, 



Which in itself can comprehend 
Wo without name, or hope, or end. 

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone 
And did he fly or fall alone ? 
Wo to that hour he came or went ! 
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent, 
To turn a palace to a tomb: 
He came, he went, like the simoom, 10 
That harbinger of fate and gloom, 
Beneatli whose widely- wasting breath 
The very cypress droops to death — 
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled. 
The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! 

The steed is vanisli'd from the stall ; 
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
The lonely spider's thin gray pall 
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall, 
The bat builds in his haram bower ; 
And in the fortress of his power 
The owl usurps the beacon-tower ; 
The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 
With baffled thirst, and famine grim ; 
For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 
Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread, 
'T was sweet of yore to see it play, 
And chase the sultriness of day, 
As, springing high, *.he silver dew 
In whirls fantastically flew, 
And flung luxurious coolness round 
The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 
'T was sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, 
To view the wave of watery light, 
And hear its melody by night, 
And oft had Hassan's childhood playM 
Around the verge of that cascade ; 
And oft upon his mother's breast 
That sound had harmonized his rest; 
And oft had Hassan's youth along 
Its bank been soothed by beauty's song; 
And softer seemed each melting tone 
Of music mingled with its own. 
But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose 
Along the brink at twilight's close : 

The stream that filTd that font is fled- 

The blood that warm'd his heart is shed! 

And here no more shall human voice 

Be heird to rage, regret, rejoicej 

The last sad note that swell' d the gale 

Was woman's wildest funeral wail: 

That quench'd in silence, all is still, 

But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill: 

Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 

No hand shall close its clasp again. 

On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 

The rudest steps of fellow man — 

So here the very voice of grief 

Might wake an echo like relief; 

At least 'twould say, K all are not gone; 

There lingers life, though but in one— - * 

For many a gilded chamber J s there, 

"Which solitude might well forbear; 

Within that dome as yet decay 

Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — 

But gloom is gathered o'er the gate 

Nor there the fakir's self will wait; 

Nor there will wandering dervise stay 

For bounty cheers not his delay ; 

Nor there will weary stranger halt 

To bless the sacred "bread and salt." 11 

Alike must wealth and poverty 

Pass heedless and unheeded by, 

For courtesy and pity died 

With Hassan on the mountain side. 

His roof, that refuge unto men, 

Is desolation's hungry den. 



84 



THE GIAOUR. 



The guest Hies the hull, and the vassals from labour, 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre ! 12 
* * * * * * 

I hear the sound of coming feet, 
But not a voice mine ear to greet; 
More near — each turban I can scan, 
And silver-sheathed ataghan ; ia 
The foremost of the band is Been, 
An emir by his garb of green : 14 
"Ho! who art thou? — this low salam 1S 
Replies of Moslem faith I am. 
The burden ye so gently bear, 
Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
My humble bark would gladly wait." 

"Thou spcakest sooth, thy skiff" unmoor, 
And waft us from the silent shore ; 
Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
The nearest oar that *s scatter'd by ; 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channeled waters dark and deep, 
Rest from your task — so— bravely done, 
Our course has been right swiftly run 
Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow, 

That one of n 

****** 

Sullen it plungM, and slowly sank, 
The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
I watch'd it as it sank, methought 
Some motion from the current caught 
Bestirr'd it more, — 't was but the beam 
That chequer'd o'er the living stream : 
I gazed, till vanishing from view, 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew : 
Still less and less, a speck of white 
That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight ; 
And all its hidden secrets sleep, 
Known but to genii of the deep, 
Which, trembling in ilnir coral caves 
They dare not whisper to the waves. 
+ * * * * • 

As rising on its purple wing 
The insect-queen 16 of eastern spring, 
O'er emerald meadows of Kasluneer 
Invites the young pursuer near, 
And leads him on from flower to flower 
A weary chase and wasted hour, 
Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
Willi panting heart and tearful eye : 
So beauty lures the full-grown child, 
With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 
A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betray'd, 
Wo waits the insect and the maid 
A life of pain, the loss of peace, 
From infant's play, and man's caprice: 
The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
HaUi lost its charm by being caught. 
For every touch that wooed its stay 
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away, 
Till, i.lmrm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
*T Is kft to fly or fall alone. 
With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 
Ah! where shall either victim rest? 
Can this with faded pinion soar 
From rose to tulip as before ? 
Or beauty, blighted in an hour, 
Find joy within her broken bower ? 
No ! gayer insects fluttering by 
No'er droop the wing o'er those that die, 



And lovelier things have mercy shown 
To every failing but their own, 
And every wo a tear can claim 
Except an erring sister's shame. 



The mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 

Is like the scorpion girt by fire, 
In circle narrowing as it glows, 
The flames around their captive close, 
Till, inly scarch'd by thousand throes, 

And maddening in her ire, 
One sad and sole relief she knows, 
The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
Whose venom never vet was vain, 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
And darts into her desperate brain: 
So do the dark in soul expire, 
Or live like scorpion girt by fire ; ,T 
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd (br heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath, 
Around it flame, within it death ! 



Black Hassan from the haram flies, 
Nor bends on woman's form bis eyes; 
The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwell in his Serai. 
Dotli Leila there no longer dwell ? 
That tale can only Hassan tell: 
Strange rumours in our city say 
Upon that eve she lied away, 
When Rhamazan's ,8 last sun was set, 
And, flashing from each minaret, 
Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless east. 
'T was then she went as to the bath, 
Which Hassan vainly searched in wrath , 
For she was flown her masters rage, 
In likeness of a Georgian pa^e, 
And far beyond the Moslem's power 
Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaoo, 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd ; 
But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserv'd a grave : 
And on that eve bad gone to mosque, 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tale bis Nubians tell, 
Who did not watch their charge too well4 
But others say, that on that night, 
By pale Phingaris ,9 trembling tight, 
The Giaour upon his jet black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore, 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 

*****, 

Her eyes dark charm h were vain to tell. 
But gaze on that of the gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, as languishingly dark, 
But soul beam'd forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid, 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. *° 
Yea, soul, and should our prophet say 
That form was nought but brcaUiing clay, 
By Alia! I would answer nay; 
Though on Al-Sirat's ai arch I stood 
Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 
With paradise within my view, 
And all his houris beckoning through. 



THE GIAOUR. 



85 



Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 

And keep that portion of Ids creed 22 

Which saith that woman is but dust, 

A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? 

On her might muftis gaze, and own 

That through her eye the Immortal shone; 

On her fair cheek's unfading hue 

The young pomegranate's 2J blossoms strew 

Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 

Her hair in hyacinthine 2 * flow, 

When left to roll its folds below, 

As 'midst her handmaids in the hall 

She stood superior to them all, 

Hath swept the marble where her feet 

Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, 

Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 

It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 

The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 

So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 

The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! 25 

As rears her crest the ruffled swan, 

And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he ? 
Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 
***** 

Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
With twenty vassals in his train, 
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 
With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
The chief before, as deck'd for war, 
Bears in his belt the scimitar 
Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood, 
When in the pass the rebels stood, 
And few return'd to tell the tale 
Of what befell in Parne's vale. 

The pistols which liis girdle bore 

Were those that once a pasha wore, 

Winch still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, 

Even robbers tremble to behold. 

T is said he goes to woo a bride 

More true than her who left his side; 

The faithless slave that broke her bower, 

And, worse than faitldess, for a Giaour ! 

* ' * * * * * 

The sun's last rays are on the hill, 
And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer: 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 't were vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord, 
And trembling for his secret hoard — 
Here may he rest where none can see, 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 



The foremost Tartar 's in the gap, 
Conspicuous by tiis yellow cap; 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile : 
Above, the mountain rears a peak, 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light ; 



Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
And left a channel bleak and bare, 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite gray, 
By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura imveil'd ? 
******* 

They reach the grove of pine at last : 
K Bismillah ! 26 now the peril 's past; 
For yonder view the opening plain, 
And there we '11 prick our steeds amain* 1 ' 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 

Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 

But three shall never mount again: 
Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 

The dying ask revenge in vain. 
With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent, 
Some o'er their courser's harness leant, 

Half shelter'd by the steed ; 
Some fly behind the nearest rock, 
And there await the coming shock, 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
BeneaUi the shaft of foes unseen, 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stem Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to light, and keeps his course, 
Till 6ery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Could now avail die promised prey ; 
Then curl'd his very beard 2T with ire, 
And glared his eye with fiercer fire : 
" Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
I 've scaped a bloodier hour than this.' 1 
And now the foe their covert quit, 
And call his vassals to submit ; 
But Hassan's frown and furious word 
Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
Nor of liis little band a man 
Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! 2a 
In fuller sight, more near and ii'-nr, 
The lately ambush'd foes appear, 
And, issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle-charger prance. 
Who leads them on with foreign brand, 
Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
-*'T is he ! 't is he ! I know liim now ; 
I know him by his pallid brow ; 
I know him by the evil eye 29 
That aids his envious treachery ; 
I know him by his jet-black barb: 
Though now array 'd in Arnaut garb, 
Apostate from his own vile faith, 
It shall not save him from the death 
'T is he ! well met in any hour ! 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour !" 

As rolls the river into ocean, 
In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
In azure column proudly gleaming, 
Beats back the current many a rood, 
In curling foam and mingling flood, 
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave- 
Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
Through sparkling spray, in thundering ctorfh, 
The lightnings of the waters flash 



86 



THE GfAOUR. 



In awful whiteness > p: the shore, 


Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 


That shines and stbites beneath the roar ; 


Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift? 


Thus — as the strearc and ocean greet, 


Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift? 


With waves that madden as they meet — 


Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 


Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, 


Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 


And fate, and fury, drive along. 


And warily the steep descends, 


The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 


And now within the vail* v bends ; 


And pealing wide or ringing near 


And he bears the gift at his saddlebow- 


Its echoes on the tiirobbing ear, 


How could 1 deem his courser slow? 


The death-shot hissing from afar ; 


Right well my largess shall repay 


The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 


His welcome speed, and weary way.* 


Reverberate along that vale, 


The Tartar lighted at the gate, 


More suited to the shepherd's talc: 


But scarce upheld his fainting weight 


Though few the numbers — theirs the strife, 


His swarthy visage spake disin 


That neither spares nor speaks for life ! 


But this might be from weariness ; 


Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, 


His earb with sanguine spots was dyed, 


To seize and share the dear caress; 


But these mi^'ht be from his courser's side; 


But love itself could never pant 


lie drew the token from his vest — 


For all that beauty Btghs to grant 


Angel of Death! 't is Hassaris cloven crest 


With half the fervour hate bestows 


His calpac 31 rent — his caftan red — 


Upon the last embrace of foes, 


"Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed" 


When grappling in the fight they fold 


Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 


Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold 


But this empurpled pledge tu bear. 


Friends meet to part ; love laughs at faith ; 


Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt: 


True foes, once net, are join'd till death ! 


Wo to the Giaour! for his the guilt." 


******* 


* * * * * * 


With sabre shive 'd to the hilt. 


A turban " carved in coarsest stone, 


Yet dripping witk the blood he spilt ; 


A pillar with rank weeds ocrgrown, 


Yet strain'd within the scver'd hand 


Whereon can now be scarcely read 


Which quivers roi nd that faithless brand ; 


The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 


His turban ~ar be) ind him roil'd, 


Point out the spot where Hassan fell 


And cleft ii twau its firmest fold; 


A victim in that lonely dell. 


His flowing dbe / falchion torn, 


There sleeps as true an ' fsmanhe 


And crimson as those clouds of morn 


As e'er at Mecca hent the knee; 


That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 


As ever scorn'd forbidden Wine, 


The day shall have a stormy end ; 


Or prav'd with face towards the shrine. 


A stain on every bush that bore 


In orisons resumed anew 


A fragment of his palampore, 30 


At solemn sound of "Alia Hu! M " 


His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, 


Yet died ho by a stranger's hand, 


His bark to earth, his face to heaven. 


And stranger in his native land ; 


Fallen Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 


Yet died he as in arms he stood, 


Yet lowering on his enemy, 


And unavenged, al least in blood. 


As if the hour that scal'd his fate 


But him the maids of paradise 


Surviving left his quenchless hate; 


Impatient to their halls invite, 


And o'er him bends that foe with brow- 


And the dark heaven of Houri's eyes 


As dark as Ins that bled below. — 


On him shall glance for ever bright; 


******* 


They come — their kerchiefs green they wave, 14 




And welcome with a kiss the brave! 


u Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 


Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 


But his shall be a redder grave ; 


Is worthiest an immortal bower. 


Her spirit pointed well the steel 


****** 


Which taught that felon heart to feel. 




He call'd the Prophet, but bis power 


But thou, false infidel ! shall writhe 


Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: 


Beneath avenging JVIonkirV* scythe; 


He call'd on Alia — but the word 


And from its torment *scape alone 


Arose unheeded or unheard. 


To wander round lust EhUV M throne; 


Thou Paynim fool! could Leila's prayer 


And fire unquench'd, unquenchable, 


Be pass'd, and thine accorded there? 


Around, within, thy heart shall dwell; 


1 watchVI my tune, T leagued with these, 


Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 


The traitor in his turn to Beize; 


The tortures of that inward hell! 


My wrath is wreak*d, tin- deed is done, 


But first, on earth as vampire* 7 sent, 


And now I go — but go alone." 


Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent: 


****** 


Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 


****** 


And suck the blood of all thy race; 




There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 


The browsing camels' hells arc tinkling : 


At midnight drain the stream of life ; 


His mother look'd from her lattice high, 


Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 


She saw the deWS of ova besprinkling 


Musi (cod thy livid living corse: 


The pasture green beneath her eye, 


Thy victims ere they yet expire 


She saw the planets faintly twinkling: 


Shall know the demon fir their sire, 


°'T is twilight — sure his train is nigh.' 1 


As cursing thee, thou cursing them, 


She could not rest in the garden-bower, 


Thy flowers are withcr'd on the st»;m. 


But gazod tlirough the grate of his steepest tower: 


But one that for thy crime must fall, 


p Why comes he not ? his steeds aro fleet, 


The youngest, most beloved of all. 



THE GIAOUR. 



87 



Shall bless thee with a father's name — 
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tin^e, her eye's last spark, 
And the last glassy glance must view 
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue; 
Then with imhallow'd hand shalt tear 
The tresses of her yellow hair, 
Of which in life a lock when shorn 
Affection's fondest pledge was worn ; 
But now is borne away by thee, 
Memorial of thine agony! 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip 38 
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip; 
Then stalking to thy sullen erave, 
Go— and with Gotils and Afrits rave ; 
Till these in horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursed than they! 



* How name ye yon lone Caloyer? 

His features I have scann'd before 
In mine own land : 'tis many a year, 

Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
I saw him urge as Beet a steed 
As ever served a horseman's need. 
But once I saw that face, yet then 
It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
I could not pass it by again ; 
It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
As death were stamp'd upon his brow." 

* 'T is twice three years at summer-tide 

Since first among our freres he came ; 
And here it soothes him to abide 

For some dark deed he will not name. 
But never at our vesper prayer, 
Nor e'er' before confession chair 
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
Incense or anthem to the skies, 
But broods within his cell alone, 
His faith and race alike unknown. 
The sea from Paynim land he crost, 
And here ascended from the coast ; 
Yet seems he not of Othman race, 
But only Christian in his face : 
V d judge him some stray renegade, 
Repentant of the change he made, 
Save that he shuns our holy shrine, 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
Great largess to these walls he brought, 
And thus our abbot's favour bought ; 
But were I prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger's further stay, 
Or pent within our penance cell 
Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
Much in his visions mutters he 
Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ; 
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
On cliff he hath been known to stand, 
And rave as to some bloody hand 
Fresh sever'd from its parent limb 
Invisible to all but him, 
Which beckons onward to his grave, 
And lures to leap into the wave." 



Dark and unearthly is the scowl 
That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 
The flash of that dilating eye 
Reveals too much of times gone by ; 
Though varying, indistinct its hue, 
Oft will his glance the gazer rue 



For in it lurks that nameless spell 

Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 

A spirit yet unquell'd and high, 

That claims and keeps ascendancy ; 

And like the bird whose pinions quake, 

But cannot fly the gazing snake, 

Will others quail beneath his look, 

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 

From him the half-affrighted friar 

When met alone would fain retire, 

As if that eye and bitter smile 

Transferr'd to others fear and guile : 

Not oft to smile descendcth he, 

And when he doth 't is sad to see 

That he but mocks at misery. 

How that pale lip will curl and quiver 

Then fix once more as if for ever ; 

As if his sorrow or disdain 

Forbade him e'er to smile again. 

Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 

From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth 

But sadder still it were to trace 

What once were feelings in that face. 

Tune hath not yet the features hVd, 

But brighter traits with evil rais'd ; 

And there are hues not always faded, 

Winch speak a mind not all degraded 

Even by the crimes through which it waded 

The common crowd but see the gloom 

Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 

The close observer can espy 

A noble soul, and lineage high : 

Alas ! though both bestowM in vain, 

Which grief could change, and guilt could stam 

It was no vulgar tenement 

To which such lofty gifts were lent, 

And still with little less than dread 

On such the sight is riveted. 

The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, 

Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
The tower by war or tempest bent, 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye , 
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 

a His floating robe around him folding, 

Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle i 

With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 
The rites that sanctify the pile. 

But when the anthem snakes the choir, 

And kneel the monks, bis steps retire 

By yonder lone and wavering torch 

His aspect glares within the porch ; 

There will he pause till all is done— 

And hear the prayer, but utter none. 

See — by the half- illumined wall 

His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 

That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 

As if the Gorgon there had bound 

The sablest of the serpent-braid 

That o'er her fearful forehead strayed: 

For he declines the convent oath, 

And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth, 

But wears our garb in all beside ; 

And, not from piety but pride, 

Gives wealth to walls that never heard 

Of his one holy vow nor word. 

Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 

Peals louder praises to the sky, 

That livid cheek, that stony air 

Of mix'd defiance and despair ! 

Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! 

Else may we dread the wrath divine 

Made manifest by awful sign. 



88 



THE GIAOUR. 



If ever evil angel bore. 

The form of mortal, such ho wore : 

By all my hope of sins forgiven, 

Such looks are not of earth nor heaven !" 

To love the softest hearts are prone, 
But such can ne'er be all his own ; 
Too timid in his woes to share. 
Too meek to meet, or brave despair ; 
And sterner hearts alone may feel 
The wound that time can never heal 
The rugged metal ofthe mine 

Must burn before its surface BODie, 

But plunged within the furnace-flame, 

It bends and melts — though still the same ; 

Then temper'd to thy want, or will, 

'T will serve thee to defend or kill ; 

A breastplate for thine hour of need, 

Or blade to bid thy foemao bleed ; 

But if a dagger's form it bear, 

Let those who shape its edge beware ! 

Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 

Can turn and tame the sterner heart ; 

From these its form and tone are ta'cn, 

And what they make it, must remain, 

But break — before it bend again. 



If solitude succeed to griefj 
Release from pain is slight relief; 
The vacant bosom's wilderness 
Mighl i hank the pang that made it less. 
We loathe what none are left to share : 
Even bliss — 'twere wo alone to bear ; 
The heart once left, thus desolate 
Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
lit is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal, 
And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of their clay .' 
It is as if the desert-bird, 39 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 
To still her famish'd nestlings 1 scream, 
Nor mourns a life to them transferred, 
Should rend her rash devoted breast, 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void, 
The leafless desert of the mind, 

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
*Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 
Unseen to drop by dull decay ; — 
Better to sink beneath the shock 
Than moulder piecemeal on tho rock 1 
****** 

Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 
'Mid counted beads, and countless pray or ; 
To bid the sins of others cease, 

Thyself without a crime or care, 
Save transient ills that all must bear, 
Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 
And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 
Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd, 
Such as thy penitents unfold, 
Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 
Within thy pure and pitying breast. 



My days, though few, have pass'd below 

In much of joy, but more of wo; 

Yet still iii hours nf love or strife, 

I' ve 'scaped the weariness of life : 

Now leagued with friends, now girt by foee 

I loathed the languor of repose. 

Now nothing left to love or hate, 

No more with hope or pride elate, 

I' d rather be the thing that crawls 

Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 

Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 

Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 

Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 

For rest — but not to feel 't is rest. 

Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil; 
And I shall sleep without the dream 

Of what I was, and would be still, 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem: 
My memory now is but the tomb 
Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom: 
Though better to have died with those 
Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
My spirits shrunk not to sustain 
The searching throes of ceaseless pain; 
Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
Yet death I have not feard to meet; 
And in the field it had been sweet, 
Had danger woo'd me on to move 
The slave of glory, not of love. 
I've braved it — not for honour's boast \ 
I smile at laurels won or lost; 
To such let others carve their way, 
For high renown, or hireling pay: 
But place again before my eyes 
Au«ht that I deem a worthy prize, 
The maid I love, the man I hate ; 
And I will hunt the steps of fate, 
To save or slay, as these require, 
Through rending steel, and rolling fire : 
Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one 
Who would but do — what he hath done. 
Death is but what the haughty brave, 
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave 
Then let life go to him who gave : 
I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
When high and happy — need I nov>? 



K 1 loved her, friar! nay, adored- — 

But these are words that all can use— 
I proved it more in deed than word 
There 's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose: 
'T was shed for her, who died for me, 

It warm'd the heart of one abhorrM: 
Nav, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 

Nor midst my sins such act record ; 
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 
For he was hostile to thy creed? 
Tho very name of Nazarene 
Was wormwood to his Payriim spleen. 
Ungrateful fool! since but for brands 
Well wielded in some hardy hands, 
And wounds by Galileans given, 
The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 
For him his Houris still might wait 
Impatient at the prophet's gate. 
I loved her — love will find its way 
Through paths where wolves would fear to prey, 
And if it dares enough, H were hard 
If passion met not some reward — 
No matter how, or whore, or why 
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh; 



THE GIAOUR. 



Yet sometimes, with remorse, m vain 

I wish she had not loved again. 

She died — I dare not tell thee how ; 

But look — 't is written on my brow ! 

There read of Cain the curse and crime, 

In characters unworn by time : 

Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause; 

Not mine the act, though I the cause. 

Yet did he but what I had done 

Had she been false to more than one. 

Faithless to him, he gave the blow \ 

But true lo me, I laid him low: 

Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 

Her treachery was truth to me ; 

To me she gave her heart, that all 

Which tyranny can ne'er enthral ; 

And I, alas ! too late to save ! 

Yet all I then could give, I gave, 

'T was some relief, our foe a ^ravc. 

His death sits lightly ; but her fate 

Has made me — what thou well may's! hate. 

His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear 40 
The death-shot peal'd of murder near, 
As filed the troop to where they fell 
He died too in the battle broil, 
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil • 
One cry to Mahomet Tor aid, 
One prayer to Alia all he made : 
He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 
I gazed upon him where he lay, 
And watch'd his spirit ebb away : 
Though picrc'd like pard by hunters' steel, 
He felt not half that now I feel. 
I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 
The workings of a wounded mind ; 
Each fealure of that sullen corse 
Betrayed his rage, but no remorse. 
Oh, what had vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dying face ! 
The late repentance of that hour, 
When penitence hath lost her power 
To tear one terror from the grave, 
And will not soothe, and cannot save. 
****** 

° The cold in clime are cold in blood, 

Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
But mine was like the lava flood 

That boils in Etna's breast of flame. 
I cannot prate in puling strain 
Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain: 
If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
If bursting heart, and maddViing brain, 
And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 
And all that I have felt, and feel, 
Betoken love — that love was mine, 
And shown by many a bitter sign. 
'T is true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
I knew but to obtain or die. 
I die — but first 1 have possess'd, 
And, come what may, I have been blest. 
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid? 
No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 
But for the thought of Leila slain, 
Gave me the pleasure with the pain. 
So would I live and love again. 
I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 
For him who dies, but her who died : 
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave— 
Ah ! had she but an earthy grave, 
This breaking heart and throbbing head 
Should seek and share her narrow bed. 

M 



89 



She was a form of life and light, 
That, seen, became a part of sight; 
And rose, where'er I turned mine eye, 
The morning star of memory ! 

■ Yes, love indeed is light from heaven ; 
A spark of that immortal fire 

"With angels shared, by Alia given, 
To lift from earth our low desire. 

Devotion wafts the mind above, 

But heaven itself descends in love ; 

A feeling from the Godhead caught, 

To wean from self each sordid thought ; 

A ray of him who form'd the whole ; 

A glory circling round the soul ! 

I grant my love imperfect, all 

That mortals by the name miscall ; 

Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 

But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 

She was my life's unerring light : 

That quench'd, what beam shall break my night. 

Oh ! would it shone to lead me still, 

Although to death or deadliest ill ! 

Why marvel ye, if they who lose 
This present joy, tills future hope, 
No more with sorrow meekly cope; 

In phrensy then their fate accuse; 

In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to wo ? 
Alas 1 tlie breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dread from outward llow: 
"Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what abyss. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 
I read abhorrence on thy brow, 

And tliis too was I born to bear ! 
'T is true, that, like that bird of prey, 
With havoc have I mark'd my way : 
But this was taught me by the dove, 
To die — and know no second love. 
This lesson yet hath man to leam, 
Taught by the thing he dares to spum : 
The bird that sings within the brake, 
The swan that swims upon the lake, 
One mate, and one alone, will take. 
And let the fool still prone to range, 
And sneer on all who cannot change, 
Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
I envy not his varied joys, 
But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 
Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
He left believing and betray'd. 
Such shame at least was never mine — 
Leila ! each thought was only tliine ! 
My good, my guilt, my 'weal, my wo, 
My hope on high — my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee, 
Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
For worlds I dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth, 
This bed of death— attest my truth ! 
'Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
The cherish'd madness of my heart! 

" And she was lost — and yet I breathed, 

But not the breath of human life ; 
A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 

And stung my every thought to strife. 
Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, 
Shuddering I shrunk from nature's face, 
Where every hue that charm'd before 
The blackness of my bosom wore. 



90 



THE GIAOUR. 



The rest thou dost already know, 
And all my sins, and half my wo. 
But talk no more of penitent <• ; 
Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence 
And if thy holy tale were true, 
The deed that's done can'st thou undo? 
Think me not dianklcss — but this grief 
Looks not to priesthood for relief. 41 
My soul's estate in secret guess! 
But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
When thou canst 1ml my Leila live, 
Then «ill I sue thee to fbrgU •■ ; * 
Then plead my cause- in that high place 
"Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
Go, when the hunter 's hand hath wrung 
From forest-cave her shrieking young, 
And calm the lonely lioness: 
But sooth not — mock not my distress. 

" In earlier days, and calmer hours. 

When heart with heart delights to blend, 
Where bloom my nam-' valley's Wvers 

I had — ah! have I now? — a friend! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send, 

Memorial of a youthful vow; 
I would remind him of my end : 

Though souls absorbed like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, 

And I have smiled — I then could smile — ■ 
When prudence would Ins voice assume, 

And warn — 1 reck'd net what — the while: 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
Say — that his bodings came to pass. 

And he will start to hear their truth, 

And wish his words had not been sooth: 
Tell him, unheeding as I was, 

Through many a busy bitter scene 

Of all our golden youth had been, 
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 
But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 
If guilt should for the guil'less pray. 
I do not ask him not to blame, 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame? 
I do not ask liim not to mourn, 
Such cold request might sound like scorn 
And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier ? 
But bear this ring, his own of old, 
And tell him — what thou dost behold 
The withered fiamo, the ruin'd mind, 
The wrack by passion left behind, 
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leal) 
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief! 



u Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
No, father, no, 'twas not a dream; 
Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep; 
But could not, for my burning brow 
ThrobVd to the very brain as now: 
I wish'd but for a single tear, 
As something welcome, new, and dear: 
I wish'd it then, I wish it still ; 
Despair b stronger than my will. 



Waste not tliine orison, despair 

Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 

I would not, if I migh f , be blest ; 

I want no paradise, but rest. 

'Twas then, I tell thee, father! then 

I saw her; yes, she lived again; 

And shining in her white symar," 

As through yon pale gray cloud the star 

Which now 1 gaze on, as on her, # 

Who Innk'd and looks far lovelier; 

Dimly I view its trembling spark; 

To-morrow's night shall be more dark ; 

And I, 1" (ore its rays appear, 

That lifeless thing the living fear. 

I wander, father! f-r my soul 

Is fleeting towards the final goal. 

1 saw her, friar! and I ruse 

Forgetful of our former woes; 

And rushing from my couch, I dart, 

And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 

I clasp — what is it that I clasp? 

No breathing form withm my grasp, 
i! I that beats reply to mine, 

Vet, Leila! yet the form is thine! 
And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch? 
Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
I care not ; so my arms enfold 
The all they ever wish to hold. 
Alas! amund a shadow prest, 
They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
Yet still 'tis there! in silence stands, 
And beckons with beseeching hands! 
With braided hair, and bright-black eye— 
I knew 'twas false — she could not die! 
But he is dead! within the dell 
I saw him buried where he fell; 
He comes not, for he cannot break 
From earth; why then art thou awake'' 
They told me wild waves roll'd above 
The face I view, the form I love ; 
They told me — 'twas a hideous talc! 
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail: 
If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, 
Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
This brow that then will burn no more* 
Or place them on my hopeless heart: 
But, shape or shade! whateler thou art, 
In mercy ne'er again depart! 
Or farther with thee bear my soul, 
Than winds can waft or waters roll! 
****** 

" Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 

And thank thee fur the generous tear 
This glazing eye could never shed. 
Then lav me with the humblest dead, 
And, save the cross above my head, 
Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
By prying stranger to be read, 
Or stay the passiiig pilgrim's tread." 

He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace, 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived liira on his dying day 
This broken tale was all we knew 
Of her he loved, or liim he slew.** 



NOTES TO THE GIAOUR. 



Notel. Page 81, line 3. 
That tomb, which, gleaming oerUie cliff". 
A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some 
supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. 
Note2. Page 81, line 22. 
Sultana of tlte nigluingale. 
The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a 
well-known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the u Bul- 
bul of a thousand tales" is one of his appellations. 

Note 3. Page 81, line 40. 

Till the gay mariner's guitar. 
The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek 
sailor by night: with a steady fair wind, and during a 
calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often 
by dancing. 

Note 4. Page 82, line 26. 
Where cold obstruction's apathy. 

" AT. but to die *u<l go we know not where, 
To lie iii cold obstruct! ■■■ 

Measure for Alta+ure, Act II!. 130. Sc. 2. 

Note 5. Page 82, line 34. 
The first, last took by death reveafd. 
I trust that few of my readers have ever had an op- 
portunity of witnessing what is here attempted in de- 
scription, but those who have, will probably retain a 
painful remembrance of that singular beauty which 
pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the 
dead, a few hours, and hut for a few hours, after "the 
spirit is not there." It is to be remarked, in cases of 
violent death by gunshot wounds, the expression is 
always that of languor, whatever the natural energy of 
the sufferer's character: but in death from a stab the 
countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocitv, 
and the mind its bias to the last. 

Note 6. Page 82, line 96. 
Slaves — nay, the bowls men of a slave. 
Athens is the properly of the Kislar Aga, (the slave 
of the seraglio and guardian of the women,) who ap- 
points the Vvaywoae. A pander and eunuch — these 
are not polite, vet true appellations — now governs the 
governor of Athens ! 

Note 7. Page 82, line 135. 
1 T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour. 
Infidel. 

Note 8. Page 83, line 2G. 

In echoes of the far tophaihe. 

" Tophatke,*' musket. — The Bairam is announced by 

the cannon at sunset ; the illumination of the Mosques, 

and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with 

ball, proclaim it during the night. 

Note 9. Page 83, line 52. 
Suift as the hurtd on highjerreed. 
Jcrrecd, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which 
is darted from horseback with great force and precision. 
It is a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans; but I 
know not if it can be called a manly one, since the 
most expert in the art are the Black Eunuchs of Con- 
stantinople. I think, next to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna 
was the most skilful that came within my observation. 

Note 10. Page 83, line 83. 
He came, he went, like the simoom. 
The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, 
and ofteu alluded to in eastern poetry. 

Note II. Page 63, line 144. 
To bless the sacred " bread and salt." 
To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your 



host, ensures the safety of the guest ; even though an 
enemy, Ins person from that moment is sacred. 

Note 12. Page 84, line 2. 

Since his turban was cleft by the infidel? s sabre. 

I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality 
are the first iuties enjoined by Mahomet; and, to say 
truth, very generally practised by his disciples. The 
first praise that can be bestowed on a chief is a pane- 
gyric on his bounty ; the next, on his valour. 

Note 13. Page 84, line 6. 
And silver-sheathed ataghan. 
The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the 
belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver ; and, 
among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. 

Note 14. Page 84, line 8. 
An emir by his garb of green. 
Green is the privileged colour of the prophets nu- 
merous pretended descendants; with them, as here, 
faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede 
the necessity of good works : they are the worst of a 
very indifferent brood. 

Note 15. Page 48, line 9. 
Ho ! who art thou ? — this low salam. 
Salam aleikoum! aleikoum salam! peace be with 
you ; be with yon peace — the salutation reserved for 
the faithful : — to a Christian, " Urlarula," a good jour- 
ney ; or sahan hiresem, saban serula ; good morn, 
good even ; and sometimes, " may your end be happy ;' 
are the uiual salutes. 

Note 16. Page 84, line 40. 
The insect-queen of eastern spring. 

The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most 
rare and beautiful of the species. 

Note 17. Page 84, line 85. 
Or live like scorpion girt by fire. 
Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so 
placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some 
maintain that the position of the sting, when turned 
towards the head, is merely a convulsive movement ; 
but others have actually brought in the verdict, "Felo 
de se." The scorpions are surely interested in a speedy 
decision of the qties'ion ; as, if once fairly established 
as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live as 
Ions as they think proper, without being martyred for 
the sake of an hypothesis. 

Note IS. Page S4, line 100. 
When Rhamazan'8 last sun was set. 
The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See 
note 8. 

Note 19. Page 84, line 119. 
By pale Phvigans trembling light. 
Phingari, the moon. 

Note 20. Page 84, line 130. 
Bright as the j&i'el of Giamschid. 
The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, 
the embellisher of Istakhar : from its splendor, named 
Schebgerag, " the torch of night f also, " the cup of the 
sun," &c— 111 the first edition, "giamschid was 
written as a word of three syllabus, so D Herbelot has 
it; but I am told Richardson reduces it to a dissyllable, 
and writes "Jamstfd. 8 » "a ve ,efl m * he . te * 1 lh « 
orthography of the one with the pronunciation ot the 
other. 

Note 21. Page 84, line 134. 
Tfumgh on Al-Sirat's arch I stood. 
Al-Sirat, the bridge of breadth less than the thread 



92 



THE GIAOUR. 



of a famished spider, over which the Mussulmans must 
skate into paradise, to winch it is the only entrance ; 
but this is not the worst, the river beneath being hell 
itself, into which, as may be expected, the unskil&il and 
tender of foot contrive "to tumble with a " facilis de- 
scensus Averni," not very pleasing in prospect In ihi 
next, passenger. There is a shorter cut downwards for 
the Jews and Christians. 

Note 22. Page 85, line 2. 
And keep thai portion of his creed. 
A vulgar error : the .Koran ailots at least a third "I 
paradise to well-behaved women; but by far the 
greater number of Mussulmans interpret the ti ■■' 
then- own wav, anil exclude llicir irfcie-tics from 
heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot 
discern " any fitness of things" in the souls of the 
other sex, conceiving them to be superseded by the 
Houris. 

Note 23. Page 85, line 8. 
The young pomegranate's blossoms strew. 
An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly 
stolen, be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Arabic." 
Note 21. Page So, line 10. 
Her hair in hyarinthine flow. 
Hvacinlhine, in Arabic, "Sunbul;" as common a 
thought in the eastern poets, as it was among the 
Gt reeks 

Note 23. Page 85, line 20. 
The loveliest bird of Frangitestan. 
u Franguestan," Circassia. 

Note 26. Page 85, line 82. 
BismtUah! nou the periCs past. 
Bismillah — " In the name of God ;" tlie commence- 
ment of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of 
prayer and thanksgiving. 

Note 27. Pa je B5, line 107. 

Then rurl \i his very heard v ilji ire. 

A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussul- 
man. In 1809, tlu- Capitan Pacha's whiskers, rvt a 
diplomatic audience, were no less lively with indig- 
nation than a tiger cat's, in the horror of all the dra- 
gomans ; the portentous muStacMos tw isted, they stood 

erect of their own accord, and were expected ei ery nm- 
ment to change their colour, hut at last condescended 
to subside, which, probably, saved more heads than they 
contained hairs. 

Note 28. Page 85, line 117. 
JVW raised the craven cry, Amaun ! 
" Amaun," quarter, pardon. 

Note 29. Page 85, line 126. 
1 know him hi/ the evil eye. 
Tlie l ' evil eve," a common superstition in the Le- 
vant, and of which the imaginary effects are yet very 
singular, on those who conceive themselves affected. 

Nate 30. Page 86, line 37. 
j& fragment ofhia palampore. 
The flowered shawls, generally worn by persons of 
rank. 

Note 31. Page 86, line 88. 
His calpac rent — his caftan red. 
The " calpac'" is the solid cap or centre part of the 

headdress ; the shawl is wound round it, and forms 
the turban. 

Note 32. Page 86, line 91. 
A turban can I ; in '" ■ 
The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate 
lb,© tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in thei i mi ti n or 
the wilrtarness. In the mountains you frequently pass 
similar meta^ntos ; and, on inquiry, von are informed, 
that they record » Jin e victim of rebellion, plunder, or 
revenge. 

Note 33. Rage ; Q, line 105. 
At solemn sound of "Alia I fit f 
"Alia Hu!" the concluding words of the Muezzin 
call to prayer from the highest gallery on the cxterioi 
of the minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin 
has a fine voice, which is frequently the case, th. < effect 
is solemn and beautiful beyond ail the bells in Christen- 
dom. 



Note 34. Page 86, line 114. 
Tki v come — their kerdiiefs green they wave. 
The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks: 
. ■ | gee — I see a dark-eyed girl of paradise, and she 
landkercbiefj a kerchief of jjreen ; and cries 
aloud, Come, kiss me, for I love thee,' etc. 
Note 35. Page 86, line 119. 
Beneath avenging ManJdrh srythe. 
Monlcir and Soldi are the inquisitors of the dead, 
before whom* the corpse undergoes a slight novitiate 
and preparatory training for damnation* If the answers 
ii' oone of the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe 
and thumped down with a red-hot mace till properly 
seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. The 
office of these angels is no sinecure ; there are but two, 
and the number of orthodox deceased being in a small 
■ m to the remainder, their hands are always 
full. 

Note 36. Page 86, line 121. 
V" u hVs throne. 

Eblis, the Oriental Prince of I)..r 

Note 37. Page 86, line 126. 
But firsts on earth, as vampire sent. 
The Vampire superstition is still general in the Le- 
vant. Honest Tournef >rt tells a long storv, which Mr. 
South) -V, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes, about these 
,L Vnmcolochas," as he calls them. - The Romaic term 
is "Vardoulacha." I recollect a whole family being 
terrified by the scream of a child, which they imagined 
must proceed from suck a visitation. The Greeks 
never mention the word without horror. I find that 
" Broucolokas" is an old legitimate Hellenic appella- 
tion — at [east is so applied Lo Arsenius, who, according 
to the Greeks, was after his death animated by th© 
Devil. — The moderns, however, use the word I men- 
tion. 

Note 38. Page 87, line 13. 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip. 
The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip 
with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. 
The stories told in Hungary and Greece of ti.. 
feeders are singular, and some of them most vtcredibly 
attested. 

Note 39. Page 88, line 40. 
It is as if the deaerUbird. 
The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the 
imputation of feeding her chicken? with her blood. 
Note 40. Page 89, line 24. 
Deep hi&ohose darkly hod- ng ear. 
This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never 
met with downright second-sight in the east) fell once 
under my own observation. — On mv third journey to 
Cape Colonna early in 1811, OS we passed through the 
defue that leads from the hamlet between Keraliar and 
Colonna, I observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of 
the padi, and leaning his head upon his hand, as if in 
pain. I rode up and inquired. " We are in peril, 9 he 
answered. "What peril ? we are not now in Albania, 
nor in the passes to Bphesus, Messalunghi, or Lepantoj 
i. are plenty of as, well atoned, snd the (.'donates 
have not - ourage '■" he thieves. 11 — " True, Afiendi, but 
nevertheless the shot is ringing in mv ears." — "The 
ahot!nol b lophaike has been tired this morning." — 
K ] hear it notwithstanding — Horn — Bom — as r 



I hear your voire." — "Pshaw." — "As you please, A£ 

fendi;ifit is written, so will it be." — I left this .puck- 
eared prcd< stinarian. and rode up to Basili, his Chris- 
tian compatriot, whose ears, though not at all prophetic. 
bj no means relished the intelKgeace. We aH arrived 

C nun, remained some hours, and returned lei- 
surely, saying a variety of brilliant things, in more 
an spoiled the building of Babel, upon the 
mistaken seerj Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and 
I ' were all exercised, in various conceits, upon 

the unfortunate Mussulman. While we were contem- 
plating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was occupied 
about the columns. I thought he was deranged into an 
antiquarian, and asked him if he bad become a li Palao- 
casfro^ man: "No," said he, " but these pillars will be 
useful in making a stand ;" and added other remarks, 
which at least evincodhis own belief in his troublesome 



Caxto I. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



93 



faculty of fore-hearing. On our return to Athens, we 
heard from Leone (a prisoner set ashore some days 
after) of the intended attack of the Mainotes, men- 
tioned, with the cause of its not taking place, in the 
notes to Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I was at some 
pains to question the man, and he described the dresses, 
arms, and marks of the horses of our party so accu- 
rately, that, with other circumstances, we could not 
doubt of his having been in" villainous company," and 
ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a 
soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing more 
musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refresh- 
ment .oi* the Arnaouts of Herat, and his native moun- 
tains. — I shall mention one trait more of this singular 
race. In March, 1811, a remarkably stout and active 
Arnaout came (I believe the 10th on the same errand) 
to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined: 
" Well, Affendi, 11 quoth he, " may you live ! — you would 
hare found me useful. I shall leave the town for the 
nills to-morrow, in the winter I return, perhaps you 
will then receive me. 11 — Dervish, who was present, re- 
marked, as a thing of course, and of no consequence, 
K in the mean time he will join the Klephtes" (robbers,) 
which was true to the letter. — If not cut off, they come 
down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in some 
town, where they are often as well known as their 
exploits. 

Note 41. Page 90, line 8. 

Looks not to priesthood for reli'f. 
The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had 
so little effect upon the patient, that it could have no 
hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that 
it was ofa customary length (as may be perceived from 
the interruptions and uneasiness of the penitent,) and 
was delivered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachers. 
Note 42. Page 90, line 74.- 

And shining in her white symar. 
" Symar" — shroud . 



Note 43. Page 90, line 135. 

The circumstance to which the above story relates 
was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago 
the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of 
his son's supposed infidelity; he asked with whom, 
and she had the barbarity to give in a list of the twelve 
handsomest women in Yamna. They were seized, 
fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same 
night! One of the guards who was present informed me, 
that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a 
symptom of terror at so sudden a "wrench from all we 
know, from all we love." The fate of Phrosine, the 
fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic 
and Arnaouttiittv. The story in the text is one told 
ofa young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly 
forgotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the 
coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, 
and sing or recite their narratives. The additions and 
interpolations by the translator will be easily distin- 
guished from the rest by the want of Eastern imagery; 
and I regret that my memory has retained so few frag- 
ments of the original. 

For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted 
partly to D'Herhelot, and partly to that most eastern, 
and, as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, " sublime tale,* 
the "Caliph Vathek." I do not know from what source 
the author of that singular volume may have drawn his 
materials ; some of his incidents are to be found in the 
" Bibliotheque Orientale ; but for correctness of cos- 
tume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, 
it far surpasses all European imitations; and bears 
such marks of originality, that those who have visited 
the East, will find some difficulty in believing it to be 
more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even 
Rasselas must bow before it ; his " Happy Valley" will 
not bear a comparison with the "Hall of Eblis." 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS, 

A TURKISH TALE. 



" Hal we never loved bo kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never mel or never niuted, 
We hitd oe'er been broken-hearted." 

Burns, 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, 

THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, 

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGFD AND 
SINCERE FRIEND, 

BYRON. 



CANTO I. 



Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, 

Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? 

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; 

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, 

Wai faint o'er the gardens of Gull ' in her bloom; 

Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 

And the \oice of the nightingale never is mute ; 



Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of die sky, 
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
'Tisthe clime of the east; 'tis the land of the sun- 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 8 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which 
they teH. 



94 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Cajcto !. 



Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
Awaiting each his lord's be] 
To guide lus steps, or guard his n -f, 
Old Giaffir sat in his I 

Deep thought wis in Ins aged eye ; 
And though the face of Mussulman 

Not oft betrays to standers by 
The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
All but unconquerable pride, 
His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 



•Let the chamber be clear *d. n — The train disappear U- 

a Now call me the chief of the Haram guard." 
With Giafiir is none hut his only son, 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 

u Haroom — when all the crowd that wait 

Arc pass'd beyond the outer gate, 

(Wo to the head whose eye beheld 

JVIy child Zuleika's face unveil'd!) 

Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 

Her fate is fiVd this very hour: 

Yet not to her repeat my thought 5 

By me alone be duty taught !" 

"Pacha! to hear is to obey." 
No more must slave to despot say— 
Then to the tower had taVn his way. 
But here young Selim silence brake, 

First lowly rendering reverence meet j 
And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire, 
Ere dare to sit before his sire.' 

"Father! fir fear that thou shouldst chide 
My sister, or her sable guide. 
Know — for the fault, if fault there be, 
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — 
So lovelily the morning shone, 

That — let the old and weary sleep — • 
I could nit ; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
With none to listen and reply 
To thoughts with which my heart boat high 
Were irksome — for whateVr niy mood, 
In sooth I love not solitude; 
I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 

And, as thou knowest "hat for me 

Soon turns the Ilaram's grating kev, 
Before the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had flown, 
And made earth, main, and heaven our own! 
There lingcr'd we. b I,,ng 

With Mejnomrs tale, or Sadi's song; 1 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour l 
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
To thee, and to mv duty true, 
V/arn'd by tin- sound, to greet thee flew: 
But there Zuleika wanders vet — 
Nay, father, rage not — nor forget 
That none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who watch the women's tower." 



a Son of a slave !" — the Pacha said— 
" From unbelieving mother bred, 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 



Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed 
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 
Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
Would that yon orb, whoso matin glow 
Thy listless •■yes so much admire, 
W ould lend thee something of his fire! 
Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent; 
Nay, tamely view old Stamboft wall 
! re the dogs of Moscow fall, 
Nor strike one stroke for life and death 

bast the curs of Nazareth! 
Go— let thy less than woman's hand 
Assume lli«' distaff — not the brand. 

But, Hamuli! — to my daughter ■■■ 

And hark — of thine own head take h~ed— 

li thus Zuleika ofl takes wing— 

Thou ■ ' j nn bow — it hath a string!" 

v. 
No sound from Selim's lip was heard, 
At teas) that met old GKaffiris car, 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced I <■< tier than a < Christian's sword. 
"Son of a slave! — reproach'd with fear! 
Those gibes had cosl another dear. 
Son of a slave ! — and who my sire?" 

Thus held bis thoughts their dark career; 
And glances even of more than ire 

Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
Old Giaffir gazed upon bus son 

And started; for within his eye 
He read how much his wrath hath done, 
I [e Baw rebellion there I" 

"Conn- hither, boy — what, no reply? 
I mark thee — and I know thee too; 
But there !»■ deeds thou dar*s1 not do: 
But it' thy beard \\.u\ manlier length, 
And it" thj hand had skill and strength, 
1 '■! 1 n to Bee thee break a lance, 
Albeit against my own perchance. 
\ sneeringly these accents fell, 
On Selim's eve he fiercely ga ad 

That eye retum'd him glance for glance, 
And proudly to his sire's was raised, 

Till GiathYs quaiPd and shrunk askance — 
And why— he felt, but durst not tell. 
"Much I misdoubl this wayward hoy 
Will one day work me more annoy: 
I never loved him from his birth, 
And — but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope, 

Far less would venture into 

Where man onh 11 atul life — 

T would not trust that look or tour : 

No— nor the blood so near my own. 

That blood — he hath not heard — no more^— 

I'll watch bun closer than bi 

He is an Arab* to mv sight, 

Or Christian crouching in the fight — 

But hark ! — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear: 
She is tho offspring of my choice ; 

Oh! more than ev'n her mother dear, 
With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
My Peri! ever welcome here! 
Sweet as the desert-fountain's wave 
To lips just cool'd in time to save— 

Such to my longing sight art thou; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks f <r life, than I for thine, 

Who bleat thy birth, and bless thee now ' 



Canto 1. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



95 



Fair, as the first that fell of womankind 
' When on that dread yet lovelj serpent smiling, 
Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 

But once beguiled— and ever more beguiling; 
Dazzling, as that, oh! too transcendent vision 

To sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 

And paints the lost on earth revived in heaven; 
Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the prayer which childhood wafts above ; 
Was she — the daughter of that rude old chief 
Who met the maul with tears — hut not of grief. 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one spark of beauty 's heavenly ray ? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
The might — the majesty of loveliness ? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 
The light of love, the purity of grace, 
The mind, the music breathing from her face, 6 
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — 
And, oh! that eye was in itself a soul! 

Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
Across her gently budding breast ; 

At one kind word those arms extending 
To clasp the neck of him who blest 
His child caressing and carest 
Zuleika came — and Giaftir felt 
His purpose half within him melt: 
Not that against her fancied weal 
His heart though stern could ever feel , 
Affection chain'd her to that heart; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 



"Zuleika! child of gentleness 

How dear this very day must tell, 
When I forget my own distress, 
In losing what I love so well, 
To bid thee with another dwell: 
Another! and a braver man 
Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood; 

But yet the line of Carasman 7 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
First of the hold Timari >t bands 
That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey « >glou : 
His years need scarce a thought employ; 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shall have a noble dower: 
And his and my united power 
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan, 
And teach the messenger 8 what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now thou know'st thy father's will ; 

All that thy sex hath need to know: 
'T was mine to teach obedience -till — 
The way to love thy lord may show." 

VIII. 

In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 

And if her eye was hU'd with tears, 
That stifled feeling; dare not shed, 
And changed her cheek from pale to red, 

And red to pale, as through her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped, 

What coidd such be but maiden fears ? 



So bright the tear In beauty's eye, 

Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
So sweet the blush of bashfulness, 

Even pity scarce can wish it less 1 
Whate'cr it was the sire forgot; 
Or if remember'd, mark'd it not ; 
Thrice clapp"d his hands, and call'd his ste.d, 9 

Resign'd his gem-adorn'd Chibouke, ,0 
And mounting featly for the mead, 

With Maugrabee, 11 and Mamaluke, 

His way amid his Delis took, 1S 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
The Kislar only and his Muurs 
Watch' J well the Haram's massy doors. 



His head was leant upon his hand, 

His eve loolt'd o'er the dark-blue water 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 

Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
Careering cleave the folded felt 13 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 
Not heard their Ollahs' 4 wild and loud — 
He thought but of old GiafhYs daughter ! 



No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke: 
Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
Pale, mule, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuh-ika's eye was turn'd, 
Bui little from his aspect learn'd: 
Equal her grief] yet not the same; 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame: 
But vet that heart alarm'd or weak, 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yet speak she must — but when essay ? 
"How strange he thus should turn away! 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly through the room 
And watch'd his eye — it still was hYd ; 
She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
The Persian Atar-gul's 15 perfume, 
And sprinkled all its odours o'er 
The pictured roof 16 and marble door: 
The drops, that through his glittering vest 
The playful girl's appeal addrest, 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
B vVhat, sullen yet? it must not be — 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee !" 
She saw in curious order set 

The fairest flowers of Eastern laud— 
"He loved them once ; may touch them yet, 

If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breath'd 
Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed ; 
The next fbnd moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet: 
" This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message from the Bulbul l * bears ; 
[i gays to-night he will prolong 
For SeUnVs ear his sweetest song; 
And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He'll try for once a strain more glad, 
With some faint hope his alterM lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 



96 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Canto I. 



" What! not receive my foolish flower? 

Nay then I am indeed unblest: 
On me can thus thy forehead lower? 

And know'st thou not who loves thee best ? 
Oh, Setim dear! oh, more than d< U 
Sav, is it me thou halst or fearoi I ' 
Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
And I will kiss thee into rest, 
Since words of mine, and son^s must fail, 
Even from my fabled nightingale. 
I knew our sire at times was stent] 
But this from thee had yet to team: 
Too well I know he loves thee nut; 
But is Zuleika's love forgot? 
Ah! deem I right ' the Pacha's plan — 
This kinsman Bey of Carasinan 
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, 
If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
To woman's step admit her vow, 
Without thy free consent, command, 
The Sultan should not have my hand! 
Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
'With thee, and learn to halve my heart? 
Ah ! were 1 severed from thy side, 
Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 
Years have not seen, time shall not see 
The hour that tears my soul from thee: 
Even Azracl, ,B from his deadly quiver 

When (lies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, shall doom for ever 

Our hearts to undivided dust!" 



He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt • 
He raised the maid from where she knelt; 
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt; 
With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 
As the stream late coiiceal'd 

By the fringe of its willows, 
When it rushes revcal'd 

In the light of its billows; 
As the bolt bursts on high 

From the black cloud that bound it, 
Flash'd the soul of that eye 

Through the long lashes round it. 
A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
A lion roused by heedless hound, 
A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of ill-directed knife, 
Starts not to more convulsive life 
Than he, who heard that TOW, display'd, 
And all, before repress'd, betray 'd: 
u Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
With life to keep, and scare.- with life resign i 
Now thou art mine, thai sacred oath, 
Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
Yes, fondly, wisely hasl thou done; 
That vow hath saved more heads than one: 
But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
Claims more from me than tenderm -^ ; 
I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
That clusters round thy forehead fair, 
For all the treasures buried far 
Within the caves of Istakar. 13 
This morning clouds upon me lower'd, 
Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 
And Giaffir almost called me coward! 
Now I have motive to be bravo; 
The son of his neglected slave, 
Nav, start not, 'twas the term he gave, 
May show, though little apt to vaunt, 
A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 



His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee, 

Perchance I am, at least shall be; 

But let our plighted secret vow 

Be only known to us as how. 

I know the wretch who dares demand 

From Giaffir thy reluctant hand; 

•More ill-got wealth, a meaner sou] 

Holds not a Mussolini's* control: 

Was ho nol bred in Egripo? 81 

A viler race let Israel show! 

But let that pass — to none be told 

Our oath; ihe rest shall time unfold. 

To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 

1 t ■ parti ■:in i for pi ril's •l>y : 

Think not I am what I appear; 

I've arms, and friends, and vengeance near* 

XIII. 

"Think not thou art what thou appearcst ! 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed: 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou Vt from thyself estranged. 
INT v love thou surely know'st before, 
Ji M' 'Vr was less, nor can be more. 

I thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 

And hate the night 1 know nut why, 

Save that we meet not but by day; 

With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny: 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
Like tiis— ami this — no more than this; 
For, Alia! sure thy lips are flame: 

What fever in thy veins is flushing? 
My own have Dearly caught the same, 

At teas) 1 feel nay • beek too bluabiDg< 
To sooth thy aickness) watch thy health, 

Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 

Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 

And lighten half thy poverty, 

Do all but close thy dying eye, 

For that I could nol live to try ; 

To these alone my thoughts aspire ; 

More can I do ? or thou require ? 

But, Selim, thou must answer why 

\\\ need so much of mystery ? 

The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 

But be it, since thou sayfet 't is well ; 

Yet what thou mean'st by * arms' and 'friends. 

Beyond my weaker sense extends. 

I meant that Giaffir should have heard 

The very vow I plighted thee; 
His wrath would not revoke my word. 

But surely he would leave me free. 

Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 
To be what I have ever been? 
What other hath ZuleUca seen 
From simple childhood^ earliest hour? 

What other can she seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower, 

The partner of her infancy? 
These cheristfd thoughts with life begun, 

Say, why must I no more avow? 
What change is wrought to make me shun 

The truth; my pride, and thine till now 
To meet the gaze of stranger's > 
Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
Nor shall one wandering thought of nunc 
At such, our Prophet's will icpine: 
No! happier made by that d< 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus competl'd 
To wed with one I ne'er beheld: 
This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal? 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good: 



Caxto II. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



97 



And he so often storms at nought, 
Allah! forbid that e'er he ought! 
Ar.d why, I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime, 

And such it feels while lurking here ; 
Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time, 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar, 22 
My father leaves the mimic war; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ? " 



K Zuleika ! to thy tower's retreat 

Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet: 

And now with him I fain must prate 

Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 

There 's fearful news from Danube's banks, 

Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, 

For which the Giaour may give him thanks! 

Our Sultan hath a shorter way 

Such costly triumph to repay. 

But, mark mc, when the twilight drum 
Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 

Unto thy cell will Selim come : 
Then softly from the Haram creep 
Where we may wander by the deep : 
Our garden-battlements are steep; 

Nor these will rash intruder climb 

To list our words, or stint our time ; 

And if he doth, I want not steel 

Which some have felt, and more may feel. 

Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 

Than thou hast heard or thought before 

Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 

Thou know'st I hold a Haram key." 

" Fear thee, my Selim! ne'er till now 
Did word like this—" 

"Delay not thou; 
I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward. 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear: 
I am not, love ! what I appear." 



CANTO II. 



The winds are high on Helle's wave, 

As on that night of stormy water 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home; 
And clouds aloft and tides below, 
With signs and sounds, forbade to go, 
He could not see, he would not hear 
Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
His eye but saw that light of love, 
The only star it hail'd above ; 
His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
■ Ye waves, divide not lovers long!"— 
That tale is old, but love anew 
May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 



The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
Rolls darkly heaving to the main; 

And night's descending shadows hide 
That field with blood bedew 'd in vain, 

The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 

All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 

The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle . 



Oh! yet — for there my steps have been; 

These feet have press'd the sacred shore, 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — 
Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes, 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own " broad Hellespont " 23 still dashes, 
Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who tht*re could gaze denying thee ! 



The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme * 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam, 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks arc grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow: 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
Which Amnions 21 son ran proudly round, 
By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd, 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 

Within — thy dwelling-place how narrow ' 
Without — can only strangers breathe 
The name of him that uas beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone; 
But thou — thy very dust is gone ! 



Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase the boatman's fear , 

Till then — no beacon on the cliff 



M 



ay snap i 



the course of struggling skiff; 



The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay 
All, one by one, have died away ; 
The only lamp of this lone hour 
Is glimmering in Zuleikas tower. 
Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken Ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran; 25 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet, 26 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
Could smooth this life, and win the next , 
And by her Comboloio 27 lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in ums of China's mould; 
The richest work of Iran's loom, 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Are gather'd in that gorgeous room: 

But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell the sprite, 
What doth she hence, and on so rude a night? 



98 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Canto II. 



Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 

Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
To guard from winds of heaven the breast 

As heaven its* 'i to Si tim dear, 
With cautious steps the thicket i 1 n 

And starting oft, as thi ig i the glade 
■ The gust its hollow m nni igs m ule, 
Till on the smoother pathway treading 
More free her timid bosom beat, 

The maid pursued her silent guide; 
And though her terror urged retreat; 

How could she quit her Selira's side? 

How teach Iter tender lips to chide? 



They.reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature, but enlarged by art, 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dream'd what Paradise might be: 
Where woman's parted sou] shall go 
Her prophel had disdain'd to show; 
But Selim's mansion was secure, 
Nor deem'd she, could he Long endure 
His bower in oilier worlds of bliss, 
Without her, most beloved in thi ' 
Oh! who so dear with him could dwell? 
What Houri sooth him half so well? 



Since last she visited the spot 

Some change seem'd wrought within the grot: 

It might be only that the ntghl 

I lisguised tilings seen hv better liglit : 

That brazen lamp but dimly threw 

A ray of no celestial hue; 

But in a nook within the cell 

Her eye on stranger objects fell. 

There arms were piled, not such as wield 

The turban'd Delis in the fi< Id ; 

But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 

And one was red —perchance with ^uilt ! 

Ah! how without can blood be spilt ? 

A cup too on the board was set 

That did not seem to In. LI sherbet. 

What may this mean ? she tum'd to see 

Her Selim— "Oh! can this be he?" 



His robe of pride was thrown aside. 

His brow no higb-crown'd turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red, 

Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore: 
That dagger, on whose hill the gem 
Were worthv ofa diadem, 
No longer glitier'd at his waist, 
Where pistols unadorn'd were braced ; 
And from his belt a sabre swung 
And from his shoulder Loosely hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote: 
Beneath — his golden-plated \ st 
Clung like a cuira - to hi :■■ 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, ami tone, and hand, 
All that a careless eve could sco 
In him was some young Galionge"e. ai 

x. 
■ I said I was not what I seem'd ; 
And now thou scest my words were true; 



I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 'twere Vain to hide; 
1 must not see thee Osmau's bride: 
But had not thine own lips declared 
Hon much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, m have shown 

The darker secret of my own, 
in this I speak nol now of love ; 
That, lei time, truth, and peril prove: 
Bui first — Oh! never wed another— 
Zuleika! I am not thy brother!" 



* Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay— 

God! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — 1 dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth? 
Oh ! thou will love me now no more ! 

IMy sinking heart foreboded ill; 
But know me all I was befi .re, 

Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
Thou hd'st me hep- perchance to kill; 

If thou hast cause for vengeance, see! 
My breast is offend — take thy till! 

Far better with the dead to be 

Than live thus nothing now to ihee : 
Perhaps fir worse, for now I know- 
Why Giaffir always seem'd thy fie; 

And I alas! am Giaffir^S child, 

For whom thou weri contemn'd, reviled. 

If not thy sister — WOUldst thou save 
My life, Oh ! bid me be thy slave !" 



a My slave, Zuleika! — nay, I'm thine: 

But, gentle love, this transport calm. 
Thy lot shall yet !>-■ linked with mine; 
I swear it bj our Prophet's shrine, 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran" verse displayed 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve thai awful oath ! 
The nam.- in which thy heart hath prided 

Musi change; but, my Zuleika, know, 
That tie ls widened, not divided, 

Although thy Sire 's my deadliest foe. 
My father was to Giaffir all 

That Selim late was deem'd to thee; 

That brother wrought a brother's fall 

But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
And lull'd me with a vain deceit 

That yet a like return may meet. 

He reared me, nol with tender help, 
Bui tike the nephew ofa Cain; 30 

He watc 
Thai ■ ■ el may break his chain 

My father's blood in every vein 

Is boiling; but for thy dear take 
■ m vengeance will 1 take ; 
Though here I must no more remain. 

Bui lirst, belov'd Zuleika! hear 

How Giafhr wrought this deed of fear. 



K How first their strife to rancour grew, 
If love or envy made them fbesj 

It mailers little if 1 ki; H ; 

In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Remcmber'd yet in Bosniac song, 
And Paswan's" rebel hordes attest 
How Qttle love they bore such guest: 



Cakto II. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



99 



His death is all I need relate, 
The Btern effect of GiuthYs hate; 
And how my birth disclosed to me, 
Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 



" When Paswan, afier years of strife, 
At last fur power, but first for life, 
In Widin's walls too proudlv sate, 
Our Pacha's rallied round the stale ; 
Nor last nor least in high command 
Each brother led a separate band ; 
They ?ave their horsetail M to the wind, 

And, musterms in Sophia's plain. 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd ; 

To one, alas! assign'u in vain! 
What need of words? the deadly bowl, 

By GiafhYs order dryggM and given, 
With venom subtle as bis soul, 

Dismiss'd Ahdallah's hence to heaven. 
Reclined and feverish in the bath. 

He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
But little dcem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup: 
The bowl a bribed attendant b te : 
He drank one drought, " nor needed more ! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 



" The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's pachalick was gain'd: — 
Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man — 

Abdallah's honours were obtain'd 
By him a brother's murder stain'd 
T is true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 
Would'st question whence ? Survey the waste, 
And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gams repay his broiling brow! — 
Why me the stem usurper spared, 
"Why thus with me his palace shared, 
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
And ISitle tear from infant's force; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded none, 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice, 
Preserved me thus ; but not in peace: 
He cannot curb his haughty mood, 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 



* Within thy father's house are foes; 
Not all who break his bread are true: 

To these should I my birth disclose, 
His days, his very hours were few: 

They only want a heart to lead, 

A band to point them to the deed. 

But Haroun only knows, or knew 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 

He hi Abdallah's palace grew, 
And held that post in his Serai 
Which holds he here — he saw him die: 

But what could single slavery do? 

Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 

Or save his sor. from such a fate? 

He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued., or friends betray'd, 

Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, 

He led me helpless to his sate, 
And not in vain it seems essay'd 
To save the life for which he prav'd. 



The knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and each, but most from me ; 
Thus GiarhYs safety was ensured. 

Removed he too from Roumelie 
To this our Asiatic side, 
Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 

With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains, 
From which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to me reveals: 
Such still to guilt just Alia sends — • 
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends! 

XVII. 

"All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds; 

But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe'er my tongue thy softness Wounds, 

Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to see, 
Vet is it one I oft have worn, 

And Ion? must wear: this Galiongee, 
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, 

Is leader of those pirate hordes, 

Whose laws and lives are on their swords , 
To hear whose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale ; 
Those ;irms thou see'st my band have brought, 
The hands that wield are not remote ; 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is fill'd — once quaff'd, they ne'er repine* 
Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; 

They 're only infidels in wine. 



" What could I be? Proscribed at home, 

And taunted to a wish to roam ; 

And listless left — for GiafhVs fear 

Drnied the courser and the spear — 

Though oft— Oh, Mahomet! how oft! — 

In full Divan the despot scoff'd, 

As if mr; weak unwilling hand 

Refused the bridle or the brand: 

He ever went to war alone, 

And pent me here untried, unknown; 

To Haroun's rare with women left, 

By hope unblest, of fame bereft, 

While thou — whose softness long endeared, 

Though it unmanu'd me, still had cheered — 

To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 

Awailed'st there the field's event. 

Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 
His captive, though with dread resigning, 

My thraldom for a season broke, 
On promise to return before 
The day when GiaihYs charge was o'er. 
T is vain — my tongue cannot impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart, 
When tir<t this liberated eye 
Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through, 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I was Free! 
E'en fjr thy presence ceased to pine; 
The World — nay — Heaven itself was mine! 



« The shallop of a trusty Moor 
ConveyM m ■ from tl is idle shore; 

, the isleg thai gem 
. ,ii .in's purple diadem: 
I sought by turns, and saw them all;** 
But when and where I join'd the crew 



100 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Canto II. 



With whom I 'm pledged to rise or fall, 

Winn all that we design to do 
Ib done, "t will then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the talc's complete. 

xx. 

* 'T is true, they are a lawless brood, 
But rough in form, nor mild in D3 
And every creed, and every race, 
With them hath found — may find a place: 
But open speech, and ready hand, 
Obedience to their chiefs command ; 
A soul f>r every enterprise, 
That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
And vengeance vowVl fur those who fall, 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than even m. ...mi intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguished from the vulgar rank, 
But chieBy to my counsi ■ 

The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some to higher thoughts aspire, 
The last of l-.unS. .-' ■''■ patriots there 
Anticipated freedom share ; 
And oft around the cavern fire 
On visionary schemes .!■ I 
To snatch the Rayahs 36 from their fate. 
So let them ease their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew; 
1 have a love for freedom too. 
Ay! let me like the ocean-patriarch 3 ' roam, 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home! 3 ' 
Al v tent on shore, my g dley on the sea, 
Are more than cities an 1 serais to me: 
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
Across the desert, or before the galo, 
Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my prow ! 
But be the star that guides the wanderer. Thou! 
Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark; 
The dove of peace an 1 pr »mi e to mine ark! 
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray! 
Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call: 
. Soft — as the melody of youthful days, 
That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise; 
Dear — as his native song to exile's ears, 
Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 
For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
Blooming as Aden" in its earliest hour. 
A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command ! 
Girt by my hand, Zuleika at my side, 
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 
The Harem's languid years of listless ease 
\n' well resign'd for cares— for joys like these: 
Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
Unnnmherd perils — but one only love! 
Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 
Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 
How dear the dream in darkest hours ol 
Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still! 
Be but thy s.nil, like Selim's, linnly shown; 
To theo be Selimfa tender as thine own ; 
To sooth each sorrow, share in each delight, 
Blend every thought, do all — but disunite! 
Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide; 
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 
Yet there we follow but the bent assignd 
By fatal nature to man's waning kind: 
Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease! 
Ho makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ' 



I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength, 
But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 
Power sways but by division — her resource 
Tlii blest alternative of fraud or force! 
Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come 
When cities cage us in a social home: 
There even thy soul might err — how oft the heart 
Corruption shakes which peril could not part! 
And woman, more than man, when death or wo 
Or even disgrace would lay her lover low, 
Sunk in the lap of luxury will shami — 
Away suspicion! not ZuleBtSjfa name! 
But life is hazard at the best ; and here 
No, more remains to win, and much to fear. 

r ! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 
By Osmaxrs power and Giaffirfs stern decree. 
That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, 
Which love ( hnight hath promised to my sail: 
■ ! daunts the pair his smile hath blest, 
Their Bteps Btill roving, hut their hearts at rest. 
With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms , 
Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms! 
Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 
So that those arms cling closer round my neck: 
The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
The war of elements no fears impart 
To love, whose deadliest bane is human art ; 
There lie the only rocks our course can check ; 
Here moments menace — there arc years of wreck ! 
But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape! 
This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 
Few words remain of mine my tale to close: 
Of thine but one to waft us from our foes; 
Yea — foes — to me will GiafhVs hate decline ? 
And is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 



tt His head and faith from doubt and death 

Returned in time my guard to save; 

Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
From isle to isle 1 roved the while: 
And since, though parted from my band, 
Too seldom now I leave the land, 
No deed they Ve done, nor deed shall do* 
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
I firm the plan, decree the spoil, 
'T is fit I oftener share the toil. 
But now too long I 'vc held thine ear ; 
Time presses, floats mv bark, and here 
We leave behind but hate and fear. 
To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives -to-night must break thy chain: 
And wouldsl thou save that haughty Bey, 

Perchance hia life who gave thee thine, 
With me this hour away — away ! 

But vet, though 'hou art plighted nun*s 
Wouldsl thou recall thy willing vow, 

Appall'd bv truths imparted now, 

Here real I — not to see thee wed: 
But bo that peril on my head ''' 



Zuleika, mute and motionless, 

Stood like that statue of distress, 

When, her last hope for ever gone, 

The mother hardeu'd into stone ; 

All in the maid that eye could see 

Was but a younger NioW, 

! her lip, or even her eye, 

Essay 'd to speak, or look reply, 

Beneath the gardens wicket porch 

Far flashed on high a blazing torch! 

Another — and another — and another — [ther!" 

c Oh! fly — no more — yot now my more than bro- 



Canto II. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



101 



Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
The fearful lights are gleaming red; 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 
And last of all, his sabre waving 
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving: 
And now almost they touch the cave — 
Oh! must that grot be Selim's grave 



Dauntless he stood — "'tis come — soon past- 
One kiss, Zuleika — 't is my last: 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash; 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash 

No matter — yet one effort more." 
Forth to the cavern mouth he slept 

His pistol's echo rang on high, 
Zuleika started not, nor wept, 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! — 
• They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 't is but to see m3 die ; 
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father's scimitar, 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : 

Yet stay within — here linger safe, 

At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
Fear'st thou for him ? — may I expire 
If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
No — though by him that poison pour'd ; 
No^though again he call me coward ! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
No — as each crest save his may feel!" 



One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
Another falls — but round him close 
A swarming circle of his 1" 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave : 

His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
His comrades strain with desperate strength— 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 

His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
His band are plunging in the bav, 
Their sabres glitter through the sprav ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they touch the land ! 
They come — 't is but to add to slaughter — 
H5« heart's best blood is on the water. 



Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 

Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 

Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, 

To where the strand and billows met : 

There as his last step left the land, 

And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 

All! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
How late will lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray ; 
Behind, but close, his comrade* lay, 



When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 

tf So may the foes of Giaffir fall!" 

"Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang? 

"Whose bullet through the night-air sang, 

Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err? 

'T is thine — Abdallah's murderer! 

The father slowly rued thy hate, 

The son hath found a quicker fate : 

Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 

The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling— 

If aught his lips essay'd to groan, 

The rushing billows chok'd the tone ! 



Mom slowly rolls the clouds away ; 
. Few trophies of the fight are there: 
Thu shouts that shook the midnight bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 

Thai strand of strife may bear, 
And fragments of each shiver'd brand ; 
Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 

May there be mark'd; nor far remote 

A broken torch, an oarless boat; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
'T is rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 

But where is he who wore ? 
Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep, 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burden round Sigaeum's steep, 

And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
The sea-birds shriek above the prev, 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving billow; 
That hand, whose motion is not life, 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
Flung by the tossing tide on high, 

Then levelfd with the wave — 
What recks it, though that corse shall lie 

Within a living grave? 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
The onlv heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die, 
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 

And moum'd above his turban-stone, 40 
That heart hath burst — that eye was closed- 
Yea — closed before his own! 

XXVII. 

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale, 
Zuleika! last of GiafhYs race, 

Thy destined lord is come too late , 
He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 

Can he not hear 
The loud Wul-wulleh 41 warn his distant ear? 

Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 

The Koran-chaunters of the hymn of fate, 

The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 

Tell him thy tale! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 

That fearful moment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill: 
He was thy hope— thy joy — thy love — thine all — 

And that last thought on him thou couldst not sav« 
Sufficed to kill ; 
Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was still. 

Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 



102 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Ah! happy! but of life to loscvthe worst ! 
That grief— though dee] — though fatal — was thy first! 
Thrice happy! ne'er to fuel nor fear the force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, p r;e! 

And, oh! that pang where more than madness lies! 
The worm that will nut sleep — and nevi i 
Thought of the gloom lay a i night, 

That dreads the darkness, ami yet loathes the li 
That winds around and tears the q i erii heart! 
Ah! wherefore not consume it — and depart! 
"VVo to thee, rash and unrelenting chief ! 

Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thj head, 
Vainly the sackclotli o'er thy limbs doth spread : 
By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osrnan's bed, 
She, whom thy sultan had but seen tu wed, 
Thy daughter's dead! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilighVs lonely beam, 
The star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. 
What quench'd its ray? — the blood that thou hast shed! 
Hark! to the hurried question of despair: 
* Where is my child .'" — an echo answers — " Where ? ,! M 



Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dark above 
The sad but living cypress glooms, 
And withers not, though branch and leaf 
Are stamp 'd with an eternal grief, 

Like early unrequited love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms, 

Even in that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 
It looks as planted by despair — 

So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 

May wring it from the stem — in vain — 

To-morrow sees it bloom again! 
The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
And waters with celestial tears; 

For well may maids of Ilelle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tampest's withering hour, 



And buds unshelferYi by a bower; 

Nor droops, though spring refuse her thowWi 

Nor woos the summer beam: 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote: 
Divisible his airy n u 
Bui soil as harp that Houri strings 

long entrancing note ! 
It were the bulbul; but his throat, 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain: 
For they who listen cannot 
The spot, but linger there and gri to 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yel SO Sweet the tears they shed, 

'Tia sorrow so unmix'd whh dread, 
1 1.< \ si ar> ■■ mora to hreaU 

That melancholy spell, 
And l< ngi r yel would weep and wake, 

He sings so wild and well! 
But when die dav-blush bursts from high 
Expires that magic melody. 

the have been who could believe 
[So f ndiy youthful dreams deceive. 

Yet harsh be they that blame) 
Thai note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllable its Bound 

Into Zuleika's name.'' 3 
'T is from her cypress' summit heard, 
That melts in air the liquid word: 
'T is from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes Us tender birth. 
Th< re late was laid a marble stone ; 
Eve saw it placed — the morrow gone! 

1 1 was a ■ rtal arm thai 

That deep-nx'd pillar to the shore; 
For tell, 

Nexl morn 't was I G II , 

Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 

I Ins bones a holier grave : 
And there by night, reclined, 't is said, 
[b seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
And hence extended by the billow, 

■T is named the ' I'lrate-phaiil-iin's pillow ! 

Where lirst it lay that mourning flower 
llnth Qourish'd; flourished this hour, 

Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale; 

As weeping beauty's cheek at sorrow's tale 1 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Note 1. Page 93 line 3. 
IVax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom. 
'• Gul" the rose. 

Note 2. Page 93, line 17. 
Can fie smile on such deeds as his children have done? 

" Souls mad? of fire, nod cliil.lren of Die •mi, 
Wall whom nveoge is virtus." 

Young's Iievcng*. 

Note 3. Pago 94, line 53. 
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadis song. 
Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the 
East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 
Note 4. Page 94, line 64. 
Till I, wlio heard tfie deep tambour. 
Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, 
noon, and twilight. 



Note 5. Page 94, line 125. 
Be is an Arab to my tight 
The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compli- 
ne us .i hundred fold,) oven more than they hate the 
tians. 

Note 6. Page 95, line 22. 
The miml, tfie music breathing from her face. 

This express!.. ii li.is met With . .I.j-r I lolls . 1 will not 

refer to "him who hath not music in his soul," but 
merely reipiesl the reader to recollect, for leli seconds, 

iii, features of the woman whom he believes to be the 
most beauiiful ; and if he then does not comprehend 
ial i> feebly expressed in the above line, I shall 
lie sorry for us both. For an elo V _. in the 

..,,< -i work of the firsl female wntei oi this, perhaps 
of any age, on the analog) (and the immediate com- 
parison excited by thai analogy,) between "panning 
and music/' see vol. iii. cap. 10. De lAllemaohe. 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABVDOS. 



103 



And is not this connexion still str inger with the original 
than (he copy? Willi the colouring of nature than of 
art ? After all, this is rather to be felt than desi 
siil! I think there are some who will understand it, ai 
least they would have done, had they beheld the coun- 
tenance whose sneaking harmony suggested the idea ; 
for this passage is not drawn from imagination, but 
memory, that mirror which affliction dashes to the 
earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only he- 
holds the reflection multiplied . 

Note 7. Page 95, line 44. 
But yet the line of Cnrasman. 
Oarasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the 
principal landholder in Turkey ; he governs Magnesjn ; 
those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess laud on 
condition of service, are called Timariots : they serve 
ng to the extent of territory, and 
bring a certain number into the field, generally cava! I v. 
Note 8. Page 95, line 5G, 
And teach the messenger what fate. 
When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the 
single messenger, who is always the first bearer of the 
order for his death, is strangled instead, and some- 
times five or six, one after the other, on the same 
errand, by command of tiie refractory patient; if, on 
jiiary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kisses the 
Sultan's respectable signature, and is bowstrung with 
great complacency. In 1810, several of these presents 
were exhibited in the niche of the Seraglio gate 
among others, the head of the Pacha of Hagdat, i 
brave young man, cut oil" by treachery, after a despe- 
rate resistance. 

Note 9. Page 95, line 75. 
Tlirirc chijqi'il his hands, and calFd Ms steed. 
Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The 
Turks hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and 
they have no bells. 

Note 10. Page 95, line 76. 
/.' I his gem-adorrid chibouque. 

Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber 
mouth-piece and sometimes the hall which contains 
the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in posses- 
sion of the wealthier orders. 

Note 11. Page 95, line 78. 
IVttfi fiftaugrabee and Mamaluke. 
Maugrabee, Moorish mercenaries. 

"Note 12. Page 95, line 79. 
Hia uay amid his Delis took. 
Deli, bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, 
and alwavs begin the action. 

13. Page 95, line 91. 
t the folded felt. 

A tn felt is used for scimitar practice 

by the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut 
through it at a single stroke : sometimes a tough tur- 
ban is used for the same purpose. The jerreed is a 
game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful. 
Note 14. Page 95, line 94. 
A*br heard that Oi d loud. 

41 Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the " Leilies,"' as the Span- 
ish poets call them, the sound is Ollah ; a i 
which the Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat 
profuse, particularly during the jerreed, or in the 
chase, but mostly in battle. Their animation in the 
field, and gravity in the chamber, with their pipes ami 
comboloios, form an >mrast. 

Note 15. Page 95, line 113. 
The Persian Atar-gul's perfume. 
" Atar-gul ," ottar of roses. The Persian is the 
finest. 

Note 16. Page 95, line 115. 
The pictured roof and marble floor. 
The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the 
Mussulman apartments are generally painted, in great 
houses, with one eternal and highly colour 1 rievi of 
uiinople, wherein the principal feature is a 
noble contempt of perspective ; below, arms, scimi- 
tars, &c. are in general fancifully and not inelegantly 
disposed. 



Note 17. Page 95, line 131. 
A from the Bui <ul bears. 

It has been much doubted whether the notes of this 
" Lover of the rose," are sad or merry ; and Mr.Fox's 
renwrks on the subject have provoked some learned 
controversy as to the opinions of the ancients on the 
subject. I dafe n<»i venture a conjecture on the point, 
though a little inclined to the "errare mallem," &c. if 
Mr. Fox urns mistaken. 

Note 18. Page 96, line 29. 
Even Azraeljfrom his deadly quiver. 
" A/r;u!" — the angel of death. 

Note 19. Page 96, line 64. 
JVithm the caves of fstakar. 
The treasures of the Preadamite Sultans. See 
D'IIekbelot, article Istakar. 

-'" Pag« : S, fine SO. 
B. 'ds not a MusseUm's control. 

lim, a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha; 
a Wayuode is the third ; and then come the Agas. 

Note 21. Pa^e 96. line 81. 

li a* he not bred in Egripo? 

E ripo— the N< gropont. — According to the proverb 

the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the 

Greeks oi Athens, are the worst of their respective 

races. 

Note 22. Page 97, line 9. 
Ah', yonder see the Tchocadat. 
"Tchocadar" — one of the attendants who precedes a 
man of authority. 

Note 23. Pa^e 97, line 79. 
Thine own " broad Hellespont"' still dashes. 
The wrangling about this epithet, "the broad Helles- 
pont" or the " boundless Hellespont,' 'whether it means 
one or the other, or what it means at all, has been 
beyond all possibility of detail. I have even heard it 
disputed on the spot; and, not foreseeing a speedv 
in to the controversy, amused myself with 
swimming across if in the meantime, nnd probably may 
again, before the point is settled. Indeed the question 
as to the truth of "the tale of Troy divine" still conti- 
nues, much of it resiing upon the talismanic word 
"airnnos:" probably Homer had ihe same notion of 
distance that a coquette has of time, and when he talks 
of boundless, means half a mile; as the latter, by alike 
figure, v. eternal attachment, simply spe- 

cifies three weeks. 

Note 24. Page 97, line 90. 
Which A'trnon's son ran proudly round. 

B< fore his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar 
with laurel, &c. He was afterwards imitated bv Cara- 
calla in his rare. It is believed that the fast also 

I ned a friend, named Festus, for the ake of new 

Patrocian imi I have seen 'he sheep feeding on 
the tombs of iEsietes and Antilochus; the first is in 
the centre of the plain. 

Note 15 Paj e 97, I ne 109. 

' i rs ran. 

When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, 
which is slight, but not di agn eable. 

Note 26. V-:r 97, tine 112. 
//*■'■ ..'< I amulet. 

The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or inclosed 
in gold boxes, containing scraps from the Koran, worn 
round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still universal in the 
East, Tin Koorsee [throne) verse in the second chap. 
of the Koran describes the attiibutes of the most High, 
an 1 is engraved in this manner, and worn by the pious, 
as the most esteemed and sublime of all sentences. 
Note 27. Page 97, line 115. 
And by her CbmbobAo lies. 
" Comboloio" — a Turkish rosary. ThcMSS. par- 
ticularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned and 
illuminated. The (I reek females are kept in utter 
ce ; but many I f the Turkish girls are highly 
accomplished, though not actually qualified for a Chris- 
tian coterie : perhaps some of our own " blues" might 
not be the worse for bleaching. 



104 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Note 20. Page 98, line 61. 
In him uxueami < r : ngee. 

11 Galiongee"— or Galiongi, a sailor, thai is, n.Tvrk- 
uA sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work ihe 
guns. Their dress i^ picturesque; and I have seen 
the Captain Pacha more than once wearing it as a 
kind ot incog. Their legs, however, are generally 
naked. The buskins described in the U 
behind with silver, are those ol an Arnaul robber, who 
was my host, (he had quitted the profession,) at his 
PyrgO, near Gaslouni in the Morea ; tlnv were plated 
in scales one over the other, like tin- hark of ,.;■ 
dillo. 

Note 29. Page 98, line 103. 
So mi'/ the K < 
The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain 
sometimes the name of the place of their manufacture, 
but more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of 
i»old. Among those in my poss< with a 

blade of singular construction ; i' is very broad, and the 
edge notched into serpentine curves like the ripple of 
water, or the wavering of flame. I asked the Armenian 
who sold it. what possible use such a figure could add : 
he said, in Italian, thai In'* did n<>i know ; but the Mus- 
sulmans had an idea that those of this form gave a 
severer wound ; and liked il because it was " piu fi - 
rone." I did not much admire the reason, but bought 
it for its peculiarity. 

Note 30. Page 98, line 118. 
But like the nephew of a Cain. 
It is to be observed, that evi j \ allusion to any thing 
or personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, 
or Cain, is equally the privilege ol Mussulman and 
Jew: indeed, the fbrmei profess to be nun!) bettei 
acquainted with the lives, true and fabulous, of the pa- 
triarchs, than is warranted by OUT own sacred writ, and 
not content with Adam, they have a biography of Prc- 
Adamites. Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, 
and Moses a prophet inferior only to Chrisl and Ma- 
hornet. Zuleika is the P< rsian name of Peh|. liar's 
wife, and her amour with Joseph constitutes one of the 
finest poems in the language. It is therefore no vio- 
lation of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, 
into the mouth cf a Moslem. 

Note 31. Page 98, hue 134. 
And Paswanls rebel hordes attest. 
Paswan Ojglou, the rebel of VVidin, who for the last 
years of his fife, set the whole power of the. Porte at 
defiance. 

Note 32. Page 99, line II. 
They gave their horsctaUi to the wind. 

Horsetail, the standard of a Pacha. 

Note 33. Page 90, line 21. 
He drank one drum more. 

Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, 1 am nol 
Bure which, was actually taken off by the Albanian Alt, 
in the manner described 1 m the text. Ali Pacha, while 
I was in the country, married the dau htei ol his vic- 
tim, some years after the event had taken place, at a 
hath in Sophia, or Adriam>|>!«-. The poison was mixed 
in the cup of coffee, which is presented befbrethe sher- 
bet by (he bath-keeper, after dressing. 

K ■■ .:* Pa ;« 99, line 136. 
J sought by turns and saw them all. 
The Turkish notions of almost all islands arc con- 
fined to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 



Note 35. Page 100, line 22. 

Jlif i . / (--ii'ts there. 

Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts in 
1789-90 for the his country; aban- 

don) d by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the 
Archipelago was the sc< ne of his enterprises. He is 
said to be stjll alive al Pi ter burgh. Ho and Riga are 
the two most celebrau-1 of the Greek revolutionists.* 

Note 36. Pa ■ II ". line 26. 
2b snatch t fa R om their fate. 

"Rayahs" all who pay the capitation tax, called the 

" Haraich." 

Note :J7. Page 100, line 30. 
j4>/ ! Ui i. i trchroam. 

Tin- tir.--t of voyages is om of the few with which (ho 
Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 
Note 38. Page 100, line 31. 
Or on!'; ■ ' ' 'a home. 

The wanderin. Irabs, Tarlnrs, and Turko- 

mans, will be found wi nok of Eastern 

travels. Thai ii possesses a charm peculiar to itself 
cannot be denied. A young French rem -_';ido con- 
ed to Chat< thai he nevei I 

Sloping in the desert, without a sensation ap- 
proaching to rapture, which was indescribable. 
Note 39. Page 100, line 51. 
Bloom ins: as Aden in its earliest hour. 
" Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussul- 
man Paradise. 

Note -10. Page 101, line 116. 
And mourn'*! above H 5 ( urban-stone. 
A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men 
only. 

Note -11. Pat;e 101, line 126. 

The loud Wut-umJkh warn his distant ear. 
The death-song of the Turkish women. The "silent 
1 are the men whose notions of decorum forbid 
complaint in pti 

Note -12. Page 102, line 23. 
■ Where is my child '" — an echo answers — tt JVhere? n 

"I came to the place of my birth and cried, 'the 
In. ode of my youth, where are they?' and an Echo 
answered, ' Where air they?''" 

Prom an Arabic I\fS. 
The above quotation (from which the idea in the 
text is taken) must !><■ already familiar to every reader 
— it is given in tin- Brst annotation, page 67, of "the 

Pleasures of Mi-rimr-v :'' n | m so well known as to 

render a reference almost superfluous; but to whose 
pages all will be delighted to recur. 

Note 43. Page 102, line 72. 
fnto Zidi ,h<:'s name. 

" And airy tongue* ilinl lyliable mrn'i nnnif,' 

MlI.TOlT. 

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the 
fi >rm of birds, we need nol travel to the east. Lord 
Lyttleton's ghosl story, the belief of the Dutchess of 
Kendal thai George 1. flew into bar window in the 
shape of a raven, (see Orionl's R s,) and 

many other instance . bring this superstition nearer 
home. The most singular was the whim of a WVt- 
cester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in the 
shape of a singing bird, literally furnished her pew in 
the Cathedral with cages-full of the kind ; and as she 
was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church 
no objection was made to her harmless folly. For this 
anecdote see Orford's Letters. 



THE CORSAIR, 

A TALE. 



- I suol nencieri in lui liormir unit |*>nno." 

TASSOj Canto decimo, Gerusalenunc LkbtreUa. 



THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 

MV DE&R MOORE, 

I dedicate to you the last production with which 1 
shall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, 
for some years ; and I own that I feel anxious to avail 
myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning my 
pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken public 
principle, and the most undoubted and various talents 
While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her pa- 
triots ; while you stand alone the first of her bards in her 
estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the d o 
permit one, whose only regret, since our first ai 
ance, has been the years he had lost before it commence I, 
to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to 
the voice of more than one nation. It will atleasl provi 
to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratificatio 
derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospeci 
of its renewal.'whenever your leisure or inclination allows 
you to atone to your friends for too lung an absence. I 
is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are 
engaged in the composition of a poem whose sc< ne » ill 
be"laid in the East ; none can do those scenes so mi 
justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnifi- 
cent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and I 
her daughters, may there be found : and Collins, when 
he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was, not 
aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your 
imagination will create a warmer sun. arid less clouded 
sky ; but wildness, tenderness and originality ■ 
of your national claim of oriental descent, to which you 
have already thus far proved your title more clearly than 
the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject on which all men 
are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable ? — Self. 
I have written much, and published more than enough 
to demand a longer silence than I now meditate ; BUI for 
some years to come it is my intention to tempt no 
further the award of "gods, men, nor columns." In 

the present composition I have attempted not the Bl 

difficult, but, perhaps, the besi adapted measure to our 
lanfuase, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. 
The stanza of Spencer is perhaps too slow and dignified 
for narrative; though, I confess, it is the measure most 
after my own heart : Scott alone, of the present genera- 
tion, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fata) 
facility of the octo-syllabic verse ; and this is not the least 
victory of Ins fertile and mighty genius : in blank verse, 
Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons 
that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough 
and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic 
couplet is not the most popular measure cerlainlv ; but 
us I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without 



further apology, and lake my chance once more with that 
versification, in which I have hitherto published nothing 
but compositions whose former circulation is part of my 
present, and will be of my future regret. 

With regara to my story, and stories in general, T 
should have been glad to have rendered my personages 
more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as 1 
have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less 
responsible for their deeds and q-ialities than if all had 
been personal. Be it so — if I have deviated into the 
gloomy vanity of "drawing from self" the pictures arc 
probably like, since they are unfavourable ; and if not, 
those who know me are undeceived, and those who do 
not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no 
particular desire that any but my acquaintance should 
think the author better than the beings of his imagining ; 
but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amuse- 
ment, at some odd critical exceptions in the present 
instance, when I see several bards, (far more deserving, 
I allow,) in very reputable plight, and quite exempted 
from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, 
nevertheless, might be found with little more morality 
than " The Giaour," and perhaps — but no — I must admit 
Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage ; and as 
to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever 
" alias" they please. 

If, however, it were worth while to remove the im- 
pression, it might be of some service to me, that the man 
who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, 
the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits 
me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 

most truly, and affectionately, 
his obedient servant, 

BYRON 

January 2, 1814. 



CANTO I. 



«■ nemn rn«ggiordoloi»i 

Che ru ■ Mice 



" O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our droughts as boundless, and uur souls as free, 
Fur as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
Our flag the scepire all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 



106 



THE CORSAIR. 



Cast to I. 



Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave ! 

Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; 

Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 

Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please — 

Oh, who can tell, save he whoso h*-art hath tried) 

And danced in triumph o'er the waters wile, 

The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening plav, 

That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? 

That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 

And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 

That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 

And where the feebler faint — can only feel 

Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 

Its hope await en and its spirits soar? 

No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 

Save that it seems even duller than repose: 

Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — 

When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife ? 

Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay 

Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 

Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 

Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 

While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, 

Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control. 

His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 

And they who loathed his life may gild his grave: 

Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 

When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 

For us, even banquets fond regret supply 

In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 

And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 

When those who win at length divide the prey, 

And cry, remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 

How had the brave who fell exulted now!" 



Such were the notes that from the pirate's isle 

Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while; 

Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 

And unto ears as rugged scetnVI a sung! 

In scattered groups upon the golden Bttltd, 

They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand ; 

Select the arms — to each his blade assign, 

And careless eye the blood that dims its shine; 

Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 

While others strangling muse along the shore ; 

For the wild bird the busy springes set, 

Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 

Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 

With all the thirsting eye of enterprise ; 

Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, 

And man-el where they next shall seize a spoil : 

No matter where — their chief; allotment this; 

Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 

But who that Chief ? His name on every shore 

Is famed and fear'd — they ask ami know no more. 

With these he mingles not but to command; 

Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 

Ne'er season! he with mirth their jovial DOMS, 

But they forgive his silence foi success. 

Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 

That goblet passes him untested still — 

And for his fare— the rudest u r his crew 

Would that, in turn, have paas'd untasted too; 

Earth's coarsest bread, die garden's homeliest roots, 

And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 

His short repast in humbleness supply 

With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 

But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 

His mind seems nourish'd bv that abstinence. 

" Steer »o that shore !"— they sail. " Do this !"— 't is done ; 

■ Now form and follow me !" — the spoil is won. 

Th'is prompt his accents and his actions still, 

And all obey and few inquire his will ; 



To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

in. 
" A sail ! — a sail !" — a promised prize to hope ! 
Her nation — flog — how speaks the telescope? 
No prize, alas! — but yet a welcome sail: 
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
Yea — she is ours — a home-returning bark — ■ 
Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. 
Already doubled is the cape — our bay 
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 
How gloriously her gallant course she goes! 
Her white wings (tying — never from her foes — 
She walks the waters like a thing of life, 
AnA seems to dare the elements to strife. 
Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck — 
To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 

IV. 

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings; 

The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swings 

And jratherinj; loiterers on the land discern 

Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 

'T is mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand, 

Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 

Hail to the welcome shout! — the friendly speech! 

When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach; 

The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 

And the heart's promise of festivity ! 

v. 

The tidmgB spread, and gathering grows the crowd: 
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends 1 — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear word 
"Oh! are they safe 7 we ask not of success — 
But shall we see them ? will their accents bless? 
From where the battle roars — the billows chafe— 
They doubtless. boldly did — but who are safe? 
Hero let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
And kiss the doubt from these delighted cyos '*" 

VI. 

"Where is our chief? for him we bear report — 

And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — short, 

Yet thus sincere — 't is cheering, though so brief; 

But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: 

Our greeting paid, we '11 feast on our return, 

And all shall hear what each may wish to learn " 

Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 

To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, 

By bushy brake, and wild Howers blossoming, 

And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 

Whose scattered streams from granite basins burst, 

Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thin) ; 

From crag to cliff they mount — Near yonder cave, 

What lonely straggler looks along the wave? 

In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 

Not oft. a resting-etaff to lba4 red hand? 

" 'T is he — 't is Conrad — here — as wont — alone ; 

On — Juan! — on — and make our purpose known. 

The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 

His ear with tidings lie must quickly meet: 

We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood, 

When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 

VII. 

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent — 
He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 
These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 

These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the spy 
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh: 
Whate'er his tidings we can well report, 
Much that" — " Peace, peace F" — he cuts their prating 
short. 



Canto I. 



THE CORSAIR. 



107 



Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he gucss'd, with head aside, 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll — "My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo ?" 

" In the anchor d bark." 
" There let him stay — to him this order bear — 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 
K To-night, Lord Conrad?" 

"Ay ! at set of sun : 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we arc gone. 
Sling on thy bugle —see that free from rust 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding brand, 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
This let the Armourer with speed dispose ; 
Last lime, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, 
To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired." 

VIII. 

They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides, 
And who dare question aught that he decides ? 
That man of loneliness and mystery, 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower huej 
Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? 
What should it be, that thus their fale can bind? 
The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind '. 
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
That moulds another's weakness to its will; 
Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown, 
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 
The many still must labour for the one ! 
'T is Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils, 
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 

IX. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 

Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, 

In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 

Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire: 

Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 

No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 

Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 

They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 

Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 

The sable curls in wild profusion veil; 

And oft perforce his rising Up reveals 

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 

Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien. 

Still seems there something he would not have seen : 

His features' deepening lines and varying hue 

At times attracted, yet perplex'ct the view, 

As if within that murkiness of mind 

Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 

Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 

Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 

There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 

The fuli encounter of his searching eye ; 



He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 

At once the observer's purpose to espy, 

And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 

Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day. 

There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, 

That raised emotions both of rage and fear; 

And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 

Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell \ 

x. 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 

Within — within — 'twas there the spirit wrought! 

Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 

Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 

The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 

Along the govern 'd aspect, speak alone 

Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien, 

He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 

Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 

The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 

That listens, starting, lest the step too near 

Approach intrusive on that mood of fear: 

Then — with each feature working from the heart, 

With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart. 

That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glow <t 

Flush in the check, or damp upon the brow ; 

Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 

Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 

Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sears 

The scathing thought of execrated years ! 

Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 

Man as liimself — the secret spirit free ? 

XI. 

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 

To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument — 

His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 

Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 

Warp'd by the wor'd in Disappointment's school, 

In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 

Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 

Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 

He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 

And not the traitors who betray'd him still; 

Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 

Had left him joy, and means to give again. 

Fear'd— shunnM— belied — ere youth had lost her force, 

He hated man too much to feel remorse, 

And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 

To pay the injuries of some on all. 

He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 

The rest no bettor than the thing he seem'd ; 

And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 

Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 

He knew himself detested, but he knew 

The hearts that loathed him, erouch'd and dreaded too. 

Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 

Fiom all affection and from all contempt: 

His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 

But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : 

Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 

The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 

The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 

The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 

Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, 

And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings \ 

XII. 

None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 
One snfter feeling would not yet depart ; 
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, 
And even in him it asks the name of Love * 



108 



THE CORSAIR. 



Canto I. 



Yes, it was love — unchangeable; — UDChaago I, 

Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 

Though fairesl captives daily mel hia <■-■. 

He shunnd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by ; 

Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, 

None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 

Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, 

Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 

Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, 

And yet — oh more than all! — tmtired by time; 

Which nor defeated hope, nor battled wile, 

Could render sullen were she near to smile, 

Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 

On her one murmur of his discontent ; 

Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, 

Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 

Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove — 

If there be love in mortals — this was lore ! 

He was a villain — ay — reproach's shower 

On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 

Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 

Nut guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 

XIII. 

He paused a moment — till his hastening men 

Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 

"Strange tidings! — many a peril have I past, 

Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 

Yet so my heart forbodes, but must not fear, 

Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 

'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait 

Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 

And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, 

We'll furnish mourners for our funeral-pile. 

Av — let them slumber- — peaceful be their dreams! 

Mom ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 

As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!) 

To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 

Now to Medora — Oh! my sinking heart, 

Long may her own be lighter than thou art! 

Vet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave! 

Ev'n insects *i\\vj for auyht they seek to save. 

This common courage which with brutes we --hare, 

That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 

Small merit claims — but 't was my nobler hope 

To teach my few with numbers still to cope; 

Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed: 

Nu medium now — we perish or succeed! 

So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 

But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 

My lot hath long bad little of my care, 

But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare: 

U this my skill '? my craft ? to set at last 

Hope, power, and life upon a single cast? 

Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy filly, not thy fate — 

She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 

XIV. 

Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill: 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, 
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : 

I. 
* Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 

Lonely and lost to light for evermore. 
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 

Then trembles into silence as before. 



1 There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen; 

Winch not the darkness of despair can damp, 
Though vain its ray as it had never been. 



"Remember me — Oh! pass not thou my grave 
\\ ithout one though! whose relics there recline: 

Tin- mi, , [i;itiL F my bosom dare not brave 
Must be to find forgelfulness in thine. 

4. 
■My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear — 

Grief f«r the dead not Virtue can reprove; 
Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, 

The first — the last — sole reward of so much love •• 

He pass'd the portal— eross'd the corridor©, 

An I reach'd th chamber as the strain gave o'er* 

"My own Medora! sure thy song is sad—" 

"In Conrad's absent wouldsl thou have it g!ad7 

Without thine ear to listen to my lav, 

Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray 

Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 

My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute! 

Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 

My dreaming fear with storms hath WingU the wind, 

Ami deemM the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 

The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale; 

Though soft, it seeiiiM the low prophetic dirge, 

That mourn'd thee Boating on the savage surge ; 

Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire, 

Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire; 

And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 

And morning came—- and still thou wert afar. 

I ft) ' how the chill blast on my bosom blew. 

And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 

And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 

anted to my tears— my tyith — mv vow! 
_\, length — 'twas noon— 1 hail'd and blest the mast 
That met my sight— it noarM — Alas! it past ! 
Another came — Oh God! 'twas thine at last! 
Would thai those days were over! wilt thou ne'er, 
My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam ; 
Phou knowsl it is not pent that 1 fear, 
[ only tremble when thou art not here; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flies from love and languishes for sti ife — 
How strange thai heart, tn me so tender still, 
Should war with nature and its better will!" 

" Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been changed. 
Worm-like 'twas trampled — adder-like avenged, 

Without one ho[ n earth beyond thy love, 

And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
Vet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 
My very love t" thee is hate to them, 
So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 
I cease to love thee when I love mankind : 
Vet dread not this — the proof of all that past 
Assures the future that my love will rest; 
But — Oh, Medora! nerve thy gentle heart, 
This hour again — but not for long — we part.* 

This hour we part ! — my heart foreboded this : 
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 
Yon bark hath hardly anchor 'd in the bay: 
Her consort still is absent, and her crew 
Have need of rest before they toU anew : 
My love ! thou mock'st my weakness ; and wouldst steel 
Mv breast before the time when it must feel; 
But tntle now no more with my distross, 
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 
Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest ! come and share 
The feast these hands delighted to prepare; 
Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare 






Canto 1. 



THE CORSAIR. 



109 



See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, 

And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd 

At such as seern'd the fairest : thrice the hill 

My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 

Yes! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 

See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 

The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 

Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears: 

Think not 1 mean to chide — fir I rejoice 

What others deem a penance is thv choice. 

But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 

Is trirnm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp : 

Then shall my handmaids while (he time along, 

And join with me the dance, or wake the son" ; 

Or my guitar, which si ill thou lov'st to hear, 

Shall sooth or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 

We II turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 

Of fair Qhyxnpia loved and left of old. ' 

Why — thou wt-rt worse than he who broke his vow 

To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now; 

Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee smile, 

When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 

Which I have painted from these cliffs the while: 

And thus half sportive, half m fear, 1 said, 

Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread, 

Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 

And he deceived me — for — he came again !" 

"Again — again — and oft again — my love! 

If there be lifo below, and hope above, 

He will return^but now, the moments bring 

The time of parting with redoubled wing: 

The why — the where — what boots it now to tell ? 

Since all must end in that wild word — farewell! 

Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 

Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 

For sudden siege and long defence prepare'd: 

Nor be thou lonely — though thy 'lord 's away, 

Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay; 

And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet, 

Security shall make repose more sweet. 

List ! — 't is the bugle — Juan shrilly blew — 

One kiss — one more — another — Oh! Adieu!" 

She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace, 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
Which downcast droop'd in tearless a^onv. 
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms; 
Scarce beat that bosom where his ima<je dwelt 
So full — tliat feeling seern'd almost unfelt! 
Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! 
It told 'twas sunset— and he cursed that sun." 
Again — again — that firm he madly press'd, 
AVhieh mutually claspM, imploringly caress'd ! 
And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more; 
Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gone? 



" And is he gone ?" — on sudden solitude 

Hon off that fearful question will intrude! 

"*T was but an instant past — and here he stood! 

And now" — without the portal's porch she rush'd, 

And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 

Big — bright — and fast, unknown to her they fell ; 

But still her lips refused to send — " Farewell !" 

For in that word— that fatal word — howe'er 

We promise — hope — believe — there breathes despair. 

O'er every feature of that kuu, pale face, 

Had sorrow fu'd what time can ne'er erase : 



The tender blue of that large loving eye 

Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 

Till — Oh, how far !— it caught a glimpse of him, 

And thru it flow'd — and phrensied seern'd to swim 

Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd 

With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 

" lie 's gone !" — against her heart that hand is driven, 

Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven 

She look'd and saw the heaving of the main; 

The while sail set — she dared not look again; 

But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 

11 It is no dream — and I am desolate!" 

XVI. 

From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 

Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head; 

But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 

Forced on his eye what lie would not survey, 

His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, 

That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep: 

And she — the dim and melancholy star, 

Whose ray of beauty reach'd lu'm from afar, 

On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 

There he might rest — but on Destruction's brink. 

Yet once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 

His fate to chance, his projects to the wave; 

But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 

May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 

He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 

And sternly gathers all his might of mind: 

Ag^ir 1 he hurries on — and as he hears 

The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears 

The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 

The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 

As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast, 

The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 

The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 

That mute adieu to those who stein the surge; 

And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 

H<- marvelFd how his heart could seem so soft. 

Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 

He feels of all his former self possest ; 

He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 

The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, 

There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 

*Uie breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 

if^ln there his wonted statelier step renew; 

Nor rush, disturbed by haste, to vulgar view: 

For well had Conrad leara'd to curb the crowd, 

By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud; 

His was the lofty port, (he distant mien, 

That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen 

The s ilemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 

That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy; 

All these he wielded to command assent: 

But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent, 

That kindness canceled fear in those who heard, 

And others 9 gifts show'd mean beside his word, 

When echo'd to the heart as from his own 

Ills deep yet tender melody of tone: 

Bui such was foreign to his wonted mood, 

He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued , 

The evil passions of his youth had made 

Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 

XVII. 

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
Before him Juan stands — "Are all prepared? 4 

"They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat 

Waits but my chief " 

u My sword, and my capote." 
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
Efia belt ami cloak were o'er his shoulders flung: 
u Call Pedro here !" He comes — and Conrad bends. 
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 



110 



THE CORSAIR. 



Canto U. 



■Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
Words of high trust and troth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, lei him alike these orders mark: 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
On our return — till then all peace be thine!" 
This Bald, his h/other Pirate's hand he wrung; 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture spi 
Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparking with the s'.roke, 
Around the waves' phosphoric 2 brightness broke ; 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands, 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands. — 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
How gallant all her crew — and deigns ]p praise. 
His eyes <<f pride to voting Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, and inlv seem to mourn? 
Alas! those eves beheld his rocky I 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the prow? 
Ah! never loved he half so much as now! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
Again he EDaDS himself and turns away ; 
Down to the cabin with (iunsalvo bends, 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; 
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art; 
They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late? 
Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle 
To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile: 
And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
Discovers where the Pacini's galleys lay. 
Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie; 
Screened from espial by the pitting cape, 
That rears on high its mde fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 



CANTO II. 



:| Couosceste i riubiosi deaiit ?'' 



Iir Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 

Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-Jtighl : 
A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 

"When he shall drag the telter'd Rovers 1 ie; 

This hath he sworn by Alia and his swi I i, 
And faithful to his firman and Ins WOI I, 
His summon'd prows collect along the coast, 
And great the gathering crewsj and Loud th< boast , 

Already shared the captives and the prize. 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
'T is but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won ! 
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek ; 



How well such deed becomes the turban'd brare — 

To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 

Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay, 

Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day. 

And do not deign to smite because they may! 

Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 

To keep in practice for the coming foe. 

Revel and rotri the evening hours beguile, 

And they who wish to "ear a head must smile; 

For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 

And hoard theii curses, till the coast is clear 

High i" his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd; 
Around-— ilu bearded chie$ he came to lead. 
Eli ii: ived the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
i n draughts, t is said, he dared to quaft^ 

Though to He' rest the sober berry's juice* 
il,: ii ■ ■■ I,, ,r round for ri^id MosleoW use; 
The long Chibouque's •> dissolving cloud supply, 

dance the Almus i to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising mom will view the chief] embark; 
But waves are .somewhat treacherous in the dark: 
And revellers may more securely sleep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep ; 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, 
And less to conquest than to Korans trust; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his bust 
Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boast, 

HI. 

With cautious reverence from the outer gate 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 
Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the floor, 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore: 
u A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest." 
He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His anus were folded on his dark-green vest, 
Ilis step was feeble, and bis look depresl ; 
Yrt worn 1"' seem'd of hardship more than years, 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from feara. 
Vou'd lo his < '>•'<{ — his sable locks he wore, 
Ami these Ins lofty cop rose proudly o'er: 
Around his form his loose long robe was thrown* 
And wrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone 
Submissive, vet with self-possession mann'd, 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
And question of Ins coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's will allaw'd to speak. 

IV. 

"Whence com'st thou, Dervise?" 

'• From the outlaw's den, 
A fugiuve — * 

" Thy capture where and when ? B 
"From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, 
The Saick was bound; but Alia did not smile 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
The Rovers won: our limbs have worn their chains. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
H.-vond tli-- wjindenn^ freedom which I lost; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hop.-, and ofierfd chance of flight: 
1 seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
With thee — most mighty Pacha I who can fear?" 

"How speed the outlaws? stand they well prepared, 
Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard? 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
I'm riew with fire their scorpion nest consumed?" 

" Pacha! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye, 

That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy 

I only heard the reckless waters roar, 

Those waves that would not bear rae from the shore; 



Canto II. 



THE CORSAIR. 



Ill 



I only mark'd the glorious sun and ski.', 
Too bright — too blue — for my captivity; 
And felt — that ail which Freedom's bosom cheers, 
Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape, 
They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
Thai leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
The careless guard that did not see me fly, 
May watch as idly when thy power is nigh : 
Pacha! — my limbs are faint — and nature craves 
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
Permit my absence — peace be with thee! Peace 
With all around ! — now grant repose — release." 
■ Stay, Dervisc \ I have more to question — stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring ; 
Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting : 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery." 

*T were vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
Nor showM high relish for the banquet prest, 
And less respect for even,' fellow guest. 
'T was but a moment's peevish hectic past 
Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast : 
He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook: 
The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
"What ails thee, Dervise? eat — dost thou suppose 
This feast a Christian's? or my friends thy foes? 
Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledge, 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight!" 

B Salt seasons dainties— ^and my food is still 
The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
And my stern vow and order's c laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

"Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 

One question answer ; then in peace depart. 

How many? — Ha! it cannot sure be day? 

What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 

It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 

Ho! treachery! my guards! my scimitar! 

The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 

Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 

Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him now ! 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 

Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : 

Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 

But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 

Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 

Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 

His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, 

More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, 

Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 

Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 

The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 

Of flames on high, and torches from below ; 

The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 

For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell, 

Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell! 



Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 

Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 

Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 

They seize that Dervise! — seize on Zatanai! 

He saw their terror — checkM the first despair 

That urged liim but to stand and perish there, 

Since far too early and too well obey'd, 

The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 

He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 

His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 

'T is answerd — " Well ye speed, my gallant crew * 

Why did I doubt their quickness of career? 

And deem design had left me single here?" 

Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway 

Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 

Completes his fun.-, what their fear begun, 

And makes the many basely quail to one. 

The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread* 

And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 

Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelnvd, with rage, surprise, 

Retreats before him, though he still defies. 

No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 

So much Confusion magnifies his foe! 

His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 

He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight;* 

For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, 

And burst within — and it were death to wait ; 

Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling — throws 

The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 

The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, 

Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 

Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 

Proclaim'd how well he did die work of strife. 

They shout to find him grim and lonely there* 

A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 

But short their greeting — shorter his reply— 

" 'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die — 

Much hath been done — but more remains to do — 

Their galleys blaze — why not their city too?" 

v. 

Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, 

And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 

A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 

But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 

Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 

Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 

"Oh! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 

One female form — remember — we have wives. 

On them such outrage Vengeance will repay; 

Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 

But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 

Oh ! I forgot— but Heaven will not forgive 

If at my word the helpless cease to live : 

Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 

Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 

He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, 

Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 

His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke, 

But still from room to room his way he broke. 

They search — they find — they save : with lusty arms 

Each bears a prize of unregarded charms; 

Calm their loud fears; sustain their sinking frames 

With all the care defenceless beauty claims: 

So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 

And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 

But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 

From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — 

Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed? 

The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd! 

vr. 
Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnaret 9 
Few words to reassure the trembling fair j 
For in that pause compassion snatch'd from wt^ 
The foe before retiring, fast and far, 



112 



THE CORSAIR. 



Cakto II. 



With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 
First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 
This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few, 
Compared with hi?, the Corsair's roving crew, 
And blushes o'er his error, as lie eyes 
The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 
Alia il Alia! Vengeance swells the cry — 
Shame mounts to rage thai must atone or die! 
And flame lor flame and hi 1 t'<r Mood must tell, 

The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too wed — 

When wrath returns to renovated strife, 

And those who fought for conquest strike for life. 

Conrad beheld the danger - he to ' 

His followers faint by freshening foes rcpell'd : 

•One effort — one — to break the circling host!" 

They form — unite — charge — waver— ell is lost! 

Witlun a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 

Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 

Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 

Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and trampled o'er; 

But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 

And sinks nutwoaried rather than overcome, 

His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 

Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 



But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 
And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed, 
Safe in the dome of one who held their Creed, 
By Conrad's mandate safely were bestowed, 

And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd; 

And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 

Uecall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, 

Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 

That smooth'd his accents; soften'd in his eye: 

*T was strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd, 

Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 

The Pacha woo'd as if he dceni'd the slave 

Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 

The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright, 

As if his homage were a woman's right. 

•The wish is wrong — nay, worse fir female — vain: 

Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 

If but to thank for, what my fear fbl j >'. 

The life — my loving lord remembered not !" 



And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 

But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 

Far from his band, and battling with a host 

That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 

FelTd — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought, 

And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 

Preserved to linger and to hve is vain, 

While Vengeance ponderVl o'er new plans of pain 

And stnnrh'd the blood she saves to shed again — 

But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eyo 

Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! 

Can this be he? triumphant late she saw, 

When his red hands wild gesture waved, a law! 

'T is he indeed — diaarnVd hot undepres^ 

His solo regret the lift he still possesl ; 

His wounds too slight, though taken with that will, 

"Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kill. 

Oh were there none, of all the many given, 

To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ? 

Must he alone of all retain his breath, 

Who more than all had striven and struck for death ? 

He deeply felt — what mortal bear's must feel, 

Wle-n thus reversed mi faithless fortune's wheel, 

For crimes committed, and tho victors threat 

Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 

He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 

That led to perpetrate — now serves lo hide. 



Still in his stern and self-collected mien 

A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, 

hough faint with wasting toil and stiffening wpund, 
Bui few that saw — so calmly gazed around: 

the far shouting of the distant crowd, 
Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, 
The better warriors who beheld him near, 
Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 
And the grim guaids that lo his durance led, 
In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 

IX. 

The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there, 
To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 
He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
And promise feeling lor the wrench of pain: 
To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
Behold how well or ill those pangs are bome. 
Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
Which adds all other agony to thirst, 
Thai day by day death Btfll forbears to slake, 

While fainish'd vultures (lit amond tin- stake. 

"Oh I water — water!" — smiling Hate denies 

The victim's prayer — for if lie drinks— he dies. 

This was his doom: — the Leech, the guard, were gone. 

And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 

x. 

'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 
\\ even wen- doubtful if their victim knew. 

There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 

When all its elements convulsed — combined — 

Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 

And gnashing with impenitenl Remorse; 

That juggling fiend— who never spake before — 

But cries "I warn'd thee!" when the deed is o'er. 

Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, 

May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent! 

Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 

And, to itself; all —all that self rei 

No single passion] and no ruling thought 

That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought; 

But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 

All rushing through their thousand avenues. 

Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 

Endangered glory, life itself beset; 

The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 

•Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate; 

The hopeless past, the ha ling future driven 

T [uickly on to guess if hell or heaven; 

Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps rememberM not 

So keenly tilt that hour, but ne'er (br^ol ; 

Things Ii [hi or lov< ly in their acted time, 

But now to stern reflection each a a 

The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, 

Not cankering less because the more <*onccafd — 

All, in a word, from wl i h all ves must start, 
That opening Bopul hre —the naked heart 
Bares with its 1 . till Pride awake, 

To snatch the mirror IV ira the soul— and break. 
Ay — Pride can veil, and ' lourage brave it all, 
AH — all — before— beyond — the deadliest fall. 
Each hath som he who least betrays, 

The only hypocrite deserving praise: 
Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies, 
But he who looks on death— and silent dies. 
So sieei',1 by pondering oter his far career, 
He half-way meets him should he menace near! 

XI. 

In the high chamber of his highest tower 
Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
His palace, perish'd in the flame — Uiis fort 
Contained at once lus captive and his court. 



dlTTO II. 



THE CORSAIR 



113 



Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 

His fee, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same: — 

Alone he sate — in solitude had scann'd 

His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd : 

One thought alone he could not — dared not meet — 

"Oh, how these tiding will M.-dora greet?" 

Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised, 

And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed ; 

But soon he found — or feign'd— or dream'd relief) 

And smiled in self- derision of his grief) 

"And now come torture when it will — or may, 

More need of rest to nerve me for the day ! w 

This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 

And, whatsoe'er Ins visions, quickly slept. 

'T was hardly midnight when that fray begun, 

For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done ; 

And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 

She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 

One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — 

Disguised — discover'd — conquering-ta'en-condenmM— 

A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 

Destroying — saving — prison'd' — and asleep ! 

XII. 

He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 

Was hush'd so deep — Ah! happy if in death! 

He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends ? 

His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends 

Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace? 

No, 't is an earthly form with heavenly face ! 

Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 

Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 

Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 

And once unclosed — but once may close attain. 

That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 

And auburn waves of gemnVd and braided hair; 

With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot, 

That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 

Through guards and dunnest night how came it there ' 

Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare? 

Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! 

She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 

In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 

She left his side — his signet-ring she bore, 

Which oft ih sport adorn'd her hand before — 

And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 

Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 

Wom out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 

Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose; 

And chill and nodding at the turret door, 

They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more : 

Just, raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 

Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 



She gazed in wonder, "Can he calmly sleep, 
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep? 
And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear? 
True — ' tis to rum my life, and more, I owe, 
And me and mine he spared from worse than wo : 
f T is late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes !" 

He raised his head — and dazzled with the light, 

His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright : 

He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 

Too harshly told him that he lived again. 

u What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 

Methinks, my jailor's face shows wondVous fair !" 

* Pirate ! thou know'st me not — but I am one, 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band. 



I come through darkness — and I scarce !^iow why 

Vet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 

" If so, kind lady ! tl S>e the only eye 

That would not here in that gay hope delight: 

Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 

But still I thank their courtesy or thine, 

That would confess me at so fair a shrine!" 

Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief 

Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 

That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 

And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles % 

And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 

Till even the scaffold ,0 echoes with their jest ! 

Yet not the joy to which it stems akin — 

It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 

Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 

A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 

And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 

As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 

Vet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life, 

Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. 



" Corsair! thy doom is named — but I have power 

To sooth the Pacha in his weaker hour. 

Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee now 

But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow ( 

But all I can, I will: at least delay 

The sentence that remits thee scarce a day; 

More now were ruin — even thyself were loath 

The vain attempt should bring but doom to both.* 

11 Yes! — loath indeed: — my soul is nerved to all, 

Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall: 

Tempt not thyself with peril; me with hope 

Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope ' 

Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly, 

The one of all my band that would not die ? 

Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 

Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 

My sole resources in the path I trod 

Were these — my bark — my sword — my love — my God ' 

The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — 

And man but works his will to lay me low. 

I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 

Wrung from the coward crouching of despair; 

It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 

My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 

That might have better kept so true a brand; 

My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 

For her in sooth my voice would mount above • 

Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 

And this will break a heart so more than kind, 

And blight a form — till thine appear'd Gulnare 

Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." 

" Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to me 
Is this — 't is nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh ! I envy those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 
Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath wroughU ri 

M Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 

" My love stern Seyd's ! Oh — No — No — not my love—* 

Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove" 

To meet his passion — but it would not be. 

I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 

I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, 

To share his splendour, and seem very blest ! 



114 



THE CORSAIR. 



Canto lit 



Oft must my soul the question undergo, 

Of— ' Dost thou love?' ami burn to answer, 'No!' 

Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 

And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 

But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 

And hide from one — perhaps another there. 

He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 

Its pulse not check'd — nor quicken'd— calmly cold: 

And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 

From one I never loved enough to hate. 

No warmth these lips return by his imprest, 

And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 

Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 

The change to hatred were at least to feel: 

But still — he poes unmourn'd — returns unsought — 

And oft when present — absent from my thought. 

Or when reflection comes, and come it must — 

I fear that henceforth 'twill hut bring disgust; 

I am his slave—but, in despite of pride, 

'T were worse than bondage I" become his bride. 

Oh! that this dotage of Ins breast would cease! 

Or seek another and give mine release, 

But yesterday — I could have said, to peace! 

Yes — if unwonted fondness now 1 feign, 

Remember — captive! 't is to break thy chain; 

Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 

To give thee back to all endear'd below, 

Who share such love as I can never know. 

Farewell— morn breaks — and I must now awnv : 

'T will cost me dear — but dread no death to-day !" 

xv. 

She press'd his fetterVl fingers to her heart, 

And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, 

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 

And was she here ? and is he now alone ? 

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o*er liis chain? 

The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, 

That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's mine, 

Already polish'd by the hand divine ! 

Oh! too convincing — dangerously dear — 

In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! 

That weapon of her weakness she can wield, 

To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield: 

Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, 

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers! 

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 

The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 

Yet be the soil triumvir's fault forgiven, 

By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven ! 

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 

And seal their own to spare some wanton's wo! 

xvi. 

*T is morn — and o'er his altered features play 
The beams — without the hopn of yesterday. 
What shall be be ere nighl ? perchance a thing 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing: 
By his closed eve unheeded and unfelt, 
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
Chill — wet — and misty round each stirfen'd limb, 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 



CANTO III. 



' Come vodi — incornon m'&bb&ndom." 

Dante. 



Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race bo run, 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun; 
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, 
B>it one uncouded blaze of living light! 



OVr the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
Gilds the green wave, tliat trembles as it glows. 
On old ./Egina's rock, and Idra's isle, 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile, 
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine ; 
Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulfj unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven. 
Till, darklv shaded from the land and deep, 
I leiuiHl Ins I >i Iphian cliff he --inks to sleep. 
On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
When — Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd his last. 
How wateh'd thy better suns his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's " latest day . 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes: 
' iloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
Tho land, where Phuibus never frown'd before. 
But ere he sank below Cithreron's head, 
The cup of wo was quaff" d — the spirit fled; 
The soul of him who scorn 'd to fear or fly — 
Who liv'd and died, as none can live or die ! 

But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain, 

The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 1 * 

No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 

With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play 

There the while column greets her grateful ray, 

And, bright around with quivering beams beset, 

Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret: 

The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 

Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 

The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 

The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk, 13 

And, don and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 

Near Theseus' fane gon solitary palm, 

All tinged with varien hues arrest the eye — 

And dull were his Uiat pass'd them heedless by. 

Again the ./Egean, heard no more afar, 

Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; 

Again his waves in milder tints unfold 

Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 

Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle, 

That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 1 * 



Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee? 
Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, 
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
.So much its magic must o'er all prevail? 
Who that beheld thai Sun upon thee set, 
Fair Alliens! could thine evening face forget? 
Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades! 
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain- 
Would Uiat with freedom it were thino again! 

in. 
The Sun hath sunn — and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height, 
Medora's heart — the third day's come and gone- 
With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
The wind was fair though light ; and storms wera 

none. 
Last eve Ansclmo's bark rcturn'd, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met! 
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 



Casto III. 



THE CORSAIR. 



115 



The night-breeze freshens — she that day had past 
In watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
And there she wander'd heedless of the spray 
That dashYl her garments oft, and warn'd away: 
She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, 
Nor deemM it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense ! 

It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, 

Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought; 

Some bleeding — alt most wretched — these the few — 

Scarce knew thev how escaped — this all they knew. 

In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 

His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate: 

Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 

To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 

She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 

Beneath that griefj that loneliness of lot, 

Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, 

That deem'd not till they found their energy. 

While yet was Hope — they soften'd — flutter'd — wept — 

All lost — that sofhtess died not — but it slept; 

And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, 

* With nothing left to love — there's nought to dread." 

'T is more than nature's ; like the burning might 

Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

"Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 

What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well — 

Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 

The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 

"Lady! we know not — scarce with life we fled; 

But here is one denies that he is de?.d : 

He saw liim bound ; and bleeding — but alive." 

She heard no further — -*t was in vain to strive — 
So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then with- 
stood; 
Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 
Sho totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ; 
But that with hands though rude, vet weeping eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew; 
Awak«i her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve; 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 

IV. 

In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange, 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
AIL save repose or flight: still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair; 
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Wo to his foes ! there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 



Within the Haram's secret chamber sate 

Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate; 

His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 

Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell; 

Hero at his feet the lovely slave reclined 

Surveys his brow — would sooth his gloom of mind : 

While many an anxious glance her large dark eye 

Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 

Hi* only bends in seeming o'er his beads, 1 * 

But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 



" Pacha! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
Sik triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest! 
His doom is nVd — he dies : and well his fate 
Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate; 
Me thinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all Ins treasure, not. unwisely sold ; 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord! 
While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray — 
Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier prey, 
But once cut on" — the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 

"Gulnare! — if for each drop of blood a gem 

Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem; 

If for each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine; 

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem! 

It had not now redeem'd a single hour; 

But that I know him fetter'd, in my power ; 

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 

On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 

" Nay, Seyd !■ — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches — thus released, he were not free: 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
His capture could but wait thy first command." 

"His capture could! — and shall I then resign 

One day to him — the wretch already mine? 

Release my foe! — at whose remonstrance? — thine 

Fair suitor ! — to thy virtues gratitude, 

That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 

Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 

No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 

My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear' 

I have a council for thy gentler ear : 

I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 

Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 

Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 

Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 

Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks, 

Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 

Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware: 

'T is not his life alone may claim such care ! 

Another word and — nay — I need no more. 

Accursed was the moment when he bore 

Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no- ' 

I thru had mourn'd thee with a lover's wo — 

Now 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing! 

Know'st. thou that 1 can clip thy wanton wing? 

In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 

Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe ,w 

He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu: 
Ah! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — ■ 
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued; 
And little deem'd ho what thy heart, Gulnare ! 
When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. 
His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 
How deep the root from whence compassion grew— 
Sin; was a slave — from such may captives claim 
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 
Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 
Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes! 



Meanwhile — long arurjous — weary — still — the same 
Roll'd day and nighu- his soul could never tame- - 



116 



THIS CORSAIR. 



Catto I IT. 



This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 

When every hour might doom him worse than dead, 

When every step that echo'd by the gate 

Might entering lead where axe and stake await; 

When every voice that grated on hia ear 

Might be. the last that he could ever hear; 

Could torror tame — that spirit stern and high 

Had proved unwilling as unlit to die j 

'T wan worn — perhaps decayed — yel silent bore 

That conflict deadlier far than all b 

T'he heat of fight, the hurry of the 

I. cO' 1 scarce one thought inert enough to qnail : 

But bVuid and tixVl in fetter'd solitude, 

To pine, fci)e prey of every un mood ; 

To s-i^e on f^iine own heart ; and meditate 

Irrevocable faults and c wring t'.iu- — 

Too late the last to shun— the first !<> mend — 

To count ine end, 

With not a friend to animal.-, and tell 

To other ears that death bl :ame thee well: 

Anton! thee foes to forge the ready he, 

And blot life's latest scene with calumny; 

Before the tortures, wbi h the soul can dare, 

Yet doubts li >v well the skrinking flesh may bear; 

But de single cry would shame, 

To valour's praise thy last an I d tarest claim; 

The life thou leav J st below, denied above 

By kin-! in mopolist.s uf he ivenly love ; 

And more than d lubtful paradise — thy heaven 

Qf earthly hope — thy loved one from thee riven. 

Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 

And govei ing mortal pain : 

And those sustained he — boots it well or ill? 
Since not to sink beneath, is something still! 

VII. 

The first day passd — he saw not her — Gulnarc — 

The second — third — and still she came not there ; 

But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done, 

< h I lse he had not seen another sun. 

The Rmrth day rollVl along, and with the 

Came storm and darkness in their mingling might: 

Oh! how he listen'd to the rushing deep. 

That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep; 

And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 

Rt.usi'd hv t!v rur "I men! ' 

Oft hal he ridden on that winged wave, 
A:ul loved its rougher for the speed it gave; 
AjkI now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
A long known voice — alas! too vainly near! 
Loud sung the wind aboN I ' loud, 

Shook o'er his turret ceO the thunder-clou I j 
And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar. 
To him more genial than the mi Ini [lit star: 
Close to the glimmering grate he dragged bis chain, 
And hope that pen! mighi n it ptove m vain. 
Ho raised bis^ron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
One. pitying Mash to mar the form it made : 
His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike ; 
In peal wax*d fainter— ceased — lie felt alone, 

As if some faithless friend hail spurn'd his groan! 

VIII. 

The midnight passM — and to the massy door 
A light Step eani- — -it paused — it moved once more; 
Slow turns the grating boll and sullen k< «, \ 
'Tis as his heart foreboded —that fair s!n- ! 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint. 
And beauteous still as hermita hope can paint ; 
Vet changed since last within that cell she came, 
More palo her cheek, more tremulous her frame: 
On him she cast her dark and horned eye, 
Which spoke before her accent* -"thou must die! 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 
The last — the worst — if torture* were n^t WOTSI 



u Lady! T look to none — my lips proclaim 
What last proclaimed they — Conrad still the same: 
Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
And change the sentence 1 deserve to bear? 
Well have 1 eanfd — nor here alone — the meed 
OfSeyda revenge, by many a lawless deed.'* 

"Why should I seek? because — Oh! didst thou not 

Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot? 

Whv should I seek? — hath misery made thee blind 

To the fond workings of a woman's mind! 

And most I say? albeit my heart rebel 

With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 

Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved : 

It f. ar'.l thee — thaiuVd thee — pitied — madden'd — loved 

Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 

Thou I o'st another — and I love in vain; 

Th .iijli fjn I as mine her bosom, form more fair, 

[ rush through peril which she would not dare. 

If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 

Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here: 

An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam! 

What hath SUCh gentle dame to do with home? 

But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 

Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 

If thou hast courage still, and would'st be free, 

Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me!" 

K Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gentry tread, 
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head! 
Th 'ii hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is Jiat instrument more fit for fight V 

'Misdoubting Corsair! I have gain'd the guard, 
Ripe for revolt, and greedy fir reward. 
A single word of mine rem ives that chain: 

Without some :inl ln.w Jure emiM 1 remain? 
Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 
[fin aught evil, for thy sake the crime: 
The crime — 'tis n me to p.niish those ofSeyd. 
That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed! 
I see thee shudder — but my bouI is changed — 
WroniAI, smirn'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged— 
Accused of what till now my heart disJainU — 
Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 
Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 
I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear: 
But he has said it — an I the jealous well, 

Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 
Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 
1 never Loved— he bought me — somewhat high — 
Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 
I was a slave unmurmuring : lie hath said, 

But for Ins rescue f with thee had fled. 

'Twas false thou know'sl — but let such augurs rue, 

Their words are omens Insult renders true. 
Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer; 

IS only to pt. 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too lie threatens ; but Ins dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will: 

When wearier of these Heating charms and me, 

There yawns the Bach —and yonder rolls the sea! 

What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 

To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 

I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save, 

If but to show how grateful is a slave. 

But had he not thus menaced fame and life, 

(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife) 

1 still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 

Now I am all thine own — for nil prepared : 

Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the worst. 

Alas ! this love — that hatred are the first — 

Oh! could'st thou prove my truth, thou would'st not start 

Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart, 



Canto III. 



THE CORSAIR. 



117 



T is now the beacon of thy safety — now 
It points within the port a Mainote prow: 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor Seyd !"' 

' Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 

My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 

Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 

From earth with ruthless but with open hand, 

And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 

To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 

Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — ■ 

Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 

Tliine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this — 

Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 

Now fare thee well — more peace be with thv breast ! 

Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest !" 

*Rest! rest! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 

And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 

I heard the order — saw — I will not see— 

If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 

My life — my love — my hatred — all below 

Are on this cast — Corsair! 'tis but a blow! 

Without it flight were idle — how evade 

His sure pursuit? my wrongs too unrepaid, 

My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, 

One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 

But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 

I U try the firmness of a female hand, 

The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'er — 

Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud.'' 



She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 

But his glance followed far with eager eye ; 

And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 

His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 

Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 

He, fast as fetterd limbs allow, pursued. 

*T was dark and winding, and he knew not where 

That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 

He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 

Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 

Chance guides his steps— a freshness seems to bear 

Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 

lie reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 

fileam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky ; 

Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 

From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 

Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door 

Reveai'd the ray within, but nothing more. 

With hasty step a figure outward past, 

Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 'l is She at last ! 

No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 

" Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill !" 

Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 

Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 

She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, 

That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair; 

As if she late had bent her leaning head , 

Above some object of her doubt or dread. 

They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 

Her hurrying hand had left — 't was but a spot — 

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 

Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 't is blood ! 



He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 
He had been tempted — chastened — and the chain 
Yet on his arms might ever there remain: 



But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 
From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
So thrill'd — so shudder'd ever}' creeping vein, 
As now they froze before that purple stain. 
That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 
Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 
Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but then 
It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men. 



fc 'T is done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — awav — away! 
Our bark is tossing — 't is already day. 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join . 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand. 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand. n 



She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour 
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — G reek and Moor; 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind 
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
The city ties behind — they speed, they reach 
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach , 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obeyed, 
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd ; 
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 



Embark'd the sail unfuri'd, the light breeze blew 

How much had Conrad's memory to review! 
Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
Ah! — since that fatal night, though brief the ome^ 
Had swept an age of terror, griefj and crime. 
As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, 
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he past 
He thought of all — Gon-a'vo and liis band, - 
1 I ing triumph and his failing hand; 

He thought on her afar, his lonely bride: 
He turn'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide! 



She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
Fell quench'd "in tears, too late to shed or cVyv 
She knelt beside him and his hand she prest, 
u Thou may'st forgive though Alias self detest ; 
But for that deed of darkness what vert thou ? 
Reproach me — but not yet — Oh! spare me now! 

am not what I seem — this fearful night 
My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite! 
If I had never loved — though less my guilt, 
Thou hadsl not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt." 



She wTongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
Than her, though undesisml, the wretch he made ; 
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, 
They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 
Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, 
The blue wales sport around the stern they urge ; 
Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 
Their little bark her men of watch descry, 
And ampler canvass woos the wind from high 
She bears her down majestically near, 
Speed on her prow, and terror 01 her tier 



IIS 



THE CORSAIR. 



Canto II L 



A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 
u Tis mine — my blood-re 1 Bag! again — again — 
I am not all deserted on the main !" 
They own the signal, answer to the hail, 
Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
■'Tis Conrad! Conrad!' shouting from the deck, 
Command nor duty could their transport check! 
With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 
They view him mount once more his vessel's side 
A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 
Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 
He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 
Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 
Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmu's hand, 
And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 



These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 

Vet grieve to win him back without a blow ; 

They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they known 

A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 

She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 

Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 

With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 

They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 

And her, at once above — beneath her sex, 

Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 

To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, 

She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 

Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 

Which — Conrad safe — to fate resigned the rest. 

Though worse than phrensy could that bosom fill, 

Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, 

The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 

XVII. 

This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah! could he less? — 

Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 

What she has done no tears can wash away, 

And Heaven must punish on its angry day: 

But — -it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt, 

For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt \ 

And he was free ! — and she for him had given 

Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 

And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave 

Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, 

Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and meek. 

But varying oft the colour of her cheek 

To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 

That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 

He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 

So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 

He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own 

Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 

"Gulnare!" — but she replied not — "dear Gulnare !" 

She raised her eye — her onlv answer there — 

At once she sought and sunk in his embrace: 

If he had driven her from that resting-place, 

His had been more or less than mortal heart, 

But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 

Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 

His latest virtue then had join'd the rest 

Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 

That ask'd from form so fair no more than tins, 

The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 

To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath, 

To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance ding, 

As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 

xvm. 
They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 



The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 

The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 

The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 

And sportive dolphins bend them tlirough the spray , 

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 

Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak! 

Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 

Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 

Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, 

Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam? 

XIX. 

The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 

And midst them Conrad seeks Medora's lower: 

He looks in vain — 't is strange — and all remark, 

Amid so many, tier's alone is dark. 

'Tis strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, 

Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. 

Wiih the first boat descends he for the shore, 

And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 

Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 

To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 

With the first pause the resting rowers gave. 

He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, 

Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high 

Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He rcach'd his turret door — he paused — no sound 
Broke from within; and all was night around. 
He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
Aimounced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
He knoek'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens — 'tis a well known face- 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
Its lips are silent — twice liis own cssay'd, 
And fail'd to frame the question they delayM ; 
Il<- snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all- 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day i 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not— yet foretold ! 



He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look, 
And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain! 
In life itself she was so still and fair, 
That death with gentler aspect witber'd there; 
And that cold flowers l6 her colder hand contain'd, 
In the last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 
And made it almost mockery yet to weep: 
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 
And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below- 
Oh ! o'er the eye Deatli most exerts his might, 
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light! 
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — 
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile 
And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 
But the white shroud, and each extended tress^ 
Long — fair — but spread in utter hfelessness, 
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; 
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier— 
But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 



He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now 
By the first glance on that still — marble brow. 
It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how? 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



119 



The love of youth, the hope of better years, 

The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 

The only living thing he could not hate, 

Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 

But did not feel it less ; — the good explore, 

For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar : 

The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd below 

Their joy, and find this earth enough for wo, 

Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 

But who in patience parts with all delight? 

Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 

.Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn; 

And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 

In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 



By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
For Truth denies all eloquence to Wo. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost lulTd it into rest; 
So feeble now — his mothers softness crept 
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : 
It was the very weakness of his brain, 
Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been: 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart: 
The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim; 
And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 
On Griefs vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
Which may not— dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 



XXIII. 

His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong 
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; 
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
Within the grut ; like that had harden'd too ; 
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock, 
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
Though dark the shade — it shelter'd — saved till now 
The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth: 
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
Its tale, but shrunk and withered where it fell, 
And of its cold protector, blacken round 
But shiverd fragments on the barren ground ! 



'T is morn — to venture on his lonely hour 

Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower 

He was not there— nor seen along the shore 

Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er 

Another morn — another bids them seek, 

And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 

Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain, 

They find on shore a seaboat's broken chain : 

Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 

'T is idle all — moons roll on moons away, 

And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 

Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 

Where lives his grief] or perish'd his despair ! 

Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside , 

And fair the monument they gave his bride : 

For him they raise not the recording stone— 

His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 

He left a Corsair's name to other times, 

Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes r 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



The time in this poem may seem too short for the 
occurrences, but the whole of the iEgean isles are 
within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader 
must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often 
found it. 

Note I page 109, line IS. 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 
Orlando, Canto 10. 

Note 2, page 110, line 10. 
Around the waves phosphoric brightness broke. 
By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke 
of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed 
by a slight flash like sheet lightning from the water. 

Note 3, page 110, line 17. 
Though to the rest Vie sober berry's juice. 
Coffee. 

Note 4, page 110, line 79. 
The long Chibouques dissolving cloud supply. 
Pipe. 

Note 5, page 110, line 80. 
While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy. 
Dancing girls. 

Note to Canto II. page 110, line 93. 
It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised 
as a spy is out of nature. — Perhaps so. I find some- 
thing not unlike it in history. 
" Anxious to explore witn hia own eyes the 6tate of 



the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the 
colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of 
his own ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards 
mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained and 
dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anec- 
dote may be rejected as an improbable fiction ; but it is 
a fiction which would not have been imagined unless 
in the life of a hero." Gibbon t D. and F. vol. vt.p. ISO. 

That Conrad is a character not altogether out of na- 
ture I shall attempt to prove by some historical coinci- 
dences which I nave met with since writing "The 
Corsair." 

u Eccelhi prisonnier," dit Rolandini, "s'enfermoit dans 
un silence menacant, il fixoit sur la terre son visage 
feroce, et ne donnuil point d'essor a sa profonde indig- 
nation. — De toutes parts cependant les soldats et les 
peuples accouroient ; ils vouloient voir cet homme, jadis 
si puissant, et la joie universelle eclatoit de toutes parts. 

r +* * * * * 

"Eccelin 6toit d'une petite taille^ mais tout 1'aspect 
de sa personne, tous ses mouvemens, indiquoient un 
soldat. — Son langage etoil amer, son aYportement su- 

Kerbe — et par son seul egard,il faisoit trembler les plus 
ardls." Stsmmuli, tome in. page 219, 220. 
"Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the con- 
queror of both Carthage and Rome) slatura mediocns, 
et equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, serrnone ranis. 
luxurise contemptor, ira turbidus, habendi cupidus ad 
solicitandas gentea providentissimus," &c. &c. Jar- 
nandes dc Rebut Geticwj c. 33. 



120 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep 
in countenance my Giaour and Corsair. 

Notes G, page 111, line 41. 
And my stern vow and order's law oppose. 
The dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, 
as the monks. 

Note 7, page 111, line 76. 
They seize Owl Dcrvist. .' — seize on ZtUunai ! 
Satan. 

Note 6, page 111, line 97. 

He tore Ins beard, and foaming Jted th<\field. 

A common and not very novel i (feet "I .Mussulman 

anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page$4. "The 

Seraskier received a wound in the thigh; he plucked 

up his heard by the roots, bee he was obliged to 

quit the field." 

Note 9, page 111, line 141. 
Brief time hat! Conrad nun to LH-rct tiulnare. 
Gulnare, a female name ; it means, literally, the flower 
of the pomegranate. 

Note 10, pa;:'' 113, line 82. 
Tilieven the KaffM echoes irai/i Otdrjeat! 
In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, 
and Ann.' Boleyn, in the Tower, when grasping her 
neck, she remaiked, that u "was too slender to trouble 
the headsman mu b." During one part of the French 
Revolution, it became a fashion to leave some "mot" 
as a legacy; and the quantity of facetious last words 
spoken during that period would form a melancholy 
jest-book of a considerable size. 

Note 11, page 1 II, line 80. 
Th'it doted their tmirder'd sogrs latest day, 
Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- 
set, {the hour of execution,) notwithslandingrtie entrea- 
ties of his disciples to wan till the son went down. 
Note 12, page 114, hue 92. 
The queen of night asserts her vlent nign. 
The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
own country: the days in winter are longer, but in sum- 
mer of shorter duration. 

Note 13, page III, line 102. 
7Vie gleaming turret of the gov Kiosk. 

The Kiosk is a Turkish s merhouse: the palm is 

without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 
temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the 
wall intervenes. — Ceplusus' stream is indeed scanty, 
and llissus has no stream at all. 

Note 14, page 111, line 112. 
Tout frown* — where gentler orxan seems to smile. 
The opening lines as far a; se tion 11. have, perhaps, 
little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished 
(though printed) poem; but they were written on the 
spot in the wj.rir iy of 1811, and—I scarce know why — 
the reader must excuse their appearance here if he can. 

Note 13, page 113, line 66. 

ITis only bends in strinin" o'rr /us heads. 

The Com oi Mahometan rosary"; tlie beads 

are in number ninety-nine. 

N..t.- 16, page 130, line 9. 
Awl tin: roil Jlmr,rs Iter colder liantt contained. 
In the Levant it is the custom to sirew flowers on the 

Ill of the dead, and in ihe hands of young person to 

place a nosegay. 

Note 17, page 133, last line. 
IJink'd witlt one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 
That tin- point of honour which is represented in one 
instance of Conrad's character bas not been carried 
beyond the bounds of probability may perhaps be in 
some degree confirmed by the following anecdote of a 
brother Buccaneer in the year 1814. 

Our readers have all seen the account of the enter- 
prise against the pirates of Barrataria; but few, we 



believe, were informed of the situation, history, or na 
ture of that establishment. For the information of such 
a* were unacquainted with it, we have procured from 
a friend tin- following interesting narrative of the main 
hat personal knowledge, and which 
cannot fail to interest some of our readers. 

Barrataria is a hay, or a narrow arm of the gulf ol 
Mexico: it runs through a rich hut very flat country 
until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, 
fifteen miles below tin . itj ol New Orleans. The bay 
has branch' i .. mosl innumerable, in which persons can 
lie concealed from tin' sevi r. .t scrutiny. It cotnmuni 
cates wiili i!n. . lal as which lie on the southwest side, 
and these, wuh ihe lake of the same name, and which 
ties contiguous to the sea, where there is an island formed 
by the two arms of ibis lake and the sea. The east and 

west i Is of this island wire fortified, in the year 

1811, by a band of pirates under the command of ono 
Monsieur La Fitte. A large majority of these outlaws 
are of that class of ihe population of the state of Louis- 
iana who Bed from Ihe island of St. Domingo during the 
there, and took refuge in the island of Cuba: 
and when the last war between France and Spain com- 
menced, they were compelled to leave that island with 
llae short notice of a lew days. Without ceremony, 
they entered the United Sums, the most of them the 
state of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had pos- 
sessed m Ciil. a. They were notified by the Governor 
of that State of ihe clause in 'lie constitution which for- 
bad the importation of slaves ; but, at the same time, 
received the assurance of the Governor that he would 
obtain, if possible, ihe approbation of the General Go- 
vernmenl for their retaining this properly. 

The Island of Barrataria is situated about lal. 29 deg. 
13 nun. Ion. 92. 30. and is as remarkable for its health 
as lor the superior scale and shell-fish with which us 

waters abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles 
de Moor, had mixed with Ins many vices seme virtuea 
In Ihe ve.u Isl ;, ilos parly had, from its turpitude and 
boldness, i laimed the attention of the Governor of Lou* 
isiana; and to break up the establishment, he thought 
proper to strike al ihe head. He therefore offered a 
reward of ..tin dollars for the head of Monsieur La Fun-, 
who was well known to the inhabitants of the 
New Orleans, from his immediate connexion, and his 
once having been a fencing-master in that city of great 
reputation, which arl he learnt in Buonaparte's army, 
where he was a captain. The reward which was of- 
fered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte was 
answered h, the offer of a reward from the latter of 
15,000 for the head of the Governor. The Governor 
ordered out a company to mareii from the city to La 
lilt, , island, and to burn and destroy all the property, 
and to bring to the city of New Orleans all his banditti. 
This company, under the command of a man who had 
been the intimate associate of this bold Captain, ap- 
proached very near to the fortified island, befbn 
a man, or heard a sound, inilil he heard a whistle, not 
unlike a boatswain's call. Then it was he found him- 
self surrounded by armed men who had emergi 

the secrel ave s which led into Bayou. Here ii was 

that the modem Charles de Moor developed his few 

noble Irails; for to this man, who had come to destroy 

his life and all that was dear to him, he not onlj 

Ins life, Inn oili nil him that which would have made 

,-asv to, ihe remainder of his days, 



• Sec" Cur« of Miasm.' 



..Inch was indignantly refused. He then, with the ap- 
probation of Ins eaptiir, returned to the city. This cir- 
cumstance, and some concomitant events, proved that 
this hand ofpiratl s was not to he taken by land. Our 
naval force having always been small in that quarter, 
ex. rin, ns for ih. destruction of this illicit establishment 
could not he expected from them until augmented ; for 
an officer of the navy, with most of the gunboats on 
that station, bad to retreat from an overwhelm!), 
of La Fine's. So 9oonas the augmentation af the navy 
authorized an attack, ono was made ; the overthrow of 
this banditti has been the result ; and now this almost 
invulnerable point and key to New Orleans is clear of 
an enemy, it is to be hoped the government will hold it 
by a strong military force.— From an American Nm- 
paper. 



Canto I. 



LARA. 



121 



Iii Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical 
History, there is a singular passage in his account of 
archbishop Blackbourne, and as in some measure con- 
nected with the profession of the hero of the foregoing 
poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it. 

"There is something mysterious in the history and 
character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but 
imperfectly known; and report has even asserted he 
was a bucaneer; and that one of his brethren in thai 
profession having asked, on his arrival in England, what 
had becor.ie of his old chum, Blackbourne, was an- 
swered, he is archbishop of York. We are informed, 
that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter, in 
1694, which office he resigned in 1702; but after his 
successor Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he regained 
it. In the following year he became dean ; and, in 1714, 
held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was 
consecrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716; and 
translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, 
according to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the 
Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have 
been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he be- 
haved with great prudence, and was equally respectable 
as the guardian of the revenues of the see. Rumour 
whispered he retained the vices of his youth, and that 
a passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of 
his weaknesses; but so far from being convicted by 



seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have been 
directly criminated by one. In short, I look upon these 
aspersions as the effects of mere malice. How is it 
possible a bucaneer should have been so good a scholar 
as Blackbourne certainly was? he who had so perfect 
a knowledge of the classics, (particularly of the Greek 
tragedians,) as to be able to read them with the same 
ease as he could Shakspeare, must have taken great 
pains to acquire the learned languages ; and have had 
both leisure and good masters. But he was undoubt- 
edly educated at Christchurch College, Oxford. He 
is allowed to have been a pleasant man : this, however, 
was turned against him, by its being said, * he gamed 
more hearts than souls. 5 " 



"The only voice that could sooth the passions of the 
savage, (Alphonso 3d,) was that of an amiable and 
virtuous wife, the sole object of his love; the voice of 
Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, 
and the granddaughter of Philip 2d, King of Spain. — 
Her dying words sunk deep into his memory ; h ; s fierce 
spirit melted into tears ; and after the last embrace, 
Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail h » irre- 
parable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of uman 
life." — Miscellaneous Works of Gibbon^ New > tkion, 
8vo. vol. iii. page 473. 



LARA; 

A TALE. 



CANTO I. 



The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain, 

And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 

He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 

The long self-exiled chieftain is restored ; 

There be bright faces in the busy hall, 

Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 

Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 

The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze ; 

And gav retainers gather round the hearth, 

With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. 

ii. 
The chief of Lara is return'd again : 
And whv had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself; — that heritage of wo, 
That fearful empire which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 
With none to check, and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
Then, when he most required commandment, then 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone. 

in. 
And Lara left in youth his father-land; 
But from the hour he waved his parting hand 
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
'T was all they knew, that Lara was not there; 
Nor sen,, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the few* 



His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame, 
Another chief consoled his destined bride, 
The young forgot him, and the old had died, 
"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient heir 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace, 
The Lara's last and longest dwelling-place ; 
But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 



He comes at last in sudden loneliness, 

And whence they know not, why they need not guess*, 

They more might marvel, when the greeting 's o'er. 

Not that he came, but came not long before" 

No train is his beyond a single page, 

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 

Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away 

To those that wander as to those that stay; 

But lack of tidings from another clime 

Had lent a flagging «ing to weary Time. 

They see th«\y recognise, yet almost deem 

The present dubious, or the past a dream. 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhoood's prime, 
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by time 
His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
Might he untaught him by his varied lot; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame: 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins _ 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins ; 
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
Might be redeem'd. nor ask a long remorse. 

v. 

And they indeed were changed— 'tis quickly seen, 
Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been : 



1 22 LARA. 

That brow in furrow'd lines had fiYd at last, 

And spake of passions, but of passion past: 

The pride, but nut the fire, of early days, 

Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; 

A high demeanour, and a glance that took 

Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 

And that sarcastic levity of longue, 

The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 

That darts in seeming playfulness around, 

And makes those feel thai will not own the wound; 

All these seem'd his, ami something more beneath, 

Than glance could well reveal, or accent breath- . 

A mint lun, glory, love, the common aim, 

That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 

Within his breast appear'd no mure tu strive, 

Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive ; 

And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 

At moments bghten'd o'er his livid face. 



Cawto I 



Not much he loved long question of the past, 
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 

In those far lands where lie had wanderd Lone, 

And — as himself would have it seem — unknown: 

Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow man ; 
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew, 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 



Not unrejoiced to see him once again. 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men; 
Born of high lineage, hnk'd in high command, 
He mingled with the Magnates of his land ; 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away; 
But still he only saw, and did nut share 
The common pleasure or the general care ; 
He did not follow what they all pursued 
Willi hope still baffled still to be renewed ; 
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gam, 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain: 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and showed him slill alone; 
Upon his eye sate something of reproofj 
That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
Anil tilings more uinid that beheld him near, 
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear; 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confest 
They deem'd him better than his air exprcst. 

Tin. 
T was strange — in youth all action and all life, 
Burning fur pleasure, not averse from strife; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that °ave, 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below, 
And found his recompense in joy or wo, 
No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings soii"ht 
In that intenseness an escape from thou-iii ; 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high, 
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
How woke he from the wiklness of that dream? 
Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 
To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. 



Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 
And oft, in audden mood, for many a day 
From ajj conimunion he would start away; 



And then, his rarely call'd attendants said, 

Tlirough night's long hours would sound tiis hurried tread 

O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 

In rude but antioue (Hmraiture around: 

Th<-\ heard, but whsper'd — *that must not be known — 

The sound of words less earthly than his own. 

Yes, ih'v who chose might smile, but some had seen 

They scarce knew what, but more than should have been 

SZed he so upon the ghastly head 
Which hands profane had gathered from the dead, 
Thai still beside his opened Volume lay, 

As if to startle all BEYS him away / 

\\'\)S' slept he not when others were at rest? 
Why heard no music, and received no guest ? 
All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wrong? 
Some knew perchance - but \ "ere a tale too long; 
And such besides were ton discreetly wise, 
To more than hint their kn wledge in surmise - 
But if they would — they could" — around the board 
Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their Lurd. 

X. 

It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 

The stars are studding, each with imaged beam ; 

So calm, die waters scarcely seem to stray, 

And yet they glide like happiness away; 

Reflecting far and (airy-like from high 

The immortal lights that live along the sky: 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree. 

And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee; 

Such in her chaplel infant Dian wove, 

And Innocence would offer to her lovo, 

These deck the sin. re ; the waves their chann^ ma* * 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was so still, so sofl in earth and air, 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there 

•Secure that nought of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night! 

It was a moment only (or the good.* 

So Lara deeinM, nor longer there be stcod, 

But turn'd in silence to his castle-gatej 

Such scene his - iuj no more could contemplate.* 

Such seen-' reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 

Of nights more soil and frequent, hearts that now— 

No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 

Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like tliis, 

A night of beauty, uiuekVl such breast as his. 

XI. 

He turn'd within his solitary hall, 
And Ins high shadow shot along the wafli 
There were the painted (brms of other times, 
'T was all liny 1, h of virtues or of crimes, 
Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults | 
And half a column of the pompous page, 
That speeds the specious tale from age to a<*c, 
When- bistoty's pan its praise or blame supplies, 

And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 

He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 

Through the dim lattice o'er the floor uf stone, 

Ami the ln-h fiettnl root; ati.i saints, that there 
' '"■■ Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
RefloctMd in fantastic figures grew. 
Like life, but not like mortal Life, to view; 
His bristling lo. ks of Ka ble, brow of gloom, 
And the wide waving of Lis shaken plume, 
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 

xn. 

'T was midnight — all was slumber ; the lone light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall— 
A sound— a voices— a shriek— a fearful call ! 



Canto 1. I.ARA. 



123 



A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping car? 
They heard and rose, and tremulously brave 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 



Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 

Pale as the beam that o'er his feature's play'd, 

Was Lara stretch' d ; his half drawn sabre near, 

Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear ; 

Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 

And still defiance knit his gather'd brow ; 

Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 

There lived upon his lip the wish to slay; 

Some half form'd threat in utterance there had died, 

Some imprecation of despairing pride ; 

His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook, 

Even in its trance the gladiator's look, 

That oft awake his aspect could disclose, 

And now was fixed in horrible repose. 

They raise him — bear him ; — hush ! he breathes, he speaks, 

The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, 

His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 

Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 

Recalls its function, but his words are strung 

In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 

Distinct but strange, enough they understand 

To deem them accents of another land, 

And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 

That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear ! 

XIV. 

His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 
To know the import of the words they heard ; 
And, by the changes of his cheek and brow, 
They were not such as Lara should avow, 
Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise 
Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes, 
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 
And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied, 
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
To sooth away the horrors of his dream ; 
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
A breast that needed not ideal wo. 

xv. 
Whate'er his phrensy dreani'd or eye beheld, 
If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveafd, 
Rests at his heart: the custom'd morning came, 
And breathed new vigour in lus shaken frame ; 
And sula.ee sought he none from priest nor leech, 
And soon the same in movement and in speech 
As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, 
Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lours, 
Than these were wont ; and if the coming night 
Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, 
Whose shuddering proved tfieir fear was less forgot. 
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
The astoniah'd slaves, and shun the fated hall; 
The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor ; 
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze ; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 

XVI. 

Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
Came not again, or Lara could assume 
A seeming of forge tfulness, that made 
His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 
Had memory vanish'd men with sense restored? 
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 



Betray 'd a feeling that recall'd to these 
That fever'd moment of his mind's disease- 
Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke 
Those strange wild accents; his the cry that broke 
Their slumber? his the oppress'd o'erlabouVd heart 
That ceased to beat, the look that made them start '? 
Could- he who thus had suffcr'd, so forget, 
Whan such as saw that suffering shudder yet 
Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
Too deep for words, indelible, unmi.x'd 
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ? 
Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, 
Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
Of thoughts that mortal Ups must leave half told 
They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 



In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 

Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot: 

His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 

They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know his 

fate. 
What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, 
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 
A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, 
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
But own'd, that smile if oft observed and near, 
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer; 
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by, 
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye: 
Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 
And steel'd ttselfj as scorning to redeem 
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem; 
In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest ; 
In vigilance of grief that would compel 
The soul to hate for having loved too well. 



There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, 
He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
An erring spirit from another hurl'd; 
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
By choice the perils he by chance escaped; 
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
His mind woujd half exult and half regret : 
With more capacity for love than earth 
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 
And troubled manhood followed baffled youth; 
With thought of years in phantom chase mispent, 
And wasted powers for better purpose lent; 
And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 
In hurried desolation o'er his path, 
And left the better feelings all at strife 
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life; 
But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 
He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame, 
And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 
She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 
Till he at last confounded good and ill, 
And half mistook for fate the acts of will: 
Too high for common selfishness, he could 
At times resign his own for others' good, 
But not in pity, not because he ought, 
But in some strange perversity of thought, 
That sway'd him onward with a secret pridt 
To do what few or none would do beside ; 



124 



LARA. 



Canto I. 



And this same impulse would, in templing time, 
Mislead bis spirit equally to crime; 
So much he soar'd beyortti, or sunk beneath 
The men wilh whom he fell condemn'd to breathe 
And long'd by good or ill to separate 
Himself from all who shared his mortal stato; 
His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 
Far from the world, in regions of her own: 
Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, 
His blood in temperate seeming now would flow: 
Ah! happier if it ne*er wilh guilt had glowM 
But ever in thai icy smoothness rlow'dl 
T is true, with other men their path he watk'd, 
And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd, 
Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start, 
His madness was nol of the head, but heart ; 
And rarely wandered in Ins speech, or drew 
His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 



With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
And seeming gladness to remain unseen, 
He had (if 'twere nol nature V boon) an art 
Of living memory on another's heart : 
It was not love perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
That words can image to express the thought; 
But they who saw him did not sec in vain, 
And once beheld, would ask of him again: 
And those to whom he Bpake rememberM well, 
And on the words, howover light, would dwell: 
None knew, nor how, nor win, but be entwined 

Himself perforce around the hearer^ mind; 
There 1m- was Btamp'd, in liking, or in hate, 
If greeted once; however brief the date 
That friendship, phy, or aversion knew, 
Still there within the inmost thought he grc\v. 

You could not penetrate his soul, hut found, 

Despite youi wonder, to> your own be wound; 
His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
He forced an all unwilling tnteresl : 
Vain was the Btruggle in thai mental net, 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget! 

XX. 

There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
And aughf that wealth or lofty Imeage claims 
Appear — a highborn and a welcome guest, 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
"Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball; 
And the gay dance of bounding IJi-awtv's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain: 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well according bands; 

It i-s B sigh) the careful brow mjgh] smooth, 

And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
And Youth forget such hour was past on earth, 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth! 

XXI. 

And Lara gaze. I on these, sedately glad, 
His brow belied him it" Ins soul wa 
And his glance follow d List each fluttering fair, 
Whose sieps of lightness woke no echo there: 
He lean'd againsi the lofty pillar nigh. 
With folded arms and long attentive eye, 
Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 
111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this: 
Ai length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown, 
But seems as searching Ins, and his alone; 
Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien, 
V\ ho still till now had ga/cd on him unseen J 
At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 
Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze; 
On Lara's glance emotion garnering grew, 
As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 



Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stem, 

Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. 

XXII. 

K Tis he!" the stranger cried, and those that heard 

K. -■ rhoed fast and far the wbisper'd word. 

u 'Tis he!" — u 'T is who?" they question far and near 

Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear; 

So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 

The general marvel, or that single look; 

But Lara slirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 

That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 

Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 

Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed, 

And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 

"Tis lie ! — how came lie thence ! — what doth he here?* 

xxm. 
It were too much for Lara to pass by 
Such questions, so repeated fierce and high; 
With look collected, but with accent cold, 
More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 
lie luru'd, and nut the inquiMtonal tone — 
• My name is L^ra! — when thine own is known, 
Doubt not my fittinj answer to requite 
The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight. 
T is Lara! — further wouldst thou mark or ask? 
1 shun no question, and 1 wear no mask." 

1 Thou shuim'st no question ! Ponder — is there none 
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear woind shun? 
And deem'st thou me unknown too / Gaze again 
At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
Oh ! never canst liioii cancel half her debt, 
Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
\\ itli slow and searching glance upon his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 
He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 
And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; 
But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
"A word! — i charge thee slay, and answer here 
To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer, 
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown hot, lord, 
If false, t is easy to disprove the word — 
But, as thou wast and art, on thee looks dowu, 
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 

Art tl'iou not he '/ whose deeds " 

" Whatc'er I be, 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee 
1 list no further; those with whom they weigh 
-May bear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Let Otho cherish here bis polish^) guest, 
To bun my thanks and thoughts shall be exprcst.** 
And here their wondering host hath interposed — 
•■ W bate'ei there be between you undisclosed, 
Tins is no time nor littuig place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
[f thou, Sir Kzzelin, hast aught to show 
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem youj mutual judgment, speak the rest; 

myself for thee, as not unknown, 
1 hough like Count Lara now relurn'd alone 
From other lands, almost a stranger grown; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
1 augur right of courage and of worth, 
He will not that untainted line belie, 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 

" To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 

"And here our several worth and truth be tried ; 

1 gage my life, my falchion to attest 

My words, so may I mingle with the blest !* 



Canto I. 



LARA. 



125 



What answers Lara? to its centre shrunk 
His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk; 
The words of many, and the eyes of all 
That there were gather' d, seem'd on him to fall ; 
But his were silent, his appear 'd to stray 
In far forgetfulness away — away — 
Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 
Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 

XXIV. 

K To-morrow! — ay, to-morrow !" further word 

Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 

Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 

From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 

Yet there was something nYd in that low tone, 

Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown. 

He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd, 

And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd; 

And, as ho pass'd him, smiling met the frown 

With which that chieftain's brow would bear him down: 

It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 

That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 

But that of one in his own heart secure 

Of all that he would do, or could endure. 

Could tins mean peace ? the calmness of the good ? 

Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? 

Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 

For man to trust to mortal look or speech; 

From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 

Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 

XXV. 

And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey: 
His only follower from those climes afar, 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home: 
Those accepts as his native mountains dear, 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear, 
Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall, 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 

XXVI. 

Light was his form, and darkly delicate 

That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 

But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 

The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through ; 

Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 

All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 

But 't was a hectic tint of secret care 

That for a burning moment fever'd Lhere ; 

And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 

From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 

Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe 

Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 

Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 

Or if 't were grief, a grief that none should share : 

And pleased not him the sports that please his age, 

The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 

For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 

As all-fbrgotten in that watchful trance ; 

And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone, 

Brief were his answers, and his questions none; 

His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 

His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 

He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 

From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 



To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 

XXVII. 

If aught he loved, 't was Lara ; but was shown 

His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 

In mute attention; and his care, which guess'd 

Each wish, fulfil I'd it ere the tongue exprcss'd. 

Still there was haughtiness in all lie did, 

A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 

His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 

In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 

As if 't was Lara's less than his desire 

That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 

Slight were the tasks enjouYd him by his lord, 

To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword; 

To tune his lute, or if he will'd it more, 

On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 

But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, 

To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 

But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 

No sympathy with that familiar crew: 

His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 

Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 

So femininely white it might bespeak 

Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek, 

But for his garb, and something in his gaze, 

More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 

A latent fierceness that far more became 

His fiery climate than his tender frame: 

True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 

But from his aspect might be more than guess'd 

Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 

Another ere he left his mountain-shore ; 

For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 

That name repeated loud without reply, 

As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 

Start to the sound, as but remember'd then ; 

Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake, 

For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 

XXVIII. 

He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 

And niark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 

And when the crowd around and near him told 

Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, 

Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 

Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 

The colour of young Kaled went and came, 

The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame; 

And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 

The sickening ieiness of that cold dew, 

That rises as the busy bosom sinks 

With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 

Yes — there be things which we must dream and dam 

And execute ere thought be half aware: 

Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 

To seal his Lip, but agonise his brow. 

He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 

That sidelong smile upon the knight he past; 

When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 

As if from something recognised right well; 

His memory read in such a meaning moro 

Than Lara's aspect unto others wore: 

Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 

And all within that hall seem'd left alone; 

Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, 

All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene, 

That when his long dark shadow through the porch 

No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 

Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 

To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 

Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 

Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 



126 



LARA. 



Canto II. 



And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 
With thoughtful visage and imperious air; 
But long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired 
He waved his hand to Oiho, arid retired. 

XXIX. 

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest; 
The courteous host, and Disapproving guest, 
Again !•• that accustom'd * 
Where joy subsides, au I sorrow sighs to sleep, 
Ami iii.ui, o > crIabour 1 d with his being's strife, 
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulncss of life: 
There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, 
Hate's worldn - brain, and lull'd ambition's wile; 
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
And ouench'd existence crouches in a crave. 
What better name may slumber's bed become? 

Night's sepulchre, the universal b -, 

Where weakness, strength, rice, virtue, stink supine, 
Alike in naked helplessness recline; 
Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, 
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increast, 
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 



CANTO II. 



Nioht wanes — the vapours round the mountains 
Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
Man has another day to swell the past, 
And lead him near to little, but his 
But mighty Nature b..uu ' ;i ti -m h. r birth, 
The sun is in the heavens, and lift on earth; 
Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream 
Immortal man! behold her glories shine, 
And cry, exulting inly, a they an thine !" 
Graze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see; 
A morrow comes when they are no! tbr thee ; 
And grieve what may ab ivc thy sen eless bier, 
Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear; 
Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all; 
Bui creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
And lit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 

ii. 
'T is mom — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall, 
The gatber'd chieftains come to Others call, 
'T is now the promised hour, that, must proclaim 
The life or death of Lara's future (am ; 
When Ezzetin his charge may here unfold, 
And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
Ilis faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 
To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
Why comes he not ' ^u. h truths to bo divulged, 
Methhiks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 

in. 
The hour is pa^t, and Lara too is there 
With self-confiding, coldly patient air; 
Why comes not Ezzelin - The hour is past, 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brot 
"I know my friend! Ins Eaith 1 cannot fear, 
If ye'l he be on earth, axp cl him here ; 
The roof that held him in the vallev stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's Lands ; 
My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd, 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin Ins hosl disdain'd, 
But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
And urged him to prepare against to-day; 



curl'd 



The word I pledged fir las I pledge again, 
Or will myself redeem lib* knighthood's stain." 

He ceased — and Lara an»wer'd "1 am here 

To lend at thy demand a listening ear 

To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 

\\ hose words already might my heart have wrung, 

Bui that I deem'd him < an i leas than mad. 

f >r, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 

I know him not — but me It seems he knew 

where — but I must not trifle too: 

Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge; 
thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening threw 

I! love on earth, and forth his sabre flew 
B The last alternative be6ts me best, 
And thus 1 answer for mine absent guest." 

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 

I I ivi i i er near bis own it other's tomb; 

Willi band, whose almost can less coolness spoke 
i isp WBH-uaed t<> ileal the sabre-stroke; 

Willi eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 
Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 
In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 
For Otho's phrensy would not be opposed; 
And from his lip those words of insult fell — 
1 D sword is good who can maintain them well. 



Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash, 
Vain Otho gave his bos m to the gash : 
He bled, and fell ; but no) with deadly wound, 
StretchM by ad. || along the ground. 

" I demand thy life !" He answered not: and then 

l-'i mi that re, I tl ■ he ne'er had risen again, 

i' : Lara's brow upon the momenl grew 
Almosl to blackness in its demon hue; 
And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow; 
Then all was stem eoltectedness and art, 
Now t.se the unleaven'd hatred of his heart; 
So little sparing to the foe he fell'.i, 
That «hen the approaching crowd his arm withheld 
He almost turn'd Hie thirsty point on those, 
Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 
But to a moment's thought that purpose bent; 
Yet look'd lie on him still with eye intent, 
As if he Loathed the ineffectual strife 
That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ^ 
As if to search how far the wound he gave 
r its victim onward to his grave. 



They raised i 1 l; ho, and the Leech 

Forbade all present question, sign, and speech; 

r met within a neighbouring hall, 
And he, incensed and heedless of them all, 

mse and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
in baughrj silence slowly strode away ; 
He backed his steed, his homeward path he took. 
Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 



But where was he? that meteor of a night, 
W ho menaced but to disappear with light? 
\\ hi n was this Ezzelin? who came and went 
To leave no other trace of his intent 
He left the dome of Otho long ere morn, 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
lb- could not miss if: near his dwelling lay; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded naught 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 



Canto II. LARA. 

A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distrest: 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
fn dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
Bui none are there, and not a brake hath borne, 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
Which still retains a mark where murder was; 
Nor dabbling lingers left to tell the tale, 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
When agonised hands, that cease to guard, 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward. 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
But these were not; and doubting hope is left; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, 
Now daily mutters o'er his biacken'd fame; 
Then sudden silent when his fr>rm appear'd, 
Awaits tlie absence of the thing it fear'd 
Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 



127 



Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd, 

But not his pride; and hate no more conccal'd : 

He was a man of power, and Lara'- foe, 

The friend of all who sought to work ' im wo, 

And front his country's justice now demands 

Account of Ezzelin at Lara's ha 

Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 

Hie pres< nee ? who had made him disappear, 

If not the man on whom his menaced charge 

Had sate too deeply were lie left; at large? 

The general rumour ignorantly loud* 

The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 

The seeming fnendlessness of him who strove 

To win no confidence, and wake no love; 

The sweeping fierceness winch his soul betray'd, 

The skill with which he wielded his keen blade; 

Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art? 

Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart? 

For it was not the blind capricious rage 

A word can kindle and a word assuage; 

But the deep working of a soul unmi.vYl 

With aught of pity where lis wrath had fix'd; 

Such as long power and ovi rgor fid uccess 

Concentrates into all that \s merciless; 

These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 

Mankind, the rather to- condemn than praise, 

*Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, 

Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 

And he must answer for the absent head 

Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 

VIII. 

Within that land was many a malcontent, 
Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 
That soil till many a wringing despot saw, 
Who work'd his wantonness in f>rm of law; 
Long war without and frequent broil within 
Had made a path fjr blood and giant sin, 
That waited but a signal to begin 
New havock, such as civil discord blends, 
Which knows no neuter, owns hut foea or friends ; 
Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, 
In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhurr'd. 
Thus Lara had inherited his lauds 
And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands; 
But that long absence from his naiive elime 
Had left him stainless of oppression's crime. 
And now diverted by his milder sway, 
All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 
The meniats felt their usual awe alone, 
But more for him than them that fear was grown ; 
They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 
Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst, 



And each long restless night, and silent mood, 
Was traced to sickness, fed hy solitude : 
And though his lonely habits threw of late 
Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate; 
For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew. 
For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 
Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 
The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 
Much he would speak not, but beneath Ids roof, 
They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 
And they who watch'd mi^ht mark that day by day 
Some new-retainers gather'd to his sway ; 
But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, 

He play'd the courteous lord and I it s host: 

Perchance his sirife with Otho made him dread 
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 
Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 
With these, the people, than ins fellow thanes. 
If this were policy, so far 't was sound, 
The million judged but of him as they found; 
From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 
They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 
By him no peasant mourn'd his n!i' 
And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot , 
With him old avarice found its hoard secure, 
With him contempt furbore to mock the poor; 
Youth, present cheer, and promised recompense 
] V-i.ninl, tili all too late to part from thence: 
To hate he ofl'er'd, with the coming change, 
The deep reversion of delay'd revenge ; 
To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 
The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 
All now was ripe, he waits hut to proclaim 
' ' which was still a name. 

The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought ' 
His summons found the destined criminal 
Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 
Fresh from their feudal t" iters newly riven, 
Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
That morning he hail freed the soil-hound slaves 
W'hi dig no land for tyrants but their graves! 
Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
Must vindicate tin- wrong, ami warp the rijjht : 
Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 
A word's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 
Some tactions phrase by cunning caught and spread, 
That guilt, may reign, and wolves and worms be fed! 



Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 
Such suav, their infant monarch hardly rei^n'd ; 
Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, 
The Serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both 
They waited but a leader, and they found 
One to their cause in eparably hound; 
By circumstance compelled to plunge again, 
In self-defence, amidsl the strife of men. 
Cut off by some mysterious late from those 
Whom birth and nature meant not fur his foes, 
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst, 
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst: 
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
Inquiry into deeds at distanc. 
By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept, 
The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 
Roused by events that seem'd toredoom'd to urge 
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost i 
Burst forth, and made him all he once had been, 
And is again; he only changed the seen.-. 
Light care had he fur life, and less for fame, 
But not less fitted fjr the desperate gamy < 






128 LARA. 

He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate, 
And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 
"What cared he for the freedom of the crowd? 
lie raised (he humble hut to bend the proud. 
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
But man and destiny beset him there: 
Inured to hunters, he wag found al bay; 

And thev must kiil, they cannot snore the prey. 

Stern, unambitious, silent, In- had been 

Hencefi >rth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 

But, dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 

A leader not unequal t* the feud ; 

In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 

And from his eye the gladiator broke. 



Canto II. 



What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 

The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? 

The varying fortune of each separate field, 

The fierce that vanquish, and the feint that yield? 

The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall? 

In t)iis the struggle was the same with all ; 

Save that distemper'd pa iona lent i heir force 

In bitterness that banisti'd all remorso. 

None sued, for Mercy knew her rrv was vain, 

The captive died upon the battle-plain : 

In either cause, one rage alone possest 

The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 

And they tJiat smote for freedom or for sway, 

Deeni'd few wore slain, while more rcmain'd to slay. 

It was too late to check the wasting brand, 

And Desolation reap'd the famislul land ; 

The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 

And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 



Fresh with the nerve the new-bom impulse strung, 

The first success to Lara's numbers rlung: 

But that vain victory hath ruitiM all, 

They form no longer to their leader's rail; 

In blind confusion on the (bo they press, 

And think to snatch is to secure success. 

The lust of booty, and the rlurst of hate, 

Lure on the broken brigands to their fate: 

In vain he doth whatever a chief may do, 

To check the headlong fury of thai crew ; 

In vain their stubborn ardour In- wnild tame, 

The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame 

The wary foe alone hath turn'd their m od, 

And shown their rashness to thai erring brood: 

The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade. 

The daily harass, and the light delay'd, 

The long privation of the hoped supply, 

The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 

The stubborn wall thai mocks the leagu* T- art, 

And palU the patience of his baffled heart, 

(if the-, ■ iii.'v had not deera'd: the battle-day 

They could encounter as a veteran may; 

But more preferred the fiiry of the strife, 

And present death, to hourly suffering life: 

And futnne wrings, and I* ver sweeps away 

His numbers melting fail from their array; 
Intemperate triumph fades to disc. -merit, 
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent: 
But few remain to aid his voice and hand, 
And thousands dwindled to ■ scanty band 
Desperate, though few, the last Did best remaned 
To mourn the discipline they late (fisdanVd. 
One hope lurvives, the frontier is not far, 
And thence they may escape from native war; 
And bear within them to the neighbouring state 
An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate: 
Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 
Bui harder still to perish ?r submit. 



It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and lorchless flight, 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank? 
Away ! 't is lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly ! — What gutters in the rear? 
'T is Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear! 
Are those the shepherds 1 tires upon the height? 
Alas! they blaze too widely for the flight: 
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil ! 

XIII. 

A moment's paase, 't is but to breathe their band, 
Or shall they onward press, or lure withstand? 
It matters little — if they charge the foes 
Who by the border-stream their march oppose, 
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
However link'd to halite such design. 
"The charge be ours! i<> wait for their assault' 
\\ ere fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed: 
In the next tone of Lara's ga'hering breath 
How many shall but hear the voice of death! 

xiv. 
His blade is bared, in him there is an air 
As deep, but far (00 tranquil for despair; 
A something of indifference more tSari then 
Becomes the bravest, if ihey (eel f t men — 
He turn'd his eye <<n Kaled, ever near, 
And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 
Perchance 'i was but the moon's dun twilight threw 
Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint exprest 
The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
This Lara mark'd, and laid lus hand on his: 
It trembled not in such an hour as this; 
His hp was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
His eye alone proclaimed, u We will not part! 
Thy band ma\ perish, or thy friends may flee, 
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee!" 

The word hath passVl his lips, and onward driven, 
Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven; 
Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, 
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel; 
Outnumber'd not outbraved, they still oppose 
Despair to daring, and a front to fbes ; 
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
Which rims all redJy till the morning beam. 

xv. 
Commanding, ai ing all. 

Where (be appeared to pn d to fall, 

Cheers 1 art - voice, and waves or strikes his steel, 
Inspiring hope himself had • ■ used to fi el. 
None fit I] for well lh< \ knew thai flight were vain , 
But those that waver turn to smi e again, 
While y ' ihey find the firmesl of the foe 
Recoil before their leader's look and blow: 
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
1 [ e f iiU theii r inks, or reunites his own ; 
Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly — 
Now was the tune, he waved lus hand on high, 
And shook — Why sudden droops thai plumed creel? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast! 

That fatal gesture lafl the unguarded side, 
And Death hath striken down yon arm of pride. 
The word of triumph hunted from his tongue; 
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung! 
Hut vet tho sword instinctively retains, 
Though from its fellow sluink the falling reins 



Canto II. LARA. 



129 



These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, 
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger from the combat's i 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
Too raix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 

XVI. 

Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 

The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head; 

The war-horse niasterless is on the earth, 

And that last gasp hath bor>t Ins bloody girth; 

And near, yet quivering with what life rem 

The heel that urged him and the band that rein'd ; 

And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 

waters mock the lip of (hose that die; 
That panting thirst which scorrhes in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
Their hmbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
But yet they reach the stream, and bend to Uis'e : 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
Why pans-' .' No further thirst have they to slake — 
It is umi' 1 y feel it not; 

It was an agony — but now forgot ! 

xnr. 
Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 

but for him that strife had never been, 
A breaLhing but devoted warrior lay: 
'T was Lara bleeding fast from hie away. 
His follower once, and now his only guide, 
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 
And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush, 
With eaeh convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 
And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 
In feebler, not less fatal tricldings flow: 
He scarce can speak, but motions him 't is vain, 
And merelv adds anoth'-r throb to pain. 
He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 
And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 
Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 
Save that damp brow which resls upon Ins ton 
Save that pale asp/ i though dim, 

Held all the lighl thai shone on i arth for him. 

XVIII. 

The foe arrives, who long had gearch'd the field, 
TheTr triumph nought til ■ 

They would remove him, bul they see "l were rain, 
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate. 
And that escape to death from living hate : 
And Olho comes, and Leaping from his steed, 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state; he answers not, 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
And turns to Kaled: — each remaining word, 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
ing tones are in that other tongue, 
To which some strange remembrance wildly dung. 
They speak of other scenes, but what — is known 
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone; 
And lie replied, though faintly, to their sound, 
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round: 
They seem'd even then — that twain — unto the last 
To half forget the present in the past; 
To share between them parate fate, 

Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 



Their words though tainl were many — from the lone 
Their import those who h'-ard could judge alone; 
R 



From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's death 

More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 

So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 

The accents his scarce- moving pale lips spoke; 

But Lara's voire, though low, at first was clear 

And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near 

But from his visage little could we guess, 

So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 

Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 

Upon that page his eye was kindly cast; 

And once as Kaled's answering accents ceast, 

Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East: 

Where (as then the breaking sun from high 

Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye. 

Or that 't was chance, or some rememberM scene, 

That raised his arm to point where such had been, 

Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, 

As if his heart ahhorr'd that .coming day. 

And shrunk his glance before that moming light, 

To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 

Yel sense seem'd left, though better were its loss 

For when one near displayed the absolving cross, 

And proffer 'd to his touch the holy bead, 

Of which his parting soul might own the need, 

He look'd upon it with an eye profane, 

And smiled — Heaven pardon! if 'twere with disdain . 

And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 

From Lara's face his 6x'd despairing view, 

With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, 

Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 

As if such but disturb'd the expiring man, 

Nor seem'd to know his life but iiien began, 

That life of Immortality, s« 

To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 

xx. 

But gaspmg heaved the breath that Lara drew, 

And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 

His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd oer 

The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 

He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 

It beats no more, but Kaled will not par' 

With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 

For that faint throb whi< h answers not again. 

"It beats!" — away, thou dreamer! he is gone — 

It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 



He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 

The haughty spirit of that fiumble clay; 

And those around have roused him from his trance, 

Tint cannot tear from thence his fixed glance j 

And when in raising him from where he bore 

Within his arms the form that fi li no m i 

He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 

Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain; 

He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear ' 

The glos.y tendrils of his raven hair, 

But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 

Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well 

Than that he loved ! Oh! never yet beneath 

The breast of man such trusty love may breatho 

That trying moment hath at once n 

The secret long and yet but balf-conceal'd ; 

In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 

Its grii i - nVd i n led, bul the sex confest ; 

And life retum'd, and Kaled foil no shame— 

What now to her was Womanhood or Fame? 

XXII. 

And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 
But where he died his grac?e was dug as deep; 
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 

VI the mound 

And h- i ' by ■ w hose quiet grief, 

Less Loud, outlasts a people's fur their chie£ 



130 LARA. 



Vain was all question ask'd her of the past, 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last ; 
She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
Why (lid she love him ? Curious fool! — he still — 
Is human love the growth of human will? 
T i her he might be gentleness; the stern 

I Eava deeper thoughts than y d 

And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
the sb he lips at ow. 

They were not common links, that fonn'd thl 
Thai bound to Lara Kaled'a heart and brain, 
But tint wild tale she brook'd not to unl 
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 



They laid him in the earth, and on 

Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 

>und the scattered dints of many a s<-ar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war ; 
Where'er had pasVd his Bummer years of life, 
it seems they vanish'd in a Land of 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 

These only told vhere blood w-as spilt, 

And Ezzelin, who might ha past, 

Relurrfd no more— thai oighl appeared tu 



Upon that night (a peasant's is thi 

A Serf that cr i rvening \ ale. 

When Cynthia's light almosl m 0, 

And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn , 

A Serfj thai rosi 

And hew the hough that bought bis children's food, 

Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 

i If i Mho's lands and Lara's broad domain: 

Ht- heard a tramp — a hor . noan hrokc 

Prom out tin.- wood — before him was a cloak 

Wrapt round some burden at his saddle-bow, 

Benl was Ins head, ami hidden was his brow. 

■ 'I by the sudden sight at such a time. 
And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's ■ 
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
And lifting thence the burden which he 
Heaved op the bank, and dash'd ii from tie- shore, 
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, ami scem'd to watch, 
And still another hurried glance would snatch. 
And foiiow with his step the stream that flow'd, 
As if even yet too much its surface show'd : 
At once he started] stoop'd, around him strown 
The winter Roods had scatter'd heaps of stone; 
Of these the heaviest, thence he gathered tliere, 
And slung them with a more than conunon care. 



me the Serf had crept to where unseen 

redely mark what this might mea* 
b Boating breast, 
And something ghlfc 

■ant trunk, 

and it sunk: 
i 
And left the waters of a purpli 

man gazed, 
- ddy it had rait ■ 
Then turn 

purr'd him into panting speed. 

of the dead, 
rver*s dread ; 
in sooth a star its bo 

hat knighthood ever wore, 
And such 't is known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul! 

His in. i II ; 

arity upon the hope would dwell 
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 

XXV. 

And Kaled —Lara — 

Alike without their monunv n 

. linrj itrovt to wean 
i 'i ■ in lingering w ' ei a hei cl had been; 

■ too proud, 
1 iud ; 
1 1 us would you tear her from the spot 

believed thai he was not, 
: 

But lefl to waste her weai 

1 M all idly m if air, 

■ 
And v ■ . implaints : 

■u in Qcath the very tree 
Where lay his i tad upon her knee; 

And in tliat posture where she saw him Call, 

■ call ; 
bul ■■"■ i d her raven hair, 
b it from her bosom there, 
Ai,\\ told, and press it gently to the ground, 

ins wound. 

Herself would question, and for bun i 

ckoo him to fly 
From some ima i irsuil ; 

root, 

And hid vi i [e with her men re I and, • 

Or trace atrarj ind — 

oved; 

Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 



NOTE TO LARA. 



The event in section 24, Canto 2d, wa 
the description of the death or rather burial of the Duke 
of Gandia. 

The most interesting and parti, nl of this 

iu\ sterious ev< and is in sub- 

stance as follows : " On the i Juno, the car- 

dinal of Valenza, and the duke of ( ! lh Ii n - of the 
Pope, supped wnii their mother, Vanozz 
church of -S f . Pietro ad vinctUai several oth< i pers m 
being present at the entertainment. A late houi ap 

i iching, and the cardinal having reminded Ins brother, 

that it was time to return to the apostolic palace, they 
mounted their horses or mules, with only a few attend- 
anl . and proceeded togeth r as fat as the palace 
cardinal Ascanio Sforza, when the duke informed the 
cardinal, that before he returned home, he had to pay a J 



visit of plea iu "e. Dismissing therefore all his attenrt- 
; • n footman, and a person in 

a rnask, who ha I paid him a visit whilst at supper, and 
. month or thereabouts, pre- 
vious to this time, had called upon him almost daily, at 

i him on 
Ins mule, ami proi te Jews, where 

he quit! i i ting him to remain tliere 

until .i certain hour ; when, it' hi did aot return, hi 
repaii to The duki i 1 -- a eat* d ' ! - 

in the mask be! d rode, I know not whither; 

but in thai night he wa thrown into 

the nvcr. The servant, after having been di m 

all i . and mortally wounded; and al- 

vel such was 

his situation, that he could giw ao Intel gi It account 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



131 



of what had befallen his master. In the morning, the 
duke not having returned to the palace, his 
began to be alarmed; and one ot them informed the 
pontiff of the evening excursion of his sons, and that 
the duke had not yet made Ins appearance. This gave 
the pope no small anxiety , but lie conjectured that the 

i I been attracted by some courtesan to pass the 

r, and not cfioosing to quit the house in 

open da] , h id waite I till the following evening to return 

home. When, however, the evening arrive J, and he 

himself disappointed in his expectations, he be- 
came dei p!y afflicted, and began to make inquiries from 
different persons, whom he ordered to attend him 
for that purpose. Among these was a man named 
Giorgio Schiavoni, who, having discharged some timber 
from a bark in the river, had remained 4n board the 
vessel to watch it, and being interrogated whether he 
i any one thrown into the river on the night pre- 
i I, that he saw two men on foot, who 
came down the street, and looked diligently about, to 
observe whether any person was passing. That see- 
ing no one, they returned, and a short time afterwards 
two others came, and looked around in the same man- 
in r as the former: no person slill appearing, they gave 
u sign to their companions, when a man came, mounted 
on a white horse, having behind him a dead body, the 
head and arms of which hung on one side, and the feet 
on the other side of the horse; the two persons on foot 
supporting the body, to prevent it a falling. TTiey 
thus proceeded towards dial part, where the ruth of the 
city is usually discharged into the river, and turning 
the horse, with his tail towards the water, the two per- 
sons took the dead body by the arms and feet, and with 



all their strength flung it into the river. The person on 
horseback then asked it* they had thrown it in, to which 
they replied, Sigwr, si, (yes, Sir.) He then looked 
towards the river, and seeing a mantle floating on the 
stream, lie inquired what it was that appeared black, to 
win. h they answered, it was a mantle ; and one of them 
threw stones upon it, in consequence of which it sunk. 
The attendants of the pontitf then inquired from Gior- 
gio, why he had not revealed tins to the governor of the 
city; to which he replied, that he had seen in his time 
a hundred dead bodies thrown into the river at the same 
place, without any inquiry being made respecting them, 
and that he had not, therefore, considered it as a matter 
of any importance. The fishermen and seamen were 
then collected, and ordered to search the river, where, 
on the following evening, they found the body of the 
duke, with Ins habit entire, and thirty ducats in his purse. 
He was pierced with nine wounds, one of which was in 
■ Lt, the others in his he d, b "■ and limbs. No 
sooner was the pontiff informed of the death of his son, 
and that lie had been thrown, like filth, into the river, 
than, giving way to his grief, he shut himself up in a 
chamber, and wept bitterly. The cardinal of Segoi ia, 
and other attendants on the pope, went to the door, and 
after many hours spent in persuasions and exhortations, 
prevailed upon him to admit them. From the evening 
of Wednesday, till the following Saturday, the pope took 
no food ; nor did he sleep from Thursday morning till 
the same hour on the ensuing day. At h-nglh, howei er, 
giving way to the entreaties of ins attendants, he began 
to restrain Ins sorrow, and to consider the injury which 
his own health might sustain, by the further indulgi noe 
of his grief' — RoSGOe's Leo Tenth, vol. i. page 265 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ.. 

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BV HIS FRIEND. 



January 22, 1816, 

ADVERTISEMENT. 



■ The grand army of the Turks, (in 1715,) under the 
Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way info the heart 
of the Morca, and to form the siege of Kapoli di Roma- 
nia, the most considerable place in all that country,* 
thought it best in the first place to attack Corinth, upon 
which they made several storms. The garrison being 
weakened, and the governor seeing i' was impossible to 
1 1 old out against so mighty a force, thought it fit to beat 
a parley: but while they were treating about the articles, 
one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, wherein they 
had six hundred barrels of powder, blew up by accident, 
whereby sa or seven hundred men were killed; which 
so enraged the infidels, that, they would not grant any 
capitulation, but stormed the place with so much fury, 
thai they took it, and put most of the garrison] with 
Signior Minotti, the governor, to the sword. The rest, 
with Antonio BembOjproveditor extraordinary, were made 
prisoners of war." — History of the 7*urht t vol. iii. p. 151. 



" Najiuli di Romania is not now the moat considerable pi 
Morea, but Tripolitza, where the Paeh-i 

ICQt. Napoll i* near Ar^os. I visited all Urn e Ln 1810-11; nnil 

in my firet arrival in 

1809, I crossed the lithrnm right Ltmea In my way front Atl 

Morea. over ihe m i ml a 01 in .1. when parsing from 

if Athens to that of Lepanto. Ruth the ruiit.-s are pictureso/ic 

that by sea has more sameneix, but 

"rv near it, 

man? attractive v)ewi of llic islands Salamii, Aigina, Poro, &c. 

ted the coasl of the continent. 



MAWS' a vanish'd year and age, 

And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 

Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands 

A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands. 

The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock. 

Have left untouch'd her hoary rock, 

The keystone of a land, which still, 

Though fill n, looks proudly on that hill, 

The landmark to the double tide 

That purpling rolls on either side, 

As if their waters chafed to meet, 

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 

But could the blood before her shed 

Since first Timoleon's brother bled, 

Or baffled Persia's despot fled, 

Arise from out the earth which drank 

The stream of slaughter as it sank, 

That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 

Her isthmus idly spread below: 

Or could the bones of all the slain, 

Who perish'd there, be piled again, 

That rival pyramid would rise 

More mountain-like, through those clear skie% 

Than yon tower-capt Acropolis, 

Which seems the very clouds to kiss, 



On dun Cithsron'fl ridge appears 

Tho gleam of twice ten thousand spoar3 ; 



U2 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
From shore to shore of either main, 
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
Along the Moslem's leaguering lines; 
And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
And far and wide as eye can reach 
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach; 
And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
Ami there his sired the Tartar wheels; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd,' 
The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
And there the volleying thunders pour, 
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
Which crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 
And from that wall the foe replies, 
O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
With fires that answer fast and well 
The summons of the Infidel. 



But near and nearest to the wall 
Of those who wish and work its fall, 
With deeper skill in war's black art 
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood; 
From post to post, and deed to deed, 
Past spurring on his reeking steed, 

Where salt] ing ranks the trench assail, 
And in i [oslem quail ; 

Or where the battery, guarded well, 
Remains as yet impregnable, 
Alighting cheerly to inspire 
The soldier slackening in Ins fire 
The first and freshest of the host 
Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 
To guide the follower o'er the field, 
To point the tube, the lance to wield 
Or whirl around (he bickering blade; — 
Was Alp, the Adrian renegade! 



From Venice — once a race of worth 
His gentle sires — he drew his birth; 
But late an exile from her 
Against his countrymen lie bore 
The arms they taught to bear ; and now 
The turban girt, his shaven brow. 
Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 
With Greece to Venii e' rule at last; 
And here, before her walls, with those 
To Greece and Venice equal foes, 
He stood a foe, with all the 2eal 
Which young and fiery converts feel 
Within whose heated bosom throngs 
The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
To him had Venice ceased to be 
Her ancient civic boast — "the Free;" 
And ui the palace of St. Mark 
Unnamed accusers in the dark 
Within the "Lion's mouth" had placed 
A charge against him uncfiaced: 
He fled in time, and saved his life, 
To waste his future years in strife, 

ught his land how great her loss 
In him who triumph'd o'er the Cross, 
'Gainst which he rear'a the Crescent high, 
And battled to avenge or die. 



'losing sceno 
Adorn'd the triumph of Kugone, 
When on Cariowitz' bloody plain, 
The fast and mightiest of the slain, 
He sank, regretting not to die, 
But curst the Christian's victory — 
Coumourgi — can liis glory cease, 
Thai latest conqueror of Greece, 
Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
A hundred years have roll'd away 
Since he rcfix'd the Moslem's sway, 
An. I ncmtfie led the Mussulman, 
And ga\. ■ ..• of the van 

To Alp, who will repaid the trust 

■ U'd with the dust; 
And proved, by many a deed of death, 
How firm his heart in novel faith. 



The walls grew weak; and fast and hot 

Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 

With unabating fury sent 

From battery to battlement ; 

And thunder-like the pealing din 

Rose from each heated culverin; 

And here and there some crackling dome 

Was fired before the exploding bomb: 

And as (lie fabric sank beneath 

The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 

In red and wn athing columns flash'd 

The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd, 

Or into countless meteors driven, 

Its earth-stars melted into heaven; 

clouds that day grew doubly dun, 
Impervious to the hidden sun, 

With volumed smoke that slowlv grew 
To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 



But not for vengeance, long delay'd, 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade, 
The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
His skill to pierce the promised breach ; 
Within these walls a maid was pent 
His hope would win without consent 
Of that inexoi 

Whose heart refused liim in its ire, 
When Alp, b< i ■ hristian name, 

Her virgin hand aspired to i 
In happier mood, and earlier lime, 
While unimpeach'd lor traitorous crime, 

I in gondola or hall, 
He glitter'd through the Carnival ; 
And tuned the softest serenade 
Thai e'er on Adria's waters plity'd 

At midnight to Italian maid. 



And many deem'd her heart was won, 
For sought by numbers, given to none, 
;/s hand remain'd 
Still by the church's bonds unehain'd: 
And when the Adriatic bore 
Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 
Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 
And pensive wax'd the maid and pale; 
More constant at confessional, 
More rare at masque and festival; 
I lr sen at such, with downcast eyes, 
\\ hich conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize: 
Willi listless look she seems to gaze 
With humbler care her form arrays ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



133 



Her voice less lively in the song; 


It struck even the besieger's ear 


Her step, though light, less fleet among 


With something ominous and drear, 


The pairs, on whom the Morning's glanco 


An undefined and sudden thrill, 


Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 


Which makes the heart a moment still, 




Then heat with quicker pulse, ashamed 


IX. 


Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 


Sent by the state to guard the land, 


Such as a sudden passing-bell 


(Which wrested from the Moslem's hand, 


Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 


While Sobteski tamed his pride 




By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 


XII. 


The chiefs of Venice wrung away 


The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 


From Paira to Eubcea's bay,) 


The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er ; 


Minotti held in Corinth's towers 


The watch was set, the night-round made, 


The Doge's delega'ed powers, 


All mandates issued and obey'd : 


While yet the pitying eye of Peace 


'T is but another anxious night, 


Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece: 


His pains the morrow may requite 


And ere that faithless truce was broke 


With all revenge and love can pay, 


Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 


In guerdon for their long delay. 


With him his gentle daughter came 


Few hours remain, and he hath need 


Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 


Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 


Forsook her lord and land, to prove 


Of slaughter ; but within his soul 


What woes await on lawless love, 


The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 


Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 


He stood alone among the host; 


Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 


Not his the loud fanatic boast 




To plant the crescent o'er the cross, 


X. 


Or risk a life with little loss, 


The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 


Secure in paradise to be 


And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 


By Houris loved immortally : 


O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 


Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 


The f iremost of the fierce assault. 


The stern exaltedness of zeal, 


The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 


Profuse of blood, untired in toil, 


Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 


When battling on the parent soil. 


The full of hope, misnamed "forlorn," 


He stood alone — a renegade 


Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 


Against the country he betray'd ; 


And win their way with falchion's force, 


He stood alone amidst his band, 


Ur pave the path with many a corse, 


Without a trusted heart or hand: 


O'er which the following brave may rise, 


They follow'd him, for he was brave, 


Their stepping-stone — the last who dies ! 


And great the spoil he got and gave; 




They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 


XI. 


To warp and wield the vulgar will : 


'T is midnight : on the mountains brown 


But still his Christian origin 


The cold, round moon shines deeply down; 


With them was little less than sin. 


Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 


They envied even the faithless fame 


Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
So wikUy, spiritually bright; 


He eani'l beneath a Moslem name; 


Since he, their mightiest chief] had been 


In youth a bitter Nazarene. 


Who ever gazed upon them shining, 


They did not know how pride can stoop, 


And turn'd to earth without repining, 


When baffled feelings withering droop; 


Nor wisli'd for wings to flee away, 


They did not know how hate can burn 


And mix with their eternal ray? 


In hearts once changed from soft to stern ; 


The waves on either shore lay there 


Nor all the false and fatal zeal 


Calm, clear, and azure as the air; 


The convert of revenge can feel. 


And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 


He ruled them — man may rule the worst, 


But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 


By ever daring to be first : 


The winds were pillow'd on the waves; 


So lions o'er th jackal sway ; 


The banners droop'd along their staves, 


The jackal points, he fells the prey, 


And, as they fell around them furling, 


Then on the vulgar yelling press, 


Above them shone the crescent curling ; 


To gorge the relics of success. 


And that deep silence was unbroke, 




Save where the watch his signal spoke, 
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 


XIII. 


His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 


And echo answered from the hill, 


The quick successive throbs convulse ; 


And the wide hum of that wild host 


In vain from side to side he throws 


Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 


His form, in courtship of repose ; 


As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 


Qr if he dozed, a sound, a start 


In midnight call to wonted prayer; 


Awoke him with a sunken heart. 


It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 


Tho turban on his hot brow press'd, 


Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain: 


The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast, 


T was musical, but sadly sweet, 


Though oft and long beneath its weight 


Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 


Upon his eyes had slumber 


And take a long unmeasured tone, 


Without or couch i 


To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 


Except a rougher field and sky 


It seem'd to those within the wall 


Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 


A cry prophetic of their fall: 


Than now along the heaven was spread ; 



134 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



He could nut rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wail for day, 
But walk'd him forth alung the sand, 
Whew thi u land sl< i brand. 

What pillow'd them? and why should lie 
More wakeful than the humblest be, 
Since more their peril, worse their toil? 
And yet they fearless dream of sj>oil ; 
While be alone, where thousands pasaM 
A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
In sickly vigil wander'd on, 
And envied all he gazed up 

xiv. 
He felt bis soul become mori 
Beneath the freshm 
Cool was the silent sky, though calm, 
And bathed his brow with airy halm: 
Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and hay, 
I lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's lull, unshaken snow, 
1 Dgh and elernatj such 8 
Through thousand .summers hrightly gone, 
Along ihe gulf, the mount, the clime; 

It will not melt, like man, to time: 
Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
I ' u forni'd to wear before the ray ; 
Bul that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
Which on the mighty mount thou bailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 

v battlement ; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud, 
In texture like a hovering shroud, 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
4-s from her fond abode she fled, 
•ind linger'd on the spot, where long 
Jier prophet spirit spake in 
Jh, still her step at moments falters 
Ver withered fields, and ruin'd all I 
Ind fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
1y pointing ,r > each glorious token. 
dut vain her voice, till belter days 
,")awn in those yet rcmembcr'd rays 
Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 

xv. 
Not mindless of these mighty limes 
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes; 
And through this night, as on he wanderM, 
And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
And thought upon the glorious dead 

Who there in holier cause had hied, 

He felt how faint and feebly dun 

The fame that rould accrue to him, 

\\ bo cheer*d the band, and waved the sword, 

A traitor in a turban'd horde; 

And led them to the lawless siege, 

Whose best sucee 

Nut so bad those his fancy numberM, 

The chiefs whose dust arotin I Imn 'luinber'd; 

Their phalanx marshaM'd on the plain, 
Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 

They fell devoted, but undying ; 
The very gale their names seem*d sighing: 
The waters murmur'd of their name ; 
The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
The silent pillar, lone and gray, 
Claimed kindred with their sacred clay; 
Their spirits wrapt the dusfay mountain, 
Their memory sparkled oYr the f mntain ; 
The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. 
1 Respite of every yoke she bears, 
That land is glory's still and theirs ! 



*T i rord to the earth: 

"When man would do a deed of worth 

and turns to tread, 
So sanclion'd, on the tyrant's head: 

ks to her, and 
Where life is lost, or freedom won. 

XVI. 

Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 

And WOO'd the freshness Night diffused. 

Tie re ■ that tideless sea, 1 

■ 

nest mood, 
Scarce break on the bounds of the huid for a rood, 
And the powerless moon hchjlds them How, 
Hei d me or go: 

Calm o tain or hay, 

i sway. 
Tin- rock no ■ bare, 

KS «>'er the surf, but it Comes not there; 
And the fringe of the foam may he seen below, 

(in the hue thai il lefl ', ing 

I ..'How sand 
Between it and the greener land. 

He wander'd on, along the beach, 

Till within the range of a carbine's reach 

Of the leaguer'd wall; hut they saw him no', 

Or how c cape from the hostile shol ? 

l)nl trnitors lurk in the Christians' hold? 

Were their ham!-; grown stiff, or their hearts waxM 

cold ? 
I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
There flash'dno tire, and there his«'d no ball, 

A he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town ; 

igh he heard lite sound, and could aUnosl tell 
The sul 
. 

Clank'd, as he pa od fro ; 

And he saw the lean dogs beneath the 
Hold o'i i. nival, 

arcass u>d Limb ; 
They were too busy to hark at him! 
From a Tar; >' had stripp'd the EL 

As \e peel the fig when its fruit is fresh; 
And their white tuaks crunch 1 d o'er the whiter skull, 4 
As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their, edge 

grew dull, 
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dtt 
When they si arcs could rise from the spot where 

they fed ; 
So well had they broken a : 

"Willi those Who had fallen f-r I I ■ [>ast. 

And Alp knew, hy the lurhans that roll'd on ilia 

sand, 
The foremost of these \\< n the I" §1 "f his band: 
Crimson and green were the she wear 

And • ach Bcatp had a of hair,* 

All Uio resl n and bare. 

■ ', maw, 
The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
But close ! re, on the edge of the gulf, 

There sat a vullure Rapping a wolf. 
Who had sn Jen from the hill?, hut kept away, 
Scared !e, the dogs, from the human prey ; 

But he sei.-ed on his share of a sleed that lay 
Piek'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 

xvn. 
Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight- 
Never had shaken his nerves in fight; 
But he belter could brook to behold the dying, 
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lyio 
Scorch'd with the ind writhing in vain 

Than ihe perishing dead who are past all pain. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



135 



There is something of pride in the perilous I , 

Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower ; 

For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 

And Honour's eye on daring deeds ! 

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 

O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 

And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 

Boasts of the forest, all gathering there; 

.Ml regarding man as their prey, 

All rejoicing in his decay. 

XVIII. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 

Fashion'd by long forgotten hands; 

Two or three columns, and many a stone, 

Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 

Cut upon Time! it will leave no more 

01 the things to come than the tilings before! 

Out upon Time ! who for ever will leave 

But enough of the past fir the future to grieve 

O'er that whioh hath been, and o'er that wliich must 

be: 
What we have seen, our sons shall see ; 
Remnants of things that have pass'd awav, 
Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 

XIX. 

ITe sate him down at a pillar's base, 
Ami pass'd his hand athwart his face; 
lake one in dreary musing mood, 
Declining was his attitude; 
His head was drooping on his breast, 
Fevered, throbbing, and opprest ; 
And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 
Oft his beating fingers went, 
Hurriedly, as you may see 

iwn run over the ivory key, 
Ere the measured tone is taken 
By the chords you would awaken. 
There he sate all heavilv, 
As he heard the night-wind sigh. 
Was it the wind, through some hollow stone, 6 
Sin! that soft and tender moan? 
lie hfied his head, and he look'd on the sea, 
But it was unrippled as glass may be; 
He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade ; 
Hon was that gentle sound c on vey'd ? 
He look'd lo the banners — each flag lay still, 
So did the leaves on Cithairon's hill, 
And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 
What did that sudden sound bespeak? 
He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight? 
There sate a lady, youthful and bright \ 



He started up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

"God of my fathers ! what is here? 

Who art thou, and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament ?" 

His trembling hands refused to sign 

The cross he deem'd no more divine: 

He had resumed it in that hour, 

But conscience wrung away the power. 

He gazed, he saw : he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 

It was Franccsca by his side, 

The maid who might have been his bride I 

The rose was yet upon her cheek, 
But mcllow'd with a tenderer streak: 
Where was the play of her soil lips fled ? 
Gone was the smile that entivend their red. 
The ocean's calm within their view, 
Beside her eye had less of blue : 



But like (Jiat cold wave it stood still, 

And its glance, though clear, was chill : 

Around her form a thin robe twining 

Nought conceal'd her bosom shining ; 

Through the parting of her hair, 

Floating darkly downward there, 

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 

And ere yet she made reply, 

Once she raised her hand on high ; 

It was so wan, and transparent of hue, 

You might have seen the moon shine through. 

XXI. 

"I come from my rest to him I love best, 

That I may be happy, and he may be blest. 

I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall 

Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 

'Tis said the lion will turn and flee 

From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 

And the Power on high, that can shield the good 

Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 

Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 

From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 

I come — and if I come in vain, 

Never, oh never, we meet again ! 

Thou hast done a -fearful dt.-«d 

In falUng away from thy father's creed : 

Eut dash that turban to earth, and sign 

The sign of the ems.-;, and f>r ever he mine 

Wring the black drop from thy heart, 

And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 

"And where should our bridal couch be spread? 

In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 

For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 

The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 

None, save thou and thine, I Ye sworn, 

Shall be left upon the morn: 

But thee will 1 bear to a lovely spot, 

Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow 

forgot. 
There thou yet shalt be my bride, 
When once again I've quell'd the pride 
Of Venice ; and her hated race 
Have felt the arm they would debase, 
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
Whom vice and envy made my foes." 

Upon his hand she laid her own — 

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 

And shot a dullness to his heart, 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 

Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 

He could not loose him from its hold 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Slrike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 

As those thin fingers, long and white, 

Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 

The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue 

So deeply changed from what he knew. 

Fair but faint — without the ray 

Of mind, that made each feature p| tj 

Like sparkling waves on a sunny day; 

And her motionless lips lay still as death, 

And her words came forth without h^r breath, 

And there rose nut a heave o*er her bosom's swell 

And there Beem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwelL 

Though her >■■. hpni out, yel the lids were fix'd, 

And the glance that it gave was wild and unuuv'd 

With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 

Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 

Stirr'd by the breath of the wmtrv air 



136 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



So scon by the dying lamp's fitful light, 

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come 

down 

i the shadowy wall whore their images frown ; 
Fearfully fluting to and fro, 
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
" If not fir love of me be given 
Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 
Again I say — that turban tear 
Prom off thy faithless brow, and swear 
Thine injured counti ipare, 

Or thou art lost; ami nei | 
Not eartli — that 's past — bul heaven oi 
If this thou dost accord, albeit 
A heavy doom '1 is Ihine a m< et, 
That doom shall ha p sin, 

And mercy's gate may receive thee within: 
But pause one momenl more] and take 
The curse of Him thou didst for a 
And look once more ind see 

Its love for ever shut from thee. 
There b a light cloud by the moon — T 
'T is passing and will pass full soon — 
I£ hy the tune lis vapoury sail 

Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 
Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
Then God and man are b Ah avenged ; 
Dark will thy doom be. darker still 
Thin.' immortality of ill," 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 

The sign she spake of in the sky; 

But his heart was swollen, and Uim'd aside, 

By deep interminable pride. 

This first false passion of his breasl 

RnllM like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy! Hi dismay'd 

By wild words of a timid maul! 

He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave! 

No — though that cloud wt-re thunder's worst, 

And charged to crush him — let it burst ! 

He look'd upon it earn 
Without an accent of reply ; 
He watch'd it, passing ; it is flown : 
Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 
And thus he spake — u Whate'er my fate, 
] .mi i) i changeling — 't is too late: 
The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 
Then rise a^ain ; t h«- tree must shiver. 
What Venice made me, I must be, 
Her foe in all, save love to thee : 
Hut thou art safe: oh, fly with me!" 
Ho tiirn'd, but she is gone! 
Nothing is there but the column stone. 
»Hath she sunk in 'he earth, or melted in air? 
He saw not, he knew not ; but nutliing is there. 

4 XXII. 

The night is past, and shines the sun 

As if that morn were a jocund one. 

Lightly anJ brightly breaks away 

The Morning from her mantle gray, 

And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 

Hark to the trump, and the drum, 

And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 

And the flap of the banners that flit as they 're borne, 

And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 

And the clash, and the shout, " they come, they come V 

The horsetails B are pluck'd from the ground, and the 

sword 
From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for the 

word. 



Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 

your tenia, and throng to the van; 

Mount ye, BOUT ye, skirr the plain, 

That the fugitive may Bee in vain, 

When he bfi town; and none escape, 

ii young in the < 'hristian il 
Wlnh your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 

dn the igh which they pass. 

are all bridled, and snort to the rein; 
Curved is each neck, and ii mane; 

i on the oil : 

The spears 01 U B lit ; 

The canni in • to roar, 

And crush the wall thoy have i i unibled before : 

i !i Jankar ; 
Alp at their head ; his right arm is 

lis scimitar ; 
The khan and ' their post; 

The vizier himself al the head of the host. 
1, then on 
Leave nol in » lorinth a Living 

A priest at hi alia LD her halls, 

A hearth in her mansi >n her walls. 

< rod and the p a Hu ! 

Up to tl iloo! 

" There the breach lies foi passage the ladder to scale * 

And your bands on your sabres, and how should ye 

fail .' 
He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
His heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have? 
Thus utter'd Coumourgi, thi izier ; 

The reply was I of sabre and spear, 

And the shout of fierce th lusands in joyous ire:— 
Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 

xxm. 
As the wolves, thai headlong go 
On the stately bufl 

Though with G id angry roar, 

Ami h< that gore, 

He tramples on high 

The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die 
Thus against the wall they went, 
Thus the tirsi were backwark bent; 
Many a bosom, sheath'd in b 
Strew'd the earth tike broken glass, 
Shiver'd by the shot, that 
The ground whereo ! no more: 

Even as they fell, in B 
Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 
When his work is done on the levelled plain; 
Such was the fall of slain. 

XXIV. 

As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 

From the cliffs invs 

Huge fragments, sapp'd by flow, 

Till white and thundering ilown they go, 

Like the 

On the Alpine i 

Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 

Corinth's bous were downward borne 

By the long and oO renevAl 

Charge of the Moslem multitude. 

In firmness they sto-wt, anj i they foil, 

Heap'd, by the host of the infidel, 

Hand to hand, and (bol to foot ! 
Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 
Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 
For quarter, or for victory, 

there with the volleying thunder, 
Which makes the distant Cities wonder 
How the sounding battle goeSj 
If with them, or for 
If they must mourn, or may rejoice 
In that annihilating 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



137 



Which pierces the deep hills through and through 

With an echo dread and new: 

You might have heard it, on that day, 

O'er Salamis and Megara ; 

(We have heard the- hearers say,) 

Even unto Pirseus bay. 



From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 

Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 

But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 

And all but the after carnage done. 

Shriller shrieks now mingling come 

From within the plunder'd dome : 

Hark to the haste of riving feet, 

That splash in the blood of the slippery street ; 

But here and there, where Vantage ground 

Against the foe may still be found, 

Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 

Make a pause, and turn again — 

With banded backs against the wall, 

Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

There stood an old man — his hairs were white, 

But his veteran arm was full of might : 

So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 

The dead before him, on that day, 

In a semicircle lay; 

Still he combated unwounded, 

Though retreating, unsurrounded. 

Many a scar of former fight 

Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright ; 

But of every wound his body bore, 

Each and all had been ta'en before : 

Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 

Few of our youth could cop© with him ; 

And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 

Outnumbered his thin hairs of silver gray. 

From right to left his sabre swept: 

Many an Othman mother wept 

Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 

His weapon first in Moslem gore, 

Ere his years could count a score. 

O f all he might have been the sire 

Who fell that day beneath his ire: 

For, sonless left long years ago, 

His wrath made many a childless foe ; 

And since the day, when in the strait* 

His only boy had met his fate, 

His parent's iron hand did doom 

More than a human hecatomb. 

If shades by carnage be appeased, 

Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 

Than his, Minotli's son, who died 

Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 

Buried he lay, where thousands before 

For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore 

What of them is left, to tell 

Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves ; 
But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 



Hark to the Allah shout ! a band 
Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand : 
Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 
Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 
Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 
Thus in the light is he ever known: 
Others a gaudier garb may show, 
To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 
Many a hand 's on a richer hilt, 
But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 
Many a. loftier turban may wear, — 
S 



Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 

Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis thero ! 

There is not a standard on that shore 

So well advanced the ranks before ; 

There is not a banner in Moslem war 

Will lure the Delhis half so far ; 

It glances like a falling star! 

Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 

The bravest be, or late have been ; 

There the craven cries for quarter 

Vainly to the vengeful Tartar; 

Or the hero, silent lying, 

Scorns to yeild a groan in dying ; 

Mustering liis last feeble blow 

'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 

Though faint beneath the mutual wound, 

Grapplmg on the gory ground. 

XXVII. 

Still the old man stood erect, 

And Alp's career a moment check'd. 

"Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take, 

For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 

u Never, renegado, never! 

Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." 

"Francesca! — Oh my promised bride! 

Must she too perish by thy pride?" 

B She is safe." — K Where ? where ?" — " In heaven j 

From whence the traitor soul is driven— •■ 

Far from thee, and undefiled." 

Grimly then Minotti smiled, 

As he saw Alp staggering bow 

Before his words, as with a blow. 

" Oh God ! when died sho ?" — ■ Yesternight— 

Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 

None of my pure race shall be 

Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 

Come on !"— That challenge is in vain — 

Alp's already with the slain! 

While Minotti's words were wreaking 

More revenge in bitter speaking 

Than his falchion's point had found> 

Had the time allow'd to wound, 

From within the neighbouring porch 

Of a long defended church, 

Where the last and desperate few 

Would the failing fight renew, 

The sharp shot dashed Alp to the ground ; 

Ere an eye could view the wound 

That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 

Round he spun, and down he fell ; 

A flash like fire within his eyes 

Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 

And then eternal darkness sunk 

Through all the palpitating trunk ; 

Nought of life left, save a quivering 

Where his limbs were slightly shivering: 

They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 

And brow were stai^'d with gore and dust, 

And through his Kps the life-blood oozed, 

From its deep veins lately loosed ; 

But in his pulse there was no throb, 

Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 

Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 

Heralded his way to death : 

Ere his very thought could pray, 

Unanel'd he pass'd away, 

Without a hope from mercy's aid,— 

To the last a renegade. 



Fearfully the yell arose 

Of his followers, and his foes ; 

These in joy, in fury thosa : 



; 



138 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



Then again in conflict mixing, 

Clashing sword?, anil spears transfixing, 
Interchanged the blow and thrust, 
Hurting warriors in the dust. 
Street by street, and foot by foot, 
Still Minotti dares dispute 
The latest portion of the land 
L'-fi beneath his high command; 
With him, aiding heart and hand, 
The remnant of his gallant band. 
Still the church is tenable] 

Whence issued late the fated ball 
That half av. oged the i ity's fail, 
When Alp, her fierce assailant, full: 
Thither bending sternly back, 
They leave before a bloody track ; 
And, with their faces to the foe, 
Dealing wounds with every blow, 
The chief] and his retreating train, 
Join to those within the fane; 
There they yet may breath awhile, 
Shelter'd by the massy pile. 



Brief breatliing-time ! the turban'd host, 

With adding ranks and raging boast, 

Press onwards with such strength and heat, 

Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 

For narrow the way that led to the spot 

Where still the Christians yielded not; 

And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 

Through the massy column to turn and fly; 

They perforce must do or die. 

They die; but ere their eyes could close, 

Avengers o'er their bodies rose; 

Fresh and furious, fast they fill 

The ranks unthmn'd, though slaughtered still ; 

And faint the weary Christians wax 

Before the still renewed attacks: 

And now the Othmans gain the gate; 

Still resists its iron weight, 

And still, all deadly aimM and hot, 

From every crevice comes the shot; 

From every shatter'd window pour 

The volleys of the sulphurous shower: 

But the portal wavering grows and weak — 

The iron yields, the hinges creak — 

It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 

Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 



Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 

Minotti stood o'er the altar stone: 

Madonna's face upon liim shone, 

Painted in heavenly hues above, 

With eyes ->f light and looks of love ; 

And placed upon that holy shrine 

To fix our thoughts on tilings divine, 

When pictured there, we kneeling see 

Her, and the boy-God oa her knee, 

Smiling sweetly on each prayer 

To heaven, as if to waft it then. 

Still she smiled; even now sho smiles, 

Though slaughter streams along her aisles: 

Minotti lifted his aged eye, 

And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 

Then seized a torch which blazed thereby; 

And still he stood, while, with steel and ttaroe, 

Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 
Their names were on the graven floor, 
But now illegible with gore , 



The carved crests, and curious hues 
The varied marble's reins diffuse, 

mi 'nr'd, and slippery — stain'd, and strown 
With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown: 
There were dead above, and the dead below 
Lay cold in many a coftin'd row; 
Vou might see them piled in sable state, 
By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 
Bui War had enter'd their dark caves, 
And stored along the vaulted graves 
Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 
In masses by the hVshless dead : 
Here, throughout the siege, had been 
The Cfn ' -i magazine ; 

To these a late fbrm'd train now led, 
Mm 'iti's last and stern resource 
Against the foe's oVrwhelming force. 



The foe came on, and few remain 

To strive, and tln.se must strive in vam : 

For lack of further lives, to slake 

The thirst of vengeance now awake, 

With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 

And lop the already lifeless head, 

And fell the statues from their niche, 

And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 

And from each other's rude hands wrest 

The silver vessels saints had bless'd 

To the high altar on they go ; 

Oh, but it made a glorious show ! 

On its table still behold 

The cup of consecrated gold ; 

Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 

Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes: 

That morn it held the holy wine, 

Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 

Which lus worshippers drank at die break of day 

re their souls ere rhevjoin'd in the fray. 
Still a few drops within it lay; 
And round the sacred table glow 
Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
From the purest metal cast ; 
A spoil — the richest, and the last. 



So near they cam'-, the nearest stretclvd 
To grasp the spoil he aim «st reaehVl, 

When old Mmotrfs hand 
Touch'd with the torch the train — 

Tis fired! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
All that of Irving or dead remain, 
HurlM <>n high with the shiver'd fane, 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shatter'd town — the walls thrown down— 
The waves b moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 

As if an earthquake passVl — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaimed the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore: 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below: 
Many a tall and gt>odly man, 
Scorch'd and shrivelPd to a span, 
When he fell to earth again 
Like a cinder strew'd the plain : 
Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkle 
With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



139 



Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
Scattered o'er the isthmus lay ; 
Christian or Moslem, which be they ? 
Let their mothers see and say! 
When in cradled rest they lay, 
And each nursing mother smiled 
On the sweet sleep of her child, 
Little deem'd she such a day 
Would rend those tender limbs away. 
Not the matrons that them bore 
Could discern their offspring more ; 
That one moment left no trace 
More of human form or face 
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 
And down came blazing rafters, strown 
Around, and many a falling stone, 
Deeply dinted in the clay, 
AU blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
All the living things that heard 
That deadly earth-shock disappear^: 
The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
And howling left the unburied dead; 



The camels from their keepers broke ; 
The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
And burst his girth, and tore his rem; 
The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 
Deepmouth'd arose, and doubly harsh 
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 
Where echo roll'd in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry, 10 
Bay'd from afar complainingly, 
With a nibi'd and mournful sound, 
Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 
With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, 
The ea^le left his rocky nest, 
And mounted nearer to the sun, 
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun , 
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 
And made him higher soar and shriek — 
Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 



NOTES TO THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



Note 1, page 132, line 11. 
The Turcoman hath left his herd. 

The life of the Turcomans is wandering and patriar- 
chal : they dwell in tents. 

Note 2, page 132, line 69. 
Coumourgi — he whose closing scene. 

AH Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans, and 
Crand Vizier to Achmet III. after recovering Pelopon- 
nesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was mor- 
tally wounded in the next, against the Germans, at the 
battle of Peterwaradin, (in the plain of Carlowitz,) in 
Hungary, endeavouring to rally his guards. He died 
of his wounds next day. His last order was the de- 
capitation of General Breuner, and some other Ger- 
man prisoners; and his last words, "Oh that I could 
thus serve all the Christian dogs 1" a speech and act 
not unlike one of Caligula. He was a ycung man of 
great ambition and unbounded presumption : on being 
told that Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, "was a 
great general," he said, " I shall become a greater, and 
at his expense." 

Note 3, page 134, line 81. 
There shrinks no ehb in thai tideliss sea. 

The reader need hardly be reminded that there are 
no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 

Note 4, page 134, line 115. 
And their while tusks cruncJi'd o'er the whiter skull. 

This spectacle I have seen, such as described, beneath 
the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in the little 
cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a narrow- 
terrace of which projects between the wall and the 
water I think the fact is also mentioned in Hobhouse s 
Travels. The bodies were probably those of some 
refractory Janizaries. 

Note 5, page 134, line 124. 
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair. 

This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition that 
Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it. 



Note 6, page 135, line 37. 
I must here acknowledge a close, though unintention- 
al, resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in an 
unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called " Christabel." 
It was not till after these lines were written that I heard 
that wild and singularly original and beautiful poem 
recited ; and the MS. of that production I never saw 
till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge him- 
self, who, I hope, is convinced that I have not been a 
wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly per- 
tains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed 
above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope that 
he will not longer delay the publication of a production, 
of which I can only aii.l my mite of approbation to the 
applause of far more competent judges. 

Note 7, page 136, line 22. 
There is a light cloud by the moon. 
I have been told that the idea expressed from lines 
58S to 603 has been admired bv those whose approba- 
tion is valuable. I am glad of it : but it is not original 
—at least not mine ; it may be found much better ex- 
pressed in pages 182-3-4 of the English version of 
" Valhek " (Iforget the precise page of the trench,) a 
work to which I have before referred, and never recur 
to, or read, without a renewal of gratification. 

Note 8, page 136, line 67. 
The horsetails are pluck'dfrom the ground, and the sword. 
The horsetail, fixed upon a lance, a Pasha's standard. 
Note 9, -page 137, line 45. 
And since the day, when in the strait. 
In the naval bailie, at the mouth of the Dardanelles 
between the Venetians and the Turks. 
Note 10, page 139, line 31. 
TliejackcWs troop, in gather'd cry. 
I believe I have taken a poetieal license to transplant 
the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor heard 
these animals ; but among the rums of Ephesus I bava 
heard them by hundreds. They haunt nuns, and follow 
armies. 



P A R I S I N A. 

TO SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, Esq. 

THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED 
BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. 



January 22, 1816. 

The following poorn is grounded on a circumstance 
mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the House of 
Brunswick.'' — lam aware, that in modern times the deli- 
cacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such sub- 
jects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek drama- 
tists, and some of the best of our old English writers, wen 
of a dilferent opinion: as Allien and Schiller have also 
been, more recently, upon the continent. The following 
extract will explain the facts on which the story is founded. 
The name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more 
metrical. 

c Under the reign of Nicholas III. Fcrrara was pol- 
luted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an 
attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Kste 
discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina, and 
Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant youth. They 
were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a father 
ami husband] who published his shame, ami survived their 
execution. He was unfortunate, if they were guilty; if 
they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate ; not 
is there any possible situation in which I can sincerely 
approve the last act of justice of a parent." — Gibbon's 
Miscellaneous IVurks, vol. iii. p. 470, nt-w edition. 



It is the hour when from the boughs 
The nightingale's high note is heard ; 

It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ; 

And gentle winds, and waters near, 

Make music to the lonelv car. 

Each flower the dews have ftghdy we^ 

And in the sky the stars are met, 

And on the wave is deeper blue. 

And on the leaf a browner hu<?, 

And in the heaven that clear obscure, 

So soflly dark, and darkly pure, 

Which follows the decline of day, 
As twilight melts beneath the moon awav. 1 



But it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hall, 

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 

That the lady walks in the shadow of night \ 

And if she sits in Este's bower, 

'T is not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 

She listens — but not for the nightingale — 

Though her car expects as soft a tale. 

There glides a step through the foliage thick. 

And her cheek grows pale — and her heart boats 

quick. 
There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 



A moment more — and they shall meet — 
T is past — her lover 's at her feet. 



And what unto them is the world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide? 
Its living things — its earth and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
As if all else had pass'd away, 

They only for each other breathe ; 
Their very sighs are full of joy 

So deep, that did it not decay, 
That happy madness would destroy 

The hearts which feel its fiery sway ; 
Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
In that tumultuous tender dream? 
Who that have felt that passion's power, 
Or paused or fear'd in such an hour? 
Or thought how brief such moments last? 
But yet — they arc already past! 
Alas ! we must awake before 
We know such vision comes no more. 



With many a lingering look they leave 

The spot of guilty gladness past ; 
And though they hope, and vow, they grieve 

As if that parting were the last. 
The frciruent sigh — the tong embrace — 

The lip that there would cling for evctj 
While gleams on Parisina's face 

Thfl Heaven she fears will not forgive be* 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afar — 
The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
Yet binds them to their try sting-place. 
Bui it must come, and they must part 
In (earful heaviness of heart, 
With all tin.: de.-ji and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 



And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 

To covet there another's bride ; 
But she must lay her conscious head 
A husband'? trusting heart beside. 
But fovcr'd in her sleep she seems, 
And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 

And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day, 
And clasps her lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away : 
And he to that embrace awakes, 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 



PARISINA. 



That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
For such as he was wont to bless ; 
And could in very fondness weep 
O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 

VI. 

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 
And listend to each broken word : 
He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start, 
As if the Archangel's voice he heard ? 
And well he may — a deeper doom 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 
"When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
And stand the eternal throne before. 
And well he may — his earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
And whose that name? that o'er his pillow 
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 

So came upon his soul the shock. 
And whose that name? 'tis Hugo's, — his — 
In sooth he had not decm'd of this I — 
'T is Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The offspring of his wayward youth, 
When he betrayed Bianca's truth, 
The maid whose folly could confide 
la him who made her not his bride. 

VII. 

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 

But sheath'd it ere the point was bare — ■ 
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
He could not slay a thing so fair — 
At least, not smiling — sleeping — there- 
Nay more : — he did not wake her then, 
But gazed upon her with a glance 
Which, had she roused her from her trance, 
Had frozen her sense to sleep again^ 
And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
She spake no more — but still she slumber'd — 
While, in his thought, her days are number'd. 

VIII. 

And with the morn he sought, and found, 

In many a tale from those around, 

The proof of all he fear'd to know, 

Their present guilt, his future wo ; 

The long-conniving damsels seek 

To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her : 

Concealment is no more — they speak 

All circumstance which may compel 

Full credence to the tale they tell: 

And Azo's tortured heart and ear 

Have nothing more to feel or hear. 

IX. 

He was not one who brookM delay: 

Within the chamber of his state, 
The chief of Este's ancient sway 

Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 
His nobles and his guards are there,— 
Before him is the sinful pair ; 
Both young — and one how passing fair ! 
With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand, 
Oh, Christ ! that such a son should stand 

Before a father's face ! 
Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
And hear the sentence of his ire, 

The tale of his dwgrace ! 



in 



And yet he seems not overcome, 
Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 

x. 

And still, and pale, and silently 

Did Pari-sina wait her doom ; 
How changed since last her speaking eye 

Glanced gladness round the glittering room 
Where high-born men were proud to wait — 
Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 

Her gentle voice — her lovely mien— 
And gather from her air and gait 

The graces of its queen: 
Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
A thousand swords had sheathless shone, 
And made her quarrel all their own. 
Now, — what is she ? and what are they ? 
Can she command, or these obey? 
All silent and unheeding now, 
With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 
And folded arms, and freezing air, 
And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 
Her knights, and dames, her court — is there : 
And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
Had yet been couch'd before her glance, 
Who — where his arm a moment free- - 
Had died or gain'd her liberty ; 
The minion of his father's bride,— 
He, too, is fetter'd by her side; 
Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 
Less for her own despair than him : 
Those lids — o'er which the voilet vein 
Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 
Shining through the smoothest while 
That e'er did softest kiss invite — 
Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 
To press, not shade, the orbs below; 
Which glance so heavily and fill, 
As tear on tear grows gathering still. 



And he for her had also wept, 

But for the eyes that on him gazed: 
His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 

Stem and erect his brow was raised. 
Whale'er the grief his soul avow'd, 
He would not shrink before the crowd; 
But yet he dared not look on her : 
Remembrance of the hours that were — 
His guilt — his love — his present state — 
His father's WTath — all good men's hate — 
His earthly, his eternal fate — 
And hers, — oh, her's ! — he dared not throw 
One look upon that deathlike brow! 
Else had his rising heart betray'd 
Remorse for all the wreck it made. 



And Azo spake: — "But yesterday 

I gloried in a wife and son; 
That dream this morning pass'd away ; 

Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
My life must linger on alone ; 
Well, — let that pass, — (here breathes not one 
Who would not do as I have done : 
Those ties are broken — not by me ; 

Let that too pass; — The doom's prepared! 
Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 

And then — thy crime's reward! 
Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 
Before its evening stars are met— 
Learn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 

Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 



112 



PARISINA. 



But here, upon the earth beneath, 
There is no spot where thou and I 

Together, for an hour, could breathe; 
Farewell! I will not see thee die — 

But thou, frail thing! shalt view his head — 
Away! I cannot speak the rest: 
Go! woman of the wanton breast 

Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 

Go! if that sight thou canst outlive, 

And joy thee in the life I give." 



And here stern Azo hid his face — 
For on his brow the swelling vein 
Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 
The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again ; 

And therefore bow'd he for a space, 

And pass'd his shaking hand along 

His eye, to veil it from the throng; 

While Hugo raised his chained hands, 

And for a brief delay demands 

His father's ear: the silent sire 

Forbids not what Ins words require. 
" It is not that I dread the death — 

For thou hast seen me by thy sido 

All redly through the battle ride, 

And that not once a useless brand 

Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, 

Hath shed more blood in cause of ihine, 

Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 

Thou gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, 

A gift for which I thank thee not ; 

Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 

Bar Blighted love and ruin'd name, 

Her offspring's heritage of shame ; 

But she is in the grave, where he, 

Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 

Her broken heart— my sever'd head — 

Shall witness for thee from the dead 

How trusty and how tender were 

Thy youthful love — paternal care. 

*T is true, that I have done thee wrong — 

But wrong for wrong : — this, deem'd thy bride, 
The other victim of thy pride, 

Thou know'st for me was destined long. 

Thou saw's t, and coveted st her charms — 
And with thy very crime — my birth, 
Thou taiuited'st me — as little worth; 

A match ignoble for her arms, 

Because, forsooth, I could not claim 

The lawful heirship of thy name, 

Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 

Yet, were a few short summers mine, 
My name should more than Este's shine 

With honours all my own. 

I had a sword — and have a breast 

That should have won as haught 2 a crest 

As ever waved along the line 

Of all these sovereign sires of thino. 

Not always knightly spurs are worn 

The brightest by the better born ; 

And mine have lanced my coursers flank 

Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 

When charging to the cheering cry 

Of 'Estu and of Victory!' 

I will not plead the cause of crime, 

Nor sue thee to redeem from tune 

A few brief hours or days that must 

At length roll o'er my reckless dust; — 

Such maddening moments as my past, 

They could not and they did not, last — 

Albeit my birth and name be base, 

And thy nobility of race 



Disdain'd to deck a tiling like me — 
Yet in my lineaments they trace 
Some features of my father's face, 
And in my spirit — all of thee. 
From thee — this tamelessness of heart- • 
From thee — nav, wherefore dost thou start J - 
From thee in all their vigour came 
My arm of strength, my soul of flame- 
Thou didst not give me life alone, 
But all that made me more thino own. . 
See what thy guilty love hath done ! 
Repejd thee with too like a son! 
I am no bastard in my soul, 
For that, like thine, abhorr'd control : 
And for my breath, that hasty boon 
Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 
I valued it no more than thou, 
When rose thy casque above thy brow, 
And we, all side by side, have striven, 
And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 
The past is nothing — and at last 
The future can but be the past ; 
Yet would 1 that I then had died : 

For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 
And made thy own my destined bride, 

I feel thou art my father still ; 
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
'T is not unjust, although from thee. 
Begot in sin, to die in shame, 
My life begun and ends the same : 
As err'd the sire, so crr'd the son, 
And thou must punish both in one. 
My crime seems worst to human view, 
But God must judge between us too!" 



He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
And not an ear but foil as wounded, 
Of all the chiefs that there wore rank'd, 
When those dull chains in meeting clank 'd 
Till Paruana's fatal charms 
Again attracted every eye- 
Would she thus hear him doom'tf to die ! 
She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 
Not once had ttirn'd to either side— 
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 
But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling white dilated grew— 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
But every now and then a tear 
So largo and slowly gather d slid 
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
It was a tiling to see, not hear ! 
And those who saw, it did surprise, 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
Was choked within her swelling tliroat, 
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
It ceased — again she thought to speak, 
Then burst her voico in one long shriek, 
And to the earth she fell like stone 
Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
More. like a thuig that ne'er had life— 
A monument of Azo's wife,— 
Than her, that living guilty thing, 
Whose every passion was a sung, 
Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
That guilt's detection and despair. 



PARISINA. 



143 



But yet she lived — and all too soon 

Recover'd from that death-like swoon — 

But scarce to reason — every sense 

Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 

And each frail fibre of her brain 

(As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain, 

The erring arrow lanch aside) 

Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 

The past a blank, the future black, 

With glimpses of a dreary track, 

Like lightning on the desert path, 

When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 

She fearM — she felt that something ill 

Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 

That there was sin and shame she knew ; 

That some one was to die — but who? 

She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? 

Could this be still the earth beneath, 

The sky above, and men around ; 

Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 

On one, before whose eyes each eye 

Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 

All was confused and undefined 

To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 

A chaos of wild hopes and fears: 

And now in laughter, now in tears, 

But madly still in each extreme, 

She strove with that convulsive dream ; 

For so it seem'd on her to break: 

Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 

xv. 

The Convent bells are ringing, 

But mournfully and slow ; 
In the gray square turret swinging, 

With a deep sound, to and fro. 

Heavily to the heart they go! 
Hark ! the hymn is singing — 

The song for the dead below, 

Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
For a departing being's soul 

The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll : 
He is near his mortal goal; 
Kneeling at the Friars knee ; 
Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 
With tlie block before and the guards around — 
And the headman with his bare arm ready, 
That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
Feels if the axe be sharp and true- 
Since he set i;s edge anew: 
While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father ! 

XVI. 

It is a lovely hour as yet 
Before the summer sun shall set, 
Which rose upon that heavy day, 
And mockVl it with his steadiest ray ; 
And his evening beams are shed 
Full on Hugo's fated head, 
As his last confession pouring 
To the monk, his doom deploring 
In penitential holiness, 
He- bends to hear his accents bless 
With absolution such as may 
Wipe our mortal stains away. 
That high sun on his head did glisten 
As he there did bow 'and listen — 
And the rings of chestnut hair 
Curl'd half down his neck so bare ; 
But brighter still the beam was thrown 
Upon the axe which near him shone 

With a clear and ghastly glitter - 

Oh '. that parting hour was bitter! 



Even the stern stood chill'd with aw© 
Dark the crime, and just the law — 
Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 

XVII. 

The parting prayers are said and over 

Of that false son — and daring lover! 

His beads and sins are all recounted, 

His hours to their last minute mounted— 

His mantling cloak before was stripp'd, 

His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd ; 

*T is done — all closely are they shorn — 

The vest which till this moment worn— 

The scarf which Parisina gave— 

Must not adorn him to the grave. 

Even that must now be thrown aside, 

And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 

But no — that last indignity 

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 

All feelings seemingly subdued, 

In deep disdain were half renewed, 

When headman's hands prepared to bind 

Those eyes which would not brook such blind 

As if they dared not look on death. 

"No — vours my forfeit blood and breath — ■ 

These hands are chain'd — but let me die 

At least with an unshackled eye — 

Strike :" — and as the word he said, 

Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 

These the last accents Hugo spoke 

"Strike" — and flashing fell the stroke — 

Roll'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 

Back the stain'd and heaving trunk 

In the dust, which each deep vein 

Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 

His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 

Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 

He died as erring man should die, 

Without display, without parade ; 

Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 

As not disdaining priestly aid, 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while before the Prior kneeling, 
His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling ; 
His wrathful sire— his paramour — 
What were they in such an hour? 
No more reproach — no more despair; 
No thought but heaven — no word but prayer — 
Save the few which from him broke, 
When, bared to meet the headman's stroke, 
He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, . 
His sole adieu to those around. 

xvi n. 

Still as the lips that closed in death, 

Each gazer's bosom held his breath 

But yet, afar, from man to man, 

A cold electric shiver ran, 

As down the deadly blow descended 

On him whose life and love thus ended i 

And with a hushing sound comprest, 

A sigh shrunk back on every breast; 

But no more thrilling noise rose there, 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and sullen shock. 

Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 

So madly shriH, so passing wild? 

That, as a mother's o'er her child, 

Done to death by sudden blow, 

To the sky these accents go, 

Like a soul's in endless wo. 

Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, 

That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 

And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 

But aound and sight alike are gone ' 



144 



PARISINA. 



It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 
In madlier accents rose despair; 
And those who heard it, as it past, 
In mercy wish'd it were the last. 

XIX. 

Hugo is failen ; and, from that hour, 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisina heard or seen : 

Ilrr name — as if she ne'er had been — 

Was banish'd from each lip and car, 

Like words of wantonness or fear ; 

And from Prince Azria \'>ice, by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son; 

No tomb — no memory had they; 

Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight's who died that day, 

But Pari^ina's fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the coffin Ud : 

AYhether in convent she abode, 

And won to heaven her dreary road, 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 

F*or that dark love she dared to feel; 

Or if t upon the moment smote, 

She died hy tortures b-ss remote; 

Like him she saw upon the block, 

With heart that shared the headman's shock, 

In quieken'd brokenness that came, 

In pity, o'er her shaltcr'd frame, 

None knew — and none can ever know: 

But whatsoe'er its end below, 

Her life began and closed in wo!* 

xx. 
And Azo found another bride, 
And goodly sons grew by his side ; 
But none so lovely and so brave 
As him who wither'd in the grave ; 
Or if they were — on his cold eye 
Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 
Or noticed with a smother'd sigh. 
But never tear his cheek descended, 
And never smile his brow unbended 
And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 
The intersected lines of thought; 



Those furrows which the burning share 

Of Snrrow ploughs untimely there; 

Scars of the lacerating mind 

Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 

11 .--was past all mirth it wo: 

Nothing more remain'd below 

But sleepless nights and heavy days, 

A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 

A heart which shunn'd itself— and yet 

That would not yield — nor could forget, 

Which when it least appear'd to melt, 

Intensely though! — intensely felt: 

The deepest ice which ever froze 

Can "lily o'er the surface close — 

Tli'- living stream lies quick below, 

And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 

Si ill was Ins sealM-up bosom haunted 

By thoughts which Nature hath implanted J 

Too J i ihenre to vanish, 

Howefcr our stifled tears we banish; 

When, straggling as they rise to start, 

We check those waters of the heart, 

They are not dried — those tears unshed 

But flow back to the fountain head, 

And resting in their spring more pure, 

For ever in its depth endure, 

Unseen, unwept, but unconireal'd, 

And cherish'd most where least rcveal'd* 

With inward starts of feeling left, 

To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 

Without the power to fill again 

The desert ^ap which made ins pam; 

Without the hope to meet them where 

Dnited souls shall gladness share, 

With all the consciousness that he 

Had only pass'd a just decree; 

That they had wrought their doom of ill , 

Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 

The tainted branches of the tree, 

It 1 pp'd with care a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
And never more a leaf reveals. 



NOTES TO PARISINA. 



Note 1, page 140, line 14. 
As twilight melts beneath the motm away. 

The lines contained in Section I. were printed as set 
to music some time since ; but belonged to the poem 
where they now appear, the greater part of which was 
composed prior to ■ Lara," and oilier compositions since 
published. 

Note 2, page 1-12, line 55. 
That should liave won as haught a crest. 
Haught — haughty — "Away, haught man, thou art 
insulting me." Shakspeare, Richard II. 

Note 3, page 144, line 32. 
Her life began and closed in wo. 
u This turned out a calamitous year fir the people of 
Ferrara, for there occurred a very tragical event in the 
court of their sovereign. Our annuls, both printed and 
in manuscript, with tin- exception of the unpolished and 
negligent work of Sardi, and one other, have given the 
fbnowuifi relation of it, from which, however, are rejected 
many dotaiJs, and ospeeially the narrative of Bandelli, 



who wrote a century afterwards, and who does not ac- 
cord with the contemporary historians. 

"Bv the above-mentioned Stella dell' Assassin©, the 
Man 1 1 us, in the year 1405, hod a son called Ugo, a beau* 
tiful and ingenious youth. Parisina Malatesta, second 
wife of Niccolo, like the generality of step-mothers* 
treated him with huh- kindness, to the infinite regret of 
the Marquis, who regarded him with fond partiality. 
One day she asked leave of her husband to undertake a 
certain journey, to which he consented, but upon condi- 
tion that Ugo should bear her company ; (or he hoped 
I'v ihevr means to induce her, in the end, to lay aside 
the obstinate aversion which she had conceived against 
him. And indeed his intent was accomplished but too 
well, since, during the journey, she not only divested her- 
self of all her hatred, but fell into the opposite extreme. 
After their return, the Marquis had no longer any occa- 
sion to renew his former reproofs. It happened one-day 
that a servant of the Marquis, named KoeeO) or, as 
si. nu> rail him, Giorgio, passing before the apartments 
of ParL^ina, saw going out from them one of her chamber- 
maids, all terrified and in tears. Asking the reason, 
she told him that her mistress, for some slight oiFence, 



l 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



145 



hf.d been beating her ; and, giving vent to her rage, she 
added, that she could easily be revenged, if she chose to 
make known the crimiuat familiarity which subsisted 
between Pansina and her step-son. The servant took 
note of the words, and related them to his master. He 
was astounded thereat, but scarcely believing his ears, 
he assured himself of the fact, alas! too clearly, on the 
I81I1 of May, by looking through a hole made in the 
ceiling of his wife's chamber. Instantly he broke into 
a furious rage, and arrested both of them, together with 
Aldobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, her gentleman, ami 
also, as some say, two of the women of her chamber, 
as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered them to be 
brought to a hasty trial, desiring the judges to pronounce 
sentence, in the accustomed forms, upon the culprits. 
This sentence was death. Some there were that be- 
stirred themselves in favour of the delinquents, and, 
among others, UgoccionContrario, who was all-power- 
ful with Niccolo, and also his aged and much deserving 
minister Alberto dal Sale. Both of these, their tears 
flowing down their cheeks, and upon their knees, im- 
plored him for mercy : adducing whatever reasons they 
could suggest for snaring the offenders, besides those mo- 
tives of honour and decency which might persuade him 
to conceal from the public so scandalous a deed. But his 
rage made him inflexibre, and, on the instant, he com- 
manded that the sentence should be put in execution. 

" It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and exactly 
in those frightful dungeons which are seen at this day 
beneath the chamber called the Aurora, at the foot of 
the Lion's tower, at the top of the street Giovecca, that 
on the night of the twenty-first of May were beheaded, 
first, Ugo, and afterwards Parisina. Zoese, he that 
accused her, conducted the latter under his arm to the 
place of punishment. She, all along, fancied that she 
was to be thrown into a pit, and asked at every step, 
whether she was yet come to the spot? She was told 
that her punishment was the axe. She inquired what 
was become of Ugo, and received for answer, that he 
was already dead ; at the which, sighing grievously, she 
exclaimed, 'Now, then, I wish not myself to live ;' and, 
being come to the block, she stripped herself with her 
•wn nands of all her ornaments, and wrapping a cloth 



around her head, submitted to the fatal stroke, which 
terminated the cruel scene. The same was done with 
Rangoni, who, together with the others, according to 
two calendars in the library of St. Francesco, was 
buried in the cemetery of that convent. Nothing else 
is known respecting the women. 

"The Marquis kept watch the whole of that dread- 
ful night, and, as he was walking backwards and for- 
wards, inquired of the captain of the castle if Ugo was 
dead yet ? who answered him, Yes. He then gave him- 
self up to the most desperate lamentations, exclaiming 
' Oh ! that I too were dead, since I have been hurried 
on to resolve thus against my own Ugo!' And then, 
gnawing with his teeth a cane which he had in bis hand, 
he passed the rest of the night in sighs and in tears, call- 
ing frequently upon his own dear Ug-o. On the follow- 
ing day, calling to mind that it would be necessary to 
make public his justification, seeing that the transaction 
could not be kept secret, he ordered the narrative to be 
drawn out upon paper, and sent it to all the courts ot 
Italy. 

"On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, Fran- 
cesco Foscari, gave orders, but without publishing his 
reasons, that stop should be put to the preparations for 
a tournament, which, under the auspices of the Mar- 
quis, and at the expense of the city of Padua, was about 
to take place, in the square of St. Mark, in order to 
celebrate his advancement to the ducal chair. 

" The Marquis, in addition to what he had already 
done, from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, com- 
manded that as many of the married women as were 
well known to him to be faithless, like his Parisina, 
should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst others, Bar- 
berina, or, as some call her, Laodamia Romei, wife of 
the court judge, underwent this sentence, at the usual 
place of execution, that is to say, in the quarter of St. 
Giacomo, opposite the present fortress, beyond St. Paul's. 
It cannot be told how strange appeared this proceeding 
in a prince, who, considering his own disposition, should, 
as it seemed, have been in such cases most indulgent. 
Some, however, there were, who did not fail to com- 
mend him."* 



*Frtzzi — History of Ferrara , 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

A FABLE. 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — - 
The heart which love of thee alono can bind; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 't was trod, 
Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 

By Bonnivard !' — May none those marks efface ! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



My hair is gray, but not with years, 

Nor grew it whho 

In a single night, 8 
As m«n's have grown from sudden fears : 
T 



My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom die goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I sutfer'd chains and courted deauV; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth and one in age, 
Fimsh'd as they had begun, 

Proud of Persecution's rage , 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd, 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



146 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



There are seven pillars of gothic mold, 
In C billon's dungeons deep and old, 
There are seven columns, massy and grax 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp: 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each rin^; there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing 

For in these limbs its teoth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 

m. 
They chain d us each to a column stone, 
And wc were three — yet, each alone: 
We could not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart ; 
T was still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone] 

A grating sound — not full and free 

As they of yore were wont to be ; 

It might be fancv — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 

IV. 

I was the eldest of the three, 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best— 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my lather loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
For him my soul was sorely moved ; 
And truly might it bo distrest 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, boing free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer 's gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the ran : 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears (or nought but others' ills, 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the wo 
Which he abhorr'd to view below. 

■ v. 
The other was as pure of mind, 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stooo\ 



And perish'd b) tb I I no «t rank 

With joy: — but not in chains to pine: 

His spirit wi.h'-rM with iheif clank, 
I saw it silently dectme — 
And so perchance in sooth did mine; 

But yet I forced it on to cheer 

Those relics of a home so dear. 

He was a hunter oi" the hi. 

Had followM there the deer and wolf; 
To him this dungeon was a gul£ 

And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 

VI. 

Lake I.eman ties by ChiHon's walls 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy maters meet and flow; 
Thus much the fathom-tine was sen; 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,* 

Which round about the wave enthrals: 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We beard it ripple night and day; 

Sounding n'.-r our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high 
And wanton in the happy sky; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 

VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 
1 said his mighty heart declined, 
He loathed arid put away his food; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat, 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
Since man first prut Ins fellow men 
Like brutes within an iron den : 
But what were these to us or him? 
These wasted not bis hearLor hmb, 
My brother's soul was of that mold 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
I lid his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side; 
But why delay the truth? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, 
Though hard 1 BUW ', bul strove m vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died— and they unlock'd his chain, 
And seiM>pM fir him a shallow grave 
Even from tile cold earth of our cavo. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in death his freebom breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there 
The flat and turflesa earth above 
The being wo so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant, 
Such murder's fitting monument! 

VIII. 

But he, the favourite and the flower, 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



147 



His mother'* image in fair face, 
The infant love of all his race, 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
He, too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural or inspired — 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
Oh God ! it is a fearful thing 
To see the human soul take wing 
In any shape, in any mood: — 
I Ve seen it rushing forth in blood, 
I Vc seen it on the breaking ocean 
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
I Ve seen the sick and ghastly bed 
Of Sin delirious with its dread: 
But these were horrors — this was wo 
Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow: 
He faded, and so calm and meek, 
So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 
And grieved for those he left behind ; 
With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
Whose tints as gently sunk away 
As a departing rainbow's ray — 
An eye of most transparent light, 
That almost made the dungeon bright, 
And not a word of murmur — not 
A groan o'er his untimely lot, — ■ 
A Utile talk of better days, 
A little hope my own to raise, 
For I was sunk in silence — lost 
In tiiis last loss, of all the most; 
And then the sighs he would suppress 
Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 
I listen'd, but I could not hear — 
[ call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 
I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread 
Would not be thus admonished ; 
1 call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
I burst my chain with one strong bound, 
And rush'd to him: — I (bund him not, 
/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 
/ only lived — J only drew 
The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
The last — the sole — the dearest link 
Between me and the eternal brink, 
Which bound me to my failing race, 
Was broken in this fatal place. 
One on the earth, and one beneath— 
My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 
I took that hand which lay so still, 
Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 
I had not strength to stir, or strive, 
But felt that I was still alive — 
A frantic feeling, when we know 
That what we love shall ne'er be so. 
I know not why 
I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death, 

IX. 

What next befell me then and there 

I know not well — I never knew — 

First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too: 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shmbless crags within the mist ; 
"?or all was blank, and bleak, and gray, 
It wis not night— it was not day, 



It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacancy absorbing space, 
And fixedness — without a place ; 
There were no stars — no earth — no time- 
No check — no change — no good — no crime — 
But silence, and a stirless br< ath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless* 

x. 
A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track, 
I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done, 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things, 
And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem'd like mc to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thino 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
jr or — Heaven forgive that thought ! the wlula 
Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
Mv brother's soul come down to me; 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
L ne — as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay 

XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate, 
My keepers grew compassionate, 
I know not what had made them so, 
They were inured to sights of wo, 
But so it was: — my broken chain 
With links unfasten'd did remain, 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side, 
And up and down, and then athwart, 
And tread it over every part ; 
And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod*; 



148 



THE PRISONER OF OHILLON. 



For it* I thought with heedless tread 

heir lowly bed, 
My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And in y crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 

xir. 
I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I hail buried one and all, 

Who loved in 1, ni a human Bhape ; 
Ami the whole earth would henceforth bo 

■n unto me : 
No diiM — no sue — ii.. km had I, 
No partner in my mi 
I bought of ihi-, and I was glad, 

■ ight of th< ni had made me mad; 
But I was runout to ascend 
To my banM window's, and to bond 
Once, more) upon the mountains high, 
I'll.' quiet of a \o\ in i 

xm. 
I saw them — anil they were the same, 
They were not changi d Like me in frame; 
i .1 i ih. -ir thousand now 

(m ln'jh— ilu-ir wide long lake below, 
And id-- blue Rhone in fullest flow; 
I heard ill.' t« >rnnts leap and gush 
O'er channeled rock and broken bush; 
I saw (he white-wall'd distant town, 
And whiter sails go skimming down; 

Ami then there was a little isle, 4 
Which in my very face did 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
broader than my dungeon Hoor, 
But in it there were three tall tri i 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing 
And on it there were young flowers growing 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the easlle wall, 
And they scenVd joyous eacli and all; 



The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flow so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly, 
And then new (ears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not lefl my recent chain; 
And when I did descend again, 
The darkness <>f my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
I; was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, 

i i my glance, too much opprest, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 



If might be months, or years, or days, 

i kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eves to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary motej 
At last men cam. to eel m 

I ask'd not why, and recVd not where, 
It was at I- n U) im-, 

Fettered ox f! Uerlt sa t«> be, 

I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus when they nppear'd at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
An I watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
And why should I feel less than they? 

\\ e were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell! 
In quiet we had leaxn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are:— even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHlLLON. 



Note 1, page 145, line 13. 
hy Bomavard! — may none those marks efface I 

Francois de Bonnivard, tils de Louis de Bonnivard, 
originaire de Seyssel el •'* ; ' i jneur de Lunes, naquit en 
i 196 ii i" es etudes b Tin in . en I 510 Jean \ ime* de 
it .inn\ ard, son oncle, lui n lire" de Si. Vic- 

tor, qui aux murs de Geneve, et qui formoil 

mi beni ice consid6i 

Ce I (Bonnivard merite ce tit r.- par la 

fo i ■!■ m i iiu-, la droii in*-: de son C03UT, la i. 

.!■ c 4 id Lissan es et la 

vivacity de son esprit,) ce graud hooune, qui exciters 
I'admirati-n i qu'une \ ci i u herolq 

imouvoir, inspirers en ore la plus vive recon- 

Genevoi qui aunent Go- 
neve. Bonnivard enful toujours on des plu 
appuis: pour assurer la liberie" de notre Repub 

.nit pas de perdre BOUVent la sienne ; il oublia 

: ion n i is; il meprisa sea richesses; il ne negligee rien 
pour aHermir le bonheur dune patriequ'il 
choix : des ee moment il la client comm 

1 ns; il la servit a\ '■-■ riiittejinlUe d'nn her..s, 

el il c< mv n son Bistoire avec la naivete d'un philosophe 
et la chaleur d'un patriote. 

II dit dans le commencement de son histoire de Ge- 
afcvo quo,, dc* yuV cut commence dc lire Vhtitoire <fw na- 



tions, il $e sentit cntralne par son gout pour Irs i?^pwo- 
liques, dont il t'pousa toujour* lea inttrits : e'est ce goflt 
pour la liberie que lui tit sansdoute adopter Geneve pour 
sa patrie. 

Hoimivard, encore jeune, s'annonca hautement commo 
I- d£fenseur de Genevt contre le Due do Savoy e et 

PEveN - 

En 1 619, Bonnivard devienl le martyr de sa pairie: 
l.e Due de Savoye 6tant - aire" dans Geneve avec cinq 

cenl homines, fioinuvard eramt le ressetitmieiit du Due ; 
e I ''I i Pribourg pour en enter les suites; 
ma is i[ fut train par deux hommes qui I'accompagnoK mt, 
co til par ordre du Prince a Groleo oii'il realm 
prisonnii r pendant deux ans. Bonnivard etoii malheu- 
reui dans bi - \ oyagi comme tea malheurs n'avoient 
point ralenti son zele pour Geneve, il eloit toujours un 
ennemi redoutable pour eeox qui la mena^oient, et par 
consequent il devoil fttre expose' a leurs coups. II fut 
rencontre en 15o0 BUT le Jura par des voleurs, qui le 
irent, et qui le mirenl encore entre les mains 
du Due de Savoye : eo Prince le fit enfenner dans lo 
Chateau de C billon, nil 11 resin sans ^tre interroge jus- 
ques en 1636; il ful alors delivre* par les Bernois, qui 
seraparerent du Pays de Vaud. 

Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivity, cut leplaisir da 
trouver Geneve iibre et re*fbrme«; la Ekepuhliqiie s'em- 
pressa de lui temoigm-r sa reconnaissance et de le d£- 
dommagcr des maux qu'il avoit soufferts ; elle le recul 



BEPPO. 



149 



Bourgeois de la ville au mois da Juio 1536 ; ellejui donna 
la maison habitee autrefois par le Vicaire-General, et 
olle till assigna une pension de 200 ecus d'or lant qu il 
sejourneroit a Geneve. It fut adrais dans le Conscil 
deDeux-Cent en 1537. 

Brnmivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile: appres avoir tra- 
vaillt* a rendre Ganfeve libre, il reussit a la rendre to- 
lerante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil a accorder aux 
Eccldsiastiques et aux paysans un terns sufHsant pour 
examiner les propositions qu'on leur faisoh ; il reussit 
par sa douceur: on prSche toujours le Christianisuie 
avcc succes quand on le prexhe avec charittS. 

Bonnivard fut savant ; ses manuscrits, qui sont dans 
la Bibliotheque publique, prouvent qu'U avoit bien hi les 
auteurs classiques latins, et qui! avoit approfondi la 
theologie et Phisloire. Ce grand homme aimoit les 
sciences, et il croyoit qu'elles nouvoient faire la gloire 
de Geneve ; aussi il ne neghgea rien pour les fixer 
dans cette ville naissante ; en 1551 il donna sa biblio- 
theque au public ; elle fut le commencement de notre 
bibliotheque publique ; et ces livres sont en partie les 
rares et belles editions du quinzieme siecle qu'on voit 
dans notre collection. Enfin, pendant la meme annee, 
ce bon patriote institua la Republique son heritiere, a 
condition qu'elle employeroit ses biens il enlretenir le 
college dont on projettoit la fondation. 

II paroit que Bonnivard mourut en 1570 ; mais on 
ne peut Passurer^ parce qu'il y a une lacune dans le Ne- 
crologe depuis le mois de Juillet 1570 jusques en 1571. 

Note 2, page 145, line 17. 
In a single niglit. 
Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is asserted 
of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI. though 
not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the 
same effect : to such, and not to fear, this change in hers 
was to be attributed. 

Note 3, page 146, line 85. 

From Chilton's snow-white battlement. 

The Chateau de Chillon is situated between Clarens 



and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of the 
Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the 
Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Meillerie and 
the range of Alps above Boveret and St. Gingo. 

Near il, oil a lull behind, is a torrent ; below it, wash- 
ing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the depth 
of 800 feet, (French measure ;) within it are a range of 
dungeons, in which the early reformers, and subsequent- 
ly prisoners of state, were confined. Across one of the 
vaults is a beam black with age, on which we were in- 
formed that the condemned were formerly executed. 
In the celts are seven pillars, or, rather, eight, one being 
half merged in the wall ; in some of these are rings for 
the fetters and the fettered: in the pavement the steps 
of Bonnivard have left their traces — he was confined 
here several years. 

It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catas- 
trophe of his Hetoise, in the rescue of one of her chil- 
dren by Julie from the water ; the shock of which, and 
the illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of 
her death. 

The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a 
great distance. The walls are white. 

Note 4, page 14S, line 28. 
And then tftere was a little isle 

Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, 
not far from Chillon, is a very small island; the only 
one I eould perceive, in my voyage round and over the 
lake, within its circumference. Il contains a few trees, 
(I think not above three,) and from its singleness and 
diminutive size has a peculiar effect upon the view. 

When the foregoing poem was composed I was not 
sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should 
have endeavoured to dignify the subject by an attempt 
to celebrate his courage and his virtues. Some account 
of his life will be found in a note appended to the " Sou- 
net on Chillon," with which I have been furnished by 
the kindness of a citizen of that Republic, which is still 
proud of the memory of a man worthy of the best age 
of ancient freedom. 



BEPPO, 

A VENETIAN STORY. 

Rojalind. Farewell, Monsieur Travellar : Look, vou Hap. and wear strange suits : disable all the benefits of your own 
country ; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are ; or I will 
scai ce think that you have swam in a Gondola. _ _ .. _ . .„ „ . 

As Tou Like It, Act IV. S c . I. 

Ann ration of the Commentator*. 
That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those times, and was Iheu what 
forwiiTOK — the seat of all dissoluteness.— S. A. 



T is known, at least it should be, that throughout 

All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 
Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, 

The people take their fill of recreation, 
And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 

However high their rank, or low their station, 
With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masquing, 
And other things which may be had for asking. 

n. 
The moment night with dusky mantle covers 

The skies, (and the more duskily the better,) 
The time less liked by husbands than by lovers 

Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter ; 
And gayety on restless tiptoe hovers, 

Giggling with all the gallants who beset her ; 
And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, 
Guitars, and every other sort of scumming. 



And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 
Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 

And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 
Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos ; 

All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, 
All people, ail! their fancies hit, may choose, 

But no one in these parts may qu'z the clergy, 

Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers ! I charge ye, 

IV. 

You'd better walk about begirt with briers, 
Instead of coat and small-clothes, than put on 

A single stitch reflecting upon friars, 
Although you swore it only was in fun ; 

They 'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 
Of Phlegethon with every mother's son, 

Nor say one mass to coot the caldron's bubble 

That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double 



150 BEPPO. 



But saving this, you may put on whate'er 
You like by way of doublet, capo, or cloak, 

Such as in Monrnouth-street, or id Rag Fair, 
Would rig you out m seriousness or joke; 

And even in Italy such places are, 

With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 

For, bating Covenl Garden, I can hit on 

No place that's call'd " Piazza" in Great Britain. 

VI. 

This feast is named the Carnival, winch being 
Interpreted, implies " farewell to flesh:" 

So call'd, because the name and thing agrs< log, 
Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh. 

But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 
Is mure than I can tell, although I guess 

*T is as we take a glass with friends at parting, 

In the stagecoach or packet just at starting. 

VII. 

And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 
And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts, 

To live for forty days on iU-dress'd fishes. 
Because they have no sauses t«. their stews, 

A thing which causes many "poohs" and "pishes," 
And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse) 

From travellers accustom'd from a boy 

To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy; 

VIII. 

And therefore humbly I would recommend 
"The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross 

The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, 
Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross, 

(Or if set out beforehand, these may send 
By any means least liable to loss,) 

Ketchup, Soy, Chih-vinegar, and Harvey, 

Or, by the Lord! a Lent will well nigh starve ye; 

IX. 

That is to say, if your religion s Roman, 
And you at Rome would do as Romans do, 

According to the proverb, — although no man, 
If foreign, is obliged to fast; and you, 

If protestant, or sickly, or a woman, 
Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 

Oine and be d — d! I do n't mean to be coarse, 

But that 's the penalty, to say no worse. 

x. 

Of all the places where the Carnival 
Was most facetious in the days of yore, 

For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball, 
And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more 

Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
Venice the bell from every city bore, 

And at the moment when I fix ni) story 

That seaborn cily was in all her *>'ory. 

XI. 

They've pretty faces yet, those ssme Venetians, 

Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still; 

Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
In ancient arts by moderns mimiek'd ill; 

And like so many Venuses of Titian 1 . 

(The best's at Florence — see it, if ye wily 

They look when leaning over the balcony, 

Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione, 

XII. 

Whose tints arc truth and beauty at their best; 

And when you to Manfrini's palace go, 
That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 

Is loveliest to my mind of alt the show ; 
It may perhaps be also to your zest, 

And that 's die cause I rhyme upon it soj 
*T is but the portrait of his son, and wife, 
And self; But such a woman ! love in life. 



Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 

No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 
But something better still, so very real, 

That the sweet model must have been the same, 
A thing that you wmild purchase, beg, or steal, 

Wer't not impossible, besides a shame; 
The face recalls some face, as 't were with pain, 
You once have seen but ne'er will see again; 

XIV. 

One of those forms which tht by us, when we 

Are young, and fix our eyes on every face 
An'l I 'li! the loveliness at times we see 

In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 

; ;, the bio un, the beauty which agree, 

In tiiiiiiv a nameless being we retrace, 
v\ ii c iurse and home we knew not, nor shall know, 
Like the lost Pleiad 1 seen no more below. 

xv. 
I said that like a picture by Giorgione 

Venetian women were, and so they are, 
Particularly seen from a balcony, 

(For beauty 's sometimes best set off afar,) 
And then-, jusl like a heroine of Goldoni, 

They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar; 
And truth to say, they 're mostly very pretty, 
And rather like to show it, more 's the pity ! 

XVI. 

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 

Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, 
Which flics on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, 

Who do such tilings because they know no better ; 
And then, God knows, what miscluef may arise, 
When love links two young people in one fetter, 
agnations, and adulterous beds, 
ents, broken vows, and hearts, and heads 

XVII. 

Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 

Aj very fair, but yet suspect in fame, 
And to this dajj from Venice to Verona 

Such matters may be probably the same, 
Except that since those times was never known a 

Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
1 . suffocate a wife DO more than twenty, 
Because she had a " cavalier servente " 

xvm. 
Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 

Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
Not like that sooty devil of Othello's 

Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 
But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 

When weary of the matrimonial tether 
His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
But takes at once another, or another's. 

XIX. 

Didst ever see a gondola? For fear 

You should not, I 'II describe it you exactly : 

T is a long cover'd boat that 's common here, 
Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly 

Row'd by two rowers, each call'd u Gondolier," 
It glides along the water looking blackly, 

Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, 

Where none can mako out what you say or do. 

XX. 

And up and down the long canals they go, 

And under the Rialto shoot along, 
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, 

And round the theatres, a sable throng, 
They wail in their dusk liveiy of wo, 

But not to them do woful diings belong, 
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, 
Like mourning coaches when tho funeral 's done. 



BEPPO. 



151 



But to my story. — 'T was some years ago, 

It may be thirty, forty, more or less, 
The carnival was at its height, and so 

Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 
A certain lady went to see the show, 

Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 
And so we '11 call her Laura, if you please, 
Because it slip? into my verse yt& ease. 

XXII. 

She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
Which certain people call a "certain age," 

Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 
Because I never heard, nor could engage 

A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, 
To name, define by speech, or write on page, 

The period meant precisely by that word, — 

Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 

XXIII. 

Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
Of time, and time return'd the compliment, 

And treated her genteelly, so that, drest, 

She look'd extremely well where'er she went : 

A pre'ty woman is a welcome guest, 

And Laura's brcv a frown had rarely bent, 

Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter 

Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 

XXIV. 

She was a married woman ; 't is convenient, 

Because in Christain countries 'tis a rule 
To view their little slips with eyes more lenient; 

Whereas, if single ladies play the fool, 
(Unless within the period intervenient 

A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) 
I do n't know how they ever can get over it, 
Except they manage never to discover it. 

xxv. 
Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 

And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 
And when he lay in quarantine for pratique, 

(A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease,) 
His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 

For thence she could discern the ship with ease: 
He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 
His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo. 2 

XXVI. 

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 

Though colour'd, as it were, within a lanyard, 
He was a person both of sense and vigour— 

A better seaman never yet did man yard: 

And s/te, although her manners showed no rigour, 

Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 

So much as to be thought almost invincible. 

XXVII. 

But several years elapsed since they had met ; 

Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
That he had somehow blundered into debt, 

And did not like the thought of steering home ; 
And there were several offer'd any bet, 

Or that he would, or that he would not come, 
For most men (till by losing rendcr'd sager) 
Will back their own opinions with a wager. 

XXVIII. 

T is said that their last parting was pathetic, 
As partings often are, or ought to be, 

And their presentiment was quite prophetic 
That they should never more each other see, 

(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, 
Which I have known occur in two or three) 

When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, 

He left thit Adriatic Ariadne. 



And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 

And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might; 
She almost lost all appetite for victual, 

And could nut sleep with ease alone at night ; 
She deem'd the window -frames and shutters brittle 

Against a daring housebreaker or sprite, 
And so she thought it prudent to connect her 
With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her. 

xxx. 
She chose, (and what is there they will not choose, 

If only you will but oppose their choice?) 
Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, 

And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 
A man some women like, and yet abuse — 

A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 
A count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 
And in his pleasures of great liberality. 

XXXI. 

And then he was a count, and then he knew 

Music, and dancing, fiddling, French and Tuscap , 

The last not easy, be it known to you, 

For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 

He was a critic upon operas, too, 

And knew all niceties of the sock and buslun ; 

And no Venetian audience could endure a 

Song, scene, or air, when he cried "seccatura." 

XXXII. 

His " bravo" was decisive, for that sound 
Hush'd "academie" sigh'd in silent awe; 

The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, 
For fear of some false note's detected flaw. 

The "prima donna's* tuneful heart would bound, 
Dreading the deep damna'ion of his "bah!" 

Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 

Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 

XXXIII. 

He patronized the Improvisator!, 

Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, 
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 

Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 
Italians can be, though in this their glory 

Must surely yield the palm to that which France has 
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, 
And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 

XXXIV. 

Then he was faithful, too, as well as amorous ; 

So that no sort of female coidd complain, 
Although they Ye now and then a little clamorous, 

He never put the pretty souls in pain; 
His heart was one of those which most enamour us 

Wa\ to receive, and marble to retain. 
He was a lover of the good old school, 
Who still become more constant as they cool. 

XXXV. 

No wonder such accomplishments should turn 
A female head, however sage and steady — 

With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 
In law he was almost as good as dead, he 

Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, 
And she had waited several years already ; 

And really if a man won't let us know 

That he 's alive, he 's dead, or should be so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, 
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,) 

'T is, I may say, permitted to have (uw men ; 
I can't tell who first brought the custom in, 

But "Cavalier Serventes" are quite common, 
And no one notices, nor cares a pin ; 

And we may call this (not to say the worst) 

A teoond marriage which corrupts theirs*. 



152 



BEPPO. 



The word was formerly a "Cicisbeo," 

But that is now grown vulgar and indecent; 

The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo** 

For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent; 

In short it reaches from the l J o to Teio, 
And may perhaps at last be o'er (he iea sent* 

Hut Heaven preserve Old England from such courses ! 

Or what becomes of damage and divoro ) 

XXXV] II. 

However, I still think, with all due ' (i 

To the fair single part of the Creation, 
That married ladies should preserve the preference 

In ttte-ti-tite or general conversation — 
And this I say without peculiar n-fi-n'iire 

To England, France, or any oilier nation— 
Because they know the world] and are at case, 
And being natural, naturally please. 

XXXIX. 

'Tis true, your budding Miss b vtv charming, 
But shy and awkward at first corning out, 

So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming, 

All Giggle, Blush; half Pertnesa, and half Pout ; 

And glancing at JV/o/nmo, for fear there 's harm m 
What you, she, it, or they, may be about, 

The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 

XL. 

But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase 

Used in politest circles to express 
This supernumerary slave, who stays 

Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
Her word the only haw which he obeys. 

His is no sinecure, as you may guess ; 
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 

XXI. 

With all its sinful doings, I must say, 

That Italy's a pleasant place to me, 
Who love to see the Sun shine every day, 

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
Festoon'd, much like the back pcene of a play, 

Or inelodraine, which people Hock to see, 
When the first act is ended by a dance 
In vineyards copied from the south of France. 

XLII. 

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, 

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 

My cloak is round his middlo strapp'd about, 
Because the skies are not the most secure ; 

I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, 
Where the green alleys windingly allure, 

Reeling with grapes red waggons choke the way, — 

In England 't would be dung, dust, or a dray. 

XLIII. 

I also like to dine on becaficas, 

To see the Sun set, sure he '11 rise to-morrow, 
Not through a misty morning twinkling wi 

A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
But With all Heaven (' himself; thai day will break lis 

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be ("reed to borrow 
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. 

xr.rv. 
I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 

Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 

With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 

That not a single accent seems uncouth, 
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, 
Winch we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. 



I like the women too, {forgifc my folly,) 

From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, 

And large black eyes thai flash on you a volley 
Of rays that say a thousand tilings at once, 

To the high dama's brow, mure melancholy, 
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 

Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 

XI. VI. 

Eve of the land winch still is Paradise! 

Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
Raphael, 4 who died in thy embrace, and vies 

With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, 
In what he hath bequeathed us? — in what guise, 

Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre, 
Would words describe thy past and present glow, 
While yet Canova i an create below?* 

XI. VII. 

"England! with all thy faults I love thee still," 
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; 

I like to speak and lucubrate my fill; 

1 like the government, (but that is not it;) 

I like the freedom of the uresfl and quill; 

I like the Habeas Corpus, (when we 've got it;) 

1 like a parliamentary debate, 
Particularly when 'tis not too late; 

XLVIII. 

I like the taxes, when they 're not too many ; 

I like a seacoal lire, when not too dear; 
I like a beet-sieak, too, as well as any; 

Have no objection to a pot of beer; 
I like the weather, when it is not rainy, 

That is, 1 like two months of every year. 
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King! 
Which means that 1 like all and every thing. 

XLIX. 

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, 
Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, 

Our little riots just to show we are free men, 
Our trilling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 

Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, 
AU these I can forgive, and those forget, 

And greatly venerate our recent glories, 

And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 

L. 

But to my tale of Laura, — for I find 
Digression is a sin, that by degrees 

Becomes exceeding tedious to niy mind, 

And, therefore, may the reader too displease— 

The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, 
And caring little for the author's 

Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 

And hapless situation for a bard. 

LI. 

Oh that I had the art of easy writing 

What should be easy reading ! could I scale 

Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
Those pretty poems never known to fail, 

How quickly would I print (the world delighting) 
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale ; 

And sell you, mi\\l with western seiitinicntalism, 

Some samples of the finest Orientalism. 



" Not*. 

(In t.ilking limn, the writer, more especially 
Of women, would bo understood to soy, 

He speaks as a ■perm lor, not officially, 
And ulways, reader, In n modes t way ; 

P ( 'rliii|>s, loo, in no very great degree (ball lie 
Appear tolinvcolTended in this lay, 

Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 

Would iccm unOalsh'd like their unirimraM bonnet*. 

(Signed) Printer's Devil- . 



BEPPO. 



153 



But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
(A broken Dandy lately on my travels) 

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, 
The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, 

And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 

I ve half a mind to tumble down to prose, 

But verse is more in fasliion — so here goes. 

LIII. 

The Count arid Laura made then*, new arrangement, 
Which lasted, as arrangements sornetimes do, 

For half a dozen years without estrangement; 
They had their little differences, too ; 

Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant : 
In such affairs there probably are few 

Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, 

From sinners of high station to the rabble. 

LIV. 

But on the whole, they were a happy pair, 
As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 

The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, [them : 

Their chains so slight, 't was not worth while to break 

The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 
The pious only wish'd "the devil take them'." 

He took them not ; he very often waits, 

And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits. 

LV. 

But they were young : Oh ! what without our youth 
Would love be ! What would youth be without love ! 

Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, 
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 

But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
One of few things experience do n't improve, 

Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 

Are always so preposterously jealous. 

LTI. 

It was the Carnival, as I have said 

Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 
Laura the usual preparations made, 

Which you do when your mind 's made up to go 
To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 

Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
The only difference known between the cases 
Is — here, we have six week* of * Tamish'd faces." 

LTD. 
Laura, when drest, was (as I sang before) 

A pretty woman as was ever seen, 
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, 

Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
With all the fashions which the last month wore, 

Colour'd, and silver paper leaved between 
That and the title-page, for fear the press 
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 

LVIII. 

They went to the Ridotto ; — 't is a hall 

Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 

Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, 
But that's of no importance to my strain ; 

T is (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 

The company is "raix'oy (the phrase I quote is 

As much as saving, they're below your notice;) 

LIX. 

For a a mix'd company" implies that, save 

Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 

Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 
The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 

Of public places, where they basely brave 
The fashionable stare of twenty score 

Of well-bred persons, call'd "the fVor!d; n but I, 

Although I know them, really don't know why. 



This is the case in England ; at least was 

During the dynasty of Dandies, now 
Perchance succeeded by some other class 

Or imitated imitators : — how 
Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 

The demagogues of fashion : all below 
Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 

LXI. 

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 

Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 
Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or 

A blundering novice in his new French grammar ; 
Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 

And as for Fortune — but I dare not d — n her, 
Because, were I to ponder to infinity, 
The more I should believe in her divinity. 

Lxir. 
She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, 

She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage ; 
I cannot say that she 's done much for me yet ; 

Not that I mean her bounties to disparage, 
We 've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet 

How much she '11 make amends for past miscarriage ■ 
Meantime the goddess I '11 no more importune, 
Unless to thank her when she 's made my fortune. 

LXIII. 

To turn, — and to return; — the devil take it! 

This story slips for ever through ny fingers, 
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, 

It needs must be — and so it rather lingers ; 
This form of verse began, I oan't well break it, 

But must keep time and tune like public singers ; 
But if I once get through my present measure, 
I 'II take another when I 'm next at leisure. 

LXIV. 

They went to the Ridotto, ('t is a place 
To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 

Just to divert my thoughts a little space, 

Because I 'm rather hippish, and may borrow 

Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 

May lurk beneath each mask, and as my sorrow 

Slackens its pace sometimes, I 'II make, or find, 

Something shall leave it half an hour behind.) 

LXV. 

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips ; 

To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, 

Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, 
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 

She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 

Her dearest friends for being drest so ill. 

LXTX. 

One has false curls, another too much paint, 

A tliird — where did she buy that frightful turban? 

A fourth 's so pale she fears she 's going to faint, 
A fifth 's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 

A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 

A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, 

And to ! an eighth appears, — " I '11 see no more !" 

For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 

LXVII. 

Meantime, whil« she was thus at others gazing, 
Others were levelling their looks at her; 

She heanl the men's half-whisper'd mode of praisinf 
And, till 't was done, determined not to stirj 

The women only thought it quite amazing 
That at her time of life so many were 

Admirers still, — but men are so debased, 

Those brazen creatures always suit their ta*te* 



154 



BEPPO. 



LXVIII. 

For my part, now, I neter could understand 
Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 

A thing which is a scandal to the Land) 
i do n'l see why it should be thus; 

An I jf I were but in a gown and band, 

Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
I \1 preach on this till Wilberforce and R 
Should quote in their next speeches from ray h 

LXIX. 

While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling, 
Talking, she knew not I apt what, 

So that her female friends, with envy broi 
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 

Ami well drest males still kepi before her filing 
And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat; 

More than the rest one person senn'd to stare 

With pertinacity that's rather rare. 

LXX. 

He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany ; 

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 

Although their usage of their wives is sad; 
*T is said they use no better than a dog any 

Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad : 
They have a number, though thej ne'or exhibit 'cm, 
Four wives by law, and concubines "ad libitum." 

LXXI. 

They lock them up, and veil, and guard, them daily, 
They scarcely can behold their male relations, 

So that their moments do not pass so gaily 
As is supposed the ease with northern nations; 

Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely: 
And as the Turks abhor long convers 

Their days are either past in doing nothing, 

Or bathing, nursing, making love and clothing. 

LXXIT. 

They cannot read, and so do n't lisp in criticism ; 

Nor write, and so they do n't affect the muse; 
Were never caught in epigram or witticism, 

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
In harams earning soon would make a pretty scliism! 

But luckily these beauties are no "blues" 
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
"That charming passage in the last new poem." 

LXXIII. 

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme 
Who having angled all Ins Life fir fame. 

And getting but a nibble at a time, 
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 

Small "Triton of the minnows,* the sublimo 
Of mediocrity, the furious tame, 

The echo's echo, usher of the school 

Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool! 

LXXIV. 

A stalking oracle of awful phrase, 

Tho approving « Good T (by no means good in law) 
H umm i n g lfltu flit* around the newest blaze, 

The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, 
Teasing with blame, excruciating with pi 

Gorging die little fame be gets all raw, 
Translating tongues he knows no) even by letter, 
And sweating plays so middling bad were better. 

I. XXV. 

Ono hates an author that's all atUkor t fellows 
In foolscap uniforms tuni'd up with ink, 

So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, 

One do n't know what to say to them, or think, 

Unless to ptitr them witli a pair of bellows; 
Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 

Are preferable to these shreds of paper, 

These unmiench'd smiftings of the midnight taper. 



I. XXVI. 

Of these same we see several, and of others, 

.Mr], .,| the world, who know the world liK<- men, 
Moore, and all the better brothers, 

Who think of something else besides the pen; 
But for the children of the "mighty mother's," 

The would-he wits and canVbe gentlemen, 
1 Nave them to their daily "tea is ready," 
Smug coterie, and literary lady. 
r.wvii. 
The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 

Have none of these instructive pleasant people, 
And one would seem to them a new invention, 

Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple . 
I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension 

(Though best-sown proj< : ■ n reap ill) 

mary author, ji 
Our Christian i - parts of speech. 

LXX VIII. 

for them unfolds her gasses, 
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, 

No circulating librai j 
Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 

Upon the living manners, as may ps 
No exhibition glares with annual pictures; 

They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 

Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics, 

I, XXIX. 

Why T thank God for that is no great matter, 
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 

And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 
I 'II keep them f>r my tin (to come) in prose , 

I fear I have a little turn IV satire, 

And vet Btethinks the older that one grows 

Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter 

1, raves us so doubly serious shortly after. 
T.XXX. 

Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! 

Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 

Abominable -Man no more allays 
ffis thirst with such purr beverage. No matter, 

I love you both, and both shall have my praise: 
Oh, for old Saturn's r> iga of -M-ar-candy! — 
.Meantime [ drink to your return in brandy. 

I.XXXT. 

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 
Less in the mussulman than Christian way, 

Which seems to say, "Madam, I do you honour, 
And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay f 

Could sfarins win a woman, this had won her, 
Bui Laura could not thus be led astray; 

She bad stood lire too Ion ■ and wall, to boggle 

Even at this strangerfe most outlandish ogle. 

LXXX1I. 

The morning now was on the point of breaking, 

A turn of time at which I would advise 
I.:, lies who have been dancjn&or partaking 

In any other kind of exercise, 
To make their preparations for forsaking 
The ball-n sun begins to rise, 

when once the lamps and can lies fail, 
ike 'hem look a litdc pale. 

1 \\\IM. 

I Vc seen some balls and revels in my time, 
And stayed them over f>r some silly reason, 

And then I louk'd, (I hope it was no crime,) 
To see what lady best stood out tho season ; 

And though I Ve seen some thousands in their prime, 
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 

1 never saw but one, (the stars withdrawn,) 

Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 



BEPPO. 



155 



LXXXIT. 

The name of this Aurora I 11 not mention, 
Although I might, for she was naught to me 

More than that patent work of God's invention, 
A charming woman, whom we like to see ; 

Eut writing names would merit reprehension, 
Yet if you like to find out this fair s/a?, 

A.t the next London or Parisian ball 

You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. 

LXXXV. 

Laura, who knew it would not do at all 

To meet the daylight after seven hours 1 sitting 

Among three thousand people at a ball, 

To make her curtsey thought it right and fitting ; 

The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 

And they the room were on the point of quittting, 

When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got 

Just in the very place where thev should not. 

LXXXVI. 

In this they 're [ike our coachmen, and the cause 
Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling, 

With blasphemies enough to brt-ak their jaws, 
They make a never intermitting bawling. 

At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, 
And here a sentry stands within your calling; 

But for all that, there is a deal of swearing 

And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. 

LXXXVII. 

The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide, 

Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 

Rome little scandals eke : but all aghast 
(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 

Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, 

When lo! the Mussulman was there before her. 

LXXXVIII. 

"Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, 
" Your unexpected presence here will make 

It necessary for myself -to crave 

Its import? But perhaps 'tis a mistake; 

I hope it is so ; and at once to wave 

AH compliment, I hope so for your sake ; 

You understand my meaning, or you shall." 

"Sir," (quoth the Turk,) "'tis no mistake at all. 

L XXXIX. 

"That lady is my wifeF Much wonder paints 
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might ; 

But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
Italian females don't do so outright; 

They only call a li'tle on their saints, 

And then come to themselves, almost or quite; 

Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, 

And cutting slays, as usual in such cases. 

xc. 
She said, — what could she sav ? Why not a word : 

But the Count courteously invited in 
The stranger, much appeased bv what he heard: 

"Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss within," 
Said he ; "don't let us make ourselves absurd 

In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, 
For then the chief and only satisfaction 
Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 

xci. 
They entcr'd, and for coffee call'd — it came, 

A beverage for Turks and Christians both, 
Although the way they make it 's not the same. 

Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 
To speak, cries "Beppo! what's your pagan name? 

Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 
And how came you to keep away so long? 
Are you not sensible 't was very wrong? 



'And are you realty, truly, now a Turk? 

With any other women did you wive? 
Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork ? 

Well, thai J s the prettiest shawl — as I 'm alive! 
You 'II give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 

And how so many years did you contrive 
To — Bless me! did I ever? No, I never 
Saw a man grown so yellow! How's yom liver? 

xcin. 
" Beppo ! that beard of your's becomes you not , 

It shall be shaved before you're a day older 
Why do you wear it? Oh! I had forgot — 

Pray don't you think the weather here is colder'' 
How do 1 look ? You sha'n't stir from this spot 

In that queer dress, fjr fear that some beholder 
Should find you out, and make the story known. 
How short your hair is ! Lord ! how gray it 's grown '' 

XCIV. 

What, answer Beppo made to these demands 

Is more than I lenow. He was cast away 
About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands 

Became a slave of course, and for his pay 
Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 

Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, 
W<- | ind the rogues and prosper'd, and became 
A renegado of indifferent fame. 

xcv. 
But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 

Keen the desire to see his home again, 
He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 

And not be always thieving on the main ; 
Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, 

And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 
Bound for Corfu: she was a fine polacca, 
IMann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 

xcvi. 
Himsetij and much (heaven knows how gotten) cas\» 

He then embark'd with risk of life and limb, 
And got clear offj although the attempt was rash; 

He said that Providence protected him — 
For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 

In Mir opinions: — well, the ship was trim, 
Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 
Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 

xcvu. 

They reach'd the island, he transfcrr'd his lading, 
And self and live-stock, to another bottom, 

An I pass'd for a true Turkey merchant, trading 
Willi goods of various names, but I've forgot 'em 

However, he got oil" by this evading, 

Or else the people would perhaps have shot him 

And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 

His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 

xcvrir. 
His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him, 

(He made die church a present hy the way;) 
He then threw off the garments which disguised Inn., 

And borrowed the Count's small-clothes for a day: 
His friends the m ire for his long absence prized him, 

Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay, 
With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them, 
For stories — but / don't believe the half of them. 

XCIX. 

Whate'er his youth had sufferM, his old age 

With wealth and talking made bun some amends; 

Though Laura sometimes put aim in a rage, 

I Ve beard the Count and he were always friends. 

My pen is at the bottom of a page, 

Which being finish'd, here the story ends; 

'T is to be vrish'd it had heed sooner done, 

But stones somehow lengthen when begun. 



NOTES TO BEPPO. 



Note 1, page 150, line 80. . 
Like tiie tost Pleiad seen no more below. 
■ Qua* st-ptem dici sex tamen esse solent." Ovm. 
Note 2, page 151, line 40. 
His name Giuseppe, called more briefly, Beppo. 
Beppo is the Joe of the Italian Joseph. 
Note 3, page 152, line 3. 
The Spaniards call the person a lL Cor/. 
•Cortejo" is pronounced " Cortc/to," witli an aspi- 



rate, according to the Arabesque guttural. It meant 
what there is as yet no precise name for in England, 
though the practice is as common as in any tramontane 
country whatever. 

Note 4, page 152, line 75. 
RaphacL, who died in Qiy embrace. 
For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael's 
death, see his Lives. 



M A Z E P P A. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

•Celui qui remplissait alors cette place £tait tin gen- 
tilhomme Polunais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le palatinat 
de Padolie ; il avait 6te eleve page de Jean Casimir, et 
avail pris *i sa cour quelque teinture des belles-lettres. 
l'ii'' intrigue qu'il But dans sa jeunesse avec la femme 
dta gentilhomme Polonais, ayant 6t& decouverte, le 
mari le fit her tout nu but im cheval farow In ■, et le 
taissa aller en cet etat. Le cheval, qui ciait dn pays de 
PUkraine, y retouma, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-iuort de 
fatigue et. de [aim. Q,uelques paysans le secQururent: 
il resta longtems panni eux, et se sijnala dans plusieura 
courses contre tea Tartares. La superiorite* de ses lu- 
mii'rcs lui donna uno grande consideration |>;inm Irs 
Co aques: sa reputation s'augmentant de jour en jour, 
obligea le Czar a le faire Prince de ['Ukraine." — VoL- 
taire, Hist, de Charles XII. p. 196. 

"Le roi fuyant et poursuivi eut son cheval tu<5 sous 
lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse;, et perdant tout son sang, 
lui donna le sien. Ainst on remit deux fois a cheval, 
dans la fuite,ce conquerant qui n'avait pu y ninuler pen- 
dant la bataille." — Voltaire, Hist, de Charles XII. 
p. 216. 

" Le mi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques ca- 
valiers. Le carrosse, ou il rtait, rompit dans la marche ; 
on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'e- 
gara pendant la mnt dans nn bois; b, son courage ne 
pouvant plus supplier a ses forces cpuisees, les doulcurs 
de sa blessure devenues plus insupportablea par la fa- 
tigue, son cheval etant tomhe de Lassitude, il se concha 
quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger d'etre 
surpris a tout momenl pap les vainqueurs qui le chcr- 
chaient de tons cdtes." — Voltaire, Hisloire de Charles | 
XII. p. 218. 



'Twas after dread Pultowa's day, 

When fortune left the royal Swede, 
Around a slaughtered army layj 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
The power and glory of the war, 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 

And Moscow's walls were safe again, 
Until a day more dark and drear, 
And a more memorable year, 
Should give to slaughter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name ; 



A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 

A shock to one — a thunderbolt to aD. 



Such was the hazard of the die ; 

The wounded Charles was taught to fly 

By day and night through field and flood, 

Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood; 

For thousands fell that flight to add: 

And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 

Ambition in his humbled hour, 

When truth had naught to dread from power. 

His horse was slam, and Gieta gave 

His own — and died the Russians' slave. 

This too sinks after many a league 

Of well sustained, but vain fatigue; 

And in the depth of forests, darkling 

The watch-fires in the distance sparkling— 

The beacons of surrounding foes — 
A king must lay his limbs at length. 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength ? 
They laid him by a savage tree, 
In outworn nature's agony ; 
His wounds were stiff— hia limbs were stark — 
The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid, 
And thus it was; but yet through all, 
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 
And made, in this extreme of ill, 
His pangs the vassals of his will: 
All silent and subdued were tiny, 
As once the nations round him lay. 



A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how few, 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had tlunn'd it ; hut this wreck was true 

And chivalrous : upon the clay 
Each sate bun down, all sad and mute, 

Beside his monarch and his steed, 
For danger levels man and brute, 

And all are fellows in their need. 
Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 
The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold ; 
But first, nutspent with this long course, 
The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 






MAZEPPA. 



157 



And made for him a leafy bed, 
And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 
And slack'd his girth, and stripped his rein, 

And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 

For until now he had the dread 

His wearied courser might refuse 

To browse beneath the midnight dews : 

But he was hardy as his lord, 

And little cared for bed and board ; 

But spirited and docile too; 

Whate'er was to be done, would do. 

Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 

All Tartar-like he carried him ; 

Obey'd his voice, and came to call, 

And knew him in the midst of ail: 

Though thousands were around, — and Night, 

Without a star, pursued her flight, — 

That steed from sunset until dawn 

His chief would follow like a fawn. 



This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 
And laid his lance beneath his oak, 
Felt if his arms in order good 
The long day's march had well withstood— 
If still the powder fill'd the pan, 

And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
And whether they had chafed his belt — 
And next the venerable man, 
From out his havresack and can, 

Prepared and spread his sjender stock ; 
And to the monarch and his men 
The whole or portion orfer'd then 
With far less of inquietude 
Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
And Charles of this his slender share 
With smiles partook a moment there, 
To force of cheer a greater show, 
And seem above both wounds and wo ; — 
And then he said — "Of all our band, 
Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
Can less have said or more have done 
Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
So fit a pair had never birth, 
Since Alexander's days till now, 
As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
Mazeppa answer'd — "III betide 
The school wherein I learn'd to ride !" 
Quoth Charles — "Old Hetman, wherefore so, 
Since thou hast learn'd the art so well ?" 
Mazeppa said — "'Twere long to tell; 
And we have many a league to go, 
With every now and then a blow, 
And ten to one at least the foe, 
Before our steeds may graze at ease 
Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 
And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 
And I will be the sentinel 
Of this your troop."— " But I request," 
Said Sweden's monarch, " thou wilt tell 
This tale of thine, and I may reap, 
Perchance, from this the boon of sleep, 
For at this moment from my eyes 
The hope of present slumber flies* 

■ Well, sire, with such a hope, 1 11 track 
My seventy years of memory back: 
I think 't was in my twentieth spring, — 
Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king- 
John Casimir, — I was his page 
Six summers, in my earlier age -, 



A learned monarch, faith! was he, 
And most unlike your majesty : 
He made no wars, and did not gain 
New realms to lose them back again ; 
And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
He reigned in most unseemly quiet ; 
Not that he had no cares to vex, 
He loved the muses and the sex; 
And sometimes these so froward are, 
They made him wish himself at war, 
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
Another mistress, or new book: 
And then he gave prodigious fetes — 
All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
To gaze upon his splendid court, 
And dames, and chiefs, of princely port . 
He was the Polish Solomon, 
So sung his poets, all but one, 
Who, being unpensioned, made a satire, 
And boasted that he could not flatter. 
It was a court of jousts and mimes, 
Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 
Even I for once produced some verses, 
And sign'd my odes Despairing Thirsis. 
There was a certain Palatine, 

A count of far and hi<:h descent, 
Rich as a salt or silver mine;* 
And he was proud ye may divine, 

As if from heaven he had been sent , 
He had such wealth in blood and ore 

As few could match beneath the throne, 
And he would gaze upon his store, 
And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
Until by some confusion led, 
Which almost look'd like want of head, 

He thought their merits were his own. 
His wife was not of his opinion — 

His junior she by thirty years- 
Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 

And, af'er wishes, hopes, and fears, 

To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances. 
Awaited but the usual chances, 
Those happy accidents which render 
The coldest dames so very tender, 
To deck her Count with titles given, 
'T is said, as passports into heaven ; 
But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
Of these who have deserved them most. 



* I was a goodly stripling then ; 

At seventy years I so may say, 
That there were few, or boys or men, 

Who, in my dawning time of day, 
Of vassal or of knight's degree, 
Could vie in vanities with me; 
For I had strength, youth, gayety, 
A port, not like to this ye see, 
But smooth, as all is rugged now ; 

For time, and care, and war, have plough'd 
My very soul from out my brow ; 

And thus I should be disavow M 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compare my day and yesterday ; 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
Had ta'en my features for his page : 
With years ye know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind, 



*Thii companion of a " talt mine" majr perhaps he permitted lo» 
Pole, ai the weallb "f the country eoniitia great iv in ihf full miuta 



158 



MAZEPPA. 



Or at this hour I should not be 
Telling old talcs beneath a tree, 
"Willi starless skies inv canopy. 
But let me on: Theresa's form — 
MetbJnks it glides before me now, 
Between mo and yon chestnut's bough, 
The memory is so quick and warm ; 
And yet I find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well 
She had the Asiatic eye, 
Such as our Turkish neighbourhood 
Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 
Dark as above us is the sky ; 
But through it stole a tender light, 
Like the first moonrise of midnight ; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
"Which Beem'd to meJl t" its own beam; 
All love, half languor, anil half fire, 
Like saints that at the stake expire, 
And lift their raptured looks on high, 
As though it were a jov to die. 

A brow like a midsummer lake, 

Transparent with the sun therein, 
When waves no murmur dare to make, 

And heaven beholds her face within. 
A cheek and lip — but why proceed? 

I loved her then — I love her still 
And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 
But still we love even in our rage, 
And haunted to mir very age 
With the vain shadow of the past, 
As is Mazeppa to the last. 

VI. 

■ We met— we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 
She did not speak, and yet replied; 
There are ten thousand tones and signs 
We hear and see, but none defines— 
Involuntary sparks of thought, 
Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought, 
And form a strange intelligence. 
Alike mysterious and intense, 
Wluch link the burning chain that binds, 
Without their will, young hearts and minds; 
Conveying, as the electric wire, 
We know not how, the absorbing fite. — 
I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept, 
And still reluctant distance kept, 
Until I was made known to her, 
And we might then and there confer 
Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I long'd, and was resolved to speak; 
But on my lips they died again, 

The accents tremulous and weak, 
Until one hour. — There is a game, 
A frivolous and foolish play, 
Wherewith we while away the day ; 
ft is — I have forgot the name — 
And we to this, it seems, were set, 
By some strange chance, which I forget: 
I reck'd not if I won or lost, 
It was enough for me to bo 
So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
The being whom I loved the most. — 
I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well!) 
Until I saw, and thus it was, 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain; but still 
Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, though not 
That hers might be the winning lot. 
Then through my brain the thought did pass 



Even as a flash of lightning there, 
That there was something in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair ; 
And on the thought my words broke furu\ 

All incoherent as they were— 
Their eloquence was little worth, 
But yet she listened— 't is enough— 

Who listens once will listen twice 
Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
And one refusal no rebuff". 

VII. 

" I loved, and was beloved again— 

They tell me, Sire, you never knew 

Those gentle frailties; if 't is true, 
I shorten all my joy or pain; 
To you 't would seem absurd as vain ; 
But all men are not born to reign, 
Or o\ r their passions, or as you 
Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
1 am — or rather was — a prince, 

A chief of thousands, and could lead 

Them on where each would foremost btae*. 
But could not o'er myself evince 
The like control — But to resume: 

I loved, and was beloved again; 
In sooth, it is a happy doom, 

But yet where happiest ends in pain.— 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Which led me to that lady's bower 
Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
My days and nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour, which doth recall 
In the long lapse from youth to age 

No other like itself — I'd give 

The Ukraine back again to live 
It o'er once more — and be a page, 
The happy page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
And had no other gem nor wealth 
Save nature's gift of youth and health.— 
We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
Some say, they find it so to in> et ; 
I know not that — I would have given 

My life but to have call'd her mine 
In the full view of earth and heaven; 

For 1 did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth. 

VIII. 

" For lovers there are many eyes, 

And such there were on us ; — the devi 

On such occasions should be civil — 
The devil ! — I *m loath to do him wrong, 

It might be some untoward saint, 
Who would not be at rest too long, 

But to his pious bile gave vent — 
But one fair night, some lurking spies 
Surprised ami seized us both. 

The Count was B ething more than wro(h*— 

I was unarm'd ; but if in BtO I 

All cap-a-pie &ODQ head to heel, 

What 'gainsl their numbers could I do'— 

'T was near his castle, fir away 

From city or from succour near, 
And almost on the break of day ; 
I did not think to see another, 

My moments seem'd reduced to few; 
And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 

And, it may be, a saint or two, 
As 1 risigu'd me to my fate, 
They led me to the castle gate : 

Theresa's doom I never knew, 
Our lot was henceforth separate.— 
An angry man, ye may opine, 
Was he. the proud Count Palatine; 



MAZEPPA. 



159 



And he had reason good to be, 


They bound me to his foaming flank: 


But he was most enraged lest such 


At length I play'd them one as frank— 


An accident should chance to touch 


For time at last sets all things even — 


Upon his future pedigree ; 


And if we do but watch the hour, 


Nor less amazed, that such a blot 


There never yet was human power 


His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 


Which could evade, if unforgiven, 


"While he was highest of his line ; 


The patient search and vigil long 


Because unto himself he seenVd 


Cf him who treasures up a wrong. 


The first of men, nor less he deem'd 




In otbers 1 eyes, and most in mine. 


XI. 


'S death ! with a page — perchance a king 




Had reconciled him to the thing ; 
But with a stripling of a page — 
I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 


a Away, away, my steed and I, 


Upon the pinions of the wind, 


All human dwellings left behind ; 


We sped like meteors through the sky, 


IX. 


When with its crackling sound the night 


•'Bring forth the horse !' — the horse was brought ; 


Is chequcr'd with the northern light: 


In truth, he was a noble steed, 


Town — village — none were on our trade, 


A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 


But a wild plain of far extent, 


Who look'd as though the speed of thought 


And bounded by a forest black ; 


Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 


And, save the scarce seen battlement 


Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 


On distant heights of some strong hold, 


With spur and bridle undefiled — 


Against the Tartars built of old, 


'T was but a day he had been caught; 


No trace of man. The year before 


And snorting with erected mane, 


A Turkish army had march'd o'er; 


And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 


And where the Spain's hoof hath trod, 


In the full foam of wrath and dread 


The verdure flies the bloody sod : — 


To me the descrt-bom was led : 


The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 


They bound me on, that menial throng, 


And a low breeze crept moaning by— 


Upon his back with many a thong ; 


I could have answer'd with a sigh — 


Then loosed him with a sudden lash- 


But fast we fled, away, away — 


Away ! — away ! — and on we dash !— 


And 1 could neither sigh nor pray; 


Torrents less rapid and less rash. 


And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 




Upon the courser's bristling mane; 


X. 


But, snorting still with rage and fear, 


■ Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone— 


He flew upon his far career: 


I saw not where he hurried on : 


At times I almost thought, indeed, 


*T was scarcely yet the break of day, 


He must have slacken'*! in his speed ; 


And on he foam'd — away ! — away ! — 


But no — my bound and slender frame 


The last of human sounds which rose, 


Was nothing to his angry might, 


As I was darted from my foes, 


And merely like a spur became: 


Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 


Each motion which I made to free 


Which on the wind came roaring after 


My swoln limbs from their agony 


A moment from that rabble rout : 


Increased his fury and affright : 


With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, 


I tried my voice, — 't was faint and low, 


And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 


But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 


Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 


And, starting to each accent, sprang 


And, writhing half my form about, 


As from a sudden trumpet's clang: 


Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread. 


Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 


The thunder of my courser's speed, 


Which] oozing through my limbs, ran o'er 


Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 


And in my tongue me thirst became 


It vexes me— for I would fain 


A something fierier far than flame. 


Have paid their insult back again. 




I paid it well in after days : 


XII. 


There is not of that castle gate, 




Its drawbridge and portcullis 1 weight, 


"We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 


Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 


I saw no bounds on either side; 


Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 


'T was studded with old Sturdy trees, 


Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 


That bent not to the roughest breeze 


Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 


"Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 


And many a time ye there might pass, 


And strips the forest m its haste, — 


Nor dream that e'er that fortress was: 


But these were few, and far between, 


I saw its turrets in a blaze, 


Set thick with shrubs more young and greeny 


Their crackling battlements all cleft, 


Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 


And the hot lead pour down like rain 


Ere strown by those autumnal eves 


From off the scorcli'd and blackening roof^ 


That nip the forest's foliage dead, 


Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 


Discolour'd with a lifeless red, 


They little thought that day of pain, 


Which stands thereon like stilfeu'd gore 


When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 


Upon the slain when battle 's o'er, 


They bade me to destruction dash, 


And some long winter's night hath shed 


That one day I should come again, 


Its frost o'er every tombless head, 


With twice five thousand horse, to thank 


So cold and stark the raven's beak 


The Count for his uncourteous ride. 


May peck unpierced each frozen cheek* 


They play'd me then a bitter prank, 


'T was a wild waste of underwood, 


When, with the wild horse for my guide, 


And here and there a chestnut stood, 



160 



MAZEPPA. 



The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 

But far apart — and well it were, 
Or else a different lot were mine— 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarr'd with cold— 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; 
By night I heard thern on the track. 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 
With their long gallop, which can tire 
The hounds deep hate, and hunters fire: 
Where'er we flew they fbllow'd on, 
Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
At day-break winding through the wood, 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 
At least to die amidst the horde, 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wLshYl the goal already won; 
But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, 
Than through the forest-paths he past — 
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
All furious as a favour'd child 
Balk'd of its wish; or fiercer still — 
A woman piqued — who has her will. 

XIII. 

The wood was past ; 't was more than noon, 

But chill the air, although in June ; 

Or it might be my veins ran cold — 

Prolong'd endurance tames the bold; 

And I was then not what I seem, 

But headlong as a wintry stream, 

And wore my feelings out before 

I well could count their causes o'er: 

And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 

The tortures which beset my path, 

Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 

Thus bound in natures nakedness; 

Sprung from a race whose rising blood 

When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 

And trodden hard upon, is like 

The rattlesnake's, in act to strike, 

What marvel if this worn-out trunk 

Beneath its woes a moment sunk '.' 

The earth gave way, the skies rolPd round, 

I seem'd lo sink upon the ground; 

But err'd, for I was lastly bound. 

My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, 

And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more: 

Tae skies spun like a mighty wheel; 

I saw the trees like drunkards nrl, 

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, 

Which saw no farther: he who dies 

Can die no more than then I died. 

O'ertorturcd by that ghastly ride, 

I felt the blackness come and go, 

And strove to wake ; but couid not make 
My senses climb up from below : 
I felt as on a plank at sea, 
When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
At the same time upheave and whelm, 
Anvi hurl thee towards a desert realm. 



My undulating life was as 

The fancied lights that flitting pass 

Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 

Fever begins upon the brain ; 

But soon it pass'd, with little pain, 
But a confusion worse than such : 
I own that I should deem it much, 

1 tying, to feel the same again; 

And yet I do suppose we must 

Fed far more ere we turn to dust: 

No matter ; I have bared my brow 

Full in death's face — before — and now. 

XIV. 

" My thoughts came back ; where was I ? Cold, 

And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 
Life reassumed its lingering hold, 
And throb by throb: till grown a pang 

Which for a moment would convulse, 

My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill; 
My ear with uncouth noises rang, 

My heart began once more to thrill ; 
My sight return'd, though dim; alas! 
And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 
Methought the dash of wares was nigh; 
There was a gleam too of the sky, 
Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 
The bright broad river's gushing tide 
Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
And we are half-way, struggling o'er 
To yon unknown and silent shore. 
The waters broke my hollow trance, 
And with a temporary strength 

My stitfen'd limbs were rebaptized. 
My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 
And dashes otf the ascending waves, 
And onward we advance! 
We reacii the slippery shore at length, 

A haven I but little prized, 
For all behind was dark and drear, 
And all before was night and fear. 
How many hours of night or day 
In those suspended pangs I lay, 
I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
If this were human breath I drew. 
xr. 
"With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 

And reeling limbs, and recking flank, 
The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 

Up the repelling bank. 
We gain the top : a boundless prain 
Spreads through the shadow of the night, 

And onward, onward, onward, seems, 

Like precipices in our dreams, 
To stretch beyond the sight; 
And here and there a speck of while, 

Or scait.r'd spot of dusky green, 
In masses broke into the light, 
As rose the moon upon my right. 

But naught distinctly seen 
In the dim waste would indicate 
Tho omen of a cottage gate ; 
No twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like a hospitable star ; 
Not even on ignis-fatuus rose 
To make him merry with my woes : 

That very cheat had cheer'd me then.' 
Although detected, welcome still, 
Reminding me, through every ill, 
Of the abodes of men. 

XVI. 

"Onward wo went — but slack and slow; 
His savage force at length o'erspenL 



MAZEPPA. 



161 



■ » , . , 1 

The drooping courser, faint and low, 




They stop — they start — they snufl'the air, 


Alt feebly foaming went. 


Galiop a moment here and there, 


A sickly infant had had power 


Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 


To guide him forward in that hour; 


Then plunging back with sudden bound, 


But useless all to me. 


Headed hy one black mighty steed, 


His new-born lameness naught avail'd, 


Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, 


Mv limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 


Without a single speck or hair 


Perchance, had they been free. 


Of white upon Ids shaggy hide ; 


With feeble effort sttll I tried 


They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside 


To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 


And backward to the forest fly, 


But still it was in vain; 


By instinct, from a human eye. — 


My limbs were only wrung the more, 


They left me there, to my despair, 


And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 


Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 


Which but prolong'd their pain: 


Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, 


The dizzy race seem'd almost dune, 


Relieved from that unwonted weight, 


Although no goal was nearly won: 


From whence I could not extricate 


Some streaks announced the coming sun- 


Nor him nor me — and there we lay 


How slow, alas ! he cam>; ! 


The dying on the dead ! 


Methotlght that mist of dawning gray 


I lntle deem'd another day 


Would never dapple into day ; 


Would see my houseless, helpless head. 


How heavily it roll'd away 




Before the eastern flame 


(l And there from morn till twilight bound, 


Ro^e crimson, and deposed the stars, 


I felt the heavy hours toil round, 


And calfd the radiance from their cars, 


With just enough of life to see 
My last of suns go down on me, 
In hopeless certainty of mind, 


And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne, 


With lonely lustre, all his own. 




That makes us feel at length resipnM 


xvir. 


To that which our foreboding years 




Presents the worst and last of fears 


•* Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 


Inevitable — even a boon, 


Back from the solitary world 


Nor more unkind for coming soon ; 


Which lay around — behind — before ; 


Yer shunn'd and dreaded wilh such care, 


What booied it to traverse o'er 


As if it only were a snare 


Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute, 


That prudence might escape: 


Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 


At times both wish'd for and implored, 


Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 


At times sought with self-pointed sword, 


No sign of travel — none of toil ; 


Yet still a dark and hideous close 


The very air was mute ; 


To even intolerable woes, 


And not an insects shril! small horn, 


And welcome in no shape. 


Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 


And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 


From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 


They who have revell'd beyond measure 


Panting as if his heart would hurst, 


In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 


The weary brute still slagger'd on ; 


Die catm, or calmer, oft than he 


And still we were — or seem'd — alone : 


Whose heritage was misery : 


At length, while reeling on our way, 


For he who hath in turn run through 


Methought 1 heard a courser neigh, 


All that was beautiful and new, 


From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 


Hath naught to hope, and naught to leave, 


Is it the wind those branches stirs? 


And, save the futue, (which is view'd 


No, no ! from out the forest prance 


Not quite as men are base or good, 


A trampling troop; I see them come! 


But as their nerves may be endued,) 


In one vast squadron they advance ! 


Wilh naught perhaps to grieve : — 


I strnve to cry — my lips were dumb. 


The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 


The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 


And Death, whom he should deem his friena, 


But where are they the reins to guide ? 


Appears, *o his distemper'd eyes, 


A thousand horses — and none to ride! 


Arrived to rob him of his prize, 


Wilh flowing tail, and flying mane, 


The tree of his new paradise. 


Wide nostrils — never stretch'd hy pain, 


To-morrow would have given him all, 


Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 


Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall; 


And feet that iron never shod, 


To-morrow would have been the first 


And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 


Of days no more deplored or curst, 


A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 


But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 


Like waves thai follow o'er the sea, 


Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, 


Came thickly thundering on, 


Guerdon of many a painful hour; 


As if our faint approach to meet ; 


To-nmrrow would have given him power 


The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 


To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 


A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 


And must it dawn upon his grave? 


A moment, with a faint low neigh, 




He answered, and then fell ; 


XVIII. 


With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 




And reeking limbs immoveable, 


11 The sun was sinking — still I lay 


His first and last career is done ! 


Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed, 


On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 


I thought to mingle there our clay ; 


They saw me strangely bound along 


A*nd my dim eyes of death had need, 


His back with many a bloody thong 


No hope arose of being freed : 



162 



MAZEPPA. 



I cast my last looks up the sky, 


She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, 


And there between me and the sun 


But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 


I saw the expecting raven fly, 


With lip and finger signs that said, 


Who scarce could wail till both should die, 


I must not strive as yet to break 


Ere his repast begun ; 


The silence, till my strength should be 


He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 


Enough lo leave my accents free ; 


And each time nearer than before ; 


And then her hand on mine she laid, 


I saw his wing through twilight flit, 


And smoothM the pillow for my head, 


And once so near tne he alit 


And stole along on tiptoe tread, 


I could have smote] but lackM the strength ; 


And gently oped the door, and spake 


But the slight motion of my hand, 


In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet! 


And feeble scratching of the sand, 


Even music follow'd her light feet; — 


The exerted throat's faint struggling noise 


lint those she callM were not awake, 


Which scarcely could be called a voice, 


And she w. nt forth ; but, ere she pass'd, 


Together scared him off at length. — 


Another look on me she cast, 


1 know no more — my latest dream 


Another sign she made, to say. 


Is something of a lovely star 


That I had naught to fear, that all 


Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 


Were near, at niv command or call, 


And went and came with wandering beam, 


And she would not delay 


And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 


Her due return: — while she was gone, 


Sensation of recurring aense, 


Mcthoughl I felt too much alone. 


And then subsiding back to death, 


XX. 


And then again a little breath, 


" She came with her mother and with sire — 


A little thrill, a short suspense, 


What need of more ? — I will not tire 


An icy sickness curdling o'er 


With long recital of the rest, 


My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain— 


Since I became the Cossack's guest: 


A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 


They found me senseless on the plain — 


A sigh, and nothing more. 


They bore me to the nearest hut — 


XIX. 


They brought me into life again — 


11 1 woke — Where was 1 7 — Do I see 


Me — one 'lay o'er their realm to reign ! 


A human face look down on me ? 


Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 


And doth a roof above me close ? 


His rage, refining on my pain, 


Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 


Sent me forth to the wilderness, 


Is this a chamber where I lie ? 


Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 


And is it mortal yon bright eye, 


To pass the desert to a throne, — 


That watches me with gentle glance ? 


What mortal his own doom may guess?— 


I closed my own again once more, 


Let none despond, let none despair ! 


As doubtful that the forifflff trance 


To-morrow the Boryslhenes 


Could not as yet be o'er. 


May see our coursers graze at ease 


A slender girl, long-liair'd, and tall, 


Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 


Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 


Had I such welcome for a river 


The sparkle of her eye I caught, 


As I shall yield when safely there. 


Kven with my first return of thought 


Comrades, good night !" — The Hetman threw 


For ever and anon she threw 


His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 


A prying, pitying glance on me 


With leafy couch already made, 


With her black eyes so wild and free ! 


A bed nor comfortless nor new 


I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 


To him, who took his rest whene'er 


No vision it could be, — 


The hour arrived, no matter where : 


But that I lived, and was released 


His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 


From adding to the vulture's feast : 


And if ye marvel Charles forgot 


And when the Cossack maid beheld 


To thank his tale, he wondered not, — 


My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, 


The king had been an hour asleep. 



MANFRED 



A DRAMATIC POEM. 



** There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Thau are rtreanil if hi your fjhi!oao[j|iy." 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Manfred. 
Chamois Hunter. 
Abdot of St. Maurice. 

M%NUEL. 

Herman. 



Witch of the Alps. 
Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The Destinies. 

Spirits, &.c 



The Scene of the Drama is among the Higher Jilps— 
partly in the Castle of .Manfred, and partly in th< 
Mountains. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — Manfred alone — Scene, a Gothic Gal- 
lery — Time, Midnight, 
Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought, 
Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
To look within; and yet I live, and bear 
The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
But grief should be the instructor of the wise; 
Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most, 
.Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
Tbo Tret- of Knowledge is not that of life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
A power to make these subject to itself- — 
But they avail not : I have done men good, 
And I have met with good even among men — 
But this itvail'd tiol : I have had my foes, 
And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 
But iliis availM not : Good or evil, life, 
Powers, passions, all T see in other beings, 
Have been to me as rain unto the sands 
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 
And feel the curse to have no natural fear, 
Nor fluttering throb, thai beats with hopes or wishes, 
Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 
Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency ! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe! 
Whom I have sought in dftrknesa and in light — 
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the lops 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts. 
And earth's and oceans caves familiar things — 
I call upon ye by the written charm 
Which gives me power upon you Rise ! appear ! 

[Jl pause. 
They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign, 
Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 
Who is undying, — Rise ! appear ! Appear! 

[Jl pause. 



If it be so. — Spirits of earth and air, 
Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power, 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd, 
The burning wreck of a demolished world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space; 
By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
The thought which is within me and around me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear! 

[*i star is seen at the darker end of the gallery ; it 

is stationanj ; and a voice is heard singing* 
First Spirit. 

Mortal! to thy bidding bow'd, 

Prom my mansion in the cloud, 

Which the breath of twilight builds, 

And the summer's sunset gilds 

With the azure and vermilion, 

Which is mixM for my pavilion ; 

Though thy quest may be forbidden, 

On a star-beam I have ridden ; 

To thine adjuration bow'd, 

Mortal — be thy wish avowM. 

Voice of the Second Spirit. 
Mount Blanc is the monarch of mountains 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced, 

The Avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place, 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern \I base — 

And what with me wouldst Thou? 

Voice of the Third Spirit. 
In the blue depth of the waters, 

Where the wave hath no strife, 
Where the wind is a stranger, 

And the sea-snake hath life, 
Where the mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells; 
Like the storm on the surface 

Came the sound of thy spells ; 
O'er my calm Hall of Coral 

The deep echo roll'd — 
To the Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes unfold! 

Fourth Spirit. 
Where the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillow'd on fire, 
And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boilingly higher* 



1(54 



MANFRED. 



Act I. 



Where the roofs of the Andes 

Strike deep in the earth, 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoo! soaringly forth ; 
I have quitied my birthplace, 

Thy bidding to bide — 
Thy spell hath subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide ; 

Fifth Spirit. 
I am the Rider of the wind, 

The Stirrer of the storm ; 
The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet wuh lightning warm; 
To speed to Ihee, o'er shore and sea 

I swept upon (he hiust : 
The Heet I met sail'd well, and yet 

'Twill sink ere night Ik: past. 

Sixth Spirit. 
My dwelling i s the shadow of ihe night, 
Why doth thy magic torture me with light? 

Seventh Spirit. 
The star which rules thy destiny 
Was ruled, ere earth began, by me ; 
It was a world as fresh and fair 
As e'er revolved round sun in air, 
Its course was free and regular, 
Space busom'd not a lovelier star. 
The hour arrived— and It became 
A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
A pathless comet, and a curse, 
The menace of the universe; 
Still rolling on with innate force, 
Without a sphere, without a course! 
A bright deformity on high, 
The monster of the upper sky ! 
And thou! beneath its influence born— 

Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn 

Forced by a power, (which is not thine 

And lent ihee but to make thee mine,) 

For this brief moment to descend, 

Where these weak spirits round thee bend 

And parley with a thing like :hee— 

What wouldst thou, Child of Clay! with me? 

The Seven Spirits. 
Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star 

Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay! 
Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 

What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals— say ? 

Man. Forgctfulness 

First Spirit. Of what-of whom-and why « 

Man. Ol that which is within me ; read it there— 
le know it, and I cannot utter it. 

Spirit. We can but give Ihee thai which we possess 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof 
We are the dnininators, each and all, 
These shall be thine. 

■"«"■ Oblivion, self-oblivion — 

Can ye not wring from out lite hidden realms 
Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 

Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
But — thou inayst die. 

Man. Will death bestow it on me ? 

Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget ; 
We are eternal ; and to us the past 
Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 

Man. Vo muck me— but the power which brou-hl 
ye here 
Hath mado you mine. Slaves, scoff not rt( my will ! 



The mind, the Spirit, the Promethean spark, 
I'll, lightning of my being, is as bright, 
Pervading] and far-darling as your OVi n. 
Ami shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay '• 
Answer, or I will teach ye what I am. 

Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 
Is even in thine own words. 

•Von. Why say ye so? 

SpiriL If, as thou sav'st, thine essence be as ours, 
We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath naught to do with us. 

Man, I then have call'd ye from your realms in vain. 
Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 

Spirit Say; 

What we possess *ve offer ; it is thine : 
Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 

Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days - 

Man. Accursed ! what have I to do with davs ? 
They are too long already. — Hence — begone ! 

Sj,n it. Yet pause : being here, our will would do 
I bee service ; 
Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes? 

Mun. No, none: yet stay — one moment, ere we part — 
I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
As music on ihe waters ; and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star; 
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
Of me, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 

Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements 
Of which we are the rnind and principle: 
But choose a form — in that we will appear. 

JtfoTI. I have no choice; there is no form on earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
As unto him may seem must fitting — Come! 

Seventh Spirit. (Appearing in the shape of a 

h, imiii'iit female figure.) Behold! 
Man. Oh ( rod ! if it be thus, and (Aon 
Art not a madness and a mockerv, 
I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee, 

And we again will be [The figure vanishes. 

My heart is crush'd ! 

[Manfred falls senseless. 

(.1 voice is heard in the Incantation which follotcs.) 
When the moon is on the wave, 

And the glow-worm in the grass, 
And the meteor on the grave, 

And the wisp on the morass ; 
When the falling stars are shooting, 
And the answer'd owls are hooting, 
And the silent leaves are still 
In die shadow of the hill, 
Shall my soul be upon [bine, 
With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep, 

1 -t thy spirit shall not sleep; 

There are shades which will not vanish, 

There are thoughts thou canst not banish J 

By a power to thee unknown, 

Thou cansl never be alone; 

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 

Thou an gather'd in a cloud ; 

And for ever shall thou dwell 

In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou sees! me not pass by, 
Thou shall feel me with thine eye 
As a Ihing that, though unseen, 
Must be near thee, and hath been; 
And when in that secret dread 
Thou hast turn'd around thy head, 






Act I. 



MANFRED. 



165 



Thou shall marvel I am not 

As thy shadow on the sp it, 

And the power which thou dost feel 

Shall be what thou must conceal. 

And a magic voice and verse 

Hath baptized thee with a curse 

And a spirit of the air 

Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 

In the wind there is a voice 

S!iall forbid thee to rejoice ; 

And to thee shall Night deny 

All the quiet of her sky ; 

And the day shall have a sun, 

Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distil 

An essence which hath strength to kill ; 

From thy own heart I then did wring 

The black blood in its blackest Spring' ; 

From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake, 

For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 

From thy own lip I drew the charm 

Which gave all these their chiefesl harm ; 

In proving every poison known, 

I found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 

Bv thy unfadiom'd gulfs of guile, 

By thai most seeming virtuous eye, 

Bv thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 

By the perfection of thine art 

Which pass'd for human thine own heart; 

Bv ihv delight in other's pain, 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee! and compel 

Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 

And on thy head 1 pour the via! 

Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die, 

Shall be in thy destiny ; 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear; 

Lo! the sp«ll now works around thee, 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

H.iih the word been pass'd — now wither! 

Scene IT. — Tht Mountain of the JungjratL — Time, 
Morning. — Manfred alone upon the Cliffs. 
Man. The spiri;s I have raised abandon me— 
The soells which I have studied baffle me— 
The remedy I reck'd of tortured me; 
I lean no more on super-human aid, 
It hath no power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past be guiPd in darkness, 
It is not of mv search. — My mother Karth ! 
And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, 
Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the universe] 

That openest over all, and unto all 

Art a delight — 1hou slnn'st not on my heart. 

And vou. ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 

1 stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 

Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 

In dizziness of distance ; when a leap. 

A stir, amotion, even a breath, would bring 

My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 

To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause ? 

I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 

I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 

And mv brain reels — and yet my foot is firm: 

There is a power upon me which withholds, 

And makes it my fatality to live , 

If il be life to wear within myself 



This barrenness of spiiit, and to be 

M) own son's st pulehre, lor I have ceased 

To justify my deeds unto myself — 

The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 

Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 

[Jin eagle passes. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
Well mav'st thou swoop so near me — I should be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art gone 
Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onward, or ahove, 
With a pervading vision. — Bcautiihl ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world! 
How glorious in its action and itself! 
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
Half dust, hall" deity, a ike unfit 
To sink or soar, with our nnx'd essence make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degradation and of pride, 
Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
Till our niortaliiy predominates, 
And men are — what they name not to themselves, 
And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 

[The ShephenPs p>pe in the distance is heard. 
The mutual music of the mountain reed — 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in 'he liberal air, 
Miz'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd 
My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me! 

Enter from below a Chamois Hunter. 

Chamois Hunter. Even so 

This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce 
Repay my breakneck travail. — What is here? 
Who seems not of mv trade, and yet hath reach'd 
A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, anil his air 
Proud as a freeborn peasant's, at this distance— 
I will approach him near) r. 

.M.tti. [not perceiving the other.) Tobethus— 
Grav-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, 
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
Which but supplies a feeling to decay— 
And to be thus, eternally but thus, 
Having been otherwise! Now furrow'd o'er 
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years 
And hours— ^11 tortured into a^es — hours 
Which I outlive ! — ye topling crags of ice ! 
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
In mountainous o'erwhclniin^, come and crush rae ! 
I hear ve momently al>ove, beneath, 
Crii-h with a frequent conflict; but ye pass, 
And only fall on things that still would live ; 
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
And hamlet of the. hnnnless villager. 

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley ; 
I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 

Jkfan. The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, whi'e and sulphury, 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
Whose every wave bieaks on a living shore, 
Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. 

C. Hun. 1 must approach him cautiously ; if near, 
A sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

JV/an. Mountains have fallen, 

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 






166 



MANFRED. 



Act II. 



Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters ; 
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, 
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find uiiotlirr channel — thus, 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg— 
Why stood [ nut beneath it ? 

C. Hun. Friend! have a care, 

Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
Of Htm who made you. Bland not on that brink ! 

Man. {not healing him.) Such would have been for 
me a fining tomb ; 
My bones had then been quiet in their depth; 
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shall be — 
In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens ! 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
Ye were not meant for me — Earth! lake these atoms! 
[As Manfred is in art to Spring from the 
cliff, the Chamois Hon T BR Seizes and re- 
tains him icit'i a suddni grasp. 

C. Hun. Hold, madman !— though aweary oftby life, 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood- 
Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 

Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not — 
I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 

Spinning around me 1 grow blind What art 

thou ? 

C. Hun. 1*11 answer that anon. — Away with me — 

The clouds grow thicker there— now lean on me — 

Place your foot here — here, take this staff, and cling 

A moment to that shrub — now give me yotir hand, 

And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 

The Chalet will be gained within an hour — 

Come on, we'll quickly find a surer moling, 

And something like a pathway, which the torrent 

Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely done — 

You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 

[%tfs they descend the recks with difficulty the scene closes. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — Ji Cottage among the Bernese J}!ps. 

Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 

C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet go 
forth : 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least; 
When thou art better, I will be I by guide — 
But whither? 

Man. It imports not ; I do know 

My route full well, and need no further guidance. 

C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high 
lineage — 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the Lower valleys — which of these 
May call thee lord? I only know their portals; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by ihe huge hearths of those old halls, 
Carousing with the vassals; but the paths, 
Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
I know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 

Man. No matter. 

C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me ihe question, 

And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine ; 
'T is of an ancient vintage ; many a day 
f T has thawed my veins among our glaciers now 
Let it do thus for thine — Come, pledge nie fairly. 

Man. Away, away! there 's blood upon ihe brim! 
Will it then never — never sink in the earth? 

C.Hun. What dost thou mean? thy senses wander! 
from thee. 

Man. 1 say 'tis blood — my blood! the pure warm 
stream 



Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
And loved each other as we should not love, 
And this was shed: hut still it rises up, 
Colouring the cloud--, thai shut me out from heaven, 
Where thou art not — and I shall novel \><\ 

(.'. Him, Man of strange words, and some half-mad- 
dening BID, 
Which makes thee people vacancy, wbateVr 
Thy dread and sulferance be, there's comfort yet— 
The aid of holy men, ami heavenly patience— 

Man. Patience and patience! Hence — that word 
was made 
For brutes of burden, not for birds of prey ; 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, — 
I am not of thine order. 

C Htm. Thanks to heaven ! 

1 would not he of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell; hut whatsoe'er thine ill, 
It must he borne, and these wild starts are useless. 

Man. Do I not bear it ? — Look on me — I live. 

C Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life, 

■Mian, I tell thee, man 1 I have lived many years, 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which 1 must number : ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness, 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked! 

C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
Hath scarce been set ; I am thine elder far. 

Man. Think'st thou exislencc doth depend on time? 
It doth ; hut actions are our epochs : mine 
Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore, 
Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 

C. Hun. Alas ! he's mad — hut yet I must not leave 
him. 

Man. I would I were — for then the things I see 
Would be but a distemper'd dream. 

C. Hun. What is it 

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? 

Man, Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alps— 
Thy humble virlues, hospitable home, 
And spirit patient, pious, proud and free; 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; 
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils, 
Bv danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, 
With cross and garland over its green turf, 
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
This do I see — and then I look wiihin — 
It matters not — my soul was scorch'd already * 

C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot 
for mine ? 

Man. No, friend ! I would not wrong thee nor ex- 
change 
My lot with living being : I can bear- 
However wretchedly, 't is still to bear — 
In lit'r wliai others could not brook todjeam, 
But perish in their slumber. 

C. linn. And with this — 

This cautious feeling for another's pain, 
Canst thou be black with evil ? — say not so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreuk'd revenge 
Upon lus enemies ? 

Man, Oh ! no, no, no! 

My injuries came down on those who loved me— 
On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But my embrace was fatal. 

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest : 

And penitence restore thee to thyself; 
My prayer.-: shuU be for thee. 



Act II. 



MANFRED. 



167 



Man. I need them not, 

But can endure thy pify. I depart — 
'T is time — farewell !— Here's gold and thanks for thee — 
No words — it is thy due.— Follow me not— 

I know tuv path — the mountain peril's past ; 
And once again, I charge thee, follow not! 

[Exit Manfred. 
Scene II. — A lower Valley in the A'ps. A Cataract. 
Enter Manfred. 

II is not noon — the sunbow's rays' sti'l arch 
The torrent with the manv hues of heaven, 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
And fling iis lines of foaming light along, 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 

But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; 
I should be sole in this sweet solitude, 
And with ihe Spirit of the place divide 
The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 

[Manfred takes so ne of the water into the palm 
of his Art/id, and flings it in the ah\ muttering 
the adjuration. After a pause, the Witch of 
the Alps rises beneath the arch of the sunbeam 
of the torrent. 
Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light, 
And dazzling eves of glory, in whose form 
The charms of earth's least-mortal daughters grow 
To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth, — 
Carnaiion'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, 
Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 
Upon the lofty glazier's virgin snow, 
The blush of earth embracing with her heaven, — 
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
The beauties of the sunbow which benHs o'er thee. 
Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 
Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, 
Which of itself shows immortality, 
I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
Of Earth, whom ihe abtruser powers permit 
At times to commune with them — if that ho 
Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 
And gaze on thee a moment. 

Witch. Son of Earth ! 

I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — what would'st thou with me? 
Man, To look upon ihy beauty — nothing further. 
The face of the earth ha'h madden'd me, and 1 
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and now 
I search no further. 

Witch. What could be the quest 
Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
The rulers of the invisible ? 

Man. A boon ; 

But why should I repeat it ? 'twere in vain. 
Witch. I know not that ; let thy lips utter it. 
Man. Well, though it torture me, 't is but the same ; 
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, 
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; 
The thirst of their ambition was not mine, 
The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 
Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh, 
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 



Was there but one who — but of her anon. 

I said with men, and with the thoughts of men 

I held but slight communion ; but instead, 

My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe 

The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, 

Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 

Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 

Into the torrent, and to roll along 

On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 

Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 

In these my eaily strength exulted ; or 

To follow through the night the moving moon. 

The stars and their development ; or catch 

The dazzlinglightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 

Or to look, list'ning, on the scalter'd leaves, 

While Autumn winds were at their evening song. 

These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 

For if the beings, of whom 1 was one,— 

Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path, 

I felt myself degraded back to them, 

And was all clay again. And then I dived, 

In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 

Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 

From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up dust, 

Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 

The nights of years in sciences untaught, 

Save in the old time ; and with time and toil, 

And terrible ordeal, and such penance 

As in itself hath power upon the air, 

And spirits that do compass air and earth. 

Space, and the people infinite, I made 

Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 

Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 

He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 

Eros and Anteros, 2 at Gadara, 

As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 

The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 

Of this most bright intelligence, until 

Witch. Proceed. 

Maru Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words, 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being, 
With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 
If [ had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
Yet there was one 

Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. 

Man, She was like me in lineaments— her eyes, 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; 
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty; 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe : nor these 
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, 
Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not; 
And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
Humility — and that I never had. 
Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own — 
I lov'd her, and destroy M her ! 

Witch. With thy hand ? 

Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which brcke her 
heart — 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed— 
I saw — and could not stanch it. 

Witch. And for this — 

A being of the race thou dost despise, 
The order which thine own would rise above, 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego, 
The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st back 
To recreant mortality Away ! 

Man, Daughter of Air ! I tell thee., since that hour— 
But words are breath — look on me in my sleep 



16S 



MANFRED. 



Act IT. 



Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by me ! 

My solitude is solitude no more, 
Hut peopled with the Furies \ — I have gnash'd 
My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 
Then cursed myself till sunset ; — I have pray'd 

For madness as a blessing — '( is denied me. 

I have affronted death — but in the war 

Of elements the waters shrunk from me, 

And fatal things passed harmless — the cold hand 

Of an all-pitiless demon held rue back, 

Back by a single hair, which would not break. 

In phantasy, imagination, all 

The affluence of my soul — which one day was 

A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 

But, like an ebbing wave, il dash'd me back 

Into the gulf of my unlathoni'd thought. 

1 plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 

I sought in all, save where *t is to be found, 

And that I have to learn — my sciences, 

My long pursued and super-human art, 

1 9 mortal here — I dwell in my despair — 

And live — and live for evur. 

Witch. It may be 

That I can aid thee. 

Man. To do this thy power 

Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 

Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 

With any torture — so it be the last. 

Witch. That is not in my province ; but if thou 

Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 

My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 

J\Jan. I will not swear — Obey ! and whom ? (he spirits 

Whose presence I command, and be the slave 

Of those who served me — Never! 

Witch. Is this all? 

Hast thou no gentler answer? — Yet bethink thee, 

And pause ere thou rejectest. 

Man. I have said it. 

Witch. Enough ! — I may retire then — say ! 
J\Iatl. Retire! 

[The WlTCH disappears. 
JWan. (alone.) We are the fools of time and terror: 
Days 
Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, 
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 

In all the days of this detested yoke — 

This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 

Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, 

Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 

In all the days of past and future, for 

In life there is no present, we can number 

How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 

Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 

As from a stream in winter, though the chill 

Be but a moment's. I have one resource 

Still in my science — I can call the dead, 

And ask them what it is we dread to be : 

The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 

And that is nothing — if they answer not — 

The buried Prophet answer'd to the Hag 

Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 

From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 

An answer and his destiny — he slew 

That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, 

And died unpardon'd — though he call'd in aid 

The Phyxiau Jove, and in Phigalia roused 

The Arcadian Evocators to compel 

The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 

Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 

In words of dubious import, but fulfilled. 3 

If I had never lived, that which I love 

Had still been living ; had 1 never loved, 

That which I love would still be beautiful — 

Happy and giving happiness. What is she? 

Wliat is she now? — a sufferer for my *im — 



A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 

Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 

Vet in this hour I dread ihe thing I dare : 

Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 

Un spirit, good or evil — now 1 tremble, 

Ami feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart, 

But I can act even what I most abhor, 

And champion human fears. — The night approaches. 

[Exit. 
Scene III. — Tht Summit of the JunsJ ran Mountain. 

Enttr I ii-i I H -tiny. 
The moon is rising broad and round, and bright; 
And hero on snows, where never human foot 
Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 
And Nave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 
The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 
We skim its rusged breakers) which put on 
The asptct of a tumbling tempest's foam, 
Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpool's ima»e ; 
And this most steep fantastic pinnacle, 
The fretwork of some earthquake— where the clouds 
Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 
Here do I wail my sisters, on our way 
To the Ila.ll of Arirnanes, for to-night 
Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come not. 

.1 Voice without, singing. 
The Captive Usurper, 

Hurl'd down from the throne, 
Lay buried in torpor, 

Forgotten and lone ; 
I broke through his slumbers, 

I shiver'd his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 
He's Tyrant again ! 
With the blood of a million he'll answer my care, 
With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair. 

Second Voice, without. 
The ship sail'd on, tho ship sail'd fast, 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast ; 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck, 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck ; 
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 
And he was a suhject well worthy my care ; 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
But I saved him to wreak further havoc for mo! 

First Destiny, answering. 

The city lies sleeping ; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
May dawn on it weeping : 

Sullenly, slowly, 
The black plague (lew o'er it,— 

Thousands lie lowly ; 
Tens of thousands shall perish — 

The living shall fly from 
The sick they should cherish ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and anguish, 
And evil and dread, 

Envelope a nation— 
The blest are tho dead, 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation— 
This work of a night — 
This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — 
For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing ! 

Enter the Second and Third Destinies. 

The Three. 
Our hands contain the hearts of men, 

Our footsteps are their graves ; 
Wo only give to take again 

The spirits of our slaves ! 



AcTlt. 



MANFRED. 



169 



First Des. Welcome !— Where 's Nemesis? 

Second Des. At sonic great work ; 

Bui what I know not, for my hands wwe full. 

Third Des. Behold she cometh. 

Enter Nemesis. 

First Des. Say, where hast thou been ? 

My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

Aem. I was detained repairing shattered thrones, 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
i ing men upon their enemies, 
And making them repent their own revenge; 
Goadiii" ilie wise to madness ; from the dull 
Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, 
And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 
To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away! 
We have outstayed the hour — mount we our clouds ! 

[Exeunt* 

Scene IV. — T*he Hall of Arimanes — Jlrimanes onkis 

Throne^ a Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits. 
Hymn of the Spirits. 
Hail to our Master ! — Prince of Earth and Air ! 

Who walks the clouds and waters — in his hand 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 

Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
II<- breaiheh — and a tempest shakes the sea; 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder; 
pie gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 

He moveih — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanos rise; 

His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
The comets herald through the crackling skies ; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 

To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is his, 
With all its infinite of agonies— 

And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 

First DtS. Glory to Arimanes ! on the eanh 
His power increaseih — both my sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 
The necks of men, bow down before his throne ! 

Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we await 
His nod ! 

Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are thine, 
And all that Uvelh, more or less, is ours, 
And most things wholly so; still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our care, 
And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
Have been fulfill'd lo the utmost. 

Enter Manfred. 

A Spirit. What is here ? 

A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
JBow down and worship ! 

Se.cond Spirit. I do know the man — 

A Magian of great power and fearful skill ! 

Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave! — 
What, know*st thou not 
Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, and ohey ! 

Ml the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy con- 

demned clay, 
Child of the Earth! or dread the worst. 

.Man. I know it; 

And yet ye see I kneel not. 

Fourth Spirit. 'T will be taught thee. 

Man. 'T is taught already ;— many a night on the 
earth, 
On the bare ground, have T bow'd down my face, 
And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known 

w 



The fulness of humiliation, for 

1 sunk before my vain despair and knelt 

To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dosi thou dare 

Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
The terror of his Glory — Crouch ! I say. 

Man. Bid him bow down to that winch is above him, 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Who made him not f »r worship— let him kneel, 
And we will kneel together. 

The Spirits, Crush the worm 

Tear him in pieces! — 

First Des. Hence! Avaunt! — he's mine. 

Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence hero denote ; his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like 
Our own ; his knowledge and bis powers and will, 
As far a> is compatible with clay, 
Which clogs die ethereal essence, have been such 
As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
And they have only taught him what we know- 
That knowledge is not happiness, and science 
Rut an exchange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being, 
Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt, 
Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence 
Made him a thing, which I, who pity not, 
Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine, 
And thine, it may be — be it so, or not, 
No other Spirit in this region hath 
A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 

,V< m. What dolh he here then? 

First Des. Let him answer that. 

Man* Ye know what I have known ; and without 
power 
I could not be among ye : but there are 
Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
Of such, to answer unto what 1 seek. 

JVem. What would'st ihou? 

.M-n. Thou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead — my question is for them. 

JVfem, Great Arimanes. doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of thL* mortal ? 

Ari. Yea. 

.V m. Whom would'st thou 

Uncharnel ? 

.Mun. One without a tomb — call up 
Astarte. 

Nemesis. 
Shadow! or Spirit! 

Whatever ihou art, 
Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth, 

Of the mould of thy clay, 
Which retnrn'd to the earth, 

Reappear to the day ! 
Bear what thou borest, 

The heart and the form, 
And the aspect thou worest 
Redeem from the worm. 
A ppear ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 
Who sent thee there requires th'ee here ! 

[The Phantom of Astarte rises and stands 
in the midst 
Man. Can this be death? there's bloom upon her 
cheek ; 
But now I see it is no living hue, 
But a strange hectic— like the unnatural red 



170 



MANFRED. 



Act III. 



Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
Il is the same ! Oh, God ! that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak— 
Forgive rue or condemn me. 

Nemesis. 

By the power which hath broken 
The grave which enthrall'd thee, 

Speak to him who hath spoken, 
Or those who have call'd thee ! 

Man. She is silent, 

And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 

•W/n, My power extends no further. Prince of air ! 
It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 

Art. Spirit — obey this sceptre! 

Nem. Silent still ! 

She is not of our order, but belongs 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain 
And we are barfled also. 

Man, Hear me, hear me — 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speuk to me : 
I have so much endured — so much endure— 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
Say that thou loaih'st me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both — that thou will be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence — in a life 
Which makes me shrink from immortality— 
A future Like the past. I cannot rest. 
I know not what i ask, nor what I seek : 
I feel but what thou art — and what I am; 
And I would h^ar yet once before I perish 
The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 
For 1 have call'd on thee in the still night, 
Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs, 
And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 
Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name, 
Which answer'd me — many things answer'd me— 
Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
Yet speak to me ! I have outwatchM the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
Speak to me ' I have wander'd o'er the earth, 
And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
Look on the fiends around — they feel for me. 
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me! though it be in wrath ; — but say— 
I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
This once— once more ! 

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred '. 

Man. Say on, say on — 

I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 

Phan. Manfred! To-morrow cnd3 thine earthly ills. 
Farewell ! 

JWan. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

JWan. Say, shall we meot again? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thou lovest me. 

Phan. Manfred ! 

[The Spirit of Astarte disappears, 

Jfem. She 's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 

Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 

A Spirit. He is convulsed — This is to be a mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and 
makes 
His torture tributary to hie will. 



Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit. 

AVm. Hast thou further question 

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers? 

Man. None. 

,V< in. Then for a lime farewell. 

Man. Wemeetthen! Where? Onlheearth? 
Kv> n u thou wilt: and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 

[Exit Manfred 
(Scene closes.) 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — A Halt in the castle of Manfred, 

Manfred and Herman. 

.Man. What is the hour 7 

Her. It wants hut one (ill sunset, 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the lower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, arc ready ; 

Here is the key and casket. 

.Man. It is well: 

Thou may'st retire. [Exit Herman 

Man. (alone.) There is a calm upon me- 
Inexplicable stillness! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the nmiliest, 
The merest word that ever fool'd the car 
From out the schoolman's jargon. I should deem 
The golden secref, the sought " Kalon" found, 
And seated in my soul. Il will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but once 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new BOOMj 
And I within my tablets would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 

Re-enter Herman. 
Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 

Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to them walls; 
Thy presence honours them, and blessoth those 
Who dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it wero so, Count ! — 

But I would fain confer with thee alono. 

Man, Herman, retire. What would my reverend 
guest ? 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude : — Age and zeal, my 
office, 
And good intent, must plead niv privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted aeighbourfaaod| 
May also be my herald. Rumours strango, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
For centuries ; may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd ! 

Man. Proceed, — I listen. 

Abbot. 'T is said thou holde&t converse with the things 
Which are forbidden to tho search of man; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch these things ? 

Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 



Act II r. 



MANFRED. 



171 



Even ihy own vassals — who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abbot, I come to save, and not destroy — 

I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these tilings be sooih, there still is time 
For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church to heaven. 

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply ; whale'er 
t may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances? prove and punish! 

Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of punishment, 
Bui penitence and pardon ;— with thyself 
The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief 
Have given me power to smooth the path from sin 
To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 

I leave to heaven — " YengeanceMS mine alone" 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word. 

•Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy men, 
Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast— 
Nor agony — nor, greater than all these, 
The innate tortures of that deep despair, 
Which is remorse without the fear of hell, 
But all in all sufficient to itself 
Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 
From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 
Upon itself; there is no future pang 
Can deal that justice on the self-condemnM 
He deals on his own soul. 

Abbot. All this is well ; 

For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
Willi calm assurance to that blessed place 
Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. — Say on— 
And all our church can teach thee shall be taught ; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. 

Man. When Rome's sixth emperor was near his last, 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 
To shun the torments of a public death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, 
With show of loyal pity, would have stanchM 
The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back and said- 
Some empire still in his expiring glance, 

II It is too late— is this fidelity?" 
Abbot. And what of this? 

Mail. I answer with the Roman — 

*• It is too late!" 

Abbot. It never can be so, 

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, 
And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope ? 
' T is strange — even those who do despair above, 
Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth, 
To which frail Iw-ig they cling like drowning men. 

Man. Ay— father! I have had those earthly visions 
And noble aspirations in my youth, 
To make my own the mind of other men, 
The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
I knew not whither — it might be to fall ; 
But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, 
Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, 
Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, 
( Which casts up misty columns that become 
Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies,) 
Lies tow but mighty still. But thii is past, 
My thoughts mistook themselves. 



Abbot. And wherefore so ? 

Man. I could not tame my nature down ; for he 
Must serve who fain would sway— and sooth— and 

sue — 
And watch al! lime — and pry into all place — 
And be a living lie — who would become 
A mighty thing among the mean, and such 
The mass are ; I disdain'd to mingle with 
A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
The lion is alone, and so am I. 

Abbot. And why not live and act with other men? 

Man. Because my nature was averse from life ; 
And yet not cruel ; for 1 would not make, 
Bui find a desolation : — like the wind, 
The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom, 
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
The course of my existence; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

Abbot. Alas ! 

I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my calling ; yet so young, 
I still would 

Man, Look on me ! there is an order 

Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 
Without the violence of warlike death ; 
Some perishing of pleasure— some of study- 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 
Some of disease — and some of insanity — 
And some of withered, or of broken hearts 
For this last is a malady which slays 
Moie than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
Taking ail shapes, and bearing many names. 
Look upon ! me for even of all these things 
Have I partaken ; and of all these things, 
One were enough ; then wonder not that I 
Am what I am, but that I ever was, 
Or having been, that I am still on earth. 

Abbot. Yet, hear me still 

Man. Old man! I do respect 

Thine order, and revere thy years ; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
Think me not churlish : I would spare thyself, 
Far more than me, in shunning at this lime 
All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 

[Exit Manfred. 

Abbot. This should have been a noble creature : he 
Hath all the energy which would have made 
A goodly frame of glorious elements, 
Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 
It is an awful chaos — light and darkness— 
And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts, 
Mix'd, and contending without end or order, 
All dormant or destructive : he will perish, 
And yet he must not ; I will try once more, 
For such are worth redemption ; and my duty 
Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
I Ml follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 

[Exit Abbot. 

Scene II. — Another Chamber. 
Manfred and Herman. 
Her. My lord, vou bade me wait on you at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

Man. Doth he so? 

I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the Win dote of the Hail, 
Glorious Orb! the idol 
Of earlv nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons* 
Of the embrace of angels, with & sex 



172 



MANFRED. 



Act m. 



Mure beautiful than they, which did draw down 

Ttie erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 

Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere 

^t'z mystery of thy making was reveal d! 

Vhou earliest minister of die Almighty, 

Wiiicli gladden'd, on their mountain lops, the hearts 

Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they poured 

Themselves in orisons! Thou material God! 

And representative of the Unknown— 

VVh.u chose ihoe fur his shadow ! Thou chkTstar ! 

Centre of many stars ! which mak'sl uur earth 

Endurable, and temperest the hues 

And hearts of all who walk wuhm thy ravs ! 

Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of liie climes, 

And those who dwell in them! for n*-ar or far, 

Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 

Even as our outward aspects; — thou dost rise, 

And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 

I ne'er shall see thee mure. As mv first glance 

Of love and wonder was fur thee, then take 

Mv latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 

To whom the gifts of life and warmth hive been 

Of a mure fatal nature, lie is gone : 

I follow. [Exit Manfred 

Scene lU.—The Mountains— 77ie Cattle of Man- 
fred at sinny distance — .3 Terrace before a Tower. 

— Time, Twilight. 

UvrmaN, Mangel, and other Dependants of 

MaNFBBD. 
Her. "T is strange enough ; night after night, for years, 
He haih pursued long vigils in this lower, 
Without a witness. I have been within it, — 
So have we all been oftcimes, bat from it, 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 

His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
One chamber where none enter : I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
To pore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. 'T were dangerous; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

Her. Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise, 
And COUldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within th< 

castle — 
How many years is 't? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his father, whom he naught resembles. 

Her. There be mure sons in like pedicament. 
But wherein do they differ ? 

Manuel. I peak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits : 
Count Sigismmid was proud, — but gav and free,— 
A warrior and a reveller; he dwell not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, hut a festal tune, 
Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wolf", inn- turn aside 
From men and iheir delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour, 

But those were jocund rimes ! I would thai such 
Would visii the old walla a •»«] ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them, 

M mm L These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman. 

II r. Come, be friendly 

Relate me some to while away our watch: 
1'vr heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, bv this same tower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 
*T was twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
On I£igher*s pinnacle, so rested then, — 



So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
ft Lfl t.iint and gOSty, and the mountain snows 
I U gas to flitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count .Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
1 he sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing he Beem'd to love,— 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound todo, 
The lady Astarte, his 

Hush ' who comes here 

Enter the Auuot. 

.V'h :!, Where is your master? 

// r. Yonder in the tower. 

Jlbbot. I inns! speak with him. 

Manuel. 'T is impossible; 

He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 

.Ihlht. IT i ion mvself I take 

The forfeil of my fault, if fault there bo — 
But I must see him. 

Her. Thou hast seen him once 

This I've already. 

.iblii/t, Herman! I command thee, 

EEnnck, and apprruse the Cuuut of my approach. 

Her. We dare not. 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 

Of my own purpose. 

.Man net. Reverend father, stop — 

I pray von pause, 

Abbott Why so? 

Manuel. But step this way, 

And I will te!l you further. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — Interior of the Tower. 
Manfred alone. 
Man. The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful! 
I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
Hath been to roe a more familiar face 
Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
[ Irani M the language of another world. 
I do remember me, that in my youth, 
When I was wandering, — upon such a night 

I 9 ! within the Coliseum's wall, 

Midst the chief relics of almighty Home ; 
The trees which grew along the broken arches 
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the star 
Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and 
M 'i' near from out the Caesars' palace came 
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
Of distant sentinels the fitful song 

Begun and dud uf the gentle mud. 

Some cypresses beyond the time worn breach 
\ p >ear'd to skin the horizon, yet ihey stood 

Wiuiiu a bowshot Where the CsBSSrs dwelt, 

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through levell'd battlements, 

And twines it roots wilh the imperial hearths, 

Iw usurps tin- laurel's place of growth;— 

But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 

A noble wreck in ruinmis perfection! 

While C:r -ms' chambers and the Augustan halls, 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 

And thou didst shine, thou roiling moon, upon 

All (his, and cast a wide and tender light, 

Which aofb>n'd down the hoar austerity 

I If rugg'd desolation, and fill'd up, 

As 'i wire anew, the gaps of centuries, 
I.i a\ in,' that beautiful which still was so, 
And making that which was not, till the place 
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 



act nr. 



MAXFRF.D. 



173 



With silent worship of the great of old! — 
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 
Our spirits from their urns. — 

'T was such a night ! 
'T is strange that I recall it at this time; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. My good lord ! 

I crave a second grace for this approach; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Recoils tin me ; its good in the effect 
May light upon your head — could I say heart — 
C tuld I touch th'it t with words or prayers, I should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd ; 
But is not yet all lost. 

Man. Thou know'st me not ; 

My days are numbered, and my deeds recorded: 
Retire, or 't will be dangerous — Away ! 

Ahbjt. Thou dost not mean to menace me '.' 

Man. Not I ; 

I simply tell thee peril is at baud, 
And would preserve thee. 

Abbot. What dost thou mean? 

Mail. Look thete! 

What dost thou see? 

Abbot. Nothing. 

Man. Look there, I sav, 

And steadfastly ; — now tell me what ihoU seest ? 

Abbot. That which should shake me, — but I fear it 
not — 
I see a dusk and awful figure rise 
Like an infernal god from out the earth ; 
His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
Robed as with angry clouds ; he stands between 
Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 

Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee — 
but 
His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
I My to thee — Retire! 

*}bbot. And I reply — 

Never — till I have battled with this fiend— 
What doth he here? 

.Mm. Why — ay — what doth he here ? — 

1 did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 

Abbot. Alas ! lost mortal ! what with guests like these 
Host thou to do? I tremble for thy sake; 
Why doih he gaze on ihee, and thou on him? 
Ah ! he unveils his aspect ; on his brow 
The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the immortality of hell— 
Avaunt ! 

Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission? 

Spirit. Come! 

Abbot. What art thou, unknown being? answer!— 
spt-ak ! 

Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Com*;! 'I is time. 

.Man. I am prepared for all thing*, but deny 
The power which summons me. Who sent thee here ? 

Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — Come ! come ! 

Man. I have commanded 

Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
And striven with thy masters-* Gi*t thee hence ! 

Spirit. Mortal! thine hour is come — Away! I say. 

Si an. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not 
To render Up my soul to such as thee : 
Away ! I 'II die as I have lived — alone. 

Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren. — Rise! 
[Other spirits rise up. 



Abbot. Avauni ! ye evil ones ! — Avaunt! X say, — 
Ye have no power where piety hath power, 

Anil I do charge ye in the name 

Sp rit. Old man! 

We know ourselves, our mission, nod thine Older; 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
It weie in vain ; this man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away! away ! 

Man. I do *i*-(y ye. — ihouph I feel my sou! 
Is ebbing from nie, vet I do defy ye ; 
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
To breathe my scorn upon ye— earthly strength 
To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye lake 
Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 

Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 

Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal ? — Can it be that thou 
Art thus in love with life? the very life 
Which made thee wretched ! 

Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 

My life is in its lust hour, — that I know, 
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; 
I do not combat against death, but thee 
And thy surrounding angels; my [last power 
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, 
But by superior science — penance — daring — 
And length of watching — strength of mind — and skill 
In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
And gave ye-no supremacy : I stand 
Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
Spurn back, and 6COTQ ye ! — 

Spirit. But thy many crimes 

Have made thee 

Man, What are they to such as thee ? 

Must crimes be punish'd hut by other crimes, 
And greater criminals ? — Back to thy hell ! 
Thou hast no power upon me, thai I feel ; 
Thou never shall possess me, that I know : 
What I have done is done ; I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain from thine : 
The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
1$ its own origin of ill and end — 
And its own p'ace and time — its innate sense, 
When stripji'd of this mortality, derives 
No colour from the fleeting things without ; 
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 
Born from the knowledge of his own desert. 
Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldot nut tempt 

me ; 
I have not been thy dupe, nor'ain thy prey- 
But was mv own destroyer, and \\ ill be 

My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 
The hand of de.ith is on me — bvit not yours ! 

[The Demons disappear. 

Abbot. Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips are white — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to heaven — 
Fray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 

Man. *T is over — my dull eyes can fix thee not 
But all things swim around me, and the earth 
Heaves at it were beneath me. Fare thee well- 
Give me thy hand. 

Abbot. ' Cold — cold — even to the heart — ■ 

But vet one prayer — alas ! how fares it with thee ? — 

Man. Old man! 't is not so difficult to die. 

[Manfred expires. 

Abbot. He's gone — his soul hath ta'en its earthless 
flight— 
Whither ? I dread to think — but he is gone. 



NOTES TO MANFRED. 



Note 1, page 167, lines 7 and 3. 

the sunljow's rnys still arrk 

7Vte torrent with the many hues of heaven. 

This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the 

lower part of the Alpine torrents: it is exactly like a 

rainbow, come down to pay a visit, and so close that 

you may walk into it: — this effect lasts nil noon. 

Note 2, page 167, lines 108 and 104. 

He who from out then fountain dwellings raited 

Eros and Antaus, at Gadava. 

The plilosopher lamblicus. The story of the raising 

of Eros and Anteroa may be fuund in lus life by Euna- 

pius. It is well told. 

Note 3, page 163, lines 67 and 68. 

she replied 

In wonts of dubious import, fnit fti{fdVd, 
The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta, (who com- 



manded the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and aftci*. 
wards perished for an attempt to betray the Lacede. 
monians,) and Cleonice, is told in Plutarch's life of 
Cimon; and in the Laconics of Pausanias the So- 
phist, in lus description of Greece. 

Note 4, page 171, lines 142 and 143. 

the giant sons 

Of the embrace of angels. 

" That the Sons of God saw the daughters of men 
that they were fair," &c. 

" There were giants in the earth in those days ; and 
also after that, when the Sons of God came in unto the 
■ laughters of men, and they bare children to them, the 
>ame became mighty men which were of old, men of 
renown." Genesis, ch. vi. verses 2 and 4. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The subsequent poems were written at the request of 
my friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a selection of 
Hebrew Melodies, and have been published, with the 
music, arranged, by Mr. Braham and Mr. Nathan 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 
I. 

She walks in beauly, like the .night 

Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 
And all that 's best of dark and bright 

Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
Thus mellow*d to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
2. 
One shade the more, one ray the less, 

Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress, 

Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 
Where thoughts serenely sweet express 

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
3. 
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ! 



THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL 
SWEPT. 
1. 
The harp (he monarch minstrel swept, 

The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 
Which music hallow'd while she wept 
O'er tones her heart of hearts had givon, 
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven 1 



It soften'd men of iron mould, 

It gave them virtues not their own ; 

No ear so dull, no soul so cold, 
That felt not, fired not to the tone, 
Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne! 

2. 
It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 

The cedars bow, (he mountains nod; 

Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode! 
Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion and her daughter Love 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above, 

In dreams that day's broad light can not remove. 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 

1. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears ; 
If there the cherish'd heart be fond, 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To soar from earth and find alt fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 

2. 
It must be so : 't is not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink ; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf, 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
Oh! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares, 
With them the immortal waters drink, 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



175 



THE WILD GAZELLE. 
]. 

The wild gazelle on Judah's dills 

Exulting yet may bound, 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground ; 
Its airy step and glorious eye 

May glance in tameless transport by:— 



A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 

Hath Judah wilness'd there; 
And o'er her scenes of lost delight 

Inhabitants more fair. 
The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's statelier maids are gone 

3. 

More blest each palm that shades those plains 

Then Israel's scatter'd race ; 
For, taking root, it there remains 

In solitary grace : 
It cannot quit its place of birth, 
It will not live in other earth. 

4. 

But we must wander witheringly, 

In other lands to die; 
And where our fathers' ashes be, 

Our own may never lie : 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. 
I. 

Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream; 
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; 
Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the Godless dwell 

2. 
And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet ? 
And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice? 



Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! 
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
Mankind their country — Israel but the gravo ! 



ON JORDAN'S BANKS. 
1. 

On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, 

On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 

The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 

Yet there — even there — Oh God ! thy thunders sleep: 

2. 
There — where thy finger scorched the tablet stone ! 
There — where thy shadow to thy people shone ! 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
Thyself — none ItviDg see and not expire ! 

3. 

Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear ! 
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear : 
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God ! 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 
1. 
Since our Country, our God — Oh, my Sire! 
Demand that thy Daughter expire ; 



Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
Striko the bosom that's bared for thee now ! 

2. 

And the voice of my mottrnin? is o'er, 
And the mountains behold me no more : 
If (be hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

3. 

And of (his, oh, my Father! be sure — 

That the blood of thy child is as pure 

As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 

And the last thought thai soothes me below. 

4. 

Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
I have won the great battle for thee, 
And my Father and Country are free! 



When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
Let my memory still be thy pride, 
And forget not I smiled as L died ! 



OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM. 
I. 

Oh ! shatch'd away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, [he earliest of the year; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 

2. 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 

And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead ! 

3. 
Away ! we know that tears are vain, 

That death nor heeds nor hears distress 
Will this unteach us to complain ? 

Or make one mourner weep the less? 
And thou — who tell'st me to forget, 
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 



MY SOUL IS DARK. 
1. 

My soul is dark — Oh! quickly string 

The harp I yet can bruok to hear ; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
If in this heart a hope be dear, 

That sound shall charm it forth again 
If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 

'T will flow, and cease to burn my brain. 

2. 

But bid the strain be wild and deep, 

Nor let thy notes of joy be first : 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 

Or else this heavy heart will burst; 
For it hath been by sorrow nurst, 

And ached in sleepless silence long; 
And now 't is doom'd to know the worst, 

And break at once — or yield to song. 

I SAW THEE WEEP. 
I. 
I saw thee weep— the big bright tear 
Came o'er that eye of blue ; 



176 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



And then me-thought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew: 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 

Besides thee ceased to shine ; 
It could not match the living rays 

That fillM that glance of thine. 
2. 
As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow die, 
Which scarce the shade of coining eve 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart ; 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. 

THY DAYS ARE DONE. 

I. 

Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 

Thy country's strains record 
The triumphs of her chosen Son, 

The slaughters of his sword ! 
The deeds he did, the fields he won, 

The freedom he restored ! 

2. 

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 

Thou shalt not taste of death ! 
The generous blood that flow'd from thee 

Disdain'd to sink beneath : 
Within our veins its currents be, 

Thy spirit on our breath 
3. 
Thy name, our charging hosts along, 

Shall be the battle-word ! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices pour'd! 
To weep would do thy glory wrong! 

Thou shall not be deplored. 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 
BATTLE. 

1. 

Warriors and Chiefs! should the shaft or the sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's in your path : 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gaih ! 

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 

3. 
Farewell to others, but never we part, 
Heir to mv royalty, son of my heart! 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, 
Or kingly die death, which awaits us to-day ! 

SAUL. 
1. 

Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 
Bid the prophet's form appear. 

w Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
King, behold the phantom seer!" 
Earth yawn'd ; he stood the centre of a cloud : 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry ; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
From tips that moved not and unbreathing framo, 
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. 



Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 

2. 
" Why is my sleep disquieted ! 

\Y (in i- lie thai e.ills th-- il.'inl > 
Is it thou, king? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold 
Such are mine : and such shall bo 
Thine to-morrow, when with me: 
Ere the ontiini: day is done, 
Such shall thou be, such thy son. 
Fare thee well, but for a day ; 
Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
Crownleas, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul !" 



' ALL IS VANITY, SA ITU THE PREACHER. * 

I. 

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 
Ami health and vouth possessM me; 

My goblets blush'd from every vine, 
And lovely forms caress'd me ; 

I simn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 

And felt my soul grow tender; 
AH earth can give, or roort&l prize, 

Was mine of regal splendour. 

2. 
I strive to numher o'er what days 
Remembrance can discover. 

Which all that life or earth displays 
Would lure me to live over. 

There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 

Of pleasure unimbitter'd ; 
And nut a trapping deck'd my power 

That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 

3. 

The serpent of the field, hy art 

And spells, is won from harming; 
But that which coils around the heart, 

Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 

It will not list to wisdom's lore, 

Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
But there it stings fir evermore 

The soul that must endure it. 

WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFER- 
ING CLAY. 

1. 

When coldness wraps this Buttering Hay, 
Ah, whither strays the immortal mind? 

It cannot die, it cannot stay, 

Bui leaves its darken'd dust behind. 

Then, uuemhodied, doih it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way? 

Or fill at once the realms of space, 
A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

2. 

Eternal, boundless, undeeayM, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
All, all in earth, or skies display'd, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all, that was, at once appears. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



177 



3. 

Before Creation peopl.-d earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
And where the furthest heaven had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes, 

lis glance dilate o'er all to be, 
Wliile sun is quench'd or system breaks, 

Fix'd in iis own eternity. 
4. 
Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

Ii lives all passionless and pure : 
An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 

Is years as moments shall endure. 
Awav, away, without a wing, 

O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly ; 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 

1. 

The king was on his throne, 

The Satra;is throng'd the halt; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 

In Judah deem'd divine — 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless, Heathen's wine ! 
2. 
In that same hour and hall, 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 
And wrote as if on sand: 
The fingers of a man ; — 

A s^i'ary hand 
Along the letters ran, 

And traced them like a wand. 
3. 
The monarch saw, and shook, 

And bade no more rejoice; 
All bloodless wax'd his look, 
And tremulous his voice. 
a Lei the men of lore appear, 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear, 
Which mar our royal mirth." 

4. 

Chaldea's seers are good, 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Unt..ld and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw — but knew no more. 
5. 
A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the king's command, 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view ; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 
6. 
*' Belshazzar's grave is made, 

His Kingdom pass'd away, 
He, in the balance weigh'd, 
Is lujht and worthless clav. 



The shmud, his robe of siate, 
His chnupy the stone ; 

The Mode is at his gate ! 
The Persian on his throne. 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS! 
Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star! 
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, 
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel, 
How like art thou'tojoy remember'd well! 
So gleams the past, the light of other days, 
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays ; 
A nighi-b'-aui Sorrow watcheth to behold, 
Distinct, but distant — clear — but, oh how cold! 



WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 

1. 

Were mv bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 

I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; 

It was but abjuring my creed to efface 

The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race. 

2. 

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee, 
If the slave- only sin, thou art spotless and free! 
If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high, 
Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 

3. 

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, 
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know , 
In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 
The land and the life which for him I resign. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 
1. 

Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding 
Revenge is lost in agony, 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou ? 

Thnu canst m»t hear my bitter pleading : 
Ah, couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 
2. 
And is she dead ? — and did they dare 

Obey my phrenzy's jealous raving? 
My wrath but doom'd my own despair: 

The sword that smote her's o'er me waving.—* 
But thou art c<^d, my niurder'd love ! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who snars alone above, 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 
3. 
She* gone, who shared my diadem ; 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem 

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming, 
And mine's the guilt and mine the hell, 

This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
And 1 have earn'd those tortures well, 

Which unconsumed are still consuming! 



ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF 

JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 

1. 

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
I heheld thee, Oh Sion! when render'd to Rome : 
'T was the last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall 
Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 



178 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



2. 
I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, 
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come \ 
I beheld but the deaih-fire that fed on thy fane, 
And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. 

3. 
On manv an eve, the high ?pot whence, I gazed 

Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
"While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. 

4. 
And now on that mountain I stood on that day, 
But I mark'd not ihe twilight beam melting away ; 
Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in i's Stead, 
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head ! 

5. 
But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign ; 
And scattered and scorn'd as thy people may be, 
Our worship, oh Father ! is only for thee. 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT 
DOWN AND WEPT. 

I. 

We sat down and wept by the waters 

Of Babel, and thought of the day 
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 

Made Salem's high places his prey ; 
And ye, oh her desolate daughters! 

Were scattered all weeping away. 
2. 
While sadly we gazed on the river 

Which roil'd on in freedom below, 
They demanded the song ; but, oh never 

That triumph the stranger shall know! 
May this right hand be withered for ever, 

Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 
3. 
On the willow that harp is suspended, 

Oh Salem ! its sound should be free; 
And the hour when thy glories were ended 

Bui left me that token of thee: 
And ne'er shall its sofi tones be blended 

With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

I. 
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

2. 
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host wi'h their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn haih blown, 
Thai host on the morrow lay wither'd and slrown. 

3. 
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
An i their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grewstUL 

4. 
And there lay the sleed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there roil'd not the breath of bis pride: 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turtj 
And cold as the sptay of the rock-beating surf. 

5. 
And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

6. 
And Ihe widow of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsinote by the sword, 
Haili melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! 



FROM JOB. 
1. 

A spirit pass'd before me : I beheld 
The face of Immortality unveil'd — 
Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine— 
And there it stood, — all formless — hut divine ; 
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake ; 
And as my damp hair stiffened, thus it spake : 
2. 
" Is man more just than God ? Is man more pure 
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure? 
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just? 
Things of a day ! you wither ere the night, 
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light !"** 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



' Rxpgndl Annlbotem :— qtiol llbrnt in dtice irnnmo. 
Invent?* ? " 

Jwemil, S»t. X. 



" The Emperor Ncpos was acknowledged hy the Se- 
nate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul ; 
his moral virtues, and military talents, were loudly cele- 
brated ; and those who derived any private benefit from 
his government announced in prophetic strains the re- 
storation of public felicity. 

******** 

******** 

By this shameful abdication he protracted his life a few 

years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor 

and an exile, till " 

Gibbon's Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220. 



I. 

'T is done — but yesterday a King ! 

And armM with Kings to strive— 
And now thou art a nameless thing : 

So abject — yet alive ! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 

And can he thus survive ? 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

2. 
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind 

Who bow'd no low the knee? 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



179 



"By gazing on thyself grown blind, 
Thou laught'sc the rest to see. 

With might unquestion'd, — power lo save 

Thine only gift hath been the grave 
To those that worshipp'd the*: ; 

Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 

Ambition's less than littleness! 

3. 

Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 

To after-warriors more 
Than high Philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preach'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks n-?ver to unite again, 

That led them lo adore 
Those Pag'td things of sahre-swav, 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 

4. 
The triumpn, and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife — * 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seem'd made but to obey, 

Wherewith renown was rife — 
All quell'd ! — Dark Spirit! what must be 
The madness of thy memory! 

5. 

The Desolator desolate ! 

The victor overthrown ! 
The Arbiter of others' fate 

A Suppliant for his own! 
Is it some yet imperial hope 
That with such change can calmly cope ? 

Or dread of death alone ? 
To die a prince — or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave! 

6. 
He" who of old would rend the oak, 

Dream'd not of the rebound; 
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broken — 

Alone — how look'd he round ? 
Thou in the sternness of thy strength 
An equal deed lias done at length, 

And darker late has found ; 
He fe I, the forcst-prowlurs' prey, 
But thou must eat thy heart away ! 

7. 
The Roman,* when his binning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down ihe dagger — dared depart, 

In savage grandeur, home. — 
He dared depart in utter scorn 
Of men 'hat such a yoke had borne, 

Yet left hint such a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 

8. 
The Spaniard, 4 when the lust of sway 

Had tost its quickening spell, 
Cast crowns for rosaries away, 

An empire for a cell *, 
A strict accountant of his beads, 
A subtle disputant on creeds, 

His dotage trifled well : 
Yet better had he neiihrr known 
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 

9. 
But thou — from thy reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt is wrung — 
Too late thou leav'st the high command 

To which thy weakness clung ; 



All Evil Spirit as thou art, 

It is enough to grieve the heart, 

To see thine own unstrung ; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ; 

10. 
And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 

Who thus can hoard his own ! 
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb 

And thank'd him for a throne! 
Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear, 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind! 

11. 
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 

Nor written thus in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 

Or deepen every slain — 
If thou had.st died as honour dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame the world again— 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night? 

12. 
Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar c'ay ; 
Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 

To all that pass awav ; 
But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate, 

To dazzle and dismay ; 
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 

13. 
And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, 

Thy still imperial brido; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour? 

Still clings she to thy side ? 
Most she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 

Thou throneless Homicide ? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 
'T is wortli thy vanish 'd diadem ! 

11. 
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 

And gaze upon the sea ; 
Thai element-may meet thy smile, 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
Or trace with thine all idle hand 
In loitering mood upon the sand 

That earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
Transferred his by-word to thy brow. 

15. 
Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage* 

What thoughts will there be thine, 
While brooding in thy prisonVJ rage? 

But one — " The world was mine !" 
Unless, like he of Babylon, 
All sense is wilh thy sceptre gone, 

Life will not long confine 
That spirit pour'd so widely fortn— 
So long obey'd — so little wortli ! 

16. 
Or like thf thief of fire from heaven, 8 

Will thou wilhstand the shock? 
And share with him, the unfotgiven, 

His vulture and his rock ! 
Foredoom'd by God — hy man accurst, 
And that last act, though not thy worst, 

The very Fiend's arch mock ; 7 
He in his fall preserved his pride, 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died* 



NOTES TO THE ODE. 



K Ac I, paje 179. line 18. 
The rapture of the strife, 
Cutaminb gnuoVa, the expression of Attila in his 
harangue lo his army, previ jus to the battle of Cha- 
lons, given in Cassiudnpis, 

Note 2, pri^e 179, line 35. 
He who <>J old would rerul Vie oak. 



Milo. 



Note 3, page 179, line *». 
The Roman, when hit burning heart. 
Sylla. 

Note 4, page 179, line 63. 
The Spaniard, when the last of sway. 
Charles V. 



Note 5, page 179 line 116. 

TVtuu Ttmour ! in his captive's cage. 
The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 

Note 6, page 179, line 125. 
Or tike the thief of fire from ficun n. 
Prometheus. 

Note 7, page 179, line 131. 
Tiie very fiends arch mock. 

" The fiend's arch mock- 
To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste.*' — 

Shakxpeore. 



MONODY 



DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN. 

SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE. 



Whek the last sunshine of expiring day 

In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 

Who hath nol felt ihe softness of the hour 

Sink on the heart, as dew along the (lower ? 

With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 

While Nature makes ihat melancholy pause, 

Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 

Of huht and darkness forms an arch sublime, 

Who hath not shared thai calm so slill and deep, 

The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep 

A holy concord —and a bright regret, 

A glorious sympathy with suns that set ? 

*T is not harsh sorrow — bill a tenderer wo, 

Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 

Felt without bitterness -but full and clear, 

A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 

Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, 

Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instils 

When Hummer's day declines along the hills, 

So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes 

When all of Genius which can perish dies. 

A mighty Spirit is eclips'd — a Power 

Hath pass'd fromdav l<> darkness — to whose hour 

Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — no name, 

Focus at once of all the ravs of Fame ! 

The flash of Wit— the bright Intelligence, 

The beam of Song — the blaze of ESlOQUenC0| 

Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 

The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 

Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 

A deathless part of bun who died too soon. 

Hut small that portion of the wondrous whole, 

These sparkling segments nf thai circling soul, 

Which all embraced — and lighten'd over all, 

To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal. 

From the charmM council to the festive board, 

Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 

In who^e acclaim the lofliesl voices Hed] [pride 

The praised — the proud — who made his praise their 



When the loud cry of trampled Hindoslan* 

Arose to heaven in her appeal from man. 

His was the thunder — his the avenging rod, 

The wrath — the delegated voice of G d 1 

Which shook the nations through his lips — and blazed 

Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. 

And here, oh ! here, where yet all young and warm 

The gay creations of his spirit charm, 

The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit, 

Which knew not what it was to intermit ; 

The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 

Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring; 

These wondrous beings of hi* Fancy, wrought 

To fulness by the fiat ofbis thought, 

Here in their first abode you still may meet, 

Bright with the hues of his Bioineiheau heat, 

A halo of the light of other days, 

Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 

But should there be to whom the fatal blight, 
Of failing Wisdom yields i : 

Men « hu exult when minds of heavenly tone 
Jar in the music which was born their own. 
Still let them pause — Ah ! little do they know 
That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Wo. 

Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
Is liv'ii (or ever to detract or praise; 

Repose denies her requiem to his name, 
And folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
The secret enemy whose sleepless eve 
Stands sentinel — accuser — judge — and spy, 
The foe — the fool — the jealous — and the vain, 
The envious who but breathe in others' pain, 
Behold the host ! delighting to deprave, 
Who track the steps of U lory to the grave, 



* See For, Rurke, m.d Piir'j aologj on Mr. Bberidan'a ipfftch on the 

etui rttrn •Xllliillnl KL'nur-1 \lr HuHTin^r- in Mm Hi ..I I i.mrnulia. Mr 

Ptti antretied iht boiim lo adj ■«! lo givt tinw for a calmer ootid e- 

' "i the question tb.au could then occur liter the imrociitie eScci 

ui iiui uituoa. 



LAMENT OF TASSO. 



1S1 



Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 

Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, 

Distort the truth] accumulate ihe lie, 

Ami pile the Pyramid uf Calumny ! 

These are his: portion — but if join'd to these 

Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, 

If tlit- high Spirit must forget to soar, 

And stoop to strive n 'ith Misery at the door, 

To Booth Indignity — and face to face 

Meet sordid Rage - and wrestle with Disgrace, 

To rind in Hope ho! the renew*d caress, 

The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness^-* 

If such niav be the Ills which men assail, 
What marvel if at last die mightiest fail? 
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 
Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from Heaven, 
Back with the rude collision, inly torn, 
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 
Driven o'er ihe lowering atmosphere that nurst [burst. 
Thoughts which have lurn'd to thunder — scorch — and 
But far from us and from our mimic scene 
Such things should be — if such have ever been ; 
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder ta-k, 
To give the tribute Glory need not ask, 



To mourn the vanished beam — and add our mite 
Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
Ye Orators ! whom yet our councils yield, 
Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field ! 
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three !* 
Whose words were sparks of Immortality ! 
Ye Bards ! to whom the Drama's Mote is dear, 
He was your Master — emulate him here ! 
Ye men nf wit and so< ial eloquence ! 
He was your brother — bear his ashes hence ! 
While Powers of mind, almost of boundless rangt 
Complete in kind— as various in their change, 
While eloquence — Wit — Poesy — and Mirth, 
That humble Harmonist of care on Earth, 
Survive within our suuls — while lives our sense 
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence, 
Long shall we seek his likeness — lung in vain, 
And turn to all of him which may remain, 
Sighing that Nature lorni'd but one such man, 
And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan ! 



• Fox— P. U— Burke. 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



At Ferrara (in the library) are preserved the original 
MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Guarini's Pastor 
Fid'«, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto: 
and ihe inkstand and chair, the tomb and ihe house of the 
latter. But as m.sfortunc has a greater interest for pos- 
terity, and little or none for the contemporary, the cell 
where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna at- 
tracts a more fixed attention than the residence or the 
momumeiit of Ariosto — at least it had this effect on me. 
Tuere are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the 
second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the 
wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is 
much decayed, and depopulated ; the casde still exists en- 
lire ; and I saw the court where Pan-ana and Hugo were 
behi aded, according to the annal of Gibbon. 



Long years! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear 
And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song — 
Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong; 
Imputed madness, pnson'd solitude, 
And the muni's canker in its savage mood, 
When the impatient thirst of light and air 
Parches ihe heart ; and the abhorred grate, 
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 
Works through the throbbing eyeball lo (he brain 
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 
And hare, at once, Capiivity display'd 
Stands scoffing through ihe never-open'd gate, 
\\ bi< i nothing through its bars admits, save day 
And last.kss f n*l, which I have eat alone 
Till us unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
And I can banquet like a beast of prey. 
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 
All this haih somewhat worn me, and may wear, 
But must he borne. I stoop not to despair ; 
For I have battled wiih mine agony, 
And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 



And revell'd among men and things divine, 

And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 

In honour of the sacred war for him, 

The, God who was on earth and is in heaven, 

For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb. 

That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 

I have employed my penance to record 

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. 



But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done : — 

My long-sustaining friend of many years ! 

If I do blot thy final page with tears, 

Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none. 

But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 

Which ever playing round me came and smiled, 

And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight, 

Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : 

And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 

With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 

Thou too art endi d — what is left me now ? 

For I have anguish yet to bear — and how ? 

I know not that — hut in the innate force 

Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 

I have not sunk, for 1 had no remotse, 

Nor cau>e for such: they call'd me mad — and why' 

Oh Leonora ! wilt not tfu/U reply I 

I was indeed delirious in my heart 

To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 

But still my phrensy was not of the mind ; 

1 knew my fault, and feel my punishment 

Not less because I sutfer it unbent. 

That thou wrrt beautiful, and I not blind, 

Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind ; 

But let them yo, or torture as they will, 

My heart can multiply thine image still; 

Successful love may sate itself away, 

The wretched are the faithful ; *t is their fate 

To have all feeling save the one decay 

And every passion into one dilate, 

As rapid rivers iuto ocean pour; 

But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 



182 



LAMENT OF TASSO. 



Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 
Of minds and bodies in captivity. 

And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl, 

And the half-inarueuUte blasphemy! 

There be some here with worse than phrensy foul, 

Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd mind, 

And dim the little light that's U-ft behind 

With needless torture, as their tyrants will 

Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 

With these and with their victims am I class'd, 

'Mid sounds and sights Uke these lung years havepass'd 

'Mid eights and sounds like these my life may close : 

So let u be — for then X shall repose. 

IV. 

I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 

I had forgotten half I would f trget, 

But it revives — oh ! would it were my lot 

To be forgetful as I am forgot ! — 

Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 

In this vast lazar-house of many woes? 

Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, 

Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind; 

Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 

And each is tortured in his separate hell — 

For we are cruwdec in our suhtudes — 

Many, but each divided by the wall, 

Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods; — 

While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call — 

None ! save that One, the veriest wreich of all, 

Who was not made to be the male of these, 

Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 

Feel I not wroth with those who placed mu here ? 

Who have debased me in the minds of men, 

Debarring me the usage of my own, 

Blighting my life in best of its career, 

Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear? 

Would I not pay them back these pangs again, 

And teach them inward sorrow's stiHed groan? 

The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 

Which undermines our Stoical success? 

No !— still too proud to be vindictive — I 

Have pardon'd princes' instills, and would die. 

Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 

I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 

It hath no business where thou art a guest ; 

Thy brother hates — but I can not detest; 

Thou piliest not — but I can not forsake. 

T. 

Look on a love which knows not to despair, 
But all unquench'd is still my better part, 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart 
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, 
Till struck, — forth Hies the all-ethereal dart ! 
And thus at the collision of thy name 
The vivid i bought still flashes through my frame, 
Ami for a moment all things as they were 
Flit by mo; — thev aro gone — I urn the name. 
And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
A princess was no love-mile for a bard ; 
1 told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas | 
Were piinish'd by the silentness of thine, 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground; 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
Hath robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismayM — 
Oh I not dismay M — but awed, like One abovo ; 



And in that sweet severity there was 

A something which all softness did surpass — 
I know nut how — thy genius masler'd mine — ■ 
My star stood still befo.e ihee : — if it were 
Presumptuous thus to love without deSJgD, 
That sad fatality ha h coot me dear ; 
Bui thou ait dearest still, and I should be 
Fit for tins cell, which wrongs me, but fur thee. 
The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
Hath hghien'd half its weight; and for the rest, 
Though heavy, lent me vigour io sustain, 
And loufa to thee with undivided breast 
And full the ingenuity of Pain. 

VI. 

It is no marvel — from my very birth 
My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade 
And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth ; 
Of objects all inanimate I made 
Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 
And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 
Where I did lay me down within the shade 
Of waving irees, and dream'd uncounted hours, 
Though 1 was chid for wandering ; and the wise 
Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 
Of such materials wretched men were made, 
And such a truant boy would end in wo, 
And that the only lesson was a blow ; 
And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 
But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 
The visions which arise without a sleep. 
And with my years my soul began to pant 
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain 
And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, 
But undefined and wandering, till the day 
I found the thing I sought, and that was thee; 
And then I lost my being all to be 
AhsorbM in thine— the world was past away — 
Tlwit didst annihilate the earth to me ! 

VII. 

I loved all solitude — but little thought 
To spend I know not what of life, remote 
From all communion with existence, save 
The maniac and his tyrant ; had I been 
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave, 
But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave? 
Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
Than the wreek'd sailor on his desert shore ; 
The world is all before him — mine is hcre^ 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. 
What though he perish, he may lift bis eye 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
Although h is cUided by my dungeon roof. 

Till. 

Yet do I feci at times my mind decline, 

But with a MOM of its decay : — I see 

Unwonted lights along my prison shine, 

And a strange demon, who is vexing me 

With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 

The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 

But much lo One, who long hath sufler'd so, 

Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, 

And all that may be borne, or can debase. 

I thought mine enemies had been but man, 

But spirits may he leagued with them — all Earth 

Abandons —Heaven forgets me ; — in the dearth 

Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, 

It may be, tempt me further, and prevail 

Against the outworn creature they assail. 

Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 

Liko steel in tempering tire ? because I loved* 



POEMS. 



1S3 



Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
"Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 



I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er ; — 
Mv scars are callous, or I should have dashM 
My brain against these bars as the sun flash'd 
In mockery through them ; — it* I bear and bore 
The much I have recounted, and the more 
Which hath no words, 't is that I would not die 
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 
Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame 
Stamp madness deep into my memory, 
And woo compassion tn a blighted name, 
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
No — it shall be immortal ! — and I make 
A future temple of my present cell, 
Which nations yet shall visit for mv s;ike. 
While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, 
And crumbling piecemeal view thy heartless halls, 
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, 



A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, 

While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls! 

And thou, Leonora ! thou — who wert ashamed 

That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 

To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 

Go! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed 

By grief, years, weariness — and it may be 

A taint of that he would impute to me— 

From long infection of a den like this, 

Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss, 

Adores thee still ; — and add — thai when the towers 

And battlements which guard his joyous hours 

Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot, 

Or left (intended in a dull repose, 

This — this shall be a consecrated spot ! 

But Thou — when all that Birth and Beauty throws 

Of magic round thee is extinct— shalt have 

One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 

No power in death can tear our names apart, 

As none in life could rend thee from my heart. 

Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 

To be entwined for ever — but too late! 



POEMS. 



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM 
I. 

As o*er the cold sepulchral stone 

Some name arrests the passer-by; 
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, 

May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 

2. 
And when by thee that name is read, 
Perchance in some succeeding year, 
Reflect on me as on the dead, 

And think my heart is buried here. 

September 14th, 1809, 



TO ** + 

Oh Lady ! when I left the shore, 

The distant shore, which gave me birth, 
I hardly thought, to grieve once more, 

To quit another spot on earth : 
Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 

Where panting Nature droops the head, 
Where only thou art seen to smile, 

I view my parting hour with dread. 
Though far from Albin's craggy shore, 

Divided by the dark-blue main ; 
A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er, 

Perchance I view her cliffs again : 
But wheresoe'er I now may roam, 

Through scorching clime, and varied sea, 
Though Time restore me to my home, 

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 
On thee, in whom at once conspire 

All charms which heedless hearts can move, 
Whom but to see is to admire, 

And, oh ! forgive the word — to love. 
Forgive the word, in one who ne*er 

With such a word can more offend ; 
And since thy heart I cannot share, 

Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 
And who so cold as look on thee, 

Thou lovoly wand'rer, and be less ? 



Nor be, what man should ever be, 

The friend of Beauty in distress? 
Ah', who would think that form had past 

Through Danger's most destructive path, 
Hath braved the Death-wing'd tempest's blast, 

And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath? 
Lady ! when I shall view the walls 

Where free Byzantium once arose ; 
And Stamboul's Oriental halls 

The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 
Thou mightiest in the lists of fame, 

That glorious city still shall be; 
On me 't will hold a dearer claim, 

As spots of thy nativity : 
And though I bid thee now farewell, 

When I behold that wond'rous scene, 
Since where thou art I may not dwell, 

*T will sooth to be, where thou hast been. 

September, 1809. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN 
GULF. 

NOVEMBER 14, 1809. 
1. 

Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast 

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, 
The ancient world was won and lost. 

2. 
And now upon the scene I look, 

The azure grave of many a Roman ; 
Where stern Ambition once forsook 
His wavering crown to follow woman. 
3. 

Florence ! whom I will love as well 

As ever yet was said or sung, 
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell) 

Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; 



184 

4. 
Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times, 

When worlds were staked lor ladies' eyes : 
Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 

Thy charms might raise new Anthonics. 
b. 
Though Fate forbids such things to be, 

Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curlM! 
I cannot lose a world fur thee, 

But would not lose thee for a world. 



POEMS. 



STANZAS 

COMPOSED OCTOBER llTH, 1809, DURING THE WIGHT, IN 
A THUNDER-STURM, WHEN THE (.1'IDU HAD LOST THE 
ROAD TO ZITZA, NEAR THE RANGE OF MOUNTAINS FOR- 
MERLY CALLED PIMDUS, IN ALPAMA 

1. 

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 

Where Piod.ua? mountains rise, 
And angry clouds are pouring fast 

The vengeance of the skies. 
2. 
Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 

And lightnings, as they play, 
But show where rocks our path have crost, 

Or gild the torrent's spray. 
3. 
Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 

When lightning broke the gloom- 
How welcome were its shade ! — ah, no! 

'T is but a Turkish tomb. 
4. 
Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 

I hear a voice exclaim — 
My way-worn countryman, who calls 

On distant England's name. 

5. 

A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 

Another — *t is to tell 
The mountain-peasants to descend, 

And lead us where they dwell. 

6. 

Oh ! who in such a night will dare 

To tempt the wilderness? 
And who 'mid thunder peals can hear 

Our signal of distress ? 

7. 
And who that heard our shouts would rise 

To try the dubious road ? 
Nor rather deem from nightly cries 
That outlaws were abroad 
8. 
Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour ! 

More fiercely pours the storm ! 
Yet here one thought has still the power 
To keep my bosom warm. 
9. 
While wand'ring through each broken path, 

O'er brake and craggy brow ; 
While elements exhaust their wrath, 
Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 
10. 

Not on the sea, not on the sea, 

Thy bark hath long been gone : 
Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 

Bow down my head alone ! 



11. 

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 

When last I press'd thy lip; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock, 

impell'd thy gallant ship. 
12. 
Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now 

Hist trod the shore of Spain; 
*T were hard if aught so fair as thou 

Should linger on the main. 
13. 
And since I now remember thee 

In darkness and in dread, 
As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped, 

14. 

Do thou amidst the fur while walls, 

If Cadiz yet be free, 
At tunes from out her latticed halls 

Look o'er the dark-blue sea ; 
15. 
Then think upon Calypso's isles, 

Endear'd by days gone by ; 
To others give a thousand smiles, 

To me a single sigh. 

16. 
And when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace, 
17. 
Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun 

Some coxcomb's raillery; 
Nor own for once thou thought's! of one, 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

18. 
Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 

When sever'd hearts repine, 
My spirit flies o'er mount and main 

And mourns in search of thine. 



WRITTEN AT ATHENS, 
JANUARY 16, 1810. 
The spell is broke, the charm is flown • 

Thus is it with life's fitful fever: 
We madly smile when we should groan ; 

Delirium is our best deceiver. 
Each lucid interval of thought 

Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, 
And he that acts as wise men ought, 

But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 



WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM 

SESTOS TO ABYDOS, 1 

may 9, 1S10. 

1. 

If, in the month of dark December, 

Leander, who was nightly wont 
(What maid will not the tale remember7) 

To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 

.*■ 

If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, 

He sped to Hero, nothing loth, 
And thus of old thy current pour'd, 

F'air Venus ! how I pity both ! 



POEMS. 



1S5 



3. 

For me, degenerate modern wretch, 

Though in the genial month of May, 
Mv dripping limbs I faintly stretch, 

And think I've done a feat to-day. 
4. 
But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 

According 10 the doubtful story, 
To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside, 

And swam fur Love, as I for Glory ; 

5. 

! T were hard lo say who fared the best : 

Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you! 

He lost his labour, I mv jest: 

For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. 



SONG. 

Zwj; fiov, ads aya~ui. 1 
ATHENS, 1810. 

1. 
Maid of Alliens, ere we part, 
Give, oh, give me back my heart! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear iny vow before I go, 
Zii/j ftov, ads dyaTTui. 

2. 
By those tresses unconrined, 
Woo'd by each -r^gean wind-, 
By tbose lids whose jetty fijnge 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zm'I fiod } ads dyanu. 

3. 
By that lip I long to taste; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token flowers^ that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By Love's alternate joy and wo, 
Zurj pov } ads dyawCi, 

4. 
vliil of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when aione. 
Though I fly to Istambol/' 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No! 
Zu»i7 pov, ads ayarQ. 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK 
U \R sow, 

WRITTEN BV RIG*, WHO PERISHED IN THE ATTEMPT TO RE- 
VOLl TIONIZt GREECE. THE FOLLOWING TRANSLATION Is 
AS LITERAL A3 THE AUTHOR COILD MAKE IT IN Vi;n-r | 
IT 15 OF THE SAME MEASURE AS THAT OF THE ORIGINAL. 
SEE PAGE 52. 

I. 

Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 

The glorious hour's gone forth, 
And, worthy of such ties. 

Display who gave us birth. 

CHORUS. 

Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
In a river past our feet. 

2. 
Then manfully despising 

The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 
Let your country see you rising, 
And all her chains are broke. 
Y 



Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Behold the coming strife ! 
Hellenes of past ages, 

Oh start again to life ! 
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 

Your sleep, oh. join with me ! 
And the seven-hill'd 5 city seeking, 

Fight, conquer, till we're free. 

Sons of Greeks, &c. 
3. 
Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 

Lethargic dost thou lie? 
Awake, and join thy numbers ' 

Wuli Athens, old ally ! 
Leonidas recalling, 

That chief of ancient song, 
Who saved ye once from falling, 

The terrible ! the strong \ 
Who made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylae, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free ; 
Wilh his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood, 
And like a lion raging, 

Expired in seas of blood. 

Sons of Greeks, ficc. 



TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, 

" Mttei'w /its 'to' vini($6\i 
Slpat6raTq Xdytifj,' &e. 

THE SONG FROM WHICH THIS 19 TAKEN IS A GREAT FA- 
VOURITE WITH THE YOUNG GIRLS OF ATHENS, OF ALL 
CLASSES. THEIR MANNER OF SINGING IT IS BY VERSES IN 
ROTATION, THE WHOLE NUMBER PRESENT JOINING IN THE 
CHORUS. I HAVE HEARD IT FRE^UENLY AT OUR ! ' xfyoi" 
IN THE WINTER OF 1810-11. THE AIR IS PLAINTIVE AND 
PKETTY. 

I. 

I enter thy garden of roses, 

Beloved and fair Haid£e, 
Each morning where Flora reposes, 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee, 

Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 
Which utters its song to adore thee, 

Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 
Through her eyes, through her every feature, 

Shines the soul of the young Haid6e. 



But the loveliest garden grows hateful 

When Love has abandon'd the bowers , 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful. 

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, 

Will deeply imbiiter the bowl ; 
But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
Too cruel! in vain I implore thee 

My heart from these horrors to save: 
Will naught to my bosom restore thee? 

Then open the gates of the grave. 

3. 

As the chief who to combat advances 

Secure of his conquest before, 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel ? 
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish. 

For torture repay me too well ' 



186 



POEMS. 



Now sad is the garden of roses, 

Beloved but false Haid^c! 
There Flora all witherM reposes, 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 



WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 
1. 

Dear object of defeated care ! 

Though not of Love and thee bereft, 
To reconcile one with despair 

Thine image and my tears are left. 
2. 
*T is said with Sorrow Time can cope ; 

But this I feel can ne'er be true : 
For by the death-blow of my Hope 

My Memory immortal grew. 



ON PARTING. 
1. 

The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left, 

Shall never part from mine, 
Till happier hours restore the gift 

Untainted back to thine. 
2. 
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, 

An equal love may see: 
The lear that from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 

3. 

I ask no pledge to make roe blest 

In gazing when alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast. 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 
4. 
Nor need I write — to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak : 
Oh! what can idle words avail, 

Unless the heart could speak ? 
5. 
By day or night, in weal or wo, 

That heart, no longer free, 
Must bear the love it cannot show 

And silent ache for Uiee. 



TO THYRZA. 

Without a stone to mark the spot, 

And say, what truth might well have said, 
By all, save one, perchance forgot, 

Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid? 
By many a shore and many a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
The past, the future (led to thee 

To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 
Could this have been — a word, a look 

That softly said, " We part in peace," 
Had taught my bosom how to brook, 

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 
And didst thou not, since Death for thee 

Prepared a light and pangless dart, 
Once long fur him thou ne'er shall see, 

Who held, and holds thee in his heart? 
Oh! who like him had watch'd thoo here? 

Or sadly markM thy glazing eye, 
In that dread hour ere death appear, 

When silent sorrow fears to sigh, 
Till all was past? But when no more 

'T was thine lo reck of human wo, 



Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 

Had tlow'd as fast — as now they flow. 
Shall th'-y hot flow, when many a day 

In ihese, to mc, deserted towers, 
Ere call'd but -for a lime away, 

Affection's mingling tears were ours? 
Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 

The smile none else might understand ; 
Tin* whispered ihoughi of hearts b 

The pressure ofihe thrilling hand; 
The kiss, so guiltless and rel 

That Love each warmer wish forbore, 
Those eyea proc! Lim*d so pure a mind, 

Even passion blush'd to plead for more. 
The tone, that taught me to rejoice, 

When prone, unlike thee to repine ; 
rig, celostial from thy voice, 

But sweet to me from none but thine, 
The pledge we wore — I wear it still, 

But where is thine ? — ah, where art thou? 
Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 

But never benl beneath till now! 
Well hast thou left hi life's beM bloom 

The cup of wi. f-ir mi- to drain, 
If rest alone be in the tomb, 

I would not wish thee here again; 
But if in wor'ds more blesl 'ban this 

Thy virtues seek ■ fitter sphere, 
Impart some. portion of thy bliss, 

To ween me from mine anguish here. 
Teach me — too early taught by thee! 

To hear, forgiving and forgivt-n 
On earth thy love was such to me ; 

It fain would form my hope in heaven! 



STANZAS. 
1. 

Away, away, ye notes of wo. 

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 
Or I must tlee from hence, for, oh? 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days— 

But lull the chords, for now, alas ! 
I must not think, I may not gaze 

On what I am — on what I was. 
2. 
The voice that made those sounds more sweet 

Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled ; 
And now their softesl notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! 
Yes, Thyrza ! yes, thev breathe of thee, 

Beloved dust! since dust thou art; 
And all that once was harmony 

Is worse than discord to my heart ! 

3. 
'T is silent all ! — hut on my ear 

The welWrememl ei M i chocs thrill ; 
I hear a voice 1 would not hear, 

A voice thai now might well be still : 
Yet oft my doubting soul 't will shake ; 

Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 
Till consciousness will vainly wake 

To listen, though the dream be flown. 
4. 

Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep, 

Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
A star that trembled o'er the deep, 

Then tum'd fmm earth its tender beam. 
But he, who through life's dreary way 

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, 
Will long lament the vanish'd ray 

That scattered gladness o'er his path* 



POEMS. 



1S7 



TO THYRZA. 


Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 


1. 


Wave gently o'er my dying bed I 


One struggle more, and I am free 


2. 


From pangs that rend my heart in twain; 


No band of friends or heirs be there, 


One last long sigh to love and thee 


To weep, or wish, the coming blow : 


Then back to busy life again. 


No maiden, with dishevell'd hair, 


It suits me well to mingle now . 


To feel, or feign, decorous wo. 


With things that never pleased before: 


3.' 


Though every joy is fled below, 


But silent let me sink to Earth, 


What future grief can touch me more ? 


With no officious mourners near : 


2. 


I would not mar one hour of mirth, 


Then bring me wine, the banquet bring, 


Nor startle friendship with a fear. 


Man was not form'd to live alone : 


4. 
Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 


I *ll be that light unmeaning thing 


Thai smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
It was not thus in days more dear, 

It never would have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and lefi me lonely here ; 


Could nobly check its useless sighs, 
Might then exert its latest power 
In her who lives and him who dies. 


ThouVt nothing, all arc nothing now. 


5. 


3. 
In vain my lyre would lightiv breathe ! 


*T were sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 


Thy features still serene to see : 
Forgetful of its struggles past, 

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 


The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
But mocks the wq that lurks beneath, 


. Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 


6. 


Though gay companions o'er the bowl 


But vain the wish — for Beauty still 


Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 


"Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath, 


Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 


And woman's tears, pruduccd at will, 


The heart — the heart is lonely still! 


Deceive in life, unman in death. 


4. 
On many a lone and lovely night 


7. 

Then lonely be my latest hour, 


It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky ; 


Without regret, without a groan ! 


For then I deem'd the heavenly light 


For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 


Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: 


And pain been transient or unknown. 


And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 


9. 


When sailing o'er the ^gean wave, 


( Now Thyrza gazes on that moon — ' 
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave ! 
5. 


"Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 


Where all have gone, and all must go ! 


To be the nothing that I was 


Ere born to lite and living wo! 


When stretch' d on fever's sleepless bed, 


And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 


9. 


" *T is comfort still,'! I faintly said, 


Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 


'• That Thyrza cannot know my pains:" 


Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 


Line freedom to the time-worn slave, 


And know, whatever thou hasi been 


A boon 'lis idle then to give, 


'T is something better not to be. 


Relenting Nature vainly gave, 




My life, when Thyrza ceased to live ! 





6. 

My Thyrza's pledge in better days, 


STANZAS. 


When love and life alike were new! 




How different now ihon meet'st mv gaze! 


" BCD QUANTO MINTS EST CUM BELI^UIS YERSARI QUASI 


How tinged by time with sorrow's hue ! 


TCI MEMlNtSSE." 


The heart that gave itself with thpe 




Is silent — ah, where mine as still ! 


I. 


Though cold as e'en the dead can be, 


And thou art dead, as young and fair 


It feels, it sickens with the chill. 


As aught of mortal birth ; 


7. 


And form so soft, and charms so rare, 


Thou bitter pledge ! thou moonful token ! 


Too soon retiirn'd to Earth ! 


Though painful, welcome to mv breast! 


Though E.irih received them in her bed, 


Still, Still, preserve that love unbrnken, 


And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 


Or break the heart to which thou 'rt prest I 
Time tempers love, but not removes, 


In carelessness or mirih, 


There is an eye which could not brook 


More hallow'd when its hope is fled: 


A moment on that grave to look. 


Oh! what are thousand living loves 


2. 


To that which cannot quit the dead? 


I will not ask where thou Hest low 




Nor gaze upnn the spot; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 






So I behold them not : 


EUTHANASIA. 


It is enough lor me to prove 




That what I loved and long must love 


1. 


Like common earth can rot ; 


When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 


To me there needs no slone to tell, 


The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead. 


'T is Nothing that I loved so welL 



188 



POEMS. 



3. 
Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thoilj 
Who didst not change through all the past, 

And Canst not alter now. 

The love where Death has set his seal, 

Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor !. : ■, h\y : 

And, what were worse, thou canst not see, 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

4. 
The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine: 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that drei 
I envy now loo much to weep, 

Nor peed I to rep ■ 
That all those charms have pass'd away ; 
I mi. hi have wateh'd through long decay. 

5. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatched 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 

The leaves must drop away ; 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 

Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
Sine earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

6. 
I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fide ; 
The nighl that folIowM such a morn 

Had worn a deepei shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
And thou iri rl lovely to the last ; 

Extinguished, not decay'd -, 
As stars that shoot along the slty 
Shine brightest as they (all from high. 

7. 
As once T wept, if I could weep, 
My tears might well he shed, 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vi^il o'er thv bed ; 
I 'o i :e, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a fainl embrace, 

Uphold thy drunpin..' brad ; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 



Yet how much less it were to gain, 

Though thou hast left me free, 
The loveliest things that still remain, 

Than thus remember ihee ! 
The all <.f thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dn ad Eternity, 

Returns again in me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, excent its living years. 



STANZAS. 
1. 

It sometimes in the haunts of men 

Thine iroag< reast may fade, 

The lonely hour presents again 

The semblance of thv gentle shade : 
And now that sad and silent hour 

Tims much of thee can still restore, 
And sorrow unobserved may pour 

The plaint she dare not speak before. 



Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile, 

I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
And, Beltcondemn'd] appear to smile, 

Unfaithful to thy Memory ! 
Nor deem thai mi m n jj less dear, 

That then I seem not to repine ; 
I would not fools should overhear 

One sigh that should be v. 
3. 
If not the goblet pass unquaff'd, 

It is not drain'*! to banish care ; 
The cup most hold a deadlier draught, 

That brings a Lethe for despair. 
And could Oblivion set my soul 

From all her troubled visions free, 
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 

That drown'd a single thought of thee. 
4. 
For w.it thou vanishVi from my mind, 

Where could my \ icanl b 
And who would ih n hind, 

To honour thine abandoned Urn? 
No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duly to fulfil ; 
Though all the world forget beside, 

'T is meet that I remember still. 
5. 
For well I know, that such had been 

Thy gentle care for him, who now - 

Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, 

Where none regarded dim, but thou; 
And, Oh ! I feel in that was given 

A blessing ni ver meant for me 
Thou wcrt too like a dream of Heaven, 
For earthly love to merit thee. 

March \Uk, 1812. 



ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS 
BROKEN. 

I. 

Ill-fated Heart : and can it be 

That thou ahouldsl thus be rent in twain? 
Have years of care for thine and thee 

Alike been all employ'd in vain? 
2. 
Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, 

And every fragment dearer grown, 
Since he who wears thee, feels ihou art 

A fitter emblem of his OtOn, 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 

I. 

Few years have pass'd since thou and I 
Were firmest friends, al least in name, 
And childhood's gay sincerity 
Preserved oi >ng the same, 

2. 
But now, like me, too well thou know'sl 

What trifles oft the heart recall ; 
And those who once have luv'd the most, 
Too soon forget they loved at all. 
3. 
And such the change the heart displays, 

So frail is early friendship's reign, 
A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, 
Will view lit v mind estranged again. 
4. 
If BO, ii never shall be mine 

To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 

The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 

Which made thee tickle as thou art. 



POEMS. 



189 



As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 

So human feelings ebb ami flow ; 
And who would in a breast confide 

Where stormy passions ever glow ? 
6. 
It boots not, that together bred, 

Our childish days were days of joy : 
My spring of life has quickly fled; 

Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 

7. 

And when we bid adieu to youth, 
Slaves to the specious world's control, 

h a long farewell to truth ; 
That world corrupts the noblest soul. 

8. 

Ah, joyous season ! when the mind 

Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 
When thought ere spoke is unconfined, 

And sparkles in the placid eye. 
9. 
Not so in Man's mattirer years, 

When man himself is hut a tool 
"When interest sways our hopes and fears, 

And all must love and hale by rule. 

10. 

With fools in kindred vice the same, 
We learn at length our faults to blend; 

And those, and those alone, may claim 
The prostituted name of friend. 

11. 
Such is the common lot of man : 

Can we then 'scape from folly free ? 
Can we reverse the general plan, 

Nor be what all in turn must be? 

12. 

No, for myself so dark mv fate 

Through every turn of life hath been ; 

Man and the world I so much hate, 
I, care not when I quit the scene. 

13. 
But thou, with spirit frail and light, 

Wilt shine awhile and pass away ; 
As glow-worms sparkle through the night, 

But dare not stand the lest of day. 

14 

Alas ! whenever folly calls 

Where parasites and princes meet, 

(For cherish'd first in royal halls, 
The welcome vices kindly greet,) 

15. 
Ev'n now thou Vt nightly seen to add 

One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 
And still thy trifling heart is glad 

To join the vain, and court the proud. 
16. 
There dost thou glide from fair to fair, 

Still simpering on with eager haste, 
As flies along the gay parterre, 

That taint the flowers they scarcely tasle. 
17. 
But say, what nymph will prize the flame 

Which seems, as marshy vapours move, 
To flit alon^ from dame to dame. 

An ignis-fatuus gleam of love? 

18. 

What friend for thee, howeVr inclin'd, 
Will deign to own a kindred care? 

Who will debase his manly mind, 
For friendship every fool may share? 



19. 

In time forbear ; amidst the throng, 
No more so base a thin? be seen ; 

No more so idly pass along : 

Be something, any thing, but — mean. 



To ****** 

I. 

Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 

That I should thus be happy too ; 
For still my heart regards ihy weal 
Warmly, as it was wont to do. 
2. 
Thy husband's blest — and *t will impart 
Some pangs to view his happier lot : 
But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
Would hate him, if he loved thee not! 
3. 
When late I saw thy favourite child, 

I thought my jealous heart would break, 
But when th' unconscious infant smiled, 
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 
4. 
I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs, 

Its father in its face to see ; 
But then it had its mother's eyes, 
And they were all to love and me. 
5. 
Mary, adieu! I must away: 

While thou art blest I 'II not repine, 
But near thee I can never sfav; 

My heart would soon again be thine. 
6. 
I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 

Had quench'd at length my boyish flame, 
Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 

My heart in all, save hope, the same. 

7. 
Yet was I calm : I knew the time 

My breast would thrill before thy look, 
But now to tremble were a crime— 

We met, and not a nerve was shook. 
8. 
I saw thee gaze upon mv {^ce, 

Yet meet with no confusion there 
One only feeling could'st thou trace, 

The sullen calmness of despair. 
9. 
Away ! away ! my early dream, 

Remembrance never must awake 
Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? 

My foolish heart b<: still, or break. 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
In moments to delight devoted, * 

" Mv life !" with tend'rest tone, you cry 
Dear words ! on which my heart had doted, 

If youth could neither fade nor die. 
To death even hours like these must roll, 

Ah ! then repeat those accents never. 
Or change " my life !" into " my soul !" 

"Which, like my love, exists for ever. 



IMPROMTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 

When from the heart where Sorrow sits, 
Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 

And o'er the changing aspect flits, 
And clouds the brow or fills the eye. 



190 



POEMS. 



Heed not lhat gloom, which soon shall sink : 
My thoughts theird ingcori tenon loo welt; 

Back to my breast the wanderers shrink, 
And droop within their silent cell. 



ADDRESS, 

SPOKES AT THE OPEKIICO OK IHTO'-t.lM: THEATKF 
SVTl'RDAV, OCTOBER 10, 1812. 

In one dread night onr cirv saw, and si 
Bow'd to ill,- dust, the I Irama's lower of pride ; 
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 

Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd 
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) 

Through el 1. offirfl the massj fragments riven, 

Like Israel's pillar, chasi ihi night from hi aven • 
Savv the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
While thousands, throng'd around the horning dome, 
Shrank back appall'.!, and trembled for their home, 
As glared the volomed blaze, and ghastly shone 
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own 
Till blackening ashes and tin- lonely wall 
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; 
Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 
Know the same favour which the former knew, 
A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and you ? 

Yes — it sha'I be — the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 
And bids the Drama be where she ha' li been. 

This fabric's birth attest the potent spell 

Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well ! 

As soars this fane to emulate the last, 
Oh ! illicit we d^aw f,ur omens from the past, 
Some hour propitious to onr prayers may boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
O'tsrwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew : 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew 
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu: 
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom 
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claim'd and claims— nor you refuse 
One triliule to revive his slumbering muse • 
With garlands deck your own Menander's'head I 
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead ! 

Dear are lite days which made our annals bright, 
Ere Garrtck lied, or Brinslev ceased to write. ° 
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs', 
Vain of our ancestry, as the) at theirs; 

While thus Re mbrance borrows Han 's <dass 

To claim the sceptred shadows as they p i 

And we the mirror hold, whi re 

Immortal names, emblazoned on our line 
Pause— ere their feebler offspring you condemn 
Reflect how hard the task to rival them 1 

Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players and Plays 
Must sue alike for pardon, or for praise 

Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
The boundless power to cherish 01 reject ; 
If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 
And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
To sooth the sickly taste it dare not mend, 



All past reproach may present scenes refute, 
An I censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! 
Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause - 
So pride shall doubly nerve ihe actor's powers, 
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
The Drai by her herald paid, 

Receive our welcome loo, whose every lone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. 
The curtain rises — may our stago unfold 
Scenes noi unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
our judges, Nature for our guide, 
Still may me please — long, long may you preside ! 



TO TIME. 
Time! on whose arbitrary wing 

Tin- varying hours must flag or fly, 
Whose tardy winti ''ring, 

But drag or drive us on to die — 
Hail thou ! who on my mirth bestow'd 

boons to all thai know thee known ; 
Yet heller I sustain thy load, 

For now I bear the wi ighl alone. 
I wool. I not one f,nd hearl should share 
The hitler moments thou hast given ; 
And pardon thee, since thou could'st spare 

All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 
To them be joy or rest, on me 

Thy future ills shall press in vain ; 
I nothing owe but years io ihee, 

A debt already paid in pain, 
"i et even lhat pain was some relief; 
It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
The active agony <S grief 

Retards, but never counts the hour. 
In joy [ 've sigh'd to Hunk thy flight 

Would Boon subside from swift to slow : 
Thy cloud coo'. I avercasl the light. 
But could not add a night to wo 
For thi n, however drear and dark, 
My soul was suited to thy sky; 
One star alone shot forth a spark 
To prove thee — not Eternity. 
That beam haih sunk, and now thou art 

A blank ; a thing 10 count and curse 
Through each dull tedious trifling part, 

Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 
One scene even thou canst not deform ; 

The limit of thy sloth or speed 
A\ hen future wanderers bear the storm 

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed: 
And I can smile to think how weak 

Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, 
When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 



TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONg! 

1. 
Ah! Love yvas never yet without 
The pang, the agony, Ihe doubt, 
Pi Inch rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 
While day and night roll darkling by. 

2._ 
Without one friend Io hear my wo, 
I fainl, I die beneath the blow. 
That Love had arrows, well I knew ; 
Alas ! I find ihcm poison'd too. 

3. 
Birds, yet in freedom, shun tho net, 
Which Love around your haunts hath set ; 



POEMS. 



191 



Or circled by his fatal fire, 

Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 
4. 

A bird of free and careless wing 

Was I, through many a smiling spring; 

But caught within the subtle snare, 

I burn, and feebly flutter there. 
5. 

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, 

Can neither feel nor pity pain, 

The cold repulse, the look askance, 

The lightning of Love's angry glance. 
6. 

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine ; 

Now hope, and he who hoped, decline; 
Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
J feel my passion, and thy power. 

7. 
My light of life ! ah, tell me why 
That pouting lip, and atter'd eye ? 
My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate? 

8. 
Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow : 
What wretch with me would barter wo ? 
My bird! relent: one note could give 
A charm, to bid thy lover live, 

9. 

My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, 
In silent anguish I sustain ; 
And still thy heart, without partaking 
One pang, exults — while mine is breaking. 

10. 
Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
Thou canst not murder more than now; 
I've lived to curse my natal day, 
And love, that thus can lingering slay. 

11. 
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
Can patience preach thee into rest? 
Ala;; ! loo late, I dearly know, 
That joy is harbinger of wo. 



A SONG. 

1. 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 

To those thvself so fondly sought ; 
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 

Are doubly bitter from that thought : 
'T is this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 
Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leave* t. 

2. 
The wholly false the heart despises, 

And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 
But she who not a thought disguises, 

Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
When she can change who loved so truly, 
It feels what mine has felt so newly. 

3. 
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow, 

Is doorn'd to all who love or live ; 
And if, when conscious on the morrow, 

We scarce our fancy can forgive, 
That cheated us in slumber only, 
To leave the waking soul more lonely, 

4. 
What must they feel whom no false vision, 

But truest, tenderest passion warra'd ? 
Sincere, but swift in sad transition, 

As if a dream alone had charm'd ? 



Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 
And all ihy change can be but dreaming ! 



ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 

"ORIGIN OF LOVE ?" 
The " Origin of Love !" — Ah, why 

That cruel question ask of me, 
When thou may'st read in many an eye 

He starts to life on seeing thee ? 
And should'st thou seek his tnd to know: 

My heart forbodes, my fears foresee, 
He '11 linger long in silent wo ; 

But live — until I cease to be. 



REMEMBER HIM, &c. 
1. 

Remember him, whom passion's power 

Severely, deeply, vainly proved : 
Remember thou that dangerous hour 

When neither fell, though both were loved. 
2. 
That yielding breast, that melting eye, 

Too much invited to be blest: 
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 

The wilder wish reproved, represt. 
3. 
Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 

But saved chee all that conscience fears 
And blush fur every pang it cost 

To spare the vain remorse of years. 
4. 
Yet think of this when many a tongue. 

Whose busy accents whisper blame, 
Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, 

And brand a nearly blighted name. 
5. 
Think that, whatever to others, thou 

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued. 
I ble<s thy purer soul even now, 

Even now, in midnight solitude. 

6. 
Oh, God ! that we had met in time, 

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free, 
When thou hadst loved without a crime, 

And I been less unworthy thee ! 
7. 
Far may thy days, as heretofore, 

From this our gaudy world be past! 
And, thai too bitter moment o'er, 

Oh! may such tual be thy last! 
8. 
This heart, alas ! perverted long, 

Itself destroy *d might there destroy; 
To meet thee in the glittering throng, 

Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 
9. 
Then to the things whose bliss or wo, 

Like mine is wild and worthless all, 
That world resign — such scenes forego, 

Where those who feel must surely fall. 
10. 
Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 

Thy soul frum long seclusion pure; 
From what even here hath past, may guess 

What there thy bosom must endure. 
11. 
Oh ! pardon that imploring tear, 

Since not by Virtue shed in vain, 
My phrensy drew from eyes so dear; 

For me they shall not weep again. 



192 



■ 



12. 

Though Ion" and mournful must it be, 
The thought thai we no more may iii-et ; 

Yet 1 deserve the stern decree, 

And almost deem the sentence sweet. 

13. 
Still, had I loved thee less, ray heart 

Had then less sacrificed to thine ; 
It fell not half so much to part, 

As if its guilt had made thee mine. 



LINKS. 

INSCRIBED UI'OX A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. 
1. 

Start not — nor deem mv spirit fled: 

In me behold the only skull, 
From which, unlike a living head, 

Whatever flows is never dull. 

2. 

1 lived, I loved, I quafFM, like thee 

I died; let earth my bones resign : 
Fill up — thou canst not injure me ; 

The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 
3. 
Better to hold the sparkling grape, 

Than nurse the earth-worm'fl slimy brood ; 
And circle in the goblet's shape 

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. 
4. 
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 

In aid of others' let me shine ; 
And when, alas! our biains are | 

What nobler substitute than wine? 

5. 

Quaff* while thou canst — another race, 

When thou and thine like me are sped, 
May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 

And rhyme and revel with the dead. 
6. 
Why not ? since through life's little day 

Our heads such sad effects produce ; 
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 

This chance is theirs, to be of use. 
Newstead Abbey, 1808. 



ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER 
BART. 
1. 
There is a tear for all that die, 

A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 
But nations swell the funeral cry, 
And Triumph weeps above the brave. 
2. 
For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 

O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent: 
In vain their bones unburied lie, 
AH earth becomes their monument! 
3. 
A tomb is theirs on every page, 
An epitaph on every tongue : 
The present hours, the future age, 
For them bewail, to them belong. 
4. 
For them the voice of festal mirth 

Grows hush'd. their name the only sound ; 
While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
The goblet's tributary round. 



5. 
A iheme to crowds that knew them not, 
Lamentod by admiring foes, 

uld not shai e rious lot ? 

Who would not die the death they chose? 

6. 
And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined 

Thy life, thy fall, thy fame bhall be ; 
And early valour, glowing, find 

A m> iiiory. 

7. 
But there are breasts ihat bleed with thee 

In wo, that glory cannot quell 
And shuddering hear of victory, 

Where one so dear, so dauntless, full. 

8. 
Where shall they turn 1o mourn theo less? 

Winn i ihy cherish'd name? 

Time cannot teach forget fun 

While GhriePs full heart is fed by Fame. 
9. 
Alas ! for them, though not for til 

They cannot choose but weep the more, 
Deep for the dead the grief must be, 

Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 



TO A LADY WEEPING. 
1. 
Weep, daughter of a 

A Sil Vin's decay \ 

Ah, happy ! it each tear of thine 
Cou her's fault awav ! 



Weep — for thy tears arc Virtue's tears- 
Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 
And bfl each drop in future years 

Repaid thee by thy people's smiles! 

March, 1812. 



FROM THE TURKISH. 
1. 
The chain I save was fair to view, 
The lute 1 added sweel in sound ; 
The heart thai offered both was true, 
And ill deserved the fate it found. 



; ■ sharm'd by seen I 

Thv truth in absent i idivin 
And thi i duty well, 

Alas! they could n i thine, 

3. 
That chain was firm in every link, 

Bui i ' rnich 

That lute I — till thou could'st think, 

In other hands its notes were such. 
4. 
l.i i him, who from thy neck unbound 

The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, 
Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 
5. 
When thou wert changed] they alter'd loo* 

The chain is broke, the music mule. 
'T is past — to them and thee adieu — 
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



POEMS. 



193 



SONNET. 

TO GENEVKA. 

Thine eves 1 blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
From contemplation — where serenely wrought, 
Seems Sorrow's softness charrnd from its despair- 
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, 
That — but I know thy blessed bo^om fraught 
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought — 
I should have deem'd thee doomM to earthly care. 
^ ith such an aspect, by his colours blent, 

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, 
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent,) 

The Magdalen of Guido saw the mom — 
Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent! 
With naught Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn. 



SONNET. 



TO GESEVRA. 



Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo, 
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush 
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 

My heart would wish away that ruder glow: 

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but oh ! 
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 
And into mine my mother's weakness rush, 

Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 

For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, 
The soul of melancholy Gentleness 

Gleams like a «eraph from the sky descending, 
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 

At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 
I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 



INSCRIPTION 

OS THE MONUMENT OF - A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. 

" NEAR THIS SPOT 

ARB DEPOSITED THE REMAINS OF CNB 

WHO POSSESSED BEAUTY WITHOUT VANITY, 

STRENGTH WITHOUT INSOLENCE, 

COURAGE WITHOUT FEROCITY, 

AND ALL THE VIRTUES OF MAN WITHOUT HIS VICES. 

THIS PRAISE, WHICH WOULD BE UNMEANING FLATTERY 

IF INSCRIBED OVER HUMAN ASHES, 

IS BIT A JOST TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF 

BOATSWAIN, A DOG, 

Wno WAS BORN AT NEWFOUNDLAND, MAY 1903, 

AND DIED AT NEWSTEAU ABBEY, NOV. 19, 1903." 

When some proud son of man returns to earth, 

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo, 

And storied urns record who rests below ; 

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 

Not what he was, but what he should have been: 

But the poor dog! in life the firmest friend, 

The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 

Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 

Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 

Dnhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 

Denied in heaven tlie soul he held on earth : 

While man, vain insert ! hopes to be forgiven, 

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 

Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, 

Degraded mass of animated dust! 

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! 

By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 

Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 

Pass on — it honours none you wish to monrn : 



To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 
I never new but one, and here he lies. 

Newstcad Abbey> Oct. 30, 1808. 



FAREWELL. 

Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For other's weal avail'd on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh ; 

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 

Are in that word — Farewell 1 — Farewell '. 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; 

But in my breast, and in my brain, 
Awake the pangs that pass not by, 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel 
I only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell! — Farewell! 



1. 

Bright be the place of thy soul! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er hurst from its mortal control, 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
On earth thou wert all but divine, 

As thy soul shall immortally be; 
And our sorrow may cease to repine, 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 

2. 
Light be the turf of thy tomb! 

May jjs verdure like emeralds be : 
There should not be the shadow of gloom. 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 
Young flowers and an evergreen tree 

May spring from the spot of thy rest: 
But nor cypress nor yew let us see; 

For why should we mourn for the blest' 



1. 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 



The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow— - 
It f It like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fam« ; 
I hear thv name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

3. 
They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me— 

Why wert thou so dear? 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well : — 
Long, long shall I me thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 



194 



POEMS. 



4. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve^ 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee? — 

With sileuce and tears. 



1808. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC.* 

*' O Lachrym»rum fons, tettcro «acroa 
Dttcemlum onus ei animo: quitter 
Felix I in imo qui ■catenteni 
Pectore t»i J»i« Nymplia, HOtli." 

Gray'* Potmala. 

1. 

There 's not a joy the world can giro like that it takes 

away, 
When the glow of early thought declines m feeling's 

dull decay ; 
'T is not on youth's smooth check the blush alone, which 

fades so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself 

be past. 

2. 
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 

happiness 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in 

vain 
The shore to which their sluver'd sail shall never stretch 

again. 

3. 
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself 

comes down ; # 

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 

tears, 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice 

appears. 

4. 
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis- 
tract the breast, 
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former 

hope of rest ; 
,J T is but as ivy leaves around the rutn'd turret wreath, 
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray 

beneath. 

5. 
Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what T have been, 
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a 

vanish'd scene : 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 

though they be, 
So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would 

flow to me. 

1815. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed oceans pausing, 
The waves lie still ami gleaming, 
And the lullYl winds stem dreaming, 



• Th«« rent* were pWeii by Lord Byron to Mr. Powirr, Strand, who 

\i\* fulUibed ilitm, wLib vciv Lci"Ut-ii rouaic b« Kir John Strvaiuoo. 



And the midnight moon h wearing 
Her bright chain o'er the deep *, 
Whose breast is gently heaving, 

As an infant's asleep : 
So the spirit bows before thee, 
To listen and adore thee | 
With a full but soft emotion, 
Like the swell of Summer.-, ocean. 



FARE THEE WELL. 

" Aln» ! tliey bad been friend* in Youth ; 
But whickering loogMM Uta polfOD iiui* ; 
And . n-ulnwahwre : 

And Life t» thorny ; niwl youth m Taiur 

l trroih wiili dim w ]'•».', 
L>* ill work like nuuuMM la u>c Drue i 

B-Jt ne»er tilhrr found 11 

Tofreethanoll - ilahg— 

They stood aloof, the acnr* remai n i n g, 

Like ctil ti mil ajuwier ; 

A dreary 9«n DOW fli>w» httwreD, 

Bui neither brat, m (VmI, DOf thunder 

Shall whollj , 1 1 ttn, 

Tbv iD«rW>ol tUat wbtch once hath BMB." 

CoUrUgt'a C\r U t*b*l 

Fare thee well ! and if f>r ever, 

Still for ever, fare thee well : 
Even though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
Would that breast were bared before thee 

Where thy head so soft hath Iain, 
AVI tile that placid sleep came o'er thee 

Which thou ne'er canst know again : 
Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 

Every inmost thought eould show ! 
Then thoU would'st at last discover 

'T was not well to spurn it so. 
Though the world for this commend thee — 

Though it smile upon the blow, 
Even its praises must offend thee, 

Founded on another's wo — 
Though my many faults defaced me, 

Could no other arm be found 
Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound? 
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; 

Love may sink by slow decay, 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away: 
Still thine own its life retained) — 

Still must mine, though bleeding beat, 
And the undying thought which paineui 

Is — that we no more may meet. 
These are words of deeper sorrow 

Than the wail above the dead; 
Boih shall live, but every morrow 

Wake us from a widowed bed. 
And when thou would'st solace gather, 

When our chilli's first accents Row, 
Wilt thou teach her *o say * Father!'' 

Though his care she must forego* i 

When her little hands shall press thee. 

When her lip to thine is preet, 
Think of him whose pra*6r .'diall bless thee* 

Think of bin thy love had hless'd! 
Should her lineaments lescmhle 

Those thou never more may'st sec, 
Then ihy heart will softly tremble 

With a pulse yet tr.ie to me. 
All my faults perchaj.ee thou know est, 

All my madness none ran know ; 
All my hopes, where'er then 

Wither, yet with thee they go. 
Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 
Even my soul forsakes me now : 



POEMS. 



195 



But 't is done — all words arc idle — 
Words from me are vainer still ; 
But the thoughts we cannot bridle 

Fort-, theii way without the will. — 
Fan- thoo well ! — thus disunited, 

Torn Groin every nearer tie, 
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted 

More than tins 1 scarce can die. 



A SKETCH.* 



II ili.i Hi-.u i*'si * .iL-vil, I cvmol kill Owe." — Snakt. 

Bom iii the garret, in the kitchen bred, 

Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head; 

Next — for some gracious service unexprest, 

And from us wages only to be guess'd — 

liaised from the toilet to ihc table, — where 

Her wandering betters wait behind her chair. 

With eve unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, 

She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 

Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie — 

The genial confidante, and general spy — 

Who could, ve gods! her next employment guess — 

An only infant's earliest governess! 

She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 

That she herself, by teaching, leam'd to spell. 

An adept next in penmanship she grows, 

As manv a nameless slander deftly shows: 

What sue had made the pupil of her art, 

None know — but that high Soul secured the heart, 

And panted f >r lhe truth it could not hear, 

With lon°ing breast and undeludcd ear. 

Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, 

Which Flattery fool'd not — Baseness could not blind, 

Deceit infect not — near Contagion soil — 

Indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 

Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down 

On humbler talents with a pitying frown— 

Nor i reriius swell— nor Beauty render vain — 

Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain — 

Nor Fortune change — Pride raise — nor Passion bow, 

Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 

Serenely purest of her sex that live, 

But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive, 

Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 

She deems that all couJ I !>,■ like her below: 

Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 

For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme: — now laid aside too long 
The baleful burden of tins honest song — 
Though all her former (unctions are no more, 
She rules the circle which she served before. 
[f mothers— none know why — before her quake ; 
If daughters dread her for lhe mothers' sake; 
If early habits— those false links, which hind 
Al times theJofiiest to the meanest mind — 
Have givn her power too deeply to instil 
The angry essence of her d By will ; 

[flil... „ snake she steal within your walls, 
T,,i the b i '•■ ime betray her as she crawls ; 

If like a riper to hi heart she wind, 

jY n d leavi m 'here she did not find; 

What marvel tl a- tin- hag of hatred works 

Eternal evil la - nt a ■''" lurks, 

To make a Pandemonium where she d.vells, 

Ami reign the Hecate of domestic hells? 

Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tinul 

With all the kind thendacity ofhinta 

While mingling truth with falsehood— sneers with 
smiles — 

A thread of candour with a web of wiles ; 



A plain blunt show of briefly spoken seeming, 

To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming, 

A hi) of lies — a facefbrni'd to conceal; 

Ami, without feeling, mock at all who feel: 

With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown; 

A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone. 

Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 

Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 

Cased like the centipede in satfron mail, 

Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale — 

(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 

Congenial colours in lhat soul or face) — 

Look on her features ! and behold her mind 

As in a mirror of itself defined : 

Look on the picture ! deem it not o'ercharged — 

There is no trail which might not he enlarged: 

Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made 

This monster when their mistress left otf trade, 

This female dogstar of her little sky, 

Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 

Oh! wretch without a tear — without a thought, 

Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 

The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou 

Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now ; 

Feel for thv vile self-loving self in vain, 

And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 

Mav the strong curse of crush'd affections light 

Back on thy bosom with reflected blight! 

And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 

As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 

Till all thy self-thoughts curdle inlo hate, 

Black — as thy will for others would create: 

Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, 

And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 

Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, — 

The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread! 
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven 7.1th 
prayer, 

Look on thine earthly victims — and despair! 
p, iwn to the dust !— and, as thou rott'st away, 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous day. 
But for the love I bore, and still must bear, 
To her thy malice, from all ties would tear — 
Thv name — thy human name — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn should hang on high, 
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers — 
And festering in the infamy of years. 



TO • 



1. 

When all around grew drear and dark, 

And reason half withheld her ray — 
And hope hut shed a dying spark 

Which more misled my lonely way; 
2. 
In that f^eep midnight of the mind, 

And that internal strife of heart, 
When dreading to be deem'd too kind, 

The weak despair — the cold depart J 
3. 
When fortune changed — and love fled far 

And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast 
Thou wert the solitary star 

Which rose and set not to the last. 
4. 
Oh ' blest be thine unbroken light! 

That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, 
And stood between me and lhe night, 

For ever shining sweetly nigh 



' Mrf- Oirlmout. 



, Mn. I.eijh. 



196 



POEMS. 



And when the cloud upon us came, 

"Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 

Then purer spread its gentle flame, 
And dash'd the darkness all away. 

6. 

Slill may thy spirit dwell on mine, 

And teach it what to brave or brook — 

Thero 's more in one soft word of thine 
Than in the world's defied rebuke. 

7. 

Thou stood'st, as stanHs a lovely tri ■ , 
That still unbroke, though genily bent, 

Still waves with fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monument. 

8. 
The winds might rend — the skies might pour, 

But there thou werl — and still would'st be 
Devoted in the stormiest hour 

To shed iby weeping leaves o'er me. 
9. 
But thou and thine shall know no blight, 

Whatever fate on me may fall; 
For heaven in sunshine will requi'o 

Tile kind — and thee the must of all. 

10. 

Then let the ties of baiiled love 

Be broken — thine will never break ; 
Thy hear' can feel — bin will not move; 

Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 
11. 
And these, when all was lost beside, 

Were found and stili are ftx'd in thee — 
And bearing still a breast go tried) 

Earth is no desert — ev'n to me. 



ODE. 
[from the i.a:.Nca.] 
I. 
We '1" nol curse thee, Waterloo! 
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew; 
There 'l was shed, but is not sunk — 
Rising from each gory trunk, 
Like '.he Water-spoul from ocean, 
With a strong and growing motion — 
It soars, and mingles in the air, 

With that of lost LABEDOYERE — 
With that of him whose honour'd grave 
Contains the "bravest of the brave." 
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 
But shall return to whence it rose ; 
When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder — 
Never vet was heard su»:h thunder 

As then shall shake the world with wonder — 

Never vet waa ightning 

As o'er heaven shall then be brightening ! 

Like the Wormwood Star foretold 

By the tainted Seer of old, 

ShowYmg down a fiery flood, 

Turning rivers into blood. 6 

IT. 

The Chief has fallen, but not by you, 

Vanquishers of Waterloo! 

When the soldier citizen 

Sway'd not o'er his fellow men — 

Save in deeds that led ihem on 

Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son — 

Who, of all the despots banded, 

With that youthful chief competed? 

Who could boast o'er France defeated, 
y*U lone Tyranny commanded? 



Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
The Hero sunk into the King / 
Then he fell : — So perish all, 
Who would nun by man enthral. 



And thou too of the snow-white plume! 

A V hose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb ; T 

Better hadst thou still been leading 

France o'er h sts of hirelings bleeding 

Than s to death and shame 

For a meat name ; 

Such a 

Who thv blood-bought title b 

Little didst thou deem, when dashing 

On thv war-horse through the ranks, 

Like a stream wl i banks, 

sabres c ashing 
Shone and shiverd last around thee — 

■ fate at last which found thee : 
Was thai ■ lume laid low 

By a blow .' 

Once — as o'er, the tide, 

li roll'd in a ir, ' he wari i i a guide ; 
Through i night 

Of the black and sulphurous 
i tidier raised his 
To catch that crest's ascendancy, — 
And, as it onw ard rolli 
So moved his heart upon <-ur foes, 
There, whi re d ath's brief pang was quickest, 
And the battle's wreck lay thtel est, 
Strew ' cing banner 

Of the eagk 's burning cresl — 
(There with thundei - n her, 

Who could then hi si — 

Victory beaming from her breast?) 
While the broken lin 

Fell, or Bed along the pi 
'1 :. chai ging 

There he ne'er shall charge agssn ! 



O'er glories gone the invaders march, 
Weeps Ti iu nph o'er e i :h levull'd arch — 
Bui let Freed im rejoice, 
\\ iih her heart in her w i 
But, her hand on her sword, 
Doubly shall she be adore I ; 
Fiance has twice too well been taught 
The "moral lesson 11 dearly bought — 
Her Bafel p si - nol on a throne, 
With Cai'kt or Napoleon! 
But in equal rights ami laws, 
Hearts and hands in one great cause- 
Freedom, such as God hath 
Unto all beneath his heaven] 
With their breath, and from their birth) 
Though i iuill would sweep il from the earth; 
With a three and lavish hand 
Scattering nations' wealth like sand; 
Pouring nations' blood like water, 
In imperial seas of slaughter ! 



But the heart and the mind, 
voice "l" mankind, 

Shall arise in communion — 
And who shall resist 'hat proud union? 
The time is past when swords subdued- 
Man may die — the soul^ ranewM: 
Even in this low world of care 
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir ; 
Millions breathe but to inherit 
Her for ever bounding spirit— 



POEMS. 



197 



When once more her hosts assemble 
Tyrants shall believe and tremble — 
Smile they at this idle threat ? 
Crimson tears will follow yet. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 

ALL WEPT, BTT PARTICULARLY SAVARY, AN'D A POLISH 
OFFICER WHO HAD BEEN EXALTED FROM TUB RANKS CV 
B ONAPARTB. HE CI.L'NG TO HIS MASTER'S KNEES; 
WROTE A LETTER TO LORD KEITH, ENTREATING PER 
US 310N TO ACCOMPANY HIM. EVES IN THE MOST 
MENIAL CAPACITY, WHICH COULD NOT BE ADMITTED. * 

1. 

Must thou ^0, my glorious Chief, 

Sever'd from thy "faithful few ' 

Who can tell thy warrior's grief^ 

ning o'er that long adieu? 
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, 
Dear as both have been to me — 
What are they to all I feel, 
With a soldiers faith for tliee? 
2. 

Idol of the soldier's soul ! 

First in fight, bur mightiest now: 
Many could a world control ; 

Thee alone no doom can bow. 
By thy side for years I dared 

Death; and envied those v. ho fell, 
When their dying shout was heard, 

Blessing him they served so well. 8 

'3. 
Would that I were cold with those, 

Since this hour I live to see; 
When the doubts of coward foes 

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, 
Dreading each should set thee free! 

Oh ! although in dungeons pent, 
All their chains were light to me, 

Gazing on thy soul unbent, 

4. 

Would the sycophants of him 

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, 
Were his borrowed glories dim, 

In his Dative darkness share ? 
Were that world this hour his own, 

All thou calmly dost resign, 
Could he purchase with that throne 

Hearts Like those which still are thine? 
5. 
My chief! m y kin», my friend, adieu! 

Never did I droop before ; 
Never to my sovereign sue, 

As his foes I now implore: 
All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave ; 
Sharing by the hero's 

His fall, his exile, and his grave. 



ON THE STAR OF « THE LEGION OF 
HONOUR.* 

[FROM THE FRENCH.] 
I. 

Star of the brave! — whose beam hath shed 

Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 

Thou radiant and adorod ■'■■ 

Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, — 

Wild meteor of immortal birth '. 

Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth? 

2. 
Souls of slain heroes fbrra'd thy rays ; 
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze ; 



The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honour here 
And thy light broke on human eyes, 
Like a Volcano of the skies. 

3. 
Like lava rolPd thy stream of blood, 
And swept down empires with its flood; 
i ' i- 1< k'd beneath th.ee to her base, 
As th iu didst U. hten thrtrtigh a!! space, 
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, 
And set while thou wert dwelling there. 



Before Ihee rose, and with thee grew, 

A rainbow of the loveliest hue 

Of three Bright colour?, 8 each divine, 

And fit for that celesrial sien; 

For Freedom's hand had blended them, 

Like tints in an immortal gem. 

5. 

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes; 
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes; 
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
Had robed in radiance of its light : 
| led did beseem 

tlure of a heavenly da-am. 

6. 
Star of the brave! thy ray is pale, 
And darkness must again prevail ! 
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free! 
Our tf-ars and hi<md must How for thee. 
When thy bright promise fades away, 
Our life u but a load of clay. 

7. 
And Freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead ; 
For beautiful in death are they 
Who proudly fall in her array; 
And soon, oh Goddess ! may we be 
For evermore with them or ihee! 



NAPOLEONS FAREWELL. 

[FROM THE FRENCH.] 

1. 

Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory 
Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — - 
She abandons me now — but the page of her story 

blest or blackest, is fiU'd with mv fame. 
I have warr'd with a world which vanquished me only 
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far$ 
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely 
The last single Captive to millions in war. 

2. 
Far- well to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown'd me, 
I ma le thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — 
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, 
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 
(>h! for the veteran hearts that were wasted' 
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won— 
Then the Eagle, whose craze in that moment was blasted, 
Had still soar'd with eyes ii\*d on victory's sun! 

3. 
Farewell to thee, France! — but when Liberty rallies 
Once more in thy regions, rem :mber me then — 
The violet still grows m ihe depth of thy valleys; 
Though, withered, thy tears will unfold it again — 
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 
And yet mav thy heart leap awake to my voice- 
There are links which must break in the chain thai 

lias bound us, 
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice; 



198 



POEMS. 



WRITTEN ON A Hl.ANK LEAF OF "THE 
PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 

Absent orrrcsent, still to thee, 

My friend, what magic spells belong! 
As all can Lell, who share, ike me, 

III turn thy r. rr. I r ■ i . and ihj KH 

But when the dreaded bour shall 

By Friendship svei deem'd too nigh, 
And "Memorv" o'er her Druids tomb 

Shall weep thai aughl of thee can die, 
How fondly will she then repay 

Thy homage offered at hei shrine, 
And blend, while ages roll away, 

Her name immortally with thine! 

Apnl 19, 1S12 



SONNET. 
Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — and do Stacl — 
10 JLeman! thi se names are worthy of thy shore, 
Thy shore of names like these ! werl thou no more, 

Their mentorv thy remrmbrauee woul I recall; 
To them thy banks were lovely as to all, 

Hut they have made them lovelier, fur the lore 

Of mighty minds duih hallow in the core 
Of human bear's the ruin of a wall 

Where dwelt the wise and wond'rous ; bul by thee 
How much more, Lake of Beauty ! do we feel, 

In sweetly gliding o'er thy chrysial Bea, 
'J'lie wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 

Which of the hens of immortality 
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real! 



STANZAS TO .* 

1. 
Though the day of my destiny \s over, 

And the star of my fate bath declined, 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 

It shrunk not to share it with me, 
And the love which my spirit haul painted 

It never hath found bul in thte. 
?. 
Then when nature around me is smiling, 

The hist smile which answers to mine, 

I do not believe it beguiling, 
Because it reminds me of thine; 

And when winds art- at war with the ocean, 
As the breasts I believed in with me, 

II their billows excite an emotion. 

It is that they bear me from thee. 
3. 
Though, the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
Though I feel thai my soul is delivered 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me: 

They may crush, but they shall nol contemn— 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 

T is of Oiee that I think- not of I 
4. 
Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 

Though woman, thou didsl not P ■ 
Though loved, thou forbore I re ma, 

Though shin. ler'd, ihou never cnuldst shake, — 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 

Though parttd, it was not to fly, 
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 

Nor, mute, that the world might belie. 



* flli ilslrr, M.«. I A 'i£li. 



Vet I blame nol the world, nor despise it, 

Nor the war of the many with one — 
If my soul was not fitted t<> prize it, 

folly nol sooner to shun : 

And it' dearly that error ha i o m< , 

And more than I once could I 1 1 
I have found that, whatever ii lost me, 

l could nol deprive m-' of i -t. 
6. 
e wreck oflhe past, which bath perish'd, 

Thus much 1 at leasl maj 
It 1 ath taught me thai whai I most cherish'd 

Deserved to be dearest of all: 
In the desert a fountain is springs 

l-i the wide waste there still is a tree, 
Atul a bird in th( itud in in '. 

\\ hich speaks to my spirit of (ftee. 



DARKNESS. 

I had a dream, which was not a'l a dream. 

The b r ight sun was extinguished, and the stars 

t >nl wander darkling in the eternal 

i ; .. ■-. < .■ : .1 patl e ■■. and the icy earth 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; 

Morn came, and went— and came, and brought no day. 

And men fbrgol their passions in the dread 

Of this iheir desolaU m ; and all warts 

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer f r 

And they did live bj —and the thrones, 

The i 1 ses of crowned kings — the huts, 

The habitations of all tl 

Were buml for beacons; cities were consumed, 

An I or ri were gathered round their blazing homes 

To l"' k once moi e u to i at h i 

Eittppy were lhoe< who dwell within the eye 

Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: 

A fearful hope was all the world contained; 

Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 

They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 

uish'd with a crash— and all was black. 
The brow-; of men by tin- despairing light 
Woi ■ an unea 

The Rashes fell upon them; some lay down 
And hid their eye-; and wepl ; and some did rest 
Their chins up >n th sir clenched hand-, and smiled; 
And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
Their funeral piles with fi el, and look'd up 
With mad disquietude on the dull -' v 
The pall of a pasl world ; and then ■ 
With curses cast them down upon the dust, 
And gnash'd their teeth and howled: the wild birds 

shi iek'dj 
And, ten ified, di I flutter on the ground, 
Vnd flap their us< '■- m in ; the w ildesl brutes 
Came tam< and tremulous; and vipers crawlti 
An I tw led ves anion:' the ■ 

H Lhey w i re slain for food : 

And War, which fbl B ■ ■<-■ 00 more, 

Did glut himself again; — a meal was bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 

elf in :* "in : n i love was left , 
Ul earth wa i it— and that was death, 

I mm dia ■ >us ; and the ; ang 

■ ■ line i : d upon all entrails — men 
Died, and their bones were tombless as (hew Bash, 
Tip' ni'-a'jre bv the meagre were devourti, 
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 

And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds and beasts and faroish'd men at bay, 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
Lured thoir lank jaws; himself sought out no food, 
But with a piteous and perpetual moan, 






POSMS. 



199 



And a quick desolate Cry, licking the hand 

Which answer 1 J not with a caress — he died. 

The crowd was famish M by degrees ; but two 

Of an enormous city did survive. 

And they were enemies ; they met beside 

The dying embers of an attar-place 

"Where had been hcap'd a mass of holy tilings 

For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 

And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 

The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 

I r a Utile life, and made a flame 
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up 
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died — 
Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, 
The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— 
A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, 
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd 
They slept on the abyss without a sur«e — 
The waves were dead ; the ti led were m their grave, 
The moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 
The winds were wi'her'd in the stagnant air, 
And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had no need 
Of aid from them — She was the universe. 



With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, 
On that Old Sexton's natural homilv, 
In which there was Obscurity and Fame, 
The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. 

A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. 

I stood beside the grave of him who blazed 

The comet of a season, and I saw 

The humblest of all sepulchres, and eazed 

With not the less of sorrow and of awo 

On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 

With name no clearer than the names unknown, 

Which lay unread around it; and I ask'd 

The Gardener of that ground, why it might bo 

That for tins plant strangers his memory LaskM 

Through the thick deaths of half a century ; 

And thus he answer'd — " Well, I do not know 

Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; 

He died before my day "f Sextonshtp, 

And I had not the digging of this grave." 

And is this all? I thought, — and do we rip 

The veil of Immortality ? and era 

I know not what of honour and of light 

Through tinhorn a^es, to endure this blight? 

So soon and so successless? As I said, 

The Architect of all on which we tread, 

For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 

To extricate remembrance from the clay, 

Whose roingUngs might confuse a Newton's thought 

Were it not that all life must end in one, 

Of which we are hut dreamers;— as he caught 

As t were the twilight of a former Sun, 

Thus spoke he, — "I believe the man of whom 

You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 

Was a most famous writer in his day, 

And therefore travellers step from out their way 

To pav him honour, — and myself whaie'er 

Your honour pleases," — then most pleased I shook 

From out my pocket's avaricious nook 

Some certain coins of silver, which as 't were 

Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 

So much but inconveniently ; — Ye smile, 

I see ve, ve profane ones! all the while, 

Because my homelv phrase the truth would tell. 

Vou are the fools, not I — for I did dwoll 



THE DREAM. 

i. 
Our life is twofold ; Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reality, 
And dreams in their developement have breath, 
And tear.-;, and tortures, and the touch of jov ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
They do divide our being; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our lime, 
And look like heralds Df eternity ; 
They pass like spirits of the pas', — they speal* 
Like sibyls of the future ; they have power 
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
They make us what we were not — what they will 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
The dread of vanished shadows — Are they so? 
Is not the past all shadow? What are thev ? 
Creations of the mind .' — The mind can mako 
Substance, and people planets of i*3 own 
With beings brighter than have been ana s"n« 
A breath to forms which can outlive ad flesh. 
I would recall a visum which I dream'd 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years. 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 

ii. 
I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Green and of mild declivity, the last 
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so hVd, 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man: 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
Fair as herself— but tl e boy pa xd on her ; 
And both were young and one was beautiful : 
And both were young — yet not alike in vouth 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far out«rrown his years, and to his eve 
There was but one beloved face on earth, 
And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
He had no brea'h, nor being, but in hers ; 
She was his voire ; he did not speak to her, 
But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw- with hers, 
Which colour'd all his objects; — he had ceased 
To live within himself; she was his life, 
The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
Which terminated all: upon a tone, 
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and How. 
And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 
Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
But she in lh<iFe fond feelings had no share : 
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was 
Kven as a bn ther — h:' no m ire ; t ua* much 
For Hp.thefless she *as. save in the name 



200 



POEM*. 



Her infant friendship had bestowVl on liim ; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Ofa time-honourd race. — It was a name 

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why ? 

Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 

Another ; even now she loved another, 

And on the summit of that hill she stood 

Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 

Kept pace with her expectancy, aiid flew. 

in. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd ; 
Within an antique Oratory stood 
The Boy of whom I spake: — lie was alone, 
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon 
He sale him down, and seized a pen, and tr.ie.rl 
Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
With a convulsion — then arose again, 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What lie had written, but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet : as he paused, 
The Lady of his love rc-enfer'd there; 
She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 
^For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
^Vas darUcn'd with her shadow, and she saw 
That he was wretched, but she saw not alt. 
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 
For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 
From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 

IV. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his Soul drank their sunbeams: lie was rl 
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not 
Himself like what he had been; on the Bea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
Tlnre was a mass of many inn 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all : and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the name* 
Of those who rear'd them; by hit slfl spin ; side 

• s ' I camels grazing, nnd some goodly 

Were fasten'd near a fountain ; ami a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slutnber'd around : 
And they were canopied by the blue 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 

v. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love was wed with Ono 
Who did not love her belter: — in her home, 
A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 
I laughters aiid sons of Beauty,— but behold! 
Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
And an unquiet drooping of the eye 
As if us lid were charged with unshed tears. 
\\ hut (.uiild her £nef be 7 — she had all she loved, 



And he who had so loved her was not there 
To troulr* with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
Or ill-reprcss'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not, 
Nor given aim cause to deem himself beloved, 
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
Upon her mind — a spectre of die past. 

VI. 

A chanqe came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
1 n Wandera was retum'd. — I saw him stand 
Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 

was fur, but was not dial which mado 
I of lis Boyhood ; — as he stood 

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there camo 
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique Oratory shook 

'id' 1 ; ami then — 

As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Whs braci dy — and then it l'At\^i as it came, 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

■ ,. . v..-.- s, bul hi ard n m words, 

reel'd around him ; he could sec 
Nut thai which was, n<>r that which should have beon- 
But the old mansion, and the accustoni'd hall, 
And the remembcr*d chambers, and the place, 

, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 
All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
And her who was hi? destiny, 'Mine back 
Ind thrust ihemselves between him and the light: 
What business had they there at such a lime ? 

VII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love ; — Oh! she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 

,i ore its '!■■'■ i '"i ■, ui I hei 
They had not tin ir own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth : she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms impalpable and unpereeived 
Of others' si^ht familiar w< r-e to hers. 
And this the world calls phrensy ; but the wise 
Have a fir deeper madness, nnd the glance 
i If melancholy is a fearful gift : 

What is n hut the telesco] f truth? 

Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
And brings life near in inter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality loo real! 

VI II. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The \\ anderer was alone as heretofore. 
The beinge which surrounded him were gone, 

iii v. ' i' at war wjih him ; he was a mark 

I '. i] bli hi .hi 1 de lolation] compas 'd round 
With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd 

In all winch was served up t.i him, i I 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days," 

1 they had ii«' ; 
Bui were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 
Through that which ath to many men, 

\n I made him friends of mountains: with the stars 
And the quick Spirit of the Universe 
He held his dialogues; and they did teach 

en ihe magic of their mysteries; 
To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 
And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 
A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 

tt. 
My dream was past ; It had no further change. 
It was of a strange order, that the doom 
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
Almost like a reality — 'he one 
To end in madness-^- both in misery. 






POEMS. 



201 



PROMETHEUS. 



Titian! to whoso immortal eyea 

The sufferings of mortality, 

Seen ill their sad reality, 
\\ • re nol as things that gods despise; 
What was thy pity's recompense? 
\ silent Buffering and intense; 
The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
All that the proud can feci of pain. 
rhe agonj thev do not show, 
The suffocating sense of wo, 

Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until its voice is echoless. 



Titian! to thee the strife was given 
Between the suffering and the will, 
Which torture where they cannot kill; 

And the inexorable Heaven, 

And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 

The ruling principle of Hate, 

Which for its pleasure doth create 
The tilings i( may annihilate. 

Refused thee even the boon to die: 

The wretched gift eternity 

Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 

All thai the Thunderer wrung from thee, 

\\ ;ls hni the menace which (lung back 

On him the torments of thy rack^ 



ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO 



SITIO V TOMA DE ALIIAMA. 
El qual dezia en Aravigo atsi. 

1. 

Passeavase el Rey Moro 
Por la citidad de Granada 
Desde las puertas de Elvira 

lljsta las de Bivarambla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

2. 

■ i i le fueron renidas 
Que Alliaina era ganada. 
Las cartas echo en el fuego, 

Y al mensagero matava. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

3. 

Descavalga de una inula, 

Y en uncavallo cavatga. 
Por el Zaeiitin arriha 
Subido se avia al Alhambra. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

4. 
OVimo en cl Alhambra estuvo. 
Al mismo punto mandava 
Que tiompetas 

Con afialiles de [data. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

5. 

Y que atamhores do guerra 
Apriessa toquen alajma ; 

1 '(»!■ que lo oygan sus IVforosj 

Los de la Vega y Granada. 

Ay de nu, Alhama! 
2 A 



The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
But would not to appease him tell; 
And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 
And in Ids Soul a vain repentance. 
And evil dread so ill dissembled 
That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 

in. 
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 

To renuer with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness. 
And strengthen Man with his own mind ; 
But baffled as thou wert from high, 
Still in thy patient energy, 
In the endurance, and repulse 

Oi thine impenetrable Spirit, 
"Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, 

A mighty lesson we inherit : 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To Mortals of their fate and force ; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny; 
His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
And his sad unallied existence: 
To which his Spirit may oppose 
Itself — an equal to all woes, 

And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concenter' d recompense, 
Triumphant where it dares defy, 
And malting Death a Victory. 



A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD 

ON THE 

SIEGE AND CONHUEST OF ALHAMA. 

Y,'h'ch, in the Arabic language, ie to the following purport. 

[The effect, of the original ballad {which existed both in Spanish tmtf 

Arabic) wiii such that it was lorbiddcu to be sung by the Moort, on 

[jin of death, within Granada.] 

1. 

The Moorish King; rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 



Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell ; 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

3. 

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
And through the street directs his course; 
Through die street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Wo is me, Alhama 



When the Alhambra walls he gaui'd, 
On the moment he ordain'd 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 



And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain, 

Wo is me, Aihama ! 



202 



POEMS. 



6. 

IiOa Moros que cl son oyeron, 
Q,uc al sangriento Mule llama, 
Uno a lino, y dos a dos, 
Un gran esquadron formavan. 

Ay da mi, Albania! 


6. 
Then the Moors by this aware 
Thai bloody Mars,recalfd them there, 
One by one, and two by two, 
To a might} squadron grew, 

V. o is m<', Alhama ! 


7. 
Alii hablo un Moro viejo; 
i testa manera hablava: — 
Pore que dos llamas, Key? 
Para que es e rte Uamada .' 

Ay de un, Alhama! 


7. 

Out then spa 1 Moor 

In these words the king bt 

■ Wherefore call on us, oh Km ' 

iniy mean ibis gath 

\\ o is me, Alliama! 


8. 
Aveys de saber, amigos, 
Una nueva desdichada: 
Que ChrisUanos, con braveza, 
Ya dos han tornado Alhama. 

Ay de un, Albania! 


8. 
"Friends ! , \ \,, know 
Of a mo . i- blow, 
Thai l i ns, su rn and b 
Have obtain'd Albania's 

\\ o i in- , Alliama! 


9. 
Alii hablo un riejo Alfaqui, 
De barba crectda y cana : — 
Bieo Be le emplea, buen Key, 
liuen Key; bien se Le empleava. 
Ay de mi, Alhama! 


9. 
Oui ■' i ■ [d AUaqui, 
With hi b and bo w 1 ite to see, 
"Good King ! thou an justly sen i d, 

Good King! this thou hast deserved. 

W'u i 3 me, Alhama! 


10. 
Mataste los Bencerrages, 
1 X le era la ilor de Granada ; 
1 '■ ' fiste los tornadizos 
De Cordova la nombrada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 


10. 
'■ l'\ thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The, Abencerrage, G lower, 
And were i eceived by thee 
Of Cordova th< 1 'hivairy. 

\\ o is mo, Alhama! 


11. 
Por csso mereccs, li> v, 
i .i i [jene bien dob 
Que le pierdas tu y el reyn 

Y que se piorda 1 Granada. 

Ay » 1* ■ mi, Alhama ! 

12. 

Si no se respetan le 

Es ley que 1 do Be pierda ; 

Y que se pierda Grona la, 

Y que te pierdas en olla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 


11. 
"And fir lh« 

On the< i i ■ ement : 
i e and thine, thj crowi 
One last wrei 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

12. 

*He who holds no laws in awe, 
He musl pert! law ; 
And l ti sna Is mu 1 bi won, 
And thyself with her uud< 

"Wo is me, Albania ! 


13. 
Fuego por los ojos vierto, 
El Rev que esto oyera. 


13. 
Fire flash'd from oul the old Moor's ajros, 
The Monarch^ wrath began to rise, 



Y como el otro de Leyes 
Do leyes tambien hablava. 

Ay de mi, Albania! 

14. 

Sabe un Rcy que no ay leyes 
De darle a R ■•>. — 

Esso dize el Roy Moro 
Keiinchando de colera. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

15. 

Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, 
El de la vellida barba, 
El Key te manda prender, 
Por la perdida de Albania. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

16. 

Y cortnrtc la < 

Y ponerla en el Alliambra, 
Por que a ti castigo sea, 

Y otros tieinblen en mirulla. 

Ay dc mi, Alhama! 



... . nd I 

tic spake exceeding well of laws. 

Wo i ■ me, Alhama! 

II. 
B There i no law to saj Buch things 
As may disgust the : — 

Thus, snorting with Ins chuler, said 
The Moorish King, and dooro'd turn dead. 
W o is me, Alliama J 

15. 
Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! 
I'' o i : ' thj beaj d so b >ai f be, 
The King hath sent to have thee seized, 
For Albania's loss displeased, 

\Vo is i no, Albania! 

1G. 

And to fix ili\ head upon 
1 Ugh Athambj ;A loftiest stone ; 
That this for thee should be the law, 
And others tremble when they saw. 

U o is me, Alhama! 



POEMS. 



203 



17. 

Cavalleros, hombrcs bi 
Dezid de rni parte al Rey, 
Al Rey Moro de Granada, 
Como no le devo nada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

13. 
Dc averse Aliiama pcrdido 
A mi nn 1 pesa en el alma. 
Que si el Rey perdib su tierra, 
Giro mucho mas perdiera. 

Ay de mi, Aliiama! 

19. 
Penlieran hijos padres, 

Y casados las casadas 

I, as cosas que rnas amara 
Perdiu 1 un v el otro fama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

20. 
Perdi una hija donzeHa 
Q,ue era la flor d' csta tierra, 
Cien doblas dava por ella, 
No mc las estimo en nada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

21. 

Dizicndo assi al hacen Alfaqui, 
Le cotaron la cabeca, 

Y la elevan al Aliiambra, 
Assi come cl Rey lo matula. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

2-2. 

Hombres, nifinsy mueeres, 
Lloran tan grande perdida. 
Lloravan todas las damas 
duantas en Granada avia. 

Ay de mi, Aliiama ! 

2J. 
Por las calles y ventanas 
Mucho Into parecia ; 
Llora el Rey como femora, 
Q.u' cs mucho lo que perdia. 

Ay de mi, Aliiama ! 



17. 
u Cavalier, and man of worth! 
Let these words of mine go form ; 
Let tlie MoorUli Monarch know, 
That to him [ nothing owe ; 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

18. 
"Rut on my soul Albania v. I 
And on my inmost spirit pro - , 
And if the King Ins land ha 
Vel others may have lost the most. 

Wo is in", Alhama! 

19. 
"Sires have lost their children, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives; 
One whaJ best his love might claim 
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 

Wo is me, Alhamal 

20. 
" I lost a damsel in that ho 
Of all the land the loveliest Mower; 
Doubloons a hundred I would payj 
And think her ransom cheap that day. 1 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

21. 
And as thes< things the old Moor said, 
They si ver\i from the trunh hi head ; 

And to the AUiambra's wall with speed 
'T was carried, as the King < 

Wo is me, Aliiama' 

22. 

And men and infants therein ween 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 
Granada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 

23. 
And from the windows o'er the walls 
i b of mourning falls ; 

as a woman o'er 
i lor it is much and sore. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 



SONETTO DI VITTORELLL 

PER MOSACA. 

Soti>*tf> omp<v»lniii ruime ''i un BMlitore, a . pncoirniBDU 

,, »i(itiia manlala ; d direuo al geitilore dJla sac. 

J3i due va^he donzelle, oneste, accorte 
Lied un 'Ti padri il ciel ne feo, 
II ciel, che dej^ne di piu nobil sorte 
L 1 una e 1' altra ve^gendo, ambo chiedeo. 

La mia fu tolta da veloce morte 
A le fumanii lede d 1 imeneo: 
La tua, Francesco, in sujicllate porte 
Eterna prij,'ioniera or si renrieo. 

Ma tu altneno potrai de la gelosa 
uremeabil sogba. ove s' asconde, 
La sua tern ra udir voce pietosa. 

lo verso un fiume d' amarissim 1 onda, 
Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa, 
BattOj e nbatto, ma ncssutt rispondc. 



TRANSLATION FROM ViTTORELLI 



i, iht mime of a father who.w daughter hail r«*ntrr 
iwl luiiie lalJier ol her who 

■ 

Of two fair virgins, modi ■'. though admired, 

Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires, 
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, 
And gazing upon other, both required. 

Mine, wlule the U rch of Hymen newly fired 

Becom i extin —expires: 

But thine, ■ irate retired, 

Eternal captive, to her < rod aspires. 

But thou ai 1 ; " r * 

VVhii h huts between your never-meeting eyes, 
May's! hear her sweel and pious voice once more: 

] marble where uighter lies, 

H ,],),, — the oil ! m ■■ I pour 

And knock] and knock, and knock — hut none replies. 



204 



POEMS. 



i>im<: 



Oh Venice Venice! when thy marble walls 

Are level whh the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thv sunken I 

■ ! lament along the sweeping ea 
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
"What should thy sons do / — any thing but weep: 
And yel they otiry murmur in their sleep! 
In contrast with their fathers— as the slime) 
The dull green ooze of thi ■ • \>, 

Is with the dashing of th< foam 

That drives the sailor shipless to his home, 
Are they to those that were ; and thus iln-y era i 
f'miieluiiL' and crab-like, through their sapping streets. 

Oh! agony — that centuries should reap 

No mellower harvest ! Thirteen bun In d 

(i| wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears; 

And every monument the stranger meets, 

Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; 

And even the Lion all subdued appears, 

And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 

With duil and daily dissonance, repeats 

The echo of thv tyrant's voice along 

Tho soft waves, once all musical to song, 

That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng 

Of gmidnlas — and to the busy hum 

Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 

"VVerc but the overheating of the heart, 

And How of too much happiness, which needs 

The aid of age to turn its course apart 

Prom the luxuriant and voluptuous Hood 

Of sweel sensations, battling with the blood. 

But lie' e an tx tfc r than the gloomy errors, 

Tho weeds of nations in their last decay, 

When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, 

And Mirth is madness, and hut smiles to slay; 

And Hope is nothing but a false delay, 

The sick mans lightning half an hour err death. 

When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 

And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 

Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, 

Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away 

5 \ i 10 relieving the o'er-tortured clay, 

T" lniii appears renewal of his breath, 

And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; — 

And then he talks of life, and how again 

H his spirits soaring— albeit weak, 

And of the fresher air, which be would seek; 

And :i he whispers knows not that he gasps, 

Thai In', thin linger feels not what it clasps, 

the film comes o'er him— and the dizzy 
Chamber swims round and round — and shadows busy, 
At which he vainly catches, Hit and -Nam, 

Till the last rattle chokes the Strangled stream, 
And all is ice and blackness,— and the earth 
That which it was the moment ere our birth. 



There is no hope for nations! -Search the page 
I M' many thousand years — the dailj ■■■ i m , 

The How and ebb of each recurring 
The everlasting to he which hath been, 
Had) taught us naiigjhl 01 little: still we lean 

On lime's thai <■ mt weight, and wear 

Our strength away in wrestling with tho air; 

For 'tis our nature strikes us down: the lit i 

Slaughti r*d in hourly hi catombj for feasts 

Are of as high an order — they must go 

Even u here their driver goads them, though to slaughter. 
your blood fi r Ling? as water, 

What have they given your children in return/ 

A heritage of servitude and wot , 

A buodfokl bondage, where your hire is blows. 



What ! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, 
OVr which you stumble in a false ordeal, 
And deem this proof of loyalty the real; 

the hand that guides you to your scars, 
And glorying ;is you tread the glowing bars? 
All that your sires have left you, all that Time 
Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, 

Spring from a duTorenl theme! — Ye see and read, 
Admire and sigh, and Bib and bleed! 

Save the few sp lespite of all, 

\nd wi in a the suddi n crimes engBndarV) 

By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, 
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tenderVI, 

: from Freedoi is — when the crowd, 

Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud, 
And trample on each other to obtain 
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
Heavy and a ire,— in which long yoked they plough'd 
The sand.— or if there sprung the yellow- gram, 
T was ii"i for them, their d ■ much bow'd, 

And their dead pa! i: he cud of pain : — 

STes! the few spirits — who, despite of deeds 
Which they abhor, confound not with the i 
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, 
Which, like the pe tilence and earthquake, smite 
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 
With all hi r seasons to repair the bli«ht 
With a few summers, and again put forth 
Cities and generations— fair, when free — 
For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee! 



Glory arid Empire! once upon these towers 

With Freed >m — godlike Triad ! how 
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 

When Venice was an envy, might abate. 

But did not quench, her spirit — in her fato 
All were enwrapp'd: thi feasted monarchs knew 

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, 
Although they humbled — with the kingly few 
The many felt, for from all days and climes 

r's worship; — even her crimes 
\\ i re of tb "her order — born of Love, 

She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, 

But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread; 
For thee s restored thi < Iross, that from ab 
he u i ni j bannei s, w bich in* i 
Flew bet wei n i ai th .1 id the unholy Crescent, 
Which, if 11 waned an I dwindled, Earth may thank 
The city ii has clothed in chains, which clank 
Now, creaking in the 1 irs of thosi who owe 
The name of Freedom to her glorious stru 
\ et she but shares r ith them a common wo. 
And call'd the "kingdom" of a conquering foey— 
But knows what all— and, most of all, ta knon — 
With what set gilded terms ■ tyranl juggles! 



The name of Commonwealth is past and gone 

O'er the three fractions of the groaning j 
Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 

■ '-. and 1 ndun - the purple robe ; 
It' ihr i' , alone 

His cbainles mountains, 'tis but for a time, 
For tyranny of late is cunning '.Town, 
And in its own good season tramples down 
1 .11 Ides of our ashes. I Ine _ 1 at 1 

Whose vigorous offspring by dividing 00 
Are kepi apart and nursed in the devotion 
Of Freedom, which their lathers fought for, and 
Bi queath'd —a heritage of heart and hand, 
And proud distinction from each other laud, 
Whose sons mus i at a monarch's motion, 

As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 



POEMS. 



205 



Full of the magic of exploded science — 

Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 

Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, 

Above the far Atlantic! — She has taught 

Rer Esau-brethren that the haughty Ha", 

The Boating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 

May strike t.» those whose red right hands have bought 

Rj . cheaply earn'd with blood. — Still, still, for ever 

Better] though each man's life blood were a river, 

That it should How, and overflow, than creep 



Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
I tamm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, 
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, 
Three paces, and then faltering: — better be 
\\ here the exl inguish'd Spartans still are free, 
In their proud enamel of Thermopyla?, 
Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
Fly, and one current to the ocean add, 
One spirit lo the souls our fathers had, 
One freeman more, America, to thee '. 



NOTES TO POEMS. 



Note 1, page 184. 

Written after swimming from Sextos to Abydos. 

On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain 
Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant 
Kkenhead of that frigate, and the writer of these 
rhymes, swam from the European shore to the Asiatic 
— by-the-bv, from Abydos to Sestos would have been 
more correct. The whole distance from the place 
whence we --tinted to our landing on the other side, 
including the length we were carried by the current, 
was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards 
of four English miles ; though the actual breadth is 
barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that 
no boat can row directly across, and it may in some 
measure be estimated from the circumstance of the 
whole distance being accomplished by one of the par- 
ties in an hour and five, and by the other in an hour 
and ten, minutes. The water was extremely cold from 
the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks 
before, in April, we had made an attempt, but having 
ridden all the way from the Troad the same morning, 
and the water being of an icy chilness, we found it 
iiv to postpone the completion till the frigate 
anchored below the castles, when we swam the straits, 
as just stat< d | entering a considerable way above the 
Eu an, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Che- 
valier says that a young Jew swam the same distance 
for his mistress ; and Oliver mentions its having been 
done by a Neapolitan ; but our consul, Tarragona, re- 
membered neither of these circumstances, and tried 
i i i suade us from the attempt. A number of the 
Salsette's crew were known to have accomplished a 
greater distance; and the only thing that surprised me 
ratertained of the truth 
of LeandcVs story, no traveller had ever endeavoured 
to ascertain its practicability. 

Note 2, page 1S5. 

Zu>ij uodj ads ayairiH. 

Zne mmi, una agapoj or 7.<Jn uoS, ad$ <Jymr(Ji, a Ro- 
naic expression of tenderness: if I translate it, I shall 
;itlYnnt the gentlemen, as it may seem that I suppose 
they could not ; and if I do not, I may affront the ladies. 
For fear of an; iction on the part of the latter 

I shall do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means, 
" Mv life, I love you! which sounds very prettily in all 

languages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at this 

d .. i | . ! ■■■-■ sus, the two first words were amon? 

i ■ ■■ R ■ i: -in la lies, whose exotic expressions were ah 

I I uized. 



', page 1S5, line 27. 

By nil tilt token-j] ' iti-era that leU. 

In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, 
lesl tin ■ Ibble assignations) Bowers, cinders, 

pebbles, &c. convey the sentiments of the parties by 
Ui.it universal deputy of Mercury — an old woman. A 



cinder says, " I burn for thee ;" a bunch of flowers tied 
with hair, " Take me and ny ;" but a pebble declares— 
what nothing else can. 

Note 4, page 185, line 33, 
Though Ijiy to JsiamboL 
Constantinople. 

Note 5, page 185, line 55. 
And the seven-hiWd city seeking. 
Constantinople. "'E7rrdAo0os." 

Note 6, page 196, line 49. 
Turning rivers into blood. 

See Rev. chap. viii. verse 7, &c. "The first angel 
sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with 
blood," &c. 

Verse 8. "And the second angel sounded, and as it 
were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into 
the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood," 

Verse 10. "And the third angel sounded, and there 
(ell a great star from heaven, burningas it were a lamp; 
and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon 
the fountains of waters." 

Verse 11. "And the name of the star is called Worm- 
wood: and the third part of the waters became worm- 
wood) and many men died of the waters, because they 
were made bitter." 

N te 7, page IdG, line 65. 
Whose realm refused thee even a tomb. 
Mural's remains are said to have been tern from the 
grave and burnt. 

Note 8, page 197, line 20. 
Blessing him they served so well. 
"At Waterloo one man was seen, whose left arm 
was shattered by a cannon ball, to wrench it off with 
the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed lo 
his comrades, 'Vive 'l'Empereur, jusqu'a la mart !' 
There were many other instances of the like; this you 
may, however, depend on as true.'' — A private Ltttei 
from Brussels. 

Note 9, page 197, line 65. 
Of three blight colours, each divine. 
The tri-colour. 

Note 10, page 198, line 14. 
Lemon ! these namt I are worthy of thy shore. 
Geneva, Ferney, Coppet, Lausanne. 

Note 11, page 200, line 126. 
fcifce ( i the Pontic Monarch of old days. 
Mithridatesof Pontus. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



'T is ibt iiintet ot\\fcgi*c» me mystic i 
And coming mala cast their shadows before." 

Campbell. 



DEDICATION. 
Ladv ! if for tlie cu!d and cloudy clime 

Where was I born, but where I would not die, 

Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy 
1 dare to build the imitative rhyme, 
Harsh Runic copy of the Souths sublime, 

Thou art the cause ; and howsoever I 

Fall short of his immortal harmony, 
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 

Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, 

Spatfst; and for thee to speak and beobey'd 
Are one; but only in the sunny South 

Such sounds are utterM, and such charms dispIayM, 
So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 

Ah ! to what effort would it nut persuade ? 
Ravenna, June SI, 1819. 



PREFACE. 

In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna in the 
summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author lhat hav- 
ing composed sometlung on the subject of Tasso's con- 
6nement, he should do the same mi Dante's exile — the 
tomb of the poet forming one of the principal objects of in- 
terest in that city, both to the native and to the stranger. 

"On this hint I spake," and the result has been the 
following four cantos, in ter/.a rima, now offered to the 
reader. If they are understood and approved, il is niv 
purpose to continue the poem in varous other cantos to 
its natural conclusion in the present age. The n 
requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in the 
iniiTvnl h.'Hvrrn the cond'i -inn nf the Diviua ( 'ommedia 
and his death, and shortly before the latter event, foretell- 
ing die fortunes of Italy in general in the ensuing centu- 
ries. In adopting this plan I have had in my mind the 
Cassandra of Lycophron, and the Prophecy of Nereus by 
Horace, as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The 
measure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, which I am 
not aware to have seen hitherto tried in our langua ■ ex- 
cept it may be by Mr. Hay ley, of whose translation I 
never saw but one extract^ quoted in the notes to Caliph 
Vathek ; so lhat — if I do not err — this poem may be 
considered as a metrical experiment. The cantos are 
short, and about the same length of iIiom- 1 tin i ■.,, t. 
whose name I have borrowed, and most probabl) 
in vain. 

Among the inconveniences of authors in uV present 
day, il is difficult lor any who have a name, good or had, 
to escape translation. 1 have had the fortune to ■• • the 
fourth canto of Chdde Harold translated into Italian versi 
sriolti— that is, a poem written in the Spcnaenan $tanxa 
into blank verse, without regard to the natural divisions of 
the Btanza, or of the sense. Ifthe present poem, being on 
a national topic should chance to undergo the same fate, 
I would request the Italian reader to remember that 
when I have failed in the imitation of his great "Padre 
AUghier" I have failed in imitating that which all study 
and few understand, since to this very day it is not yet 
settled what was the meaning of the allegory in the first 
canto of tho Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious 



and probable conjecture may be considered as having 
decided the question. 

lie may also pardon my failure the more, as I am not 
quite sure that he would he pleased with my PUCCeBB, 
since the Italians, with apardonable nationality, are par- 
ticularly jealous of all that is lefl thi m as a nation — their 
literature; and in the present bitterness of the classic and 
romantic war, are but ill disposed to permit a fori 
even to approve or imitate them without finding BOme 
fault with his ultramontane presumption. I can easily 
enter into all this, knowing wbal would l»' thought in Eng- 
land of an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a translation of 
Monti, or Pindemonte, or Ami, should be held up lo the 
rising generation as a model for then- future poetical essays. 
But I perceive that I am deviating into an address to tho 
Italian reader, when my business is with the English one, 
and be they few or many, I must take my leave of both. 



CANTO I. 

Once more in man's frail world*! which I had left 
S* long that 'twas forgotten ; and I feel 
The weight of clay again, — too soon b< I 

Of the immortal vision which could heal 
My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, 

Where late my ears run:; with the damned erics 
Of souls in hopeless hair; and from thai place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 

Pure from the lire to join the angotic race ; 
Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd' 
My spirit with her light ; and to the baso 

Of the eternal Triad ! first, last, best, 
Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God! 

Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 
Unhlasted by the glory, though he trod 

From star to star to reach the almighty throne. 

Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 
So long hath prest, and the cold marble si -, 

Thou sole pure seraph of I love, 

Love so ineffable, and so alone, 

That naught on r;u ll move, 

And meeting 'her In heaven was but to meet 
That without which my soul, like thi arkleas dove, 

Had wander'd still in search of| nor her feet 
Relieved her wing till found; without thy light 
Mv paradise had still boon incomplete. 1 

Since my tenth sun iiave summer to my sight 
Thou wen my life, the cssener of my thought, 
Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright 

Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 

With the world's war, and years, and banishment, 
And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; 

For mine is not a nature to be bent 

By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd; 
And though the long, long conflict hath been spent 

In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
Which overhangs the Apenn|ne, mv mind's eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 



Canto II. 



PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



207 



Of me, can 1 return, though b if to die, 
Onto my native soil, they have 1 not yel 
Quencli'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high. 

But tin.' sun, though ii"t over-cast, must set, 
And the night cometh; I am old in days, 
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 

Destruction face to face in all his ways. 
The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, 
And if I have not gadier'd yet its praise, 

I sought it nut by any baser lure; 

Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
May form a monument not all obscure, 

Though such was not mv ambition's end or aim, 
I'd add 10 the vainglorious lis; of those 
V\ ho dabble in the pettiness of fame, 

And make men's tickle breath the wind that blows 
Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
"With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, 

In bloody chronicles of ages past. 
1 would have had my Florence great and free: 3 
Oh Florence ! Florence I unto me thou wast 

Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
Wept over, "but thou wbuld'st not;" as the bird 
< ■ ithors its young, 1 would have gathcr'd the.e 

Benea'h a parent pinion, nadst thou heard 
My voir,' ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, 
Agai LSI '1,' breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd 

Thy Venom, and my state thou didst amerce, 
And doom tins body forfeit to I ie fire, 
how bitter is his country's curse 

To him whojfcr thai country would evpire, 
But did not turrit to expire by her, 
And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 

Tli-- day may come when she will csase to err, 
The day may come she would be proud to have 
The dllst s!u-. dooms to scatter, and transfer 4 

Of htm whom she denied a h mie, the grave. 
But this shall not be granted; let my dust 
Lie where it falls; nor shall ilie soil which gave 

Me bri ath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
My indignant, bones, because her angry gust 

Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom; 

No, — she denied me what was mine— my roofj 
And shall not have what is n 't hers — my tomb. 

Too long her armed wrath hath kepi aloof 

'flic breast which would have bled for her, the heart 
That beat, the mind that was temptation proof, 

The man who fought, toifd, travelled, and each part 
Of a tr mdsaw 

For his reward the Guelf's ascen Ian! art 

Pass his destruction even into a law. 

These things are not made for forgetfulnesa, 
Florence shall be forgotten first ; too raw 

The wound, too deep the wrong, and the. distress 
Of such endurance too prolong^ to make 
My pardon greater, her injustice !'•■-. 

i i I ipented; yel — yet for her sake 

I fed some fonder yearnings, and for thine 
My own Beatrice) 1 would hardly take 

Vengeance upon the land winch once was mine, 
And Still is hallow VI by thy dusts return, 
"Which would protect the murderess like a shrine 

And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 
Though, like old Marius from Minturnsc's marsh 
And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn 

At times with evil feelings hot and harsh, 
And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
Writhe in a dream before nfe, and o'er-arch 
My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go ! 
Such arc the last infirmities of th 
Who long have sutiVd more than mortal wo, 
And vet being mortal still, have no repose 
But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 
Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows 



With the oft-baffled, slakelcss thirst of change, 
When we shall mount again, and they that trod 
Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range 

O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks (.treat God! 

Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands I vield 
My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 

Will fall on those who smote me, — be my shield! 
As thou hast been in peril, and in pain, 
In turbulent cities, and the tented field — 

In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
For Florence. — I appeal from her to Thee! 
Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reigiig 

Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
And live was never granted until now, 
And yet thou hast permitted this tome. 

Alas', with what a weight upon my brow 

The sense of earth and earthly things come back, 
Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low, 

The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack. 
Lono day, and dreary night ; the retrospect 
Of half a century bloody and black, 

And the frail few years I may yet expect 
Hoary aad hopeless, but less hard to bear, 
For I have been too long and deeply wrecked 

On the lone rock of Desolate Despair 
To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare 

Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my wail ? 
1 am not of this people, nor this age, 
And yet my liarpings will unfold a tale 

Which shall preserve these times when not a page 
Of their perturbed annals could attract 
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 

Did not my verse embalm full many an act 
Worthless as they who wrought it: 'tis the doom 
OfspiHls of my order to be rack'd 

In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 
Their days in endless strife, and die alone, 
Then future thousands crowd around their tomb, 

And pilgrims come from climes where they have known 
The name of him — who nc»w is but a name, 
And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone, 

Spread his — by lum Lnheard, unheeded — fame; 
And mine at least hath cost me dear: to die 
Is nothing; but to wither thus — to tame 

My mind down from its own infinity — 
To live in narrow ways with little men, 
A common si»ht to every common eye, 

A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 
Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things 
That make communion sweet, and soften pain- 
To feel me in the solitude of kings 
Without the power that makes them bear a crown- 
To enw every dove his nest and wings 

Which waft him where the Apennine looks down 
On Arno, till he perches, it may be, 
Within my all inexorable town, 

Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she, 4 

Their mo tiler, the cold partner who hath brought 
Destruction for a dowry — this to see 

And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 
A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : 
I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, 

They made an Exile — not a slave of me 



CANTO 1L 

The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, 

When words were tilings that came to pass, and 
thou g!il 

Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 
Their children's children's doom already brought 

Forth from the abyss of lime which is to be, 

The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 



208 



PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



Cahto 111 



Shapes that must undergo mortality ; 

\\ hat tho great Seers of Israel wore within, 
Thai spirit was on them, and is o 
And if, CasRandra-like, amidst the; din 

Of flic ne will hear, or hearing heed 

This voice from out the W ildemi s, the sin 
t:, theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, 
Tho only guord a I have ever known, 
Hasl thou not Wed .' and ill to need, 

Italia ' Ah! to me such i >wn 

\\ ith dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 
In thine irreparable wrongs my own; 
We can have but one country, and i ran yet 
Thou'rt mine — ray bones shall be within thy breast, 

Mv soul within thy language, which ■■■ si I 

With out old Roman sway in the wide West; 
But I will make another ti agu 
As lufly and more sweet, in «« 
The hero's ardour, or the - i 

Shall find alike such sound; iheme 

That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, 
Shall realize a poet 1 dream, 

.And make Iheo Europe's oighliii pie of sons; 

So that all present spi ech to thine shal 

The ii >te of meaner birds, and every tonj 

i lonfcss iis barbarism, when c pared with thine. 

This shall thou on. to him it""' Ii 1st so wrong, 
Thy Tuscan Bard, the banishU Ghibelline. 
Wo! no ! the veil of coming ci nturies 
Is rent, — a thousand 1 years which yet supine 

Lie lik'' tl coan waves era winds arise, 

Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, 

Float IV ternity into these i 

The storms yel sleep, the clouds Btill keep their station, 
The unborn • axtnqual e | ei is in the womb, 
The bloody chaos yet expecn creation. 
But all things are disposing for thy doom; 
The elements await but for the word, 
"Let there be darkness!" and thou grow'st a tomb! 
Yes! thou, so beautiful, shall reel the sword, 
Thou, Italy ! so lair thai Paradise, 
Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored: 
Ah! must the sons of Adam lose it twice? 
Thou, Italy! whose ever golden fields, 
Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice 
For the world's granasy ; tirou whose sky hi avi n •' Is 
With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue; 
Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds 
Her palace, in whose cradled Empire grew, 
And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments 
From spoils of Idngi whom freemen overthrew ; 
Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints, 

Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 

Her home; thou, all which fondest fancy paints, 

And finds her prior vision but portray d 
In feeble colours, when the eye— from the Up 
Of h I Sow, and rock, and shaggy shade 

Of di srii-]..uiw } who ' emerald *ealp 

Nods to the si. .no— di' ' ' a o'er thee, 

Ami wistfully implores, as 'i were, foi help 

To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 
Ni arer and i. .." t yet, and di arer still 
The more approach'd 1 dearesl "ere thi | 

Thou — Tho. St wither to ■■■■■ h nr.inl's will: 

The Goth hath been,— the German, Frank, and Hon 
Are vot to come, — and on the imperial hill 

Ruin, already proud of th. deeds done 
By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, 

Throned on the Palatine, while lost and ""ii 

Rome at her feel lies bleeding ; and the hue 
Qf human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, 

And deepens into red the saffron water 

Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest, 
And slill more helpless nor less holy daughter 



Vow'd to their God, have shrieking il d. and .eased 
Their ministry: the nations take their prey, 
[bcrian, AJniaii 

lap the eOTO 

. way; 

Bui th 

All paths of torture, and insatiate yl t, 

With I ' ''' '" r "'""'■ 

N i ne moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and Sol, 
I winch late 

11. it 

lived the fato. 

' ■'• 

trd i" Ihy i 

"- ■' mournful river. 

. Vlps and Po, 

them, and foi 

ever ! 

To I..;.' ■ ly pilgrim's head? 

Why doth Eridanus bul ovi rflow 

The peasant's harvest from lit: torhid bed 7 
Were not each barbarous h t ei prey 

OverCamb; 90s' ho ' thi ■'■ 

Her san ; ,! "■ s, ' a wavcl "™J 

.. ; Phi h ;n"! his ih. '". ...ids.— why 

Mount it. is. do ye n 

! 

Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 

Those wl ''"'"■ - VCl U ° 

The dead ' ''''"'' 

Are the VIp (taker than 1 < 'Pjrla 1 
Their pass re alluring to the view 

Of an invader? is it tl.ev. ..r ye, 
That to each hosl the mountain-gate unbar, 
And l.-ave the man h in | '"' e - 

Wl.v, Nature's self'detairt car, 

And makes your land impregnable, if earth 

Could be SO; but alone she will not war, 

yel aids the warrior worthy of his birth 

In a soil "I" I nS ,,,l!l - forth """ : 

Not so with til-'- whosi s ols are little worth; 

Foi them no I irln - can avail,— tie 

Of the poor reptile which preserve. Its Sung 
Is more secure than , -- 1 "" 

The hearts of those within ar. 

A,.- ye not brave? Yes, yel the Ausonian soil 

11 ill,' hearts, and hauls, at ' hosts to bring 

how. vain 
While Btill Division sows il„- weds -i wo 
And weakness/till ihe Btranger reaps the spoil. 
Oh! my own beauteous I aid! so Ions ' 1 1 low, 

So Ion 

w hi n th. r. .- bit 

Tobre yel -yel thi p»i 

And Doubl and Discord step Hwixt thine and thee, 
And join ti" • ' ''"*"* 

What is there wanting then to set thee free 
And show thv beauty in its fiilli I li 
To make the Vlps im; ' I we i 

ma] do this with me deed Unite. 



CANTO III. 
From out the mass of never-dying ill, 

The PI th. P ■ ■ il" Sti ' ■ ■ Sword, 

Vials of wrath I anptied to r.-till 

■ - 1 
That . rowds on mv prophetic eye: tl"' earth 
And ocean written o'er would not afford 
Space for the annul, yet it shall go forth ; 



Canto III. 



PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



209 



Yes, all, though not bv human pen, is graven, 

There where the farthest suns arid stars have birth, 
Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven, 

The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 

Wav« -si. and the echo of our groans is driven 
Athwart the sounds of archangelic songs, 

And Italy, the mariyr'd nation's gore, 

Will not in vain arise to where belongs 
Omnipotence and mercy evermore: 

Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind, 

The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 
The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 

Meantime I, humbles! of thy sons, and of 

Earth's dust by immortality refined 
Tii sense ami suffering, though the vain may scoff, 

And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 

Before the storm because its breath is rough, 
To thee, my country ! whom before, as now, 

I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 

And melancholy gift fiigh powers allow 
To read the future ; and if now my fire 

Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 

I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire ; 
Think not that I would look on them and live. 

A spirit forces mc to see and speak, 

And f >r my guerdon grants not to survive ; 
My bean shall he pourd over thee and break : 

V-r for a iiument, ere 1 must resume 

Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 
Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom 

A softer glimpse ; some stars shine through thy night. 

And many meteors, and above thy tomb 
Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot blight; 

And from thine* ashes boundless spirits rise 

To give thee honour, and the earth delight : 
Thv soil shall still be pregnant with the wise, 

The gay, the learn'd, (lie generous, and the brave, 

Native to thee as summer to thy skies, 
Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave, 7 

Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name ; 3 

For thee alone they have no arm to save, 
And all thy recompense is in their fame, 

A nob!e one to them, but not to ibee — 

Shall thev be glorious, and thou still the same ? 
Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall be 

The being — and even yet he may be born — 

The mortal saviour whq shall set thee free, 
And see thy diadem so changed and worn 

Bv fresh barbarians, on thv brow replaced; 

And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn, 
Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced 

And noxious vapours from Averring risen, 

Such as all they must breathe who are dr. based 
By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 

Yet through this centurted eclipse of wo 

Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen ; 
Poets shall follow in the path I show, 

And make ii broarder ; the same brilliant sky 

Which cheers ihe birds to song shall hid them glow, 
And raise their notes as natural and high ; 

Tuneful shall be their numbers ; they shall sing 

Many of love, and some of liberty, 
But few shall soar upon thai eagle's wing, 

And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze 

All free and fearless as the feather'd king, 
But flv more near the earth ; how many a phrase 

Sublime shall la-ish'd be on some small prince 

In all the prodigality of praise ! 
And language, eloquently false, evince 

The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, 

Too oft forgets i's own self-reverence, 
And looks on prostitution as a duty. 

-' He who once enters in a tyrant's hall 

As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty, 
And the first dav which tees the chain enthral 
2 B 



A captive, sees his half of manhood gone — ,0 
The soul's emasculation saddens all 

His spirit; thus the Bard too near the throne 
Quails from his Inspiration, bound to^/eose,— 
How servile is the task to please alone ! 

To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease 
And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 
Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 

Or force, or forge fit argument of song ! 

Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to Flattery's trebles 
He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong: 

For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels, 
Should rise up in high treason to his brain, 
He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles 

tn*s mouth, lest truth should stammer through his strair 
But out of the long file of sonneteers 
There shall be some who will not sins in vain, 

And he, their prince shall rank among my peers, 11 
And love shall be his torment ; but his grief 
Shall make an immortality of tears, 

And Italy shall hail him as the Chief 
Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song 
Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. 

But in a farther age shall rise along 

The banks of Po two greater still than he ; 

The world which smiled on him shall do thera wrcng 

Till they are ashes, and repose with me. 
The first will make an epoch with his lyre, 
And fill the earth.with feats of chivalry ; 

His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire, 

Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thought 
Borne onward with a wing that cannot lire : 

Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught, 
Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme, 
And Art itself seem into Nature wrought 

By the transparency of his bright dream. — 
The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood, 
Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 

He, too, shall sing of arms v and Christian blood 

Shed where Christ bled for man ; and his high harp 
Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, 

Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 
Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 
And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 

Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave 
The red-cross banners where the first red Cross 
Was crimsom'd from his veins who died to save, 

Shall be his sacred argument ; the loss 
Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame 
Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 

Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name, 
And call captivity a kindness, meant 
To shield him from insanity or shame, 

Such shall be his meel guerdon ! who was sent 
To be Christ's Latircat — they reward him well! 
Florence dooms mc but death or banishment. 

Ferrara him a pittance and a cell, 

Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 

Had stun* the factions which I strove to quell ; 

But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 

Will look on earth rod heaven, and who will deigr 
To embalm with his celestial flattery 

As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, 
What will he do to merit such a doom ? 
Perhaps he Ml love, — and is not love in vain 

Torture enough without a living tomb? 
Yet it wi I be so — he and his compeer, 
The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 
[n penury and pain too many a year, 
And, dying in despondency, bequea h 
To the kind world, which scarce w. ] yield a tear, 

A heritage enriching all who breathe 

With the wealth of a genuine poo! s soul, 
And to their country a redoubled wreath, 

Unmatch'd by time ; not Hellas car .woll 



210 



PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



Casto IV- 



Through her olympiads two such name?, though ono 
Of hers be mighty ; — and is this the whole 

Of such men's destiny beneath ihe sun? 

Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense, 
The electric blood with which their arteries run, 

Their body's self turn'd soul with the intense 
Feeling of ihat which is, and fancy of 
That which should be, to such a recompense 

Conduct ? shall their bright plumage on the rough 
SLorm be still scatter'*] ? Yes, and it must be, 
For, forni'd of far too penetrable sluffj 

These birds of Paradise but long to flee 

Back to their native mansion, soon they find 
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, 

Ami die or are degraded, lor the mind 
Succumbs to Ions infection, and despair, 
And vulture passions living close behind, 

Await the moment to assail and tear ; 

And when at length the winded wanderers stoop, 
Then is the prey-bird's triumph, then they share 

The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell swoop. 
Yet some have been untOUCh'd who tearn'd to bear, 
Some whom no power could ever force to droop, 

Who could resist themselves even, hardest cart- ! 
And task most hopeless ; but some such have been, 
And if my name among the number were, 

That destiny austere, and yet serene, 

Were prouder than more dazzling fame unblest ; 
The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen 

Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest, 

Whose splendour from the black abyss is flung, 
While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning 
breast 

A temporary torturing flame is wrung, 
Shines lor a night of terror, then repels 
Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, 

The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 



CANTO IV. 

Many are pnets who have never penn'd 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best : 
They felt, and loved, and dud. hot would not lend 

Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compress'd 
The god within them, and rejuin'd the stars 
UnlaurellM upon earth, but fur more blest 

Than those who are degraded bv ih<* ia:s 
Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame, 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poets but without the name, 
For what is poesy but to create 
From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 

At an external life beyond our uVe, 

And be the new Prometheus of new men, 

Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, 
Finding the pleasure givt*n repaid with pain, 

And vultures to the heart of the bestower, 

Who having lavish'd his high g ft in vain, 
Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the seashore ? 

So be it : we can bear. — Hot thus all Ihey 

Whose intellect is an o'ermastei ing power 
Which still recoils from its incumbering clay 

Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 

The f»rm which their creations may essay 
Are bards; the kindled marble's bust tun wear 

More poesy upon its speaking brow 

Than aught less than the Homeric pace may bear ; 
Cue noble stroke with a whole life may glow, 

Or deify the canvass till it shine 

With beaut] so surpassing all below, 
That they who kneel to idols so divine 

Break no commandment, for high heaven is there 

Transfused, transfiguraied : and the luie 
Of poesy, which peoples but the air 



With thought and beings of our thought reflected, 
' in do no more : then lei the artist share 

The palm, he -"harts ih« peril, and dejected 
Faints o'er the labour unapproved— Alas ' 
Despair and Genius aro too uft connected 

Within the ages which before me pass 
An shall resume and equal even the sway 
Which w hh A p< lit a and old 1 1 i 

.She held in Hellas 1 unforgotlen day. 
Ye si b taughi !" Ruin in revive 
The Grecian forms al least from their decay, 

And Homan souls at last again shall live 
In Roman works wrought by Italian hands. 
\.p! i-'diples, loftier than the old temples, give 

New wonders to the world ; and while still stand" 
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soai 
A dome, '■ image, while the base expands 

Into a fame surpassing all before, 
Such as all flesh shall flm V, to kneel in : ne'er 
Such sight hmh been unfolded by a door 

As this, to which all nations shall repair, 

And lay Ibeir sins al this huge gate of heaven 
And the bold Architect unto whose care 

The daring charge to raise it shall be given, 
Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord, 
Whether into the marble chaos driven 

His chisel bid ihe Hebrew, ' J at whose word 
Israel k-f i Egypt, stop the waves in stone, 
Or hues of hell be by his pencil pour'd 

Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne, H 
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see, 
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, 

The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me^ 
The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms 
Which form the empire of eternity. 

Amidst tin-- clash of »v | helms, 

The age which I anticipate, do 
Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms 

Calamity the nations with distress, 
The genius of my country shall arise, 
A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, 

Lovely in alt its branches to all eyes, 
Fragrant a> fair, and recognised afar, 
Wafting its native incense through the skies. 

Sovereigns shall pause amidst their Sport of war, 
WeanM for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 
On canvass or on stone ; and they who mar 

All beauty upon earth, compell'd i" | 
Shall feel the power of that which they destroy, 
And An's mistaken gratitude shall raise 

To tyrants, who but take her for a toy, 
F.mhtems and monuments, anil prostitute 
Her charms to pontiffs proud, l6 who but employ 

The man of genius as the meanest brute 
To bear a burden, and in set n a 1 
To sell his labours and his bouI lo boot* 

Who toils for nations may be poor indeed, 
Bui free ; who sweats lor monarch* is no more 
Thau the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and (Kc*d 

Si mils sick and slavish, bov ing al hie door* 
Oh, Power that rules) and inspires! I how- 
ls it that i he v .in earth, whose earthly power 

Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, 
Least like to thee in attributes divine, 
Tread en the universal tucks thai bow. 

And then assure us that their rights are thine? 
And how is it that they, the st its of fame, 
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 

From high, they whom the nations oftest name, 
Most pass their days in penury or pain, 
Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame 

And wear a d< cper brand and gaudier chain ? 
Or if their deslinv be born aloof 
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, 

In their own souls sustain a harder proof, 



PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



211 



The inner war of passions de-p and fierce ? 

Florence ! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof, 
] loved ihee; but the vengeance of my verse, 

The hate of injuries which every year 

Makes gTeater, and accumulates my curse, 
Shall live, outliving ft!] thou boldest dear, 

Thy pr; le, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that, 

Thejnost infernal of all evils here, 
The sway of petty tyrants in a state ; 

For such sway is a i lungs 

An I yield to them but in date 

As swept off sooner ; in all deadly things 

Which make men bate themselves, and one another, 

In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs 
Prom Death the Sin-b irn's incestwith his mother, 

In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 

The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother, 
And the worst despot's far less human ape : 

Florence ! when this lone spirit, which so long 

^ eamd, as ihu captive toiling at escape, 
I &ck to thee in despite of wrong, 

An exile, saddest of all prisoners, 

^ !«j has the whole world for a dungeon strong, 



Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars, 
Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth 
Where — whatsu'er his fate — he still were hers, 

His country's, and might die where he had birth — 
Florence ! when this lone spit it shall return 
To kindied spirits, thou will feel my worth 

And seek to honour with an empty urn 
The ashes thou shall ne'er obtain— Alas! 
" What have I don* to thee, my people?" l7 Stern 

Are all thy dealings, but in this thev pass 
The limits of man's common malice, for 
AW that a citizen could be I was; 

Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war 

And for this thou hast warr'd with me, — 'T is done : 
I may not overleap the eternal bar 

Built tip between us, and will die alone, 
Beholding with the dark eve of a seer 
The evil davs to gifed souls foreshown, 

Forfeiting them to those who will not hear 
As in the old time, till the hour be come 
When Truth shall strike their eyes through many 
a tear, 

4nd make ihem own the Prophet in his tomb. 



NOTES TO PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



Note 1, page 206, line 11. 
.177 tut whom my own bright Beatrice ties i'd. 
The reader is requested to adopt the Italian pronun- 
ciation of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables. 
Note 2, pa-e 206, line 27. 
My paradise had still been incomplete, 

" Che sol per le belle 
Che fanno in Cielo il sole e 1' alfr<e stelle 
Dentrodi It U Puradiso, 

Cosi se guardi Bso 
Pensar ben dei ch' ognl terren' pi I 

Canzone, in which Dante i sr bes the person of Bea- 
t/ice, Strophe third. 

NoteS, pag 2 17, linp 20. 

I wntld have had my Fiorenre *rrr t t and free. 

" L'Esilio che m 1 e dato onor mi tegno. 

* * * * * 

Cadertra* buoiu e purdi lode di 

3 'ii net of Dmte t 

tn which lie represents K> ity, and Tempe- 

rance as banishe 1 from im m • men, and seeking refuge 
from Love, who inhabits his bosom. 

N 1. pag^ 207, line 36. 
The < into scatter, 

' T T t si [jiris predictorum tillo tempore in lortiam dicti 
comTfiunis perv n iri ni&is igne comburatur, 

■ I wort'itur." 

Secon l sentence of Florence against Dante, and the 
n accused with him. — The Latin is worthy of 
i:ence. 

Not) 07, line 133. 

JVfurre yet m and thatjatal she. 

This lady, wh >s nam ■ i Q nma, sprung from one 

of the in >-=' powerful Gui I families, named Donati. 

Coi i Donati was th< adversary of the Ghi- 

bel!ine<. She is described as being '• . ) Imodum morosa, 

ut dr A" i s ttis phUosophi conjxige srriptum esse 

," according to Giannuzza Manetti, But Lio- 

nardo Aretino i* indalizi l wjth Hoccace, in his life of 

I' ate, for saying that literary men should not marry. 

"Qui ii Boccaccio noil ha pa^ienza, e dice, le inogli 

e^ser contrarie agli sludj ; e nun si ncorda che Socra'e 

ilp lii nobiie filosofo che mai fusse, ebbe moglie e figli 



noli e uffici della Repubblica nella sua Citta ; e Aristo- 
tele che, &c. &c. ebbe due mogli in varj tempi, ed ebbe 
figliuoli, e ricchezze assai. — K Marco Tullio — e Ca- 
tone — e Varrone— e Seneca — ebbero mnglie," &c. &c. 
It is odd that honest Leonardo's examples, with the ex- 
ception of Seneca, and for any thing I know of Aris- 
totle, are not the most felicitous. Tully's Terentia, 
and Socrates' Xantippe, by no means contributed to 
iheir husbands' happiness, whatever they might do to 
their philosophy — Cato gave awav his wife — of Var- 
ro's we know nothing — and of Seneca's, only that she 
was disposed to die with him, but recovered, and lived 
several years afterwards. But says Lionardo, " L'uo- 
mo e animate civile, secondo piace a tuiti i filosofi." 
And in nee concludes that the greatest proof of the 
animal's ctvism is "la prima congiunzione, dalla quale 
i i :ata nasce la Citta." 

Note 6, page 203, line 85. 
JVme moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set. 

See " Sacco di Roma,'" generally attributed to Guic- 
ciarJini. There is another written by a Jacopo 
BuorjipaTtc, Ueniiluomo Samminiatese che vi si trovii 
pre:; elite. 

Note 7, page 209, line 39. 

Conquerors on foreign shores t and the far wave, 

Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, "Eugene of 
Savoy, Montecucco. 

Note P, page 209, line 40. 
J i scoverers of new worlds, which take their name. 
Columbus, Americus Vespusius, Sebastian Cabot. 
Note 9, page 209, line 73. 
He who once enters in a tyrant's half, <$*c. 
A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which 
Pompcy took leave of Cornelia on entering the boat in 
which he was slain. 

Note 10, page 209, lines 75 and 76. 
And the first diy which sec* the chain enthral, dj-e. 
The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer 

Note 11, page 209, line 93. 
And the, their prince, shall rank among my peers, 
Petrarch. 



212 



CAIN. 



Note 12, page 210, line 87. 
A dome, its image. 
The cupola of St. Peter's. 

Note 13, page 2l0, line 97. 
His chisel tul the Hebrew. 
The statue ofMoses on the monument of Julius II. 
SONETTO 
Di Giovanni Battista Zappi. 
Chi t 1 " costai, che in dm a pietra scoho, 
.Sir.i,- L'lj.uite ; e lepiu ulustre, e conto 
Prove dull 1 arte avvanza, 8 ha vive, e pronto 
Le lahbia si, che le parole ascolto ' 
Quest' £ Mose; ben me i diceva Ufolto 
Onor del mento , e 'I doppio r . i L " j > i in fmnte, 
Quest 1 e Moife, quandoscendea del monte, 
E ^ran parte del Num ai >a ael vollo, 
Tal era allur, che \<- son mti, < vaste 
Acque fi s.}-.-m-v,> ;i se ii* intorno, e tale 
Quando il mar chmse, e ne !'■ totnba altrui. 
E voi sue ttirbe un no vitelle alzate , ? 
Alzata aveste imago a questa i gui 
Ch' era men fallo 1' adurar costui. 



Note 14, pa<_'<* 210, line 100. 
Over >■ J . ment throne 

The Last Judgment in th< bapeL 

Note 15, pa i .'10, line 103. 
The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me. 
1 have read somewhere (■! I do not err, tor I cannot 

■.■,;is BO great a favour He of 

I ',;.■■ 

ihe Divina C lia; bm that the volume containing 

. ■ : tidies was la < bj sea. 

Note 16, png e 210, line I 
// ■ 'harms to pon,' :. &c. 

treatment of Michel Angiolo by Julius II. 
and his neglecl by Leo X. 

Note 17, pa^e 211, line 32, 
' Whai . / dom to thee , my people ?" 

pill volte no •» partioolari ' 

. . .,; , ... 

... iu : — ' PopuU 

mi) quid Jed tH 

Vita di Dante srritta da Jjonardo Aretino. 



CAIN 



A MYSTERY. 



'Now the Serpent wm more lubtitc tlian any beatt of the field which the Lord God bad made."— Gtn. lii. 1. 

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

THIS "MYSTERY OF CAIN 1 ' Is INSCRIBED 

BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, AND FAITH Fl*L SERVANT, 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 

The following srenes are eniitled " a Mystery," in 
conformity with the ancient title annexed to dramas upon 
similar subjects, which were st) led " Mysteries, or Mo- 
ralities." The author has by no means taken the same 
liberties with his subject which were common formerly, 
as may be seen by any reader curious enough to refer 
to those very profane productions, whether m English] 
French, Italian, or Spanish. The author has endeavoured 
to preserve the language adapted i<> his characters ; and 
where it is (and ihia is btil rarely) taken from actual 
Scripture, he has made as little altera! inn, even of words, 
as the rhythm would permit. The reader will n 
that the bonk of Genesis does not state that Eve was 
tempted by a demon, but by "the Serpent ;" and that Onljj 
because he was " the most subtile of all the beasts of the 
field." Whatever interpretation the Rabbins and the 
Fathers may have put upon tins, 1 musl take the words 
as I find them, aulreplv witii Bishop VYa'son n »<u simi- 
lar occasions, when the Fathers were quoted to him, as 
Moderator in the schools of Cambridge, ' [Jehoid the 
Book !" —holding up the Scripture. It is to be recollected 
that my present subject has nothing to do with the .V is 
Testament, to which no reference can he here made with- 
out anachronism. With the poems upon similar topics I 



have not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty I 
have never read Milton*, bu: 1 had read him so frequently 
before, thai this may make little difference. Gesner*a 
•• I >eatfi ut' Abel ,! 1 have never read since I w n 
vears of age, at Aberdeen. The general impn 
my recolle :iion is delight ; but of the content* I remember 
only that Cain's wift was called Mahala, and Abel's; 
Thirza: in the following pages 1 have called them* Adah" 
and *' /.ill i," the earliest femal< names which occur in 
G n si ; ihey were those 1 1| I >amech's wives : il 
Cain and Abel are nol theii names. Whether, 

inen, a coincidence bject maj i aused the same 

■■i.Ki, I know nothing, and care as little. 

The reader will phase to hear in mind (what few 
choose to recollect) thai there is no allusion t<> a future 
iiv ol the bo tka of .Moses, nor indeed in the Old 
Testament. For a reason (oi this extraordinary omission 
he in, i \ consult " Warbur ton's Divine Legation ;" whether 
lory or not, no better has yel been assigned. I 
have then I ire supposed il new to Cain, without,] hope, 
any perversion of Holy Writ. 

With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was difficult 
f>r me to make him talk like a clergyman i p 
subjects; but 1 have done what I could to restrain bin 
within the bounds of spiritual politeness. 

If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape uf lh<« 



Act I. 



CAIN. 



213 



Serpent, it is only because the book of Genesis has not 
the most distant allusion to any thing of the kind, but 
merely to the Serpent in his scrpeniine capacity. 

Note. — Tlie reader will perceive lhal the auihor has 
partly adopted in this poem the nor ion of Cuvier, iliat the 
world had bet n destroyed several limes before the crea- 
tion of man. Tins speculation, derived from the different 
strata and the bones of enormous and unknown animals 
found in them, is not contrary to the Mosaic account, but 
rather confirms it ; a.s no human bones have yet been 
discovered in those strata, although those of many known 
animals are found near the remains of (he unknown. The 
assertion of Lucifer, (hat the pre-adamtte world was also 
peopled bv rational beings much more intelligent than 
man, and proportionably p iwerful to the mammoth, &c. 
&R, is, of course, a poetical fiction to help him to make 
out his case. 

I oughl to add, that there is a " Tramelogedie" of Al- 
fieri, called "Abel." — I have never read that nor any other 
of the posthumous works of the writer, except his Life. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



MEN. 
Adam. 
Cain. 
Abel. 



WOMEN. 
Eve. 

Adah. 

ZlLLAH. 



SPIRITS. 
Angel of the Lord. 

LUCIFEK. 



ACT L 
ScEVE I. — Thf land without Paradise. — Time,Snnri. 
Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, offering a 

Sacrifice. 

lam. God, the Eternal! Infinite! All-wise! — 
Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
Li^ht on the waters with a word — ail hail ! 
Jehovah, with returning light, all hail ! 

Eve. God ! who didst name the day, and separate 
Morning from night, till then divided never — 
Who didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
Part of thy work the firmament — all hail ! 

Abel. God ! who didst call (he elements into 
Earth — ocean — air — and fire, and with the day 
Arid ni^ht, and worlds which these illuminate 
(Jr shadow, madest beings to enjoy them, 
And love both them and thee — all hail! all hail ! 

Adah. God, the Eternal! Parent of all things ' 
Who didst create these best and beauteous beings. 
To be beloved, more than all, save thee — 
Lei me love thee and them : — All hail ! all hail ! 

Zttlah. Oh, God! who loving, making, bit 
Yet didst permit the serpent to creep in, 
And drive my father forth from Paradi te, 
Keep us from further evil :— Hail ! all ha ' 

Adam. Son Cam, my first-burn, wherefore art thou 
Bilenl .' 
'. Why should I speak? 

Adam, To pray. 

Cain. Have ye not pray'd ? 

.Id na. We have, most fervently. 

C '-tin. And loudly : I 

Have heard you. 

Adam. So will God, I trust. 

Abel. Amen! 

Adam. But thou, my eldest-born, art silent still. 

Cain. 'Tis better I should be so. 

Adam. Wherefore so ? 

Cain. I have naught to ask. 

Adam, Nor aught to thank for ? 



•all, 



Adam. Dost thou not live ? 

Ciin. Must I not die? 

Eve. Alas ' 

The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
To fall. 

. / 'a n. And we must gather it again. 
Oh, G-id ! why didst ihou plant the tree of knowledge ? 

( 'ain. And wherefore plucked ye not the tree of life ? 
Ye mioht have then defied him. 

Adam. oh * m >' son 

Baspheme not . these are serpent's words. 

Coin. Why not? 

The snake spoke truth : it WOS the tree of knowledge ; 
li was the tree of life : knowledge is good, 
And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 

Eve. My boy ! thou speakesl as I spoke in sin. 
Before ihy birth : let me not see renew'd 
Mv misery in thine. I have repented. 
Let me not see my offspring fall into 
The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
Whi.-h e\-n in Paradise destroy'd his parents. 
Content thee with whatw. Had we been so, 
Thou now hadsl been contented. — Oh, my son 

Adam. Our orisons completed, let us h**nce, 
Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
Needful : the earth is young, and yields us kindly 
Her fruits vviih little labour. 

Eve. Cain, my son, 

Behold thy father cheerful and resigned, 
And do as he doth. [Exeunt Adam ««</ Eve. 

ZVlak. Wilt thou not, my brother? 

Abel Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy bro* 
Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 
The Eternal an er ? 

Adah. My beloved Cain, 

Wilt thou frown even on me ? 

Cain. No, Adah! no 

I fain would be alone a little while. 
Abel, I'm sick at heart ; but it will pass: 
Piccede me, brother — I will follow shortly. 
And you, too, sisters, tarry not behind 
Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 
I Ml follow you anon. 

Adah, " If not, I will 

Return to seek you here. 

. Ibel, The peace of God 

Be on your spirit, brother ! 

[Exeunt Abel, Zillah, and Adah 

Cain, (solus.) And this is 

L:f e ; — foil ! an 1 wherefore should I toil ? — because 
Mv father could not keep his place in Eden. 
What had /done in this? — I was unborn, 
I sought not to be born ; nor love the state 
To which that birth has brought me. Why did he 
Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or, 
Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in this ? 
The tree was planted, and why not for him? 
If not, why place him near it, where it grew 
The fairest in the centre? They have but 
One answer to all questions, "'twas his will, 
And he is good." How know I that ? Because 
He is all-powerful, must all-good, loo, follow ? 
I judse but bv the fruits — and they are bitter — 
Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
Whom have we here ?— A shape like to the angels, 
Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect 
Of spiritual essence : why do I quake ? 
Why should I fear him more than other spirits, 
Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
Before the gates round which I linger oft, 
In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
Gardens which are my just inheritance, 
Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited walls 



Cain, 



No. \ And the immortal trees which overtop 



$14 



CAIN. 



Act I. 



The cherubim-defended battlements? 

If I shrink not uom these, ihe firc-anuM 

Why should I quail from him who now approaches? 

Yet he seems mightier far than they, nor less 

Beauteous, and vet not all as beautiful 

As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 

11 ill" ol in* irgenortality. And is it 

So ! ami can aught grieve save humanity .' 

lie cometh. 

Enter Lucifer. 

Lucifer. Mortal! 

Cain, Spirit, who art thou? 

Lucifer. Master of spin's. 

Cain. And being so, canst thou 

Leave them, and walk with dust? 

Lucifr. I know the thoughts 

Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 

( '■! n. How ! 

You know my thoughts ? 

Lucifer, They are the thoughts of all 

Worthy of thought ; — lis your immortal part 
"Which speaks within you. 

Cain. What immortal part? 

Tins has not been reve&l'd : the tree of hfe 
Was withheld from us bv my father's folly, 
While that of knowledge, by my mother's basic, 
Was pluck 'd too soon ; and all the fruit is d« ath! 

Lucifer. They have deceived thee; thou shall live. 

I n, I live, 

Bui live to die : and, living, see no thing 
To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 
A loathsome and yel all invincible 
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
And so I live. Would I had never lived! 

Lucifer. Thou livest, and must live for ever : think not 
The earth, which is thine outward cov'ring is 
Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
N.i less than ihuu art now. 

Cain, No less! and why 

No more ? 

Lucifer. It mav be thou shall be as we 

Cain. And ye '/ 

Lucifer Are everlasting. 

Cain. Arc ye happy ? 

Lucifer. We are mighty. 

( lain. Are ye happy? 

Lucifer. No: art thou? 

Cain. How should I be so? Look on in- | 

Lucifer. Poor clay ! 

And thou pretendest to be wretched ! Thou ! 

Cain, I am : — and thou, with all thy might, what 
art thou? 

Lucifer. One who asnired to be what made thee, and 
Would not have made thee what thou art. 

Cain. Mi! 

Thou look'st almost a god ; and ■ 

Lucifer. I am none 

And having faiPd tn be one, would be naught 
Save what I am. He conquered ; let him reign! 

Cain. Who? 

Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 

Cain. And heaven's. 

And all that in ihem is. So I hove heard 
His seraphs sing ; and so my father saith, 

Lucifer. They say — what they must sing and say, 
on pain 
Of being that which I am — and thou art — 
Of spirits and of men. 

Cain* And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immortality — 
Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 
His everlasting face, and tell him, that 
His evil is not good ! If he has made, 
As he saith — which I know not, nor believe — 



But, if he made us — he cannot unmake: 

";i i tal ! — nay, he 'd ftatn us so 

Thai he mav torture : — lei him ! He is great ■ 
Lint, in bis greatnt sa, is no happier than 

a n Quid ool mako 
Evil ; and what else hath be made ? Hut let him 
Sit on his vast and solitary throne, 
i !| i hi ing wo) I Is, '" make eternity 

I..-- luir.li'iisonif t" his mini- iim; < \istence 

And un participated solitude! 

i no ci "'■•> d "i b on oi b : he is alone 

Indefinite, indisso ■ . rant ! 

hims< !, 'l were the best boon 
He ever granted: bul lei him reign on, 
And multiply himself in mi 
Spirits and men, at least we sympathise; 
And, suffering in concert, make our pangs, 
Innumerable, more endurable, 
! : unbounded sympathy of all — 

With all! Hoi //< ' so wretched in his h< 

-in his wretchedness, musl still 

Create, and re-create 

( . Thou speak'st to mo of things which long have 
swum 
In visions through my thought : I never could 

wliii I saw with what I heard. 
My father and my mother talk to me 
Of serpen's, and of fruits and trees : I see 
The gates of what they call their Paradise 
Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim, 
Which shut them out, and me: I feel the weight 
Of daily toil, and constant thought : I look 
Around a world « here I seem nothing, with 
Thoughts winch arise within me, as if they 
Could master all things : — bul 1 thought alone 
This misery was mine.— My father is 
Tamed down; my mother ha i mind 

Which made her thirst for knowledge at the risk 
Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
A iv.it, bing shepherd boy, who offers up 
The first lings of the Hock to him who bids 
Tin- earth yield nothing to us « ithoul -■■ 
My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
Than the t.uds' matins ; and my Adah, my 

Own :ind hetuved, she too understands nol 
The mind which overwhelms me : never nil 
Now met I aught to sympathise with me. 

'T is well — I rather w Iconsorl with spirits. 

Lucifer, And hadst thou not been tit by thine own 

soul 

For such companionship, I would not now 
Have stood hefore thee as I am: a serpent 
Had been enough to charm ye, as before, 

Coin. Ah! didst thou tempi my mother? 

XtUCifer. I tempt none, 

Save with the frulh : was not the tree, the tree 
( If knowledge -' and was nor the iree of life 
Still friii'fiil .' Did / bid her plunk ihem not? 
Did f plant things prohibited within 
i h of beings innocent, and curious 

By their own innocence ' 1 would have made ye 
Gods ; and even He who ihrusl ye forth, so ihrual ye 
Because " ye should nol eat the fruits of life, 
And bee is we." Were those his words ? 

Cai They were, as I have hcaid from those who 
hrard them, 
[n thunder. 

Lucifer. Then wlio was the demon? He 
Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
1 lave made ye live for ever in the joy 
And power of knowledgi ' 

Coin. Would they had snalchM both 

The fruits, or neither! 

Lucifer. One is yours already 

The other may be still. 



AhtF. 



CAIN. 



215 



Coin. How so? 

Lucifer. By being 

Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
Q,ii<-nch the mind, if the mind will be itself 
And centre of surrounding things — \ is made 
To sway. 

Cain, But didst thou tempt my parents? 

Lucifer. I ? 

Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or how ? 
C(&n, They say the serpent was a spirit. 

Lucifer. Who 

Saith that ? It is not written so on high : 
The proud One will not so far falsify, 
Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
His own low failing. The snake was the snake- 
No more ; and yet not less than those he tempted, 
In nature being earth also — more in wisdom. 
Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
The knowledge fa'al to iheir narrow joys. 
Think'st thou I 'd take the shape of things that die ? 

Cam. But the thing had a demon? 

Lucif r. He but woke on 

In those be spake to with his firky tongue. 
I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand a»es 
Have roll'd o'er vour dead ashes, and your seed's, 
The seed of the then world may thus array 
Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
That bows to him, who made things but to bend 
B fore his sullen, sole eternity ; 
But we, who see the tru:h, must speak it. Thy 
Fond parenis listened to a creeping thing, 
And fell For what should spirits tempt them? What 
Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 

Space but I speak to thee of what thou know'at not, 

With all thy tree of knowledge. 

Coin. But thou canst not 

Speak aught of knowledge which I would not know, 
And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
To know. 

Llicifer. And heart to look on? 

Cain. Be it proved. 

Lucifer. Dar'st thou iook on Death ? 

Cain. He has not yet 

Been seen. 

Luc>fer. But must be undergone. 

Ca n My father 

Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
Weeps when he *s named ; and Abel lifts his eyes 
To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth, 
And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, 
And speaks not. 

/ ' ' ifer. And ihou ? 

Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 

Crowd in my br p ast to burning, when I hear 
Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems, 
Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him ? 
I wrestled with the lion, when a boy, 
In play, 'ill he ran roaring from my gripe. 

I.ucifr It has no shape; but will absorb all things 
Thai bear the form of earth-born being. 

Coin, "Ah! 

T though) it was a being: who could do 
Such evil tilings to beings save a being? 

Lucifer. Ask the Destroyer. 

Coin. Who? 

LtU The Maker— call him 

Which nnme thou wilt ■ he makes but lo destroy. 

Cain, I knew not that, yet th ugbt it, since I heard 
Of d'-ath: although I know not what it is, 
F'-t it seems horrible. I have look'd out 






In the vast desolate night in search of him; 

And when I saw gigantic shadows in 

The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chequer'd 

By the far-flashing of the cherub's swords, 

I waich'd for what I thought his coming ; for 

With fear rose longing in my heart to know 

What »t was which shook us all — but nothing came. 

And then I turn'd my weary eves from off 

Our native and forbidden Paradise, 

Up to the lights above us, in the azure, 

Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die ! 

Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive both thine and 
thee. 

Cain . I 'in glad of that ; T would not have them die, 
They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear 
I feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, 
I cannot compass : 't is denounced against us, 
Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an il' — 
What ill? 

Lucifer. To he resolved into the earth. 

Coin. But shall I know it? 

Lucifer. As I know not death, 

I cannot answer. 

Cain, Where I quiet eanh 

That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
Aught else but dust ! 

Lucifer. That is a grov'ling wish, 

Less than thy faiher's, for he wisb'd to know. 

Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd be not 
The life-tree ? 

Lucifer. He was hinder'd. 

Cain. Deadly error ! 

Not to snatch first that fruit: — but ere he pluck'd 
The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
Alas ! I scarcely now know what it is, 
And yet I fear it — fear I know not what ! 

Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear nothing; 
see 
What is true knowledge. 

Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? 

Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition. 

Com Name it. 

Lucifer. That 

Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 

Coin. Thou art not the Lord my father worships. 

Lucifer. No. 

Coin. His equal? 

Lucifer. No; — I have naught in common with him! 
Nor would : I would be aught above — beneath — 
Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
His power. T dwell apart ; but I am great :— 
Many there are who worship me, and more 
Who shall — be thou among the first. 

Coin. I never 

As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
Although mv brother Abel oft implores 
That I would join with him in sacrifice : — 
Why should I bow to thee ? 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 

To him ? 

Cain. Have I not said it ? — need I say it ? 
Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that ? 
Lucifer. He who bows not to him has bow'd to me! 

Cain. But I will bend to neither. 

Lucifer. Ne'er the less, 

Thou art my worshipper: not worshipping 
Him makes thee mine the same. 

Coin. And what is that? 

Lucifer. Thou 'It know here — and hereafter. 

Coin. Let me but 

Be taught the mystery of my being. 

Lucifer. Follow 

Where I will lead thee. 

Cain. But I must retire 

To till the earth — for I had promised 



216 



CAIN". 



Act T. 



Lucifer. What ? 

Cam. To cull some first-fruits. 

Lucifer. Why ? 

Cain. To offer up 

With Abel on an altar. 

Lucifer. Saidst thou not 

Thou ne'er hadsl bent to him who made thee ? 

Cain. Yes — 

Bui Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon mo ; 
The offering is more his than mine — and Adah 

Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate. 

Cain. She is my sister, 

Born on the same day, of the same womb; and 
She wrung from me, with tears, this promise ; and 
Raiher than see her weep, I would, methinks, 
Bear all — and worship aught. 

Lucifc. Then follow me ! 

Cain. I will. 

E'\lrr Adah. 

Adih. My brother, 1 have come for thee ; 

It is our hour of rest and joy — and we 
Have less without thee. Thou hast labour'd not 
This morn ; but I have done thy 'ask : the fruits 
Are ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens : 
Come awav. 

Cain. See'st thou not ? 

Adah. I see an angel ; 

We have seen many : will he share our hour 
Of rest ? — ho is welcome, 

Cain. But he is not like 

The angels we have seen. 

Adah. Are there, then, others ? 

But he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 
To be our guests — will he? 

Cain, {to Lucifer.) Wilt thou? 

Lucifer. I ask 

Thee to be mine. 

Cam. I must away with him. 

Adah. And leave us? 

Cain. Ay ? 

Adah, And me ? 

Cain. Belcved Adah! 

Adah. Let me go with thee ? 

Lucifer. No, she mutt not. 

AdaL Who 

Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ? 

Cain. He is a god. 

Adah. How know'st thou ? 

Cain. He speaks like 

A god. 

Adah. So did the serpent, and it hed. 

Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah ! — was not the tree that 
Of knowledge ? 

Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow. 

Lucifer. And yet that grief is knowledge — so he I tod 
not : 
And if he did betray you, 't was with truth ; 
And truth in its own essence cannot be 
But good. 

Adah. But all we know of it has galher'd 
Evil -on ill : expulsion from our home, 
And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness ; 
Remorse of that which was — and hope of thai 
Which comelh not. Cain ! walk not with this spirit. 
Bear with what we have borne, and love me — I 
Love thee. 

Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy sire? 

AdaL I do. Is that a sin, too ? 

Lucifer. No, not yet; 

It one day will be in your children. 

Adah. "What! 

Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch ? 

Lucifer. Not as thou lovest Cain. 

Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Shall they not love and bring forth things that love. 



Out of their love ? Itave they not drawn their milk 
Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father, 
Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
With me? did we n<ii love each other? and 
In multiplying our being multiply 
Things which "ill love each other as we love 
Them ? — And as I love thee, my Cain ! go not 
Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 

I.nri frr. The sin I speak of is not of my making, 
And cannot be a sin in you — whatever 
1 1 seem in those who will replace ye in 
Mortality. 

Adah. What is the sin which is not 
Sim mi its. -If? Can circumstance make sin 
Or virtue ? — if it doth, we are the slaves 
Of 

Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves : and higher 
Thnn they or ye would be so, did they not 
Prefer an independency of torture 
To the smooth agonies of adulation 
In hymns and harpings, and selt-seeking prayers 
To that which is omnipotent, because 
It is omnipotent, and not from love, 
But terror and self-hope. 

Adah. Omnipotence 

Must be all goodness. 

Lucifer. Was it so in Eden ? 

.Id ih. Fiend! tempt me not with beauty; thou art 
fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

Lucifer. As true. 

Ask Eve, your mother : bears she not the knowledge 
Of good and evil I 

. Ida h . Oh, my mother ! thou 

Hast pluckM a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
Than to thyself; thou at the least hasi past 
Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
And happy intercourse with happy spirits ; 
But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
Are girl about by demons, who assume 
The words of God, and tempt us with our own 
Dissatistied and curious thoughts — as thou 
Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most ftush'd 
And lu-edless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
I cannot answer this immorial thing 
Which stands before me; I cannot abhor him ; 
I look upon him with a pleasing far, 
And yet I fly not from him : in his eye 
There is a fastening attraction which 

Fixes my fluttering eyra on hi* ; my heart 

Beats quick ; he awt s and yet draws me near, 

Nearer and nearer .—Cain - Cain— save me from him! 

Cain, What dreads my Adah? This is no ill spirit. 

, I. EoA. I !'■ i^ nol God— nor God's : I have beheld 
The cherubs and the seraphs ; he looks not 
Like them. 

Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — 
The archangels. 

Lucifer. And still loflit r than the archangels. 

. Uali. Ay — but not blessed. 

Ltici If the blessedness 

Consists in slavery — no. 

Adah. I have heard it said, 

The seraphs lore most — cherubim know most — 
And this should he a cherub-H ince lie lovea not. 

r. And if the higher knowledge quenches love, 
What must he be you cannot love when known? 
Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
The seraph^ 1 love ran he but ignorance : 
That they are not compatible, the doom 
Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there is 
No other choice : your sire hath chosen already ; 
His worship is but fear. 

Adah. Oli, Cain ! choose love. 



AlT I. 



CAIN. 



217 






Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — it was 
Born with me — but I love naught else. 

Adah. Our parents ? 

Cam. Did they love us when they snatch'd from the 
tree 
That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? 

Adah. We were not born then — and if we had been. 
Should we nor love them and our children, Cain? 

Cain. My little Enoch ! and his lisping sister 
Could I but deem them happy, I would half 

Forget bvit it can never be forgotten 

Through thrice a thousand generations ! never 

Shall men love the remembrance of the man 

Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 

In the same hour! They pluck'd the tree of science 

And sin — and, not content with their own sorrow, 

Begot me — tliee — and all the few that are, 

And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 

ides, million?, myriads, which may be, 
To inherit agonies accumulated 
By ages ' — and J must be sire of such things ! 
Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy, 
The rapturous moment and the placid hour 
All we love in our children and each other, 
But lead them and ourselves through many years 
Of sin and pain — or fev', but still of sorrow, 
Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, 
To Death — the unknown ! Me thinks the tree of know- 
ledge 
Hath not fulfill'd its promise: — if they sinn'd, 
At least they ought to have known all things that are 
Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
What do they know ? — that they are miserable. 
What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that? 

Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
Wert happy 

Cain. Be thou happy then alone — 

I will have naught to do with happiness, 
Which humbles me and mine. 

Adah. Alone I could not, 

Nor would be happy : but with those around us, 
I think I could be so, despite of death, 
Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
Judge from what I have heard. 

Lucifer. And thou couldst not 

Alone, thou say'st, be happy ? 

Adah. Alone! Oh, my God! 

Who could be happy and alone, or good ? 
To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 
When I think how soon I shall see my brother, 
His brother, and our children, and our pi 

Lucifer. Vet thy God is alone, and is he happy ? 
Lonely and good ? 

A li't. He is not so; he hath 

The angels and "he mortals to make happy, 
And thus becomes so in diffusing joy : 
What else can joy be but the spreading joy? 

Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from Eden ; 
Or of his first-bom son ; ask your own heart ; 
It is not tranquil. 

Adah. Alas ! no ! and you — 

Are you of heaven? 

Lucifer. If I am not, inquire 

The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
(Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 
Maker of life and living things ; it is 
His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear, 
And some of us resist, and both in vain, 
His seraphs say : but it is worth the trial, 
Since better may not be without : there is 
A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
To right as in the dim blue air the eye 
Of you, young mortals, lights at pnce upon 
The star which watches, welcoming the morn. 
2C 



Adah. It is a beautiful star; I love it for 
Its beauty. 

/ >r. And why not adore ? 

^idah. Our father 

Adores the Invisible only. 

Lucifer. But the symbols 

Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
Of what is visible; and yon bright star 
Is leader of the host of heaven. 

Adah. Our father 

Saith that he has beheld the God himself 
Who made him and our mother. 

Lucifer. Hast thou seen himj? 

Adah. Yes — in his works. 

Lucifer, But in his being ? 

Adah. No- 

Save in my father, who is God's own image ; 
Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 
And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
In seeming: as the silent sunny noon, 
All light they look upon us ; but thou seem'st 
Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds' 
Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars 

the wonderful mysterious vault 
With things that look as if they would be suns j 
So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing, 
Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them, 
They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 
Thou seem'st unhappy: do not make us so, 
And 1 will weep for thee. 

Lucifer. Alas ! those tears ! 
Couldst thou but know what oceans will be shed 

Adah. By me? 

Lucifer. By all. 

Adah, What all? 

Lucifer. The million millions—^ 

The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth — 
The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled hell, 
Of which thy bosom is the germ. 

Adah. O Cain ! 

This spirit curseth us. 

Cain. Let him say on; 

Him will I follow. 

Adah. Whither ? 

Lucifer. To a place 

Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour ; 
But in that hour see things of many days. 

Adah. How can that be ? 

Lndfer. Did not your Maker make 

Out of old worlds this new one in few days? 
And cannot I, who aided in this work, 
Show in an hour what he hath made in many, 
Or hath destroy'd in few ? 

Cain. Lead on. 

Adah. Will he 

In sooth return within an hour? 

Lucifer. He shall. 

With us acts are exempt from time, and we 
Can crowd eternity into an hour, 
Or stretch an hour into eternity: 
We breathe not by a mor'al measurement— 
But that '? a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 

Adah. Will he return ? 

Lucifer. Ay, woman I he alone 

Of mortals from that place (the first and last 
Who shall return, save One) — shall come back to thee 
To make that silent and expectant world 
As populous as this : at present there 
Are few inhabitants. 

Adah. Where dwellest thou? 

Lucifer. Throughout all space. Where shoul I 
} Where are 
Thy God or Gods — there am I : all things are 
Divided with me ; life and death — and time — 
Eternity — ami h rth— and that 



218 



CAIN. 



A. ill. 



Winch is not heaven nor earth, but peopled wilh 
Those who once peopled iple both — 

arc my realms! So ride 

//■ , an I po tess a I i i is not 

11 If I were not that which I hue said, 

Could [ stand here? His angels are within 
Your vision. 

Adah. So thev were when the <air serp» ml 

Spoke wilh our mother first. 

Lucifer. Cain! thou hast heard. 

It h 'U dost long for know! iiiate 

That thirst; nor ask .ike of fruits 

Which shall deprive theo of a single good 
The conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 

Cain, Spirit, 1 havo said it. 

[Exeunt Lccifek and Cms. 

Adah (follows, exclaiming) Cain! my brother! Cain ! 



act ir. 

Scene I. — The Ahyu of Space. 

Cain. I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 
To sink. 

Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shah be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

Cain. Can I do so without impiety ? 

Lucifer. Believe— and sink not ! doubt — and perish 
thus 
Would run the edict of the other God, 
Who names me demon to his angels; they 
Echo the sound to miserable things, 
Which, knowing naught beyond 'h«ir shallow senses, 
Worship the word which Strikes 'heir car, and deem 
Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
In their abasement. I will have none such: 
Worship or worship not, thou shalt beho 
Tho worlds beyond thy little world, nor bu 
Amerced, for doubts beyond thy little life, 
With torture of my dooming. There will como 
An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 
A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me, 
And walk the waters;" and the man shall walk 
Tho billows and be safe. / will not say, 
Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
To save thee; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
What thou dar'st not deny, the history 
Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 

Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
Is yon our earth? 

Lucifer. Dost thou not recognise 

The dust which form'd your father? 

Cain. Can it be ? 

Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether, 
With an inferior circl< I neai il still, 
Which looks like that which lit our earthly night? 
Is this our Paradise .' (Vhere are its walls, 
And they who guard them? 

Lucif.r, Point me out the site 

Of Paradi 10. 

Cain. How should I ? As we move 

Like sunbeams onward, L* ^rows small and smaller, 
And as it waves little, and then less, 
Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
Which shone tho roundesl of the stars when I 
Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise: 
Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 
Appear to join the innumerable stars 
Which are around us ; and, as we move on, 
Increase their myriads. 

Lucifer. And if there should be 

Worlds greater than thine own, Inhabited 
By greater things, and they themselves far more 
In number than the dust of thy dull earth, 



Though multiplied to animated atoms, 

All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched, 

What wouldst thou th 

Cain. I should be proud of thought 

i knew such things. 
Lucifer. But if that high thought were 

Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and, 
Kii iwing such i such things, 

\n 1 si ii nee • re chaind down 

To the m paltry wants, 

All foul and ful ie very best 

Of thine enja i b Ufctioa, 

A most en 

To lure thee "ii to the renewal of 
Fresh souls and bodies, all fcredoom'd to be 
' happy 

Cain. Spirit ! I 

Know naught of death, save as a dreadful thing 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
A bideou to them 

No less than life ; a heritage Dot happy, 
If I ma\ aril ! if 

It be as thou hast said, (and 1 within 
Feel the prophetic torture of its truth,) 
Here let me die: for to give birth to those 
Who can but stiller many years, and die, 
Methmks is merely propagating death, 
And multiplying mun 

Lucifer. Thou canst not 

All die — there is what must survive. 

Cain. The Other 

Spake not of this unto my father, when 
He shut him forth froi - wilh death 

Written U] Hut at least 

Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may be in the resl a 

/. ram angelic: wouldst thou be as I am? 

Cain. I know not whal thou art: I see thj power, 
And see ihou show's! me things bi pond my |>ower, 
Beyond all power of my born la< u! 
Although inferior still to my d 
\ii.i in j con 

Lucifer. What are they, which dwell 

So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay ? 

Cain. And what art thou who dwcllesC 

So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 

lity — and yet 
Seem'st sorrow 

Lucifer. I seem that which I am; 

And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst be imm 

Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 

Immortal in despite of me. 1 knew not 
This until lately — but sim i i musl be, 
Let me, or happy '>r unhappy, learn 

! 

Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 

Com. How ? 

Lucifer. By suffering. 

Cut/i. And inusi torture be immortal .' 

/' V will try. But now, behold ; 

Is u ii"t glorious? 

Cain. Oh, thou beaut if u» 

And unimaj inable ether ' and 

Yo multiplying masses of increased 

A\iA still increasing lights ! what are ye? what 

Is this blue wilderness of interminable 

Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 

The Ii aves along the. limpid streams of Eden? 

Is your course measured Ibi ye ? Or do ye 

Sweep on in your unbounded i 

Through an bu ndless 

ul aches to think, 

Intoxicated with eteih 



Act II. 



CAIN. 



219 



Oh God ! Oh GoJs ! or whatsoe'er ye are! 
1 1 . > . . beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
They may be! Let me die, as atoms die, 
(If that they-die) or know ye in your might 
And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 
Unworthy what I see, though my dust is ; 
Spirit '. let me expire, or see them nearer. 

loafer. Art thou not nearer? look back to thine earth ! 
Gob. Where is it ? I see nolliing save a mass 
Of most innumerable lights. 

Lucifer. Look there! 

Cain. I cannot see it. 
Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 

Cain. What, yonder ! 
Lucifer. Yea. 

Cain. And wilt thou tell me so ? 

Why I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Which bears them. 

loafer. Thou hast seen both worms and worlds, 
Each bright and sparkling— what dost think of them? 
Cain. That they are beautiful in their own sphere, 
\u I thai the night, which makes both beautiful, 
Tlie little shining fire-fly in its flight, 
An I the immortal star in its great course, 
Must both be guided. 
Lucifer. But by whom or what ? 

Cain. Show me. 

Ijucifer. Dar'st thou behold ? 

Cain. How know I what 

I dare behold ? as yet, thou hast shown naught 
I dare not gaze on further. 

Lucifer. On, then, with me. 

Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal ? 
Cain. Why, what are tlungs ? 

Lucifer. Both partly : but what doUi 

Sit nest thy heart ? 

Cain. The things I see. 

But what 



Lucifer. 
Sale nearest it ? 

Cain. The things I have not seen, 

Nor ever shall— the mysteries of death. 

Lucifer. What, if I show to thee things which have 
died, 
As I have shown theo much which cannot die ? 
Cain. Do so. 

Lucifer. Away, then! on our mighty wings. 

Cain. Oh! how we cleave the blue ! The stars fade 
from us ! 
The earth ! where is my earth ? let me look on it, 
For I was made of it. 

Lucifer. 'T is now beyond thee, 

Less, in the universe, than thou in it: 
Vet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust; 
'Tis part of thy eternity, and mine. 
Cain. Whore dost thou lead me > 
Laeifer. To what wxs before thee ! 

The phantasm of the world ; of which thy world 
Is but the wreck. 

Cuin What! is it not then new? 

/. ifer. No more than life is ; and that was ere thou 
Or /were, or the things which Beem to us 
■ ireatcr than any thin ;s will have 

No en | would pretend to have 

Had no beginning, have hml <me as mean 
As thou | and i heen extinct 

To make way for in than we can 

Surmise 

Have been and must be all 
1! it changes m&ke not dea > clay ; 

But thou art day— and cansl bul comprehend 
That which was day, and Such thou shalt behold. 



Coin. Clav, spirit ! What thou wilt, I can survey. 
Lucifer. Away, then! 

Cain. But the lights fade from me fast. 

An I some till now grew larger as we approach'd, 
And were the look of worlds. 

Lucifer. And such they are. 

Cain. And Edens in them? 
Lucifer. It may be. 

Cain. And men? 

Lu ifer. Yea, or things higher. 

Cain. Ay ? and serpents too 1 

Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without them ? must 
no reptiles 
Breathe, save the erect ones? 

Cain. How the lights recede ! 

Where fly we? 

Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 

Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 

Cain. °But it grows dark, and dark— the stars ara 

gone ! 
Lucifer. And yet thou seest. 
Cam. 'Tis a fearful light! 

No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. 
The very blue of the empurpled night 
Fades to a dreary twilight, yet I see 
Huge dusky masses ; but unlike the worlds 
We were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
Seem'd full of life even when their atmosphere 
Of light gave way, and show'd them taking shapes 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; 
And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous belts, and floating moons, which took 
Like them the features of fair earth : — instead, 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

Lucifer. But distinct. 

Thou seekest to behold death, and dead things ? 
Cain. I seek it not; but as I know there are 
Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 
And all that we inherit, liable 
To such, I would behold at once, what 1 
Must one day see perforce. 
Lucifer. ' Behold! 

Cain. ' T is darkness. 

Lucifer. And so it shall be ever ; but we will 
Unfold its gates ! 

Cam. Enormous vapours roll 

Apart — what 's this ? 

Lucifer. Enter! 

Cain. Can I return ? 

/. ifer. Return! be sure: how else should death bo 
peopled ? 

i realm is thin to what it will be, 
Through thee and thuie. 

C m , The clouds still open wide 

And wider, and make widening circles round us. 
Lucifer. Advance ! 
Cain. And thou! 

Lucifer. Fear not — without me thou 

Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! 

[They disappear through the clouds. 



Scene II.— Safes. 
Enter Lucifer and Cain. 
Cain. How silent and how vast are these dim worlds'. 

For Ihey seem more than one, and yet more | pled 

Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 

So thickly in the upper air, thai I 

Had deem'd them rather the bright populace 

Of some all unimaginable heaven 

Than things to be inhabited themselves, 

Bul thai on drawing near them I beheld 

Their swelling into palpable immensity 

Of matter, which seem'd mado for life to dwell on 



220 



CAIN. 



Act II. 



Rather than life itself, But here, all is 
So shadowy and so full of twiliglii, that 
1 speaks of a day past. 

Lucifer. It is the realm 

ith. — Wouldst have it present? 
Cam. Till I know 

That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
But if if he as I have heard my father 

I ml in his long homilies, 'tis a thin;.— 
Oh God! I dare not think onH! Cursed be 
He who invented life that leads lo death ! 
« 'r the dull mass of life, that belli 
1 fould not retain, but needs must forfeit i* — 
Even for the innocent ! 
Lucifer, Dost thou curse thy father? 

Cain. Cursed he not me in giving mc my birth? 
Cursed he not me before my birth, m daring 
To pluck the fruit forbidden ! 

Lucifer. Thou say's t well: 

The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
But for thy sons and brother ? 

Cain. Let them share it 

With me, their sire and brother ! What else is 
Bequeath'd to me? I leave them my inheritance. 
Oh ye interminable gloomy realms 
' If swimming shadows and enormous shapes, 
5 me fully shown, some indistinct, and all 

I and melancholy — what arc ye? 
Livi j e or have ye lived J 
Lttcif Somewhat of both. 

C (. Then what is death? 

/- r er. What / hath not he who made ye 

Said is another life? 

C ■'■ Till now he hath 

Sail uthing, save that all shall die. 

/. r. Perhaps 

II i day will unfold that further secret. 
Cain. Happy the day ! 

Lucifer. Yes, happy ! when unfolded 

T trough agonies unspeakable, and clogged 
Willi agonies eternal] to innumerable 
Yet unburn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
All to be animated for this only ! 

Cain, What are these mighty phantoms which I see 
Floating around me ? — they wear not the form 
Of the intelligences I have a 
Round our regretted and unenterM Eden, 
Nor wear the form of man as I have view'd it 
In Adams and in Abel's, and in mine, 
Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my children's: 
And yet they have an aspect, which, though not 

Of men nor angels, looks like bo thing which, 

If not the last, rose higher than the first, 
Haughty, ami high, and beautiful, and full 
I tf ii ■ naing strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape ^ for I never saw such. They bear not 
The wing of seraph, nor the face of man, 
Nor form oi mightii -' brute, nor aught that is 
Now bi i', yel and beautiful 

As the most beautiful and mi dity whieh 

Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
Can call them living. 

Lucifer. Yet they lived. 

Com. Where? 

Lucifer. Whore 

Thou livest. 

Cain. When? 

Lucifer. On what diou callest earth 

They did inhabit. 

Com. Adam is the first. 

Lucifer. Of thine, I grant thee — but too mean to be 
The last of these. 

Cain. And what are they? 

Lucifer. That which 

Thou shall be. 



Cam. But what were they ? 

Lunfer. Living, high. 

Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
As much superior unto all thy sire, 
Adam, could ere have been in Kden, as 
The sixty-thousandth generation shall be 
In its du aneracy, to 

Thee and Ihy son; — and bow weak they are, judge 
By thy own fli 

Cain. Ah me! and did they perish? 

Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade from 
thine. 

Cain. But was mine theirs ? 

Lurifer. It was. 

Cain. But not as now 

It is too little and too lowly to 
Sustain such creatures. 

Lucifer. True, it ma more glorious. 

Cain. And wherefore did ii fall / 

Lucifer. Ask him who fells. 

But how ? 

/ '< r. By a most crushing and m 

I i 
Which struck a world to i : 

Subsiding has struck out a world: BUCh things, 

Though rare in time, are frequent in eternity. — 

Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 

'Tis awful! 

'Lucifer. And true. Behold these phantoms! they 
were once 
Mat. rial as thou art. 

Cain. And must I be 

Like them ? 

Lucifer. Let Be who ■ answer that. 

I show '' . . predecessors arc, 

And what they were thou fealest, in degree 
Inl'n tor as thy petty fe< lings and 
Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
What ve in common have with what they had 
Is life, and what ye shall have — death ; the rest 
Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
Ke| uli i ii u ler'd out of the subsiding 
Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
\ BcarceLy-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
Things whose enjoyment was to be in blindness — 
\ Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were; 
Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
The earth] thy task — I'll wart thee Uiere in safety. 

Cain. No: I'll stay here. 

Lurifer. How long? 

Cain. For ever ! sine? 

I must one day return here from the earth, 
I rather would remain; I am sick of all 
That dust has shown me — lei one dwell in shadows. 

/ fer. It cannot be: thou now beholdest as 
A vision that which is i ■ 
To make thyself fil for tins dwelling, thou 
Must pass through what the things thou sce'st have 



pas 



VI— 



By what gate have we entor'd 



The gates of death. 

I ' 
Even now? 

Lucifer. By mine! but, plighted to return, 
My '[Hi it buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on; 
But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. 

Cain. And these, too; can they ne'er repass 
To earth again ? 

Luaft Their earth is gone forever — 

So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
Be conscious to a single present spot 



Act II. 



CAIN. 



221 



Of its new scarcely harden'd surface — 'twas— 
Oh, what a beautiful world it was! 

Cain. And is. 

It is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it bears of beautiful untoiling, 
Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life. 

Lucifer. What thy world is, thou see'st, 

But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
That winch it was. 

Cain. And those enormous creatures, 

Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
(At least so seeming) to the things we have pass'd, 
Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
Roar nightly in the forest, but tenfold 
In magnitude and terror ; taller than 
The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence them, 
And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
Their bark and branches — what were they? 

Lucifer. That which 

The Mammoth is in thy world ; — but these lie 
By myriads underneath its surface. 

Corn. But 

None on it? 

Lucifer. No: for thy frail race to war 
With them would render the curse on it useless — 
'T would be destroy 'd so early. 

Cain, But why war? 

iAicifcT. You have forgotten the denunciation 
Which drove your race from Eden— war with all things, 
And death to all things, and disease to most things, 
And pangs, and bitterness ; these were the fruits 
Of the forbidden tree. 

Cain. But animals — 

Did they too eat of it, that they must die ? 

Lucifer, Your Maker told ye } they were made for you, 
As you for him. — You would not have their doom 
Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
Fallen, all bad stood. 

Cain. Alas ! the hopeless wretches ! 

They too must share my sire's fate, like his sons; 
Like them, too, without having shared the apple ; 
Like them, too, without the so dear-bought knowledge! 
It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
At least it promised knowledge at the price 
Of death — but knowledge still : but what knows man? 

Lucifer. It may be death leads to the highest know- 
ledge ; 
And being of all things the sole thing certain, 
At least leads to the surest science : therefore 
The tree was true, though deadly. 

Cain. These dim realms ! 

I see them, but I know them not. 

Lucifer. Because 

Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
Comprehend spirit wholly — but 'tis something 
To know there are such realms. 

Coin. We knew already 

That there was death. 

Lucifer. But not what was beyond it. 

Cain. Nor know 1 now. 

Lucifer. Thou knowest that there is 

A state, and many states beyond thine own — 
And this thou knewest not this morn. 

Cain. But all 

Seems dim and shadowy. 

Lucifer. Be content; it will 

Seem clearer to thine immortality. 

Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 
Which looks like water, and which I should deem 



The river which flows out of Paradise 
Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
And boundless, and of an ethereal hue — 
What is it ? 

Lucifer. There is still some such on earth, 
Although inferior, and thy children shall 
Dwell near it — 't is the phantasm of an ocean. 

Cain. 'T is like another world ; a liquid sun— 
And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
Its shining surface? 

Lucifer. Are its habitants, 

The past leviathans. 

Cain. And yon immense 

Serpent, which rears his dripping mane and vasty 
Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 
Forth from the abyss, louking as he could coil 
Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on— 
Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
The tree in Eden? 

Lucifer. Eve, thy mother, best 

Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 

Cain, This seems too terrible. No doubt the other 
Had more of beauty. 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er beheld him? 

C(dn. Many of the same kind, (at least so call'd,) 
But never that precisely which persuaded 
The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect. 

Lurifer. Your father saw him not? 

Cain. No: 'twas my mother 

Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpent. 

Lucifer. Good man ! whene'er thy wife, or thy sons 
wives, 
Tempt thee or them to aught that 's new or strange, 
Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them. 

Cain. Thy precept comes too late : there is no more 
For serpents to tempt woman to. 

Lucifer. But there 

Are some things still which woman may tempt man to, 
And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to it! 
My council is a kind one; for 'tis even 
I riven chiefly at my own expense : 't is true, 
'Twill not be follow'd, so there 's little lost. 

Cain. I understand not this. 

Lucifer. The happier thou ! — 

Thv world and thou art still too young! Thou thinkest 
Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
Not so? 

Cain. For crime, I know not ; but for pain, 
I have felt much. 

Lucifer. First-born of the first man! 

Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil, 
Of sorrow — and thou surTerest, are both Eden 
In all its innocence compared to what 
Tliou shortly may's t be; and that state again, 
In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
In generations like to dust, (which they 
In fact but add to,) shall endure and do. — 
Now let us back to earth! 

Cain. And wherefore didst thou 

Lead me here only to inform me this? 

Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 

Cain. Yes: as beii.g 

The road to happiness. 

Ljucifer. If truth be so, 

Thou hast it. 

Cain. Then my father's God did well 

When he prohibited the fatal tree. 

Lucifer. But had done better in not planting it. 
But ignorance of evil doth not save 
From evil; it must still roll on the same 
A part of all things. 

Cain. Not of all tilings. No: 

I'll not believe it — for I thirst for good. [evil 

Lucifer, And who and what doth not? 7f7w covets 



222 



CAIN. 



Act II 



For its own bitter sake ? — JVone — nothing ! 't is 
The leaven of all life, and lifelessnees. 

Cain. Within those glorious orbs which wo behold, 
Distant and dazzling, and innumerable, 
Kre we came down into this phantom realm, 
III cannot come : they are too beautiful. 
Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from afar. 
Grin. And what of that? 

Distance can but diminish glory — they 
When nearer must be more ineffable. 

Lucifer. Approach tile things of earth most beautiful, 
And judge their beauty near. 

Cain. I have done this — 

The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 

Lucifer. Then there must be delusion — what is that, 
W T hich being nearest to thine eyes is still 
Wore beautiful than beauteous things remote? 

Coin. My sister Adah.— All the stars of heaven, 
The deep blue noon of night, lit bv an orb 
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous coming — 
His selling indescribable, which fills 
My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold 
Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
Along that western paradise of clouds — 
The forest shade — the green bough— the bird's voice— 
The resper bird's, which seems to sing of love. 
And mingles with the song of cherubim, 
As tiie day closes over Eden's walls; — 
All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart, 
Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven 
To gaze on it. 

Lucifer. 'T is frail as fair mortality, 

In the first dawn and bloom of young creation 
And earliest embraces of earth's parents, 
Can make its offspring ; still it is delusion. 
Coin. You think so, being not her brother. 
Lucifer. Mortal i 

My brotherhood's with those who have no children. 
Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 
Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be for me. 
But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
Why art thou wretched ? 

Cain. Why do li evist ? 

Why art thou wretched? why are all things so ? 
Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 
Of tilings unhappy! To produce destruction 
Can surely never be the task of joy, 
And yet my sire says he 's omnipotent: 
Then why is evil— he being good .' I ask'd 
This question of my father; and he said, 
Because this evil only was the path 
To good. Strange good, that must arise from out 
Its deadly opposite. I lately saw 
A lamb stung by a reptile: the poor suckling 
Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain" 
And piteous bleating of its restless dam; 
My filher pluek'd some herbs, and laid them to 
The wound; and by degrees the helpli » wretch 
Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
Behold, my son! said Adam how from evil 
Springs good ! 

Lucifer. What didst thou answer ? 
Cain - Nothing 

He is my father: but I thought, that 't were 
A better portion for the animal 
Never to have been stung at all, than to 
Purchase renewal of its little life 
W Hli agonies unutterable, though 
Dispcll'd by antidotes. 

Lucifer. But as thou saidst 

Of all beloved things thou Iovest her 



Who shared thy mother's milk, and givcth hers 
Unto thy children 

' Most assuredly : 

\\ In should I be without her ? 

L>icifer. What am I ? 

Com . Dost Uiou love nothing ? 

' What dees thy God love? 

Cain. All things, my father says ; but 1 confess 
I ce it nut in then nliotnn ii' here. 

Lucifer. And, therefore, thou canst not see if/ love 
( If ""i except some vast and general put pi 
To which particular things must melt like snows. 

Cam. bn ms ! what are tliev / 

' ■ ■'!'«■• ippier in not knowing 

What n Bspring must i ncounter; 

li beneath the clime which knows no winter! 

' But dost tli, .i t loyi is ilk,- thyself? 

Lucifer. And dost thou love tliyxll'.' 
' 'ml love more 

What makes my feelings more endurable, 
And is ii, ope than m ise I love it. 

'■■■ ■ ■ Thou Invest it, because us beautiful, 
the apple in thy mother's ,« ; 
And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
Will cease, like any other appetite. 

Cain. Cease to be beautiful ? how can that be ? 
Lucifer. With time. 

Cain. But time has post, and hitherto 

Even Adam and my mother bulb are fair : 
Not fair like Adah and the seraphim— 
But very fair. 

Lucifer. All that must pass away 

In them and her. 

Cam. I'm sorry for it; but 

Cannot conceive my love I * hi i the less. 
And when her beauty disappears, mi 
He who creates all beauty will lose 
Than me in seeing perish such a work. 
Lucifer. I pity thee who Iovest what must perish. 
Cain. And I thee who lov'sl nothing. 
Luci'cr. A \ ld fly brother— 

Sits he not near thy heart ? 

' Why should he not? 

Lucifer. Thy father loves him well— so docs thy God. 
< rin. And so do I. 
Lucifer. "1'is well and meekly done. 

Com. Meekly! 

Lucifer. lie is the second born of flesh, 

Awl his mother's favourite. 

Cain. Let Inn, k. , p 

Her favour, since the serpent was the first 
To win it. 

Lucifer. And his father's 

Cain. \\ I ,., r ,s that 

Tome.' should I ni.t love that which all |i 

Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent Lord 
And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — 
He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 

Cain. I 

Ne'er saw- him, and I know not if he smiles. 

Lucifer. But you have seen his an 

Coin. Rarelv. 

l.urii.r. Bul 

Sufficiently to see they love your brother: 
//is sacrifices are acceptable, 
' So be they! wherefore speak to mo of this? 

/ for. Because thou hast thought ofuiu i 

''"'"• And if 

I hate thought, why recall a thought that (he pauses. 

as agitated) — Spirit ! 
Here we are in thy world ; speak not of mine. 
Thou host shown me wonders ; i Mimelhoso 

Mighty Pre-A lamites who h ilk'd Ihi earth 
in which ours is the wreck; thoiihasl pointed out 
.Myriads of starry worlds, of wlach our own 






Act IK. 



CAW. 



223 



Is the dim and remote companion, in 
Infinity of life : thou hast shown me shadows 
Of that existence with the dreaded name 
Which my sire brought us — Death ; thou hast shown 
me much — 
ut not all : show me where Jehovah dwells, 

his especial Paradise — or thine : 
V\ . t ere is it? 

Lucifer. Here, and o'er all space. 

Cain. But ye 
Have some allotted dwelling — as all things; 
Clay has its earth, and other worlds their tenants ; 
AU temporary breathing creatures their 
Peculiar element ; and tilings which have 
Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, thou 

say'st ; 
And the Jehovah and thyself have thine— 
Ye do not dwell together ? 

Lucifer. No, we reign 

Together ; but our dwellings are asunder. 

Cam. Would there were only one of ye ! perchance 
An unity of purpose might make union 
In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms. 
How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite, 
To separate ? Are ye not as brethren in 
Your essence, and your nature, and your glory ? 

Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother ? 

Cain. We are brethren, 

And so we shall remain; but were it not so, 
Is spirit like to flesh ? can it fall out? 
Infinity with Immortality ? 
Jarring and turning space to misery — 
For what ? 

Lucifer. To reign. 

Cain. Did ye not tell me that 

Ye are both eternal ? 

Lucifer. Yea ! 

Cain. And what I have seen, 

Yon blue immensity, is boundless ? 

Lucifer. A v. 

Cain. And cannot ye both reign then ? — is there not 
Enough ? — why should ye differ ? 

Lucifer. We both reign. 

Cain. But one of you makes evil. 

Lucifer. Which ? 

Cain. Thou ! for 

If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not? 

Lucifer. And why not he who made? /made ye not; 
Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 

Cain. Then leave us 

His creatures, as thou sav'st we are, or show me 
Thy dwelling, or fas dwelling. 

Lucifer. I could show thee 

Both ; but the time will come thou shalt see one 
Of them for evermore. 

Cain. And why not now ? 

Lucifer. Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to 
gather 
The little I have shown thee into calm 
And clear thought; and thou wouldst go on aspiring 
To the great double Mysteries! the two Principles! 
And gaze upon them on their secret thrones ! 
Dust! limit thy ambition ; for to see 
Either of these, would be for thee to perish ! 

Cain. And let me perish, so I see them ! 

Lucifer. There 

The son of her who snatch'u the apple spake! 
But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them ; 
That sight is for the other state. 

Coin. Of death? 

Lucifer. That is the prelude. 

Cain. Then I dread it less, 

Now that I know it leads to something definite. 

Lucifer. And now I will convey thee to thy world, 
Where thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 



Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, and die. 

Cain. And to what end have I beheld these things 
Which thou hast shown me ? 

Lucifer. Didst thou not require 

Knowledge? And have I not. in what I show'd, 
Taught thee to know tl 

Sain. Alas ! I seem 

Nothing. 

Lucifer. And this should be the human sum 
Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothingness ; 
Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
'T will spare them many tortures. 

Cain. Haughty spirit! 

Thou speak'st it proudly ; but thyself though proud, 
Hast a superior. 

Lucifer. No ! By heaven, which He 

Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity 
Of worlds and life, which I hold with him — No! 
I have a victor — true; but no superior. 
Homage he has from all — but none from me : 
I battle it against him, as I battled 
In highest heaven. Through all eternity, 
And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
And the interminable realms of space, 
And the infinity of endless ages, 
All, all, will I dispute ! And world by world, 
And star by star, and universe by universe 
Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease, 
Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd ! 
And what can quench our immortality, 
Or mutual and irrevocable hate ? 
He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
Evil; but what will be the good he gives? 
Were I the victor, his works would be deem'd 
The only evil ones. And you, ye new 
And scarce-born mortals, what have been his gifts 
To you already in your little world ? 

Cain. But few \ and some of those but bitter. 

Lucifer. Back 

With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
Of his celestial boons to ye and yours. 
Evil and good are tilings in their own essence, 
And not made good or evil by die giver ; 
But if he gives you good — so call him ; if 
Evil springs from him, do not name it mine, 
Till ye know better its true fount; and judge 
Not by word?, though of spirits, but the fruits 
Of your existence, such as it must be. 
One good gift has the fatal apple given— 
Your reason: — let it not be overswav'd 
By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 
'Gainst all external sense and inward feeling: 
Think and endure, — and form an inner world 
In your own bosom — where the outward fails; 
So shall your nearer be the spiritual 
Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 

[They disappear , 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — The Earthy near Eden, as m Act I. 

Enter Cain and Adah 

Adah. Hush! tread softly, Cain. 

Cain. I will; but wherefore? 

Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 

Cain. Cypress ! 't is 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose it 
For our child's canopy ? 

Adah. Because its branches 

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore scem'd 



224 



CAIN. 



Act III 



Pitting to shadow slumber. 

Cam. Ay, the last — 

And longest; but no matter — lead me to him. 

[They go up to the -child. 
How lovely he appears! his little cheeks, 
In their pure incarnation, rying with 
The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 

Adah. And his lips, too, 

How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon— 
His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
"T is closed. 

Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 

My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on 
And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
Thine are the hours and davs when both are cheering 
And innocent! thou hast not pluck'd die fruit — 
Thou know'st not thou art naked! Must the time 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, 
Which were not thine nor mine? But now sleep on! 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, 
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them ; 
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream — 
Of what ? Of Paradise ! — Ay ! dream of it, 
My disinherited boy! 'T is but a dream; 
For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 

Adah. Dear Oain! Nay, do not whisper o'er our son 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise? 
Can we not make another ? 

Cain. Where ? 

Adah. Here, or 

Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I feel not 
The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birth J 

Cain. Yes — death, too, is among the debts we owe 
her. 

Adah. Cain! that proud spirit, who withdrew thee 
hence, 
Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 
Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds, 
Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
Thy guide hath done thee evil: still I thank him, 
And can forgive him all, .that he so soon 
Hatli given thee back to us. 

Cain. So soon 

Adah. 'T is scarcely 

Two hours since ye departed: two long hours 
To me, but only hours upon the sun. 

Cain. And yet I have approach'd that sun, and seen 
Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : meihought 
Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 

AdaJi. Hardly hours. 

Cam. The mind then hath capacity of time, 
And measures it by that which it beholds, 
Pleasing or painful ; litfJe or almighty. 
I had beheld the immemorial works 
Of endless beings; skirr'd extinguishVl worlds ; 
And, gazing on eternity, methought 
I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages 
From its immensity ; but now I feel 
My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
That I was nothing ! 

Adah. Wherefore said he so ? 

Jehovah said not that. 



Gain. No: he contents liim 

\Vi !i making us the nothing which we are ; 
And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
Kil'n and Immortality, resolves 
It back to dust again — for what ? 

-1 <W Thou know'st — 

Even for our parents' error. 

Cain. What is that 

To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ! 

, I iah. Thou has! doI spoken well, nor is that thought 
Thy own, but of the spirit "ho was with thee. 
/ could die for them, bo Owy might live! 

Cain. Why, so say I — provided that one victim 
blight satiate the insatiable of life, 
And that our little rosy sleeper there 
Might iifver taste of death nor human sorrow, 
Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 

Adah. How know we that some such atonement one 
day 
May not redeem our race? 

Cain. By sacrificing 

The harmless for the guilty ? what atonement 
Were there? why, m arc innocent : what have we 
n<>m-, that we must he victims for a deed 
Before our birth, or need have victims to 
Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
If it he such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 

Adah. Alas! thou sinnest now, my Cain: thy words 
Sound impious in mine ears. 

Cain. Then leave me ! 

Adah. Never, 

Though thy God left thee. 

Cain. Say, what have we here 1 

Adah. Two altars, which our brother Abol made 
I hiring thine absence, whereupon to offer 
A sacrifice to God on thy return. 

Cain. And how knew /«•, that / would he so ready 
With die burnt offerings, which lie daily brings 
With a meek brow, whose base humility 
Shows more of fear than worship] as a bribo 
To the Creator / 

Adah. Surely, 't is well done. 

Cain. One altar may suffice ; / have no offering. 

Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful 
Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers, and fruits ; 
These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 

Cain. I have loil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the sun 
According t«> the curse: — must I do more? 
For what should I be gentle? for a war 
With all the elements ere they will yield 
The bread we eat ? For what must I bo grateful 
For being dust, and grovelling in the dust, 
Till I return to dust? If I am nothing — 
For nothing shall I be an hypocrite, 
And seem well-pleased with pain? For what should I 
Be contrite? for my father's sin, already 
Expiate with what we all have undergone, 
And to be more than expiated by 
The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 
Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there, 
The gorms of an eternal misery 
To myriads is within him? better 'twere 
I maich'd him in his Bleep, and dash'd him 'gainst 
The rocks, than let liim live to 

Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Touch not the child — my child ! thy child ! Oh Cain ! 

Cain. Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the powei 
Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 
Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech? 

Cain. I said, 

'T were better that he ceased to live, than give 
Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 



Act lit. 



CAW. 



225 



That saying jars you, let us only sav — 
'T were better that he never had been born. 

Adah. Oh, do not sav so ! Where were then the joys, 
The mother's joys of watching, nourishing, 
And loving him? Soft! he awakes. Sweet Enoch ! 

[She goes to the child 
Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, 
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, 
Hn.v like to me — how like to thee, when gentle, 
For then we are alt alike ; is 't not so, Cain ? 
Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
Reflecied in each other; as they are 
In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
When thm art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! 
And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 
Look ! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, 
And opens wide bis blue eyes upon thine, 
To hail his father; while his little form 
Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain! 
The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
The pleasures of a parent! Bless him, Cain! 
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
His heart will, and thine own too. 

Cain. Bless thee, boy! 

If that a mortal blessing may avail thee. 
To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 

Adah. It shall. 

Surely a father's blessing may avert 
A reptile's subtlety. 

Cain. Of that I doubt ; 

But bless him ne'er the less. 

Adah. Our brother comes. 

Cain. Thy brother Abel. 

Enter Abel. 

Abel. Welcome, Cain ! My brother. 

The peace of God be on thee! 

Cain. Abel, hail * 

Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hast been wandering 
In high communion with a spirit, far 
Beyond our wonted ranae. Was he of those 
We have seen and spoken with, like to our father t 

Coin. No. 

Abel. Why then commune with him ? he may be 

A foe to the Most High. 

Cain, And friend to man. 

Has the Most High been so — if so you term him ( 

Abel. Term him .' your words are strange to-day, my 
brother. 
My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
We mean to sacrifice. 

Adah. Farewell, my Cain ; 

But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
And Aoel's pious ministry, recall thee 
To peace and holiness ! 

[Exit Adah with her child. 

Abel. Where hast thou been ? 

Cain. I know not. 

Abel. Nor what thou hast seen ? 

Coin. The dead, 

The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent, 
The overpowering mysteries of space — 
The innumerable worlds that were and are— 
A whirlwind of such overwhelming things, 
Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced spheres 
Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
Unfit for mortal converse: leave me, Abel. 

Abel. Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural light — 
Thy cheek is flush'd with an unnatural hue — 
Thy words are fraught with an unnatural sound— 
What may this mean ? 

Cain. It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 

Abet. Not till we have prav'd and sacrificed together. 

Ciiin. Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
Jehovah loves thee well. 

2D 



Abet. Both well, I hope. 

Cain. But thee the better: I care not for that 
Thou art litter for his worship than I am : 
Revere him, then — but let it be alone— 
At least, without me. 

Abel. Brother, I should ill 

Deserve the name of our gr^at father's son, 
If as my elder I revered thee not, 
And in the worship of our 3od call'd not 
On thee to join me, and precede me in 
Our priesthood — 't is thy place, 

Cain. But I have neVf 

Asserted it, 

Abel. The more my grief; I pray thee 

To do so now : thy soul seems labouring in 
Some strong delusion ; it will calm ihee. 

Cain. No ; 

Nothing can calm me more. Cahn ! say I ? Never 
Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave me! 
Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 

Abel. Neither j we must perform our task together 
Spurn me not. 

Cain. If it must be so — well, then, 

What shall I do? 

Abet. Ghoose one of those two altars. 

Coin. Choose for me; they to me are so much turf 
And stone. 

. Ibel. Choose thou ! 

Cain. I have chosen. 

Abel. 'T is the highest 

And suits thee, as the elder* Now prepare 
Thine offerings. 

Cain. Where are thine ? 

Abel. Behold them here— 

The firstlings of the flock, and fat (hereof — 
A shepherd's humble offering. 

Cain. I have no flocks ; 

I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit : 

[He gathers fruits. 
Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 

[They dress their altars, and kindle a Jlame 
upon t/itm. 

Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 

Cain. No — I am new to this ; lead thou the way, 
Ami I will follow — as 1 may. 

Abel, (kneeling.) Oh God ! 

Who made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
Within our nostrils, who hath blessed os, 
And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
His children all lost, as they might have been, 
Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
The mercy which is thy delight, as to 
Accord a pardon like a Paradise, 

Compared with our great crimes : — Sole Lord of light ! 
Of good, and glory, and eternity ; 
Wilhout whom all were evil, and with whom 
Nothing can err, except lo some good end 
Of lliine omnipotent benevolence — 
Inscrutable, but still to be fulfilled — 
Accept from out thy humble first of shepherd's 
First of the first-born flocks — an offering, 
In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
Aught unto thee ? — but yet accept it for 
The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
Even to the dust, of which he is, in honour 
Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 

Cain, {standing erect during this speech.) Spirit . 
whaie'er or whosoe'er thou art, 
Omnipolent, it may be — and, if good, 
Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from evil ; 
Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven ! 






226 



CAIN. 



Act m. 



And it may be with other names, because 

Thine attributes seem many, as thy works: — 

If thou must be propitiated with prayers, 

Take them ! If thou must be induced with altars, 

And sofien'd with a sacrifice, receive them ! 

Two beings here erect thern unto ihee. 

If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, which smokes 

On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service 

In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 

In sanguinary incense tothv skies; 

Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth, 

Ami milder seasons, which the Dnstain'd lurf 

I spread them on now offers in the face 

Of the broad sun which ripen 'd ihem, may seem 

Good to thee, inasmuch as they have nut 

Suffered in limb or life, and rather form 

A sample of thy works, than supplication 

To look on ours ! If a shrine without victim, 

And altar without gore, may win thy favour, 

Look on it ! and for him who dresseth it, 

He is— such as thou mad'st him ; and serks nothing 

Which must be won by kneeling : if he's evil, 

Sirike him! th<iu art omnipotent, and may'st— 

For what can he oppose ? K he be good, 

Sirike him, or spare him, as thou wilt ! since all 

Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 

To have no power themselves, save in thy will ; 

And whether thai be good or ill I know not, 

Not being omnipotent, nor til to judge 

Omnipotence, but merely to endure 

Its mandate ; which thus far I have endured. 

[The (ire upon the altar o/Acel kindles into a 
column of the brightest Jtame, and ascends to 
heaven; whih a whirlwind throtcs down the 
altar o/Cain, and scatters the fruits abroad 
upon the earth. 

Abel, {kneeling.) Oh, brother, pray ! Jehovah's wroth 
with thee. 

Cain. Why so? 

Abel. Thy fruits arc scattered on the earth. 

Cain, From earth they came, to earth let ihem return ; 
Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the summer : 
Thy burnt r]esli-nn"'ring prospers better, see 
How lleav'n licks up the flames, when thick with blood ! 

. \btl. Think not upon my offering's acceptance, 
But make another of thine own before 
It is too late, 

Cain. I will build no more altars, 

Nor suffer any. — 

Abel, (rising.) Cain! what meanest thou ? 

Cain. To casi down yon vile flattVer of the clouds, 
The smoky harbinger of thy dull pray'rs — 
Thine altar, with its blood of lambs arid kids, 
Which fed on milk, to b<- deetroy'd in blood. 

Abel, (opposing him.) Thou shall not: — add not 
impious works to impious 
Words ! let that altar stand — 't is hallowM now 
13 y the immortal pl-asure of Jehovah, 
In his acceptance of the victims. 

Cain. His! 

His pleasure ! what was his high pleasure in 
The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking blood, 
To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
Still yearn for their dead offspring? or the pangs 
Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
Thy pious knife ? Give way ! this bloody record 
Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 

Abet. Brother, give back! thou shalt not touch my 
aliar 
With violence : if that thou wilt adopt it, 
To try another sacrifice, *t is thine. 

Cain. Another sacrifice ! Give way, or else 
Thu/ sacrifice may be - 

Abel. What mean'st thou T 

Cain. Give — 



Give way ! — thy God loves blood !— then look lo it :— 
Give way, ere he hath more ! 

tlhil. In His great name, 

I stand hetween thee and the shrine which hath 
Had his acceptance. 

Cain. If thou lov'st thyself, 
Stand back till I have strew'd this lurf along 
Its native soil : — else 

Abel, (opposing him.) I love God far more 
Than Life. 

Coin, (striking him with a brand, on the temples, 
which he snatches from the altar.) Then take 
thy life unto thy God, 
Since he loves lives. 

Abet, (falls.) What hast thou done, my brother ? 

Cain. Brother! 

Abel. Oh, God ! receive thy servant, and 

Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 
He did. — Cain, give me — give me thy hand; and tell 
Poor Zillah 

Coin, (after a moment's stupefaction.) My hand ! 
'i is all red, and with — 
What ? 

[Along pause.-' Xo ''< round. 

Where am I ? alone! Where's Abel? where 
Cain? Can it be that I am he ? My brother, 
Awake ! — why liest thou so on the green earth ? 
T is not ihe hour of slumber :— why bo pair I 

What, hast thou ! thou wert full of life this morn ! 

Abel ! I pray thee, mock me not! I smote 

Too fiercely, hut not fatally. Ah, why 

Would'st thou oppose me ? This is mockery ; 

And only done to daunt me : — as a blow — 

And but" a blow. Stir— stir— nay, only stir! 

Why, so— that's well! — thou breath'si ! breathe upon 

me ! 
Oh, God! Oh, God! 

Jibelj [very faintly.) What 'she who speaks of God ' 

Cain. Thy murderer. 

% qbtl. Then may God forgive him ! Cain, 

Comfort poor Zillah : — she has but one brother 
]Vr<v, [Abel dies. 

Cain. And I none ! — Who makes me broiherless 1 
His eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our lids. 
His lips, too, are apart: why then he breathes; 
And yet I feel it not.— His heart! his heart! — 

Let mc see, doth it beat ?— nu-thinks No !— no ! 

This is a vision, else I am become 

The native of another and worse world. 

The earth swims round me : — what i« this ? 't is wot ; 

[Puts his hand to his brow, and then looks at it. 
And yet there are no dews ! 'T is blood — my blood — 
My brother's and my own ; and shed hy me! 
Then what have I further to do with life, 
Since I havs taken lift from my own flesh? 
Bui he cannot be dead ! — Is silence death ? 
No; he will wake : then let mc watch by him. 
Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench'd 
Thus quickly ! — he hath spoken to me since— 
What shall 1 say to him ? — My brother ! — No ; 
He will not answer to that name; for brethren 
Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to me. 
Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
That I may bear to hear my own again ! 

Enter Zlllah. 

Zillah. I heard a heavy sound : what can it be? 
'T is Cain; and watching by my husband. What 
Dost thou there, brother ? Doth he sleep ? Oh ! heav'n ! 
What means this paleness, and yon stream? — No! no! 
It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 
Abel! what's this? — who hath done this? He moves 

not i 
He breathe* not : and his hands drop down from mine 



Act HI. 



CAIN. 



227 



With stony hfelessness ! Ah! cruel Cain! 
Why cam's! thou not in time to save him from 
This violence? Whatever hath assail'd him, 
Thou wort the stronger, and should'st have slepp'd in 
Between him and aggression ! Father ! — Eve ! — 
Adah !— cume hither! Death is in the world ! 

[Exit Zillah, catling on her Parents, $-c. 
Cain, [solus.) And who hath brought him there ? — I — 
who abhor 
The name of Death so deeply, that the thought 
ImpoisonM all my life, before I knew 
His aspect — I have led him here, and giv'n 
Ms- brother to his cold and still embrace, 
As if he would not have asserted his 
Inexorable claim without my aid. 
I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
Had madden'd me ; — but he shall ne'er awake ! 

Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zii.laii. 

Adam. A voice of wo from Zillah brings me here. — 
What do I see ? — 'T is true ! — My son ! — my son ! 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 

[To Eve. 

Eve. Oh ! speak not of it now : the serpent's fangs 
Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ! 
Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 

Adam. Who, 

Or what hath done this deed? — speak, Cain, since thou 
Wert present ; was it some more hostile angel, 
Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some wild 
Brute of the forest ? 

Eve, Ah! a livid light 
Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud ! yon brand, 
Massy and bloody ! snatch'd from off the altar, 
And black with smoke, and red with • 

i Idarn. Speak, my son ! 

Speak, and assure us, wretched as we are 5 
That we are not more miserable still. 

Adah. Speak, Cain ! and say it was not thou ! 

Eve. It was. 

I see it now — he hangs his guilty head, 
And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
Incarnadine. 

. / I.ih. Mother, thou dost him wrong — 

Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
Which grief wrings from our parent. 

Eve. Hear, Jehovah ! 
May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
For he was filter for his seed than ours. 
May all his days be desolate ! Mav 

Adah. * Hold! 

Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother, 
And my betroth'd. 

Eve. He hath left thee no brother — 

Zillah no husband — me no son ! — for thus 
I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
All binds I break between us, as he broke 

That of his nature, in yon Oh death ! death ! 

Why didst thou not lake me, who first incurr'd thee? 
tst thou not so now ? 

■flia <• Eve! let not this, 

Thy natural gri»-f, lead to impiety ! 
A heavy doom was long forespoken to us ; 
And now that it begins, let it be borne 
In such sort as may show our God, that we 
Are faithful servants to his holy will. 

Eve, {pointing to Cain.) His will /.' the will of yon 
incarnate spirit 
Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 
To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
Of life be on him ! and his agonies 
Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 
From Eden, till hid children do by him 



As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night — snakes spring up in his path — 
Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his victim! 
His waking a continual dread of death ! 
May the clear rivers turn to blood as he 
Stoops down to stain them with his raging lip! 
May every element shun or change to him ! 
May he live in the pangs which others die with ! 
And death itself wax something worse than death 
To him who first acquainted him with man 1 
Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Cain, 
Through all the coming myriads of mankind, 
Who shall abhor thee, though thou wert their sire! 
May the grass wither from thy feet ! the woods 
Deny thee shelter ! earth a home ! the dust 
A grave! the sun his light! and heaven her God! 

[Exit Eve. 

Adam. Cain ! get thee forth : we dwell no more 
together. 
Depart ! and leave the dead to me — I am 
Henceforth alone — we never must meet more. 

Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, my father : do not 
Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head ! 

Adam. I curse him not : his spirit be his curse. 
Come, Zillah! 

Zillah. I must watch my husband's corse. 

Adam. We will return again, when he is gone 
Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
Come, Zillah ! 

Zillah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 

And those lips once so warm — my heart! my heart! 

[Exeunt Adam and Zillah weeping. 

Adah. Cain ! thou hast heard, we must go forth. I 
am ready, 
So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me, 
To me — thine own. 

Cain. Leave me ! 

Adah. Why, all have left thee. 

Cain, And wherefore lingerest thou? Dost thou not 
fear 
To dwell with one who hath done this ? 

Adah, I fear 

Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brolherless. 
I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A Voice from within exclaims, Cain! Cain ! 

Adah. Hcar'st thou that voice? 

The Voice within. Cain! Cain ! 

Adah. It soundelh like an angel's tone. 

Enter the Angel of the Lord. 

Angel. Where is thy brother Abel ? 

Cain. Am I then 

My brother's keeper ? 

Angel, Cain! what hast thou done ? 

The voice of thv slain brother's blood cries out, 
Even from the ground, unto the Lord ! — Now art thou 
Curbed from the earth, which open'd late her mouth 
To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
Henceforth, when ihou shall till the ground, it shall not 
Yield thee her strength ; a fugitive shall thou 
Be from this dav, and vagabond on earth ! 

Adah. This punishment is more than he can bear. 
Behold, thou drivest him from the face of earth, 
And from the face of God shall he be hid. 
A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
'T will come to pass, that whoso findelh him 
Shall slay him. 



223 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OE VENICE. 



■ Cain. Would they could ! but who art' they 

Shall slay mc ? where are these an the lone earth 
As yet unpeopled 1 

'Angel* Thou hast slain thy brother, 

Ami who shall warrant thee against thy son? 

. Idah, Angel of Light ! be merciful, nor say 
That ihis pnor aching breast now nourishes 
A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 

.in^il. Then lie would but be what his father is. 
Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
To him thou now see'st so besmenr'd with blood? 
The fratricide might well engender parricides. — 
But it shall not be 30 — the Lord thv I tod 
And mine commander h me to set his seal 
On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
\Vlii> sl&yeih Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
Be taken on his head. Come hither ! 

Cain. What 

Would'sl thou with me? 

Jingef. To mark upon thy brow 

Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 

Cain. No, let me die ! 

Jin gel. It must not be, 

[The Angel sets the mark on Cain's brenc. 

Cain. It burns 

My brow, but naught to that which is within it. 
Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 

Jingel. Stern hast thou been and stubborn from the 
womb, 
As the ground thou must henceforth till ; but he 
Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocks he tended. 

Cain. After the fall too soon was I begotten ; 
Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
The serpent, and my sire slill mourn'd for Eden. 
That which I am, I am ; I did not seek 
For life, nor did I make myself; hut could I 
With my own death redeem him from the dust — 
And why not so ? let him return to-day, 
And I lie ghastly ! so shall be restored 
By God the life to him he loved ; and taken 
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 

•flngd. Who shall heal murder ? what is done is done. 
Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds 
Unlike the last! [The Angel disappears. 

Adah. He's gone, let us go forth ; 

I hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

Cain. Ah ! little knows he what he weeps for ! 
And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears ! 



But the fi >ur rivers* would not cleanse my soul. 
Think'sl thou my boy will bear to look on me ? 

Jidah. If I thought that he would not, I would— 

Cain, {interrupting her.) No, 

No more of threats : we have had too many of them : 
Go to our children; I will follow thee. 

. JVu'i. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead; 
Let us depart together. 

Cam* Oh! thou dead 

And everlasting witness ! whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou note art, 
I know not ! but if thou see'st what / am, 
I think thou wilt forgive him, wh<m his God 
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell ! 
I must not, dare not touch what I have made thee. 
I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, drainM 
The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own, 
In fondness brotherly and boyish] I 
Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
To do that for thee, which thou should's have done 
Forme — compose thy limbs into their grave — 
The first grave yet dug for mortality. 
Hut who hath dug that grave ? Oh, earth ! Oh, earth ! 
For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, 1 
Give thee back this. — Now fi>r the wilderness. 

[Adah stoops dotcn and kisses the body 0/ Abel, 

Jidah. A dreary, and an early doom, my brother 
Has been thy lot ! Of all who mourn for thee, 
I alone must not weep. My office is 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them ; 
But yet of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 

Cain. Eastward from Eden will we take our way ; 
'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps. 

Jidtth. Lead ! thou shall be my guide, and may our 
God 
Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children. 

Cain. And he who lieth there was childless. I 
Have dried the fountain of a gentle race, 
Which might have graced his recent marriage couch, 
And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine, 
Uniting with our children Abel's offspring ! 
O Abel ! 

Jidah. Peace be with him ! 

Cain. But with me ! 

[Exeunt. 



* Tlie " (bur rtTtfi" which (\ >wed round Eden, mid consequently Uw 
■r.y water* wtih wluclt CoiO wai tcqwdoUd ii]<on Uie cm ih. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



' Dux liiquieti turbidu* Adriie."— Horace. 



PREFACE. 

The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of 
the most remarkable events in the annals of the most sin- 
gular government, city, and people of modern history. It 
occurred in the year 13i>j. Every thing about Venice is, 
or was, extraordinary — her aspect is like a dream, and 
her history is like a romance. The story of this Doge U 
to be found in all her Chronicles, and particularly detailed 
in the "Lives of the Doges,'' by Marin Sanuto, which i« 
given in the Appendix. It is simply and clearly related, 



and is perhaps more dramatic in itself than any scenes 
which can be founded upon the subject. 

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of talents 
and of courage. I find him commander in chief of the 
land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat the King of 
Hungary and his army of 80,000 men, killing 8000 men, 
and keeping the besieged at the same time in check ; an 
exploit to which I know none similar in history except 
that of Cirsar at Alesio, and of Prince Eugene at Bel- 
grade. He was afterwards commander of the fleet in the 
same war. He took Capo d'lstria. He was ambassa- 



MARINO FAUERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



229 



dor at Genoa and Rome, at which last he received the Extraordinary in Dr.Moore to seem surprised that a man 



news of his election to the dukedom ; his absence being a 
proof that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was ap- 
prized of his predecessor's deaih and his own succession 
at the same moment. But he appears to have been of an 
ungovernable temper. A story is told by Safiuto, of his 
having, many years before, when podesta and captain ai 
Treviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who was somewhat 
tardy in bringing the Host. For this, honest Santito "sad- 
dles him with a judgment, " as Thwackuui did Square ; 
but he does not tell us whether he was punished or re- 
buked by the Senate for this outrage at the time of its com- 
mission. He seems, indeed, to have been afterwards at 
peace with the church, for we find him ambassador at 
Rome, and invested wilh the fief of Valdi Marino, in the 
march of Treviso, and with the title of Count, by Lorenzo 
Count-Bishop of Ceneda. For these facts my authori- 
ties are Sauuto, Vetter Sandi, Andrea Navagero, and the 
account of the siege of Zara, first published by the inde- 
fatigable Abate Morelli,in his " Monumenti Veneziani di 
vana Leileratura," printed m 1796, all of which I have 
looked over in the original language. The moderns, Darii, 
Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with the ancient 
chroniclers. Sismondi attributes ihe conspiracy to his jca- 
/ot/st/; but I find this nowhere asserted by the national his- 
torians. Vetior Sandi, indeed, says, that *'Aiiri scrissero 

che dalla gelosa siispizion di esso Doge siasi fatto 

(Michel Sleno) staccar con violenza," &c. &c. ; but this 
appears to have been by no means the general opinion 
nor is it alluded to by Sanulo or by Navasero,and Sand 
himself adds, a moment after, thai u per ahre Veuezijme 
memorie traspiri, che non il solo desiderio di vendetta lo 
dispose alia congiura ma anche la innata abituale ambi- 
zion sua, per cui anel ava a farsi principe independente." 
The first mot ive appears to have been excited by the gross 
affront of the words written by Michel Sieno on the ducal 
chair, and by the light and inadequate sentence of the 
Forty on the offender, who was one of their " tre Capi." 
Tue attentions of Steno himself appear to have been di- 
rected towards one of her damsels, and not to the " Doga- 
ressa'" herself, against whose fame not the slightest insinu- 
ation appears, while she is praised for her beauty, and re- 
marked for her youth. Neither do I find it asserted (un- 
less the hint of Sandi be an assertion) that the Doge was 
actuated by jealousy of his wife ; but rather by respect for 
her, and for his own honour,warranted by his past services 
and present dignity. 

1 know not that the historical facts are alluded to in 
English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View of Italy. His 
account is false and flippant, full of stale jests about old 
men and young wives, and wondering at so great an effect 
from so slight a cause. How so acute and severe an ob- 
server of mankind as the auther of Zetueo could wond 
ai this is inconceivable. He knew that a basin of wat 
spilt on Mrs. Masham's gown deprived the Duke ofMad- 
bornugh of his command, and led to the inglorious peace 
of Utrecht — that Louis XIV. was plunged into the mosi 
desolating wars because his minister was nettled at his find- 
ing fan!', with a window, and wished to give him another oc- 
cupation— that Helen lost Troy — that t.ucretia expelled 
the Tarquins from Rome — and that Cava brought the 
Moors to Spain — that an insulted husband led the Gauls to 
Ciusium, and thence to Rome — ihat a single verse of Fre- 
derick II. of Prussia on the Abbe de Bernis, and ajest on 
Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of Rosbach — 
that the elopement of Dearbhorgil with Mac Muichad 
conducied the English to the slavery of Ireland — that a 
personal pique between Maria Antoinette and the Duke 
of Orleans precipitated the first expulsion of the Bour- 
bons — and, not to multiply instances, that Comm<Klus, Do- 
mitian,and Caligula fell victims not to their public tyranny, 
but to private vengeance — and that an order to make 
Cromwell disembark from the ship in which he would have 
sailed to America destroyed both king and commonwealth. 
After these instances, on the least reflection! it is indeed 



used to command, « ho had served and swayed in the most 
important offices, should fiercely resent, in a fierce age, an 
unpunished affront, the grossest that can be offered to a 
man. be he prince or peasant. The age of Fahero is little 
to the purpose, unless to favour it. 



! The you' 



* wrath is like alrnw on fire, 



But like rtd hoi tttelit the oW man'* ire. 

" Vomit mm scion give ami 30011 forget affronts, 
Old *tx ■■ alow tl both." 

Lau»ier's reflections are more philosophical : — " Tale fu 
il fine ignomininso di un 1 uomo, che la sua nasciik, la sua 
eia, il suocarattere dovevano tener lontano dalle passion l 
piodutirici di grandi deliiti. I suoi talenti p©' lungo 
tempo esercita'i ne' maggiort impieghi, la sua capaciia. 
sperimentata ne' govern! e nelle ambasciate, gli avevano 
acqttistato la stima e la fiducia de' ciltadini, ed avevano 
uniti i suffragj per collocarlo alia testa delta republica. In- 
nalza'o ad un grado che terminava gloriosamenta la sua 
vita.il risent imentodi un' iugiuria leggiera msinuonel suo 
cuore tal veleno che basto a corrompere le amiche sue 
qualita, e a condurlo al (ermine dei scellerali ; serio esem- 
pio,cbe provawort esservi eta, in cut laprudenzawnaiia 
sia sicura, e che neW uomo restano setnpre passioni co- 
pact ft tlisonorarlo, quantlo noil invigili sopra 8t stesso." 
Lankier, Italian translation^ vol. iv. page 50,31. 

Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero begged 
his life? I have searched the chroniclers, and find nothing 
of ihe kind ; it is true that he avowed all. He was con- 
ducted to ihe place of torture, but there is no mention made 
of any application for mercy on his part ; and the very cir- 
cumstance of their having taken him to the rack seems 
to argue anything but his having shown a want of firm- 
ness, which would doubtless have been also mentioned hy 
those minute historians who by no means favour him : such, 
indeed, would be contrary to his character as a soldier, to 
the age in which he lived, and at which he died, as it is to 
the truih of history. I know no justification at any dis- 
tance of time for calumniating an historical character; 
surely truth belongs to the di ad, and to the unfortunate, 
and they who have died upon a scaffold, have generally 
had faults enough of their own, without attributing to them 
that which the very incurring"!* the perils which conducted 
them to their violent death renders, of all others, the most 
improbable. The black vtil which ie painted over the 
plane of Marino Faliero amongst the doges, and the 
Giants' Siaircase where he was crowned, and discrowned, 
and decapitated, struck forcibly upon my imagination, as 
did his fiery character and sirange story. I went in 1819, 
in search of his tomb more than once lo the church San 
Giovanni e San Paolo, and as I was standing before the 
monument of another family, a priest came up to me and 
aid, " I can show you finer monuments lhan that." I told 
him that I was in search of that of the Faliero family, 
and particularly of the Doge Marino's. "Oh," said he, 
I will show it vou ;" and conducting me to the outside, 
pointed out a sarcophagus in the wall with an illegible in- 
scription. He said that it had been in a convent adjoin- 
ing but was removed after the French came, and placed 
in its present situation ; that he had seen the tomb opened 
at its removal; there were stilt some bones remaining, 
but no positive vestige of the decapitation. The eques- 
trian statue of which I have made mention in ihe thiid act 
as before that church is not, however, of a Faliero, but of 
some other now obsolete warrior, although of a later date. 
There were two other 1 )oges of this family prior to Ma- 
rino : Ordelafo,who fell in battle at Zara in 1117, (where 
his descendant afterwards conquered the Huns,) and Vi- 
tal Faliero, who reigned in 1082. The family, originally 
from Fano, was of the most illustrious in blood and wealth 
in the city of once the most wealthy and slill ihe most 
ancient families in Europe. The length I have gone into 
on this subject will show the interest I have taken in it. 
Whether I have succeeded or not in the tragedy, I have at 






230 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Act I. 



least transferred into our language an histoiical fact wor- 
thy of commemoration. 

It is now four years that 1 have meditated this work, an. I 
before I had sufficiently examined the records,! was rather 
disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy in Faliero. 
But perceiving no foundation lor tins in historical truth, 
and aware that jealousy is an exhausted passion in the 
drama, I have given it a more historical form. I «as 
besides well advised bv the laie Matthew Lewis on lhat 
point, in talking with hint of my intention at Venice in 
1817. " If you make him jealous," said he, "recollect that 
yotl have to contend with established writers, to say no- 
thing of Shakspeare, and an exhausted subject ; — stick to 
tiie old fiery Duge's natural character, which will be.ir you 
out, if properly drawn ; and make your plot as regular as 
you can.'' Sir William Drummond gave me nearly the 
same counsel. How far [ have followed these instruc- 
tions, or whether they have availed me, is not fur me to de- 
cide. I have had no view to the stage; in its present 
state it is, perhaps, not a very exalted object of ambition ; 
besides I have been too much behind the scenes to have 
thought it so at any time. Ami I cannot conceive any man 
of irritable feeling putting himself at the mercies of an 
audience :— — the sneering reader, and the loud critic, and 
the tart review, are scattered and distant calamities; but 
the trampling of an intelligent or of an ignorant audience 
on a production which, be it good or bid, lias been a men- 
tal labour to the writer, is a palpable ami immediate griev 
anee, heightened by a man's duubt of their competency to 
judge, and his certainty of his own imprudence in electing 
them his judges. Were I capable of writing a play which 
could be deemed stage worthy, success would give me no 
pleasure, and failure «;reat paint It i- for thifl reason thai 
even during the time of being one of the committee of one 
of the theatres, I never made the attempt, and never will. 
But surely there is dramatic power somewhere, where 
Joanna Baillie.andMilman, and John Wilson exist. The 
'* City of the Plague' 1 and the " Fall of Jerusalem'* are full 
of the best " materieV 1 for tragedy that has been seen 
since Horace Wal pole, except passages of Etbwald and 
De Montfort. It is the fashion to underrate Horace Wat- 
polo ; firstly, because he was a nobleman, and secondly. 
because he was a gentleman ; but to say nothing of the 
composition of his incomparable letters, and of the Castle 
ofOtranto, he is (he u Ultimus Romanorum," the author of 
the M vsterious Mother, a tragedy of the highest order, and 
not a puling love-play. He is the father of the first ro- 
mance and of the last tragedy in our language, and surely 
worthy of a higher place than any living writer, he he who 
he may. 

In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I forgot to 
mention that the desire of preserving, though still too re- 
mote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregularity, 



* While I "#ne in the mih- committee of Umry l.nnr Theatre, I CAS vouch 
for iny colleagues, and I dope for myself, that arc did our beet to bring back 
ihc legitimate drama I tried whui [could to gri "1)l- Mom Cm" revived, 

hul In v tin, nml eqimllylti viiin in favour of Sotheby's " I* " winch 

vae thought an acting piny ; nml I endeavoured alas to wake Mr. < la. 
ridge to write att ageuy. Those who are not lu I hi secret will hnntly 
believe that the " School for s. indal" i- the play which haa brought taut 
nwnsy, averaging the number of limea u li.<» 'iren ncteil a n i c *- it* produc- 
tion . ■" Manager Dlbtllii assured me. "f what nasi 
turin'i" Bert rum," I am not aware ; iolh.il I ra < y bi traducing, through 
Igaonuict, *omvexcellenl new writer ; || so, I beg iheir pardon. I h iva 
been absent from England nearly flea years, and, nil last ft <> I ni - 1 

r^u.l .in English newapaper since my de| ire, and ■ w only ■«■ tre 

of theatrical matters through the medium of the Parisian te of Galls 

n tin, :iinl only fur the last IWflve ni ml In I, it mr lli. ii ili-pfi-cnti- nil 
otl'enre to tragic or comic wi iters, I" whom I wish Well, "nil o| a bom I 

know hhig. Tue long complaints of the actual etale ol the drama 

arlee, howerer, from nofnultoi the perforraort. 1 can conceive nothing 

I..-H-I id hi K.-in'A-, l.'ijokf, iinil Kr-n I heir very ilill nl in. i inn in, or 

1 1 in Kills! gtntiem m'e e jdv, I In « parte ol tragedy 

Ml it O'Neill [never » iw, having mane and kept a. df termination W eea 

nothing which ■h.nulil divide or riliutrb my rtcoUect] n of fSldd 

8 'i.iom and Kemule were the id$at of tragic action ; I never »«w an? 
thing ni all resembling them even In perttn : for ihi« reason, we •hn(| 

ni'Vi-rm-i- R gaia ' lorlul&nUSQT Mwbeth When Kenn is lil.imetl for want 
of ill trim v, wr- ihould re member that it is a grace nnrl not an art. and 001 
I >e i'i dned >>y «lm1y. In all, not t-,/je< natural pari*, he is perfect ; 
•van his very defect* belong, or teem to belong, to the parts tl 
aud appear truer to nature. Bul of Kemble *< mat nv, with reference 
tu his acting, what the Cardinal De Ketz said <jl the atarCjUla of Mun- 
Iroas, "' tint he was the only man ha crurs-tw who reminded him of the 
borooa of Plutarch." 



which is the reproach of the English theatrical composi- 
lions, [HTM mi-., ha-* iiiilurt-d nn to represent the conspiracy 
as already funned, and the Doge acceding to it, whereas in 
fact it was of his own preparation and thai of Israel Ber- 

tuccio. The nlherchitraciers, (except that of ihe due he--,) 
incidehtS] ami almost the time, which was wonderfully 
short for such a design in leal life, are strictly historual, 
except that all the consultations took [dace in the palace. 
Had I followed this, the unity would have been belter 
preserved ; but I wished to produce the Doge in the full 
assembly of the conspirators, instead of monotonously 
placing him always in dialogue wi'h the same indivi- 
duals. For the real facts, I refer to the Appendix. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN. 
Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
Bertuccio Faliero, Nephew of the Doge* 
Lioni, a Patrician and Senator. 
Benintende, Chief of the Council of Ten. 
Michel Steno, One of the three Capi oj the Forty. 
Israel Bertuccio, Chief of 

the Arse mil, 
Philip Calendaro, \ Conspirators. 

Dagolino, 
Bertram, 

( " Signore di Abf f e," one of the 
Signor of the Night,? Officers belonging to the 

{ Republic. 
First Citizen. 
Second Citizen* 
Thin! Citizen. 
Vincenzo, i 

Pietro, > Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace, 
Babtista, ) 

Secretary of the Council of Ten. 
Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, The Council of Ten f 
The Giunta, d>c. <$-c. 

WOMEN. 

ANGiOLtNA, Wife to the Doge. 
AIakianna, her Friend. 

Female Attendants, fyc. 
Scene Venice — in the year 1355. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — An Antechamber in the Ducal Palace* 
Pietro speaks, in entering, to Battista. 

Pie. Is not the messenger returned ? 

Bat. Not yet; 

I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
But still the Signory is deep in council, 
And lonu dehato on Steno's areusation. 

Pie* Too long — at least so thinks the Doge. 

Bat. How bears he 

These moments of suspense ? 

Pie. With struggling patience. 

Placed at the duC&Ltftble, covered o'er 
With all the apparel of the state; petitions, 
Despatches] judgments, acts, reprieves, reports, 
He sits as rapt in duty ; but whene'er 
He hears ihe jarring of a distant door, 
Or aught that intimates a coming step, 
Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders, 
And he will start up from his chair, then pause, 
And seat himself again, and fix his gaze 
Upon some edict ; but 1 have observed 
For the last hour he has not turn'd a leaf. 

Ii it. ' I' is said he is much moved, and doubtless 'twas 
Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly. 



Act I. 



MARINO FALIERO, DODGE OF VENICE. 



231 



Pie. Ay, if a poor man : Steno 's a patrician, 
Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 

Bat. Then you think 

He will not be judged hardly ? 

Fie. 'T were enough 

He be judged justly ; but 't is not for us 
To anticipate the sentence of the- Foriy. 

Bat. And here it comes. — What news, Vincenzo? 
Enter Vincenzo. 

Viiu >T is 

Decided ; but as yet his doom's unknown : 
I saw the president in act to seal 

The parchmunt which will bear the Forty's judgment 
Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. [Exeunt. 

Scene U.— The Ducal Chamber. 

Marino Faliero, Doge; and his Nephew, Ber- 

dccio Faliero. 

Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do you justice. 

Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori did, 
Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 

Ber. F. His peers will scarce protect him ; such an act 
Would bring contempt on all authority. 

Doge. Know you not Venice ? Know you not the 
Forty ? 
But we shall see anon. 

Ber F. (ailtlressing Vincenzo, then entering.) 
How now— what tidings? 

Vin. I am charged to tell his highness that the court 
Has passM its resolution, and that, soon 
As the due forms of judgment are gone through, 
The sentence will be senl up to the Do<*e: 
In the mean time the Forty doth salute 
The Prince of the Republic, and entreat 
Ilis acceptation of their duty. 

Doge. Yes — 

They are wond'rous dutiful, and ever humble. 
Sentence is past, you say ? 

I'm. It is, your highness : 

The president was sealing it, when I 
Was call'd in, that no moment might be lost 
In forwarding the intimaiion due 
Not only to the Chief of the Republic, 
But the complainant, boih in one united. 

Ber. F. Are you aware, from aught you have per- 
ceived, 
Of their decision? 

PtfU No, my lord ; you know 

The secret custom of the courts in Venice. 

Ber. F. True ; but there still is something given to 
guess, 
Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would catch at ; 
A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
The Forty are but men — most worthy men, 
And wise, and just, and cautious — this I grant — 
And secret as the grave to which they doom 
The guilty; but with all this, in their aspects — 
At least in some, the juniors of the number — 
A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, 
Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 

Vin. My lord, I came away upon the moment, 
And had no leisure to take note of that 
Which pass'd among the judges, even in seemin<» ; 
My station near the accused, too, Michel Steno, 
Made me— — 

Doge, (abruptly.) And how look'd he ? deliver that. 

Ptn. Calm, but not overcast, he stood resign'd 
To the decree, whate'er it were ; — but lo ! 
It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 

Enter the Secretary of the Forty, 

Sec. The high tribunal of the Forty sends 



Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
Chief Magistrate of Venice, and requests 
His highness to peruse and to approve 
The sentence past on Michel Sieno, born 
Patrician, and arraign'd upon the charge 
Contain'd, together with its penalty, 
Within the rescript which I now present. 

Doge. Retire, and wait without. 

[Exeunt Secretary and Vincenzo. 
Take thou this paper 
The misty letters vanish from my eyes ; 
I cannot fix them. 

Ber. F. Patience, my dear uncle : 

Why do you tremble thus ? — nay, doubt not, ail 
Will be as could be wish'd. 

Doge. Say on. 

Ber. F. (reading.) "Decreed 

In council, without one dissenting voice, 
That Michel Steno, by his own confession, 
Guilty on the last night of Carnival 
Of having graven on the ducal throne 
The following words " 

Doge. Would'st thou repeat them' 

Would'st thou repeat them — thou, a Faliero, 
Harp on the deep dishonour of our house, 
Dishonour'd in its chief — that chief the prince 
Of Venice, first of cities? — To the sentence. 

Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord; I will obey — 
(Reads.) '* That Michel Steno be detain'd a month 
In close arrest." 

Doge. Proceed. 

Ber. F. My lord, 't is finished. 

Doge. How, say you ? — finish'd! Do I dream? — 
't is false — 
Give me the paper — (Snatches the paper and reads) — 

*' 'T is decreed in council 
That Michel Steno'' Nephew, thine arm ! 

Ber. F. Nay, 

Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is uncall'd for — 
Let me seek some assistance. 

Doge. Stop, sir — Stir not — 

'T is past. 

Ber. F. I cannot but agree with you 
The sentence is too slight for the offence- 
It is not honourable in the Forty 
To affix so slight a penalty to that 
Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
To them, as being your subjects ; but 'i is not 
Yet without remedy : you can appeal 
To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
Who, seeing that true justice is withheld, 
Will now take up the cause ihey once declined, 
And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do you stand 
So fix'd ? You heed me not : — I pray you, hear me ! 

Doge, (dashing down the ducal bonnet, and offering 
to trample upo7i it, exclaims, as he is with* 
held by his nephew,) 
Oh ! that the Saracen were in St. Mark's! 
Thus would I do him homage. 

Ber. F. For the sake 
Of Heaven and all its saints, my lord 

Doge. Away ! 

Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 
Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erlhrew at Zara 
Were ranged around the palace ! 

Ber. F. 'T is not well 

Tn Venice' Duke to say so. 

Doge. Venice' Duke! 

Who now is Duke in Venice? let me see him, 
That he may do mo right. 

Ber. F. If you forget 

Your office, and its dignity and duty, 
Remember that of man, and curb this pmsiion. 
The Duke of Venice 



232 



MARINO FALlERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Act I. 



Doge, {interrupting him.) There is no audi thing — 
It is word — nay i worse — a worthless by-word : 
The most despised, wrong'd, outraged, helpless wretch, 
Who begs his bread, if 't is refused by one, 
May win it from another kindur heart; 
Hut he, who is denied his right by those 
Whose place it is to d>> no wrong, is poorer 
Than the rejected beggar— he's a slave — 
And that am I, and thnu, and all our house, 
Even from this hour ; the meanest artisan 
Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
May spit upon us : — where is our address ? 

Ber. F. The law, my prince — 

Doge, (interrupt ins; him.) You see what it has done — 
I ask'd no remedy but from the law — 
I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 
I call'd no judges but those named by law — 
As sovereign, [ appeal'd unto my subjects. 
The very subjects who had made me sovereign, 
And gave me thus a double right to be so. 
The rights of place and choice, of birth and service, 
Honours and years, these scars, these hoary baits, 
T!ie travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues 
The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest stain, 
The grossest insult, most contrmptuous crime 
Of a rank, rash patrician — and found wanting' 
And this is to be borne ! 

lier. F. I say not that : — 

In case your fresh appeal should be rejected, 
We will find other means to make all even. 

Doge. Appeal again! art thou my brother's son? 
A scion of the house of Faliero? 
The nephew of a Doge? and of that blood 
Which hath already given three dukes to Venice? 
But thou say'st well — we must be humble now. 

Ber, F. My princely uncle ! you are too much 
moved : — 
I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly 
Left without fitting punishment : but still 
This fury doth exceed the provocation, 
Or any provocation : if we are wrong'd, 
We will ask justice; if it be denied, 
We'll take it; but may do all this in calmness — 
Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep Silence, 
I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 
I love our house, I honour you, its chief, 
The guardian of my youth, and its instructer — 
Hut though I understand your grief, and enter 
In part of your disdain, it doth appal me 
To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 
O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air. 

Doge. I tell thee — must I tell thee — what thy father 
Would have required no words to comprehend ? 
Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 
Of torture from the touch ? hast thou no soul — 
No pride — no passion — no deep sense of honour ? 

Her. F. 'T is the first time that honour has been 
doubted, 
And were the last, from any other skeptic. 

Doge. You know the full offence of this born villain, 
This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, 
Who throw his sting into a poisonous libel, 
And on the honour of — Oh God !— my wife, 
The nearest, dearest part of all men's honour, 
Left a base slur lo pass from mouth to mouth 
Of loose mechanics, with all course foul comments, 
And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene; 
"While sneering nobles, in more poliah'd guise, 
Whisper'd the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
Which made me look like them — a courteous wiltol, 
Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonour. 

Ber. F. But still it was a lie— you knew it false, 
And so did all men 

Doge. Nephew, the high Roman 



Said, " Caesar's wife must not even be suspected," 
And put her from him. 

Ber. F. True — but in those days 

Doge. What is it that a Roman would not suffer, 
That a Venetian prince must hear? Old Dandolo 
Refused the diadem of all the Cu;sars, 
And wore the ducal cap I trample on, 
Because 't is now degraded. 

Ber. F. 'T is even so. 

Doge. It is — it is: — I did not visit on 
The innocent creature thus most vilely slander'd 
Because she look an old man for her lord, 
For that he had been long her father's friend 
And patron of her house, as if there were 
No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 
And beardless faces; — I did not for this 
Visit the villain's infamy on In-r, 
But craved my country's justice on his head, 
The justice due unto the humblest being 
Who hath a wife whose faith is sweet to him, 
Who hath a home whose hearth is dear to him, 
Who hath a name whose honour 's all to him, 
When these art- tainted by the accursing breath 
t M calumny and scorn. 

Ber. F. And what redress 

Did you expect as his fit punishment? 

Doge. Death ! Was I not the sovereign of the state- 
Insulted on his very throne, and made 
A mockery to the men who should obey me ? 
Was I not injured as a husband ? scorn'd 
As man? reviled, degraded, as a prince? 
Was not otfence like his a complication 
Of insult and of treason? — and he lives ! 
Had he instead of on the Doge's throne 
Siampt the same brand upon a peasant's stool, 
His blood had gilt the threshold ; for the carle 
Had subbed him on the instant- 

Ber. F. Do not doubt it, 

He shall not live till sunset — leave lo me 
The means, and calm yourself, 

Doge. Hold, nephew: this 

Would have sufficed but yesterday ; at present 
I have no further wrath against this man. 

Ber. F. What mean you? is not tho offence re- 
doubled 
Bv this most rank — I will not say — acquittal ; 
For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
Of the offence, and leaving it unpunish'd ? 

Doge. It is redoubled, but not now by him: 
The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest— 
We must obey the Forty. 

Ber. F. Obey them ! 

Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign ? 

Doge. Why yes ; — boy, you perceive it then at last : 
Whether as frlluw-citizen who sues 
For justice, or as sovereign who commands it, 
They have defrauded me of both my rights, 
(For here the sovereign is a citizen ;) 
But, not withstanding, barm not thou a hair 
Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 

Ber. F. Not twelve hours longer, had you left to me 
The mode and means : if you had calmly heard me, 
I never meant this miscreant should escape, 
But wish'd you to suppress such gusts of passion, 
That we more surely might devise together 
His taking otf. 

I to--, . No, nephew, he must live; 

At least, just now — a life so vile as his 
Were nothing at this hour; in th' olden time 
Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim, 
Great expiations had a hecatomb. 

Ber. F. Your wishes are my law : and yet 1 fain 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
The honour of our house must ever be. [proof: 

Doge. Fear uot ; you shall liavc time and place of 



Art I. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



233 



But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
I am ashamed of my own anger now; 
1 pray you, pardon me. 

B T. F. Why that's my uncle ! 

The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself! 
I wonder'd to perceive you so fjrget 
All prudence in your fury at these years, 

Although the cause 

Ay, think upon the cause — 
Forget it not : — When you lie down to rest, 
Let n lie black among your dreams ; and when 
The morn returns, so let it stand hetween 
The sun and you, as an ill omen'd cloud 
Upon a summer-day of fesiival : 
So will it stand to me ; — but speak not, stir not,— 
Leave all to me ; — we shall have much to do, 
And you shall have a pa it. — But now retire, 
'T is fi' I were alone. 

Ber. F. {taking up and placing the ducal bonnet on 
the table ) Ere I depart, 

I pray you to resume what you have spurn'd, 
Till you can change it haply for a crown. 
An i now I take my leave, imploring you 
In ail things to rely upon my duty 
As tloth become your near and faithful kinsman, 
And not less loyal citizen and subject, 

[Exit Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge, (sqIus.) Adieu, mv worthy npphew. — Hollow 
bauble ! f Ta king up the ducal cup. 

Beset with all the thorns that line a crown, 
Without investing the insulted brow 
With the all swaying majesty of kings; 
Thmi ic'le, gilded, and degraded toy, 
Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. [Puts it on. 
How mv brain aches beneath thee ! and my temples 
Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 
Coul 1 I not turn thee to a diadem ? 
Could [ not shatter the Briarean sceptre 
Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 
Making the people nothing, and the prince 
A pageant '? In my life I have achieved 
Ta-.ks not less difficult — achi;;red for ihem, 
Who thus repav me ! — Can I not requite them? 
Qh f ir "tie year ! Oh ! hut for even a day 
Of my full youth, while yet my body served 
My soul as serves the generous steed his lord, 
I would have dashM among them, asking few 
In aid to overthrow these swoln patricians ; 
But now I must look round fir other hands 
To serve this hoary head ; — but it shall plan 
In such a sort as will not leave the task 
Herculean, I hough a« vet it is hut a chaos 
Ordarkly brooding thoughts: my fancy is 
In her first work, more nearly to the light 
Holding the sleeping; images of things 
For the selection of the pausing judgment.— 
The troops are few in 

Enter VlNCENZO, 
Vin. There is one without 

audience of your highness. 

I 'm unwell — 
see no one, not even a patrician — 
Lei him refer his business to the council. 

I in. My lord, I will deliver your reply : 
It cannot much import — he 'a a plebeian, ™ 
The master of a galley, I believe. 

Doge. How! did you say the patron of a galley? 
That is — I mean — a servant of the state: 
Admit him, he may be on public service. 

^ [Exit Vincenzo. 

Doge, (solus.) This patron may be sounded; I will 

try him. 

I know the people to be discontented ; 

2E 



They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day, 

When Genoa conquer'd ; they have further cause 

Since they are nothing in the state, and in 

The city worse than nothing — mere machines, 

To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasure. 

The troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised, 

And murmur deeply — any hope of change 

Will draw them forward: they shah" pay themselves 

With plunder: — but the priests — I doubt the priesthood 

Will not be with us; they have hated me 

Since that rash hour, when, madden'd with the drone, 

I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso, 
Quickening his holy march; yet, ne'erthctess, 
They may be won, at least their chief at Rome 
By some well-timed concessions ; but, above 
All tilings, I must he speedy; at my hour 
Of twilight little light of life remains. 
Could I fne Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 
I had lived toolnng, and willingly would sleep 
Next moment with my sires ; and, wanting this, 
Better that sixty of my fourscore years 
Had been already where — how soon, I care not — 
The whole must be extinguished ; — better that 
They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 
The thing these arch-oppressors fain would make me. 
Let me consider — of efficient troops 
There are three thousand posted at 

Enter Vincenzo and Israel Bertuccio. 

Vin. May it please 

Your highness, the same patron whom I spake of 
Is here to crave your patience. • 

Doge. Leave the chamber, 

Vincenzo. — [Exit VlNCENZO. 

Sir, you may advance — what would you' 

7. Ber. Redress. 

Doge. Of whom ? 

/. Ber. Of God and of the Doge. 

* Doge. Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the twain 
Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
You must address the council. 

/. Ber. 'T were in vain ; 

For he who injured me is one of them. 

Doge. There 's blood upon thy face — how came it 
there ? 

/. Ber. 'Tis mine, and not the first I've shed for 
Venice, 
But the first shed by a Venetian hand: 
A noble smote me. 

Doge. Doth he live ? 

/. Ber. Not long — 

But for the hope T had and have, that you, 
My prince, yoursell a soldier, will redress 
Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
Permit not to protect himself; — if not — 
I say no more. 

Doze. But something you would do— 

Is it not so? 

J. Ber. I am a man, my lord. 

Doge. Why so is he who smote you. 

/. Ber. He is call'd so, 

Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice : 
But since he hath forgotten that I am one. 
And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn-* 
'T b said the worm will. 

Doge. Say — his name and lineage? 

J. Ber. Barbaro. 

Doge. What was the cause ? or the pretext? 

J. BeT. I am the chief of the arsenal, employ 'd 
At present in repairing certain galleys 
But roughly used by the Genoese hast year. 
This morning comes the noble Barbaro 
Full of reproof, hecause our artisans 
Had left some frivolous order of his house, 
To execute the state's decree ; I dared 



234 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Act I. 



T<> justify the men —ha raise I his hand ; — 
Behold my blood ! the first time it e'er flowM 
Dishonourably. 

f ) . . Have you long time served! 

/. /.' r. So long aa to remember Zara'a siege] ■ 
.And fight beneath the chief who beat the Huns there, 
Sometime my general, now the Dove Faliero. — 

Djge. How! are we comrades? — the state's ducal 
robea 
Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 
Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 
So thai I recognised you not. Who placed you ? 

/. Ber. The laic Doge ; keeping still my old com- 
mand 
As patron of a galley : my new office 
Was given as a reward of certain scars, 
(So was your predecessor pleased to say :) 

I little thought 'his bounty would conduct mo 
To his successor as a helpless plaintiff; 
At least, in such a cause. 

/'■■■■ Are you much hurt ? 

/. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 

D i ''■"'. Speak out ; fear nothing being stung at heart, 
What would you 'to to 1"' revenge I on this man ? 

/ /; r. That which I dare nol name, end yei will do. 

1) >«■«. Then wherefore cam-; you here? 

/. Ber. I come for justice, 

Because my general is Doge, and will not 
See his old soldier trampled on. Had any, 
Save Faliero, fili'd the ducal throne, 
This blood had been wash'd out in other blood. 

Doge. You come to me for justice — unto me ! 
The I » -gr of Vi-nie.-, and I einnol -jive it; 

I cannot even obtain it — 'T was denied 
To \w most solemnly an hour ago. 

/. Ber, How says your highness ? 

It •■■-,■. Sieno is condemnM 

To a month's confinement. 

/. Ber. What ! the same who dared 

To stain the ducal throne with those foul words, 
That have cried shauie to every ear in Venice ? 

Doze* Av, doubtless they have echo'd o'er the arsenal, 
Keeping due time with every hammer's clink 
As a good jest to jolly anizan« ; 
Or making chorus to the creaking oar, 
In the vile tune of every galley-slave, 
Who. a* he sung the merry slave, exulted 
He was not a sh iroed dotard like the Doge. 

/. Ber, Is'l possible? a month's imprisonment! 
No more for Steno ? 

Doge. You have heard the offence, 

And now you know his punishment ; and then 
You ask redress of me .' Go to the Forty, 
Who pass'd the sentence upon Michel S'eno; 
They 'II do as much bv Barbara, no doubt. 

/. Ber. Ah! dared I speak my feelings! 

Doge Give them breath 

Mine have no further outrage to endure. 

/. B:r. Then, in a word, ii rests but on your word 
To punish and avenge — I will not sav 
My petty wrong, frr what is n mere h ow, 

II iwever vile, to such a tiling as I am ? — 
But the ba^e insult done vo it state and person. 

Doxe. You overrate mv power, which is a rwgeant. 
This cap is not the monarch's crown ; these robes 
Might move compassion, like a b 'ggar's rags; 
Nav. more, a beggar's are his own. and these 
Hut lent to the poor puppet. wRh most play 
Its part with all i's emnire in this ermine*, 

/. Ber. Wouldst thou be king? 

Doze. yes— of a hapny people 

I. Ber. Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of Venice ? 

Doge. Ay 

If that the oeoole shc-^d that sovereignty, 
So that tsur toeff not I wcro further slaves 



To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hvdra, 

The poisonous heads of whose envenom'd body 

Have breathed a pestilence upon us all. 

/. Ber. Yet, thou wast born and still hast lived 
patrician. 

Do^e. In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
Hath mat ■ mi Dogi to hi hn ulied : but 
1 ived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
Of Venice and her] nol the s< nate ; 

Their pood and my own honour were my guerdon. 
I have fought an I bled ; commanded, ay, and conquer'd' 
I i ve made and marr'il peaer <>(\ in embassies, 

As i' might chance to be our country's 'vantage; 
Have imv. rsed land and sea in constant duty, 

Through a'most sixty years, and siill for Venice, 

My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear spires, 

Rising at dis'anee o'er the blue Lagoon, 

It was reward enough for me to vi*-w 

Once more ; but not for anv knot of men, 

Nor serf, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 

But would you know why I have done all this? 

Ask of the bleeding/ pelican whj she 

Hath ripp'd her bosom? Had the bird a voice, 

She'd tell thee 'l was for all her little ones. 

/. Ber. And yet they made thee duke. 

Doge. THty made me so-, 

I sough) it not, the flattering fetters met me 
Returning from mv Roman embassy, 
And never having hitherto refused 
Toil, charge, or duly for the state, I did nol, 
At these late years, decline what was the highest 
Of all in seeming, bm of all most base 
In what we have 10 do and to endure : 
B^.ir witness Ibr me thoiij ray injured subject, 
When I ran neither right myself nor thee. 

/. Ber. You shall do both, if you possess the will 
And many thousands more not less oppreeaM, 
Who wail but for a signal — will you give it ? 

Doze. You speak in riddles. 

/. Ber, Whicli shall soon be read 

At peril of my life ; if yon disdain not 
To lend a patient ear. 

Doze. Say on. 

I. Her. Not thou, 

Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
Contemn'd anrl trampled on ; but the whole people 
Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs 
The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 
Are discontented for their long arrears ; 
The native mariners, and civic troops, 
Feel with their friends; for who is he among ihem 
Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters, 
Have not partook oppression, or pollo'lOA) 
From the patricians f And the hopeless war 
Against the Genoese, which is still maimain'd 
With (he plebeian blood, arid treasn <■ wrung 
Krom fluir hard •■ imings. has inflamed thi*m furtherr 
Even now— but I forget lhai sneaking thus, 
Perhaps I pass thr- semi nci ol my death ! 

Doge. And suffering whal thou hast done— fear'st thou 
death ? 
B-- silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
Bv those for whom thou hast bled 

7. Ber. ^'"- I "HI speak 

At everv hazard ; and if Venire' 1 toga 



l d. hit 

v hu, ; 



foi he will lose tar more 



And sorrow t 
Thau I. 

Doze. From me fear nothing; out with it ! 

/. Ber, Know then, that there are me; and sworn in 
secret 
A hand of brethren, valiant re-arts and true ; 
Men who have proved all fortunes, and have long 
Grieved over that of Venice, sod have right 
To do eo i liaviug served her in all climes. 



Act If. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



235 



And having rescued her from foreign foes, 
Would do ihe same from those within her walls. 
They are not numerous, nor yet loo few 
For their great purpose ; they have arms, and means, 
And hearu, and hopes, and faith, and patient courage. 
D . > . For what ihen do they pause ? 
/. Ber. An hour to strike. 

Doze, (aside.) Saint Mark's shall stiike that hour! 
/. Ber. I now have placed 

My life, my honour, all my earthly hopes 
Within thy power, but in the firm belief 
That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause, 
Will generate one vengeance : should tt be so, 
Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter. 
Doge. How many are ye ? 
/. B>r. I '11 not answer that 

Till I am answer'd. 

Doge. How, sir! do you menace? 

/. Ber. No; I affirm. I have betrav'd myself; 
Bui ihere 's no torture in (he mystic wells 
Which undermine your palace, nor in ihose 
Nut less appalling celis, the ■' leaden roofs," 
To f iree a single name from me of o: hers. 
The Pozzi 3nd the Piombi were in vain ; 
Tbev might wring blood from m<*, but treachery never. 
And I would pass the fearful " Bridge of Sighs," 
Joyous that mine musi be ihe last that e'er 
Would echo o'er the Slvgian wave which flows 
Between ihe murderers and the inurder'd, washing 
The prison and the palace walls : there are 
Tho-e who would live to think on't, and avenge me. 
Doge. If such your power and purpose, why come 
here 
To sue for justice, being in ihe course 
To do yourself due right ? 

I. Ber, Because ihe man, 

Who claims protection from authority, 
Showing his confidence and his submission 
To that authority, can hardly be 
Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
A moody brow and muiter'd ihreats had made me 
A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition ; 
But loud complaint, however angrily 
It shapes its phrase, is little to be fear'd, 
And less distrusted. But, betides all ihis, 
1 had another reason. 

Doge. What was that? 

I.Brr. Some rumours that the Doge was greatly moved 
By 'he reference of the Avogudorj 
Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 
Had reached me. I had served you, honourM you, 
And felt that you were dangerously insulted, 
Being cf an order of such spirits, as 
Requite the tenfold both good and evil : 't was 
My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
Now you know all : and that I speak the truth, 
My peril be the prouf. 

Doge. You have deeply ventured ; 

But all must do so who would greatly win : 
Thus far I 'I! answer you — your secret's safe. 
J. Ber. And is this all? 

Doge. Unless with all intrusted, 

What would you have me answer? 

/. Ber. I would have you 

Trust him who leaves hi? life in trust with you. 

Doge. But I must know your plan, your names, and 
numbers : 
The last may then be doubled, and the former 
Matured and strength! d 1 L 

/. Ber. We' re enough already ; 

You are the sole ally we covet now. 

Doge. Boi bring ma to the knowledge of yourehicfe. 
/. Ber. That shall be dune upon your formal pledge 
To keep the fdith thai we will pledge to you. 



Doge. When ? where ? 

J. Ber. This night I 'II bring to your apartment 

Two of ihe principals \ a great number 
Were hazardous. 

Doge. Stay, I must think of this. 

What if I were to trust myself among you, 
And leave the palace? 

/. Ber. You must come alone. 

Doge. With but my nephew. 

J. Ber. Not were he your son. 

Do°-e. Wretch ! darest thou name my son? He died 
in arms 
At Sapienza for this failhless state. 
Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes ! 
Or that he were alive ere 1 be ashes ! 
I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 

/. Ber. Not one of all those siiangers whom thou 
doubtest 
But will regard thee with a filial feeling, 
So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them. 

Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place of meeting 7 

/. Ber. At midnight I will be alone and mask'd 
Where'er your highness pleases to direct me, 
To wait your coming, and conduct you wheie 
You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
Upon our project. 

Do°-e. At what hour arises 

The moon? 

I. Ber. Lato, but the atmosphere is thick and dusky, 
'T is a sirocco. 

Doge. At the midnight hour, then, 

Near to the church where sleep my sires ; the same, 
Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul ; 
A gondola a with one oar only, will 
Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. 
Be there. 

/. Ber. I will not fail. 

Doge. And now retire- — 

/. Ber. In the full hope your highness will not falter 
[n your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave. 

[Ex/HsRAEL BERTUCCIO 

Doge, (solus.) At midnight, by the church Sainta 
Juhn and Paul, 
Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair — 
To what ? to hold a council in ihe dark 
With common ruffians leagued to ruin states! 
And will not mv gnat sires leap from the vault, 
Where lie two doges who preceded me, 
And pluck me down among them ? Would they could 
For I should rest in honour with the honour'd. 
Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 
Who have made me thus unworthy of a name 
Noble and brave as aught of consular 
On Roman marbles; hut I will redeem it 
Back to its antique lustre in our annals, 
By sweet revenge on all that 's base in Venice, 
And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
To all the growing calumnies of time, 
Which never spare the fame of him who fails, 
But try the Cffisar, or the Catiline. 
Bv the true touchstone of desert — success. 



ACT II. 
Scene \.—Jln apartment in the Diical Palace. 
Angiolina (wife of the Doge) and Marianna. 
Ang. What was ihe Doge's answer? 
Mar. That he was 

Thai mmnent summon'd lo a conference \ 
But't is by this time ended. 1 perceived 

Not long riL'o the s.naors embarking ; 

:\s>'\ the last gondola may now he ee n 
Gliding into i-'^e tluong of barks wj i h stud 
The g iuering waters. 






236 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Act H. 



Jing. Would he were relurn'd ! 

He has been much disquieted of late ; 
And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spirit 
Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, 
Which seems to he more nourished by a soul 
So quick and restless that i( would consume 
Less hardy clay — Time hns but little power 
On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
To other spirits of his order, who, 
In the first burst of passion, pour away 
Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in him 
An aspect of eternity : his 
His feelings, ■ id or evil, all 

Have nothing of old age; and his bold brow 
Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years, 
Not their decrepitude: and he of late 
Has been more agitated than his wont. 
"Would he were come ! for I alone have power 
Upon his troubled spirit. 

Mar, It is true, 

His highness has of late been greatly moved 
By the affront of Steno, and with cause ; 
But the offender doubtless even now 
Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult wiih 
Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
To female virtue, and to noble, blood. 

Ang. 'T was a gross insult; but I heed it not 
Fur the rash scorner*s falsehood in itself] 
But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
Which it has made upon Faliero's soul, 
The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
To all save me: I tremble when I think 
To what it may conduct. 

Mar. Assuredly 

The Doge can not suspect you '? 

Jing. Suspect me ! 

Why Steno dared not: when he scrawl'd hi* lie, 
Groveling by stealth in the moon's glimmering light, 
His own still conscience smote him for the act, 
And every shadow on the walls frown'd shame 
Upon his coward calumny. 

Mar, *T were fit 

He should be punishM grievously. 

ftffng. He is so 

J\Iar. What ! is the sentence past ? is he condemned ? 

Jing. I know not that, but he has been detected. 

Mar. And deem you this enough for such foul scorn ? 

filter. I would not be a judge in my own cause, 
Nnr do I know what sense of punishment 
Mav reach the soul of r ibalds such as Steno j 
But if his insults sink no deeper in 
The minds of the inquisitors than they 
Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, 
Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 

Mxr. Some sacrifice is due to plander*d virtue. 

Jing, Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim? 
Or if it must depend upon men's words? 
The dying Roman said, " 'i was but a name :** 

It were in lee* no more, if human breath 
Could make or mar it. 

Mar. Tel full many a dame, 

Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 
Of such a sian ler ; and less rigid ladies, 
Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
And all-inexorable in their cry 
For justice. 

Jltl*. This hut proves it is the name 

And not ihe quality they prize : the first 
Have found it a hard task to hold their honour, 
If they require it to be blazon'd forth J 
And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming 
As they would look out for an ornament 
Of which they feel the want, but not because 
They think it so ; they live in others' thoughts, 
And would seem honest as they must seem fair. 



Mar. You have strange thoughts for a a patrician dame. 

. / -. And yet ihey were my father's ; with his name 
The sole inheritance he left. 

M • . You want none; 

Wife to a prince, the chief of the Republic. 

idng*. I should have sought none though a peasant's 
bride, 
But feel not les* the love and gratitude 
Due to my father, who bestow'd mv hand 
fjpon his earl} . tried, and trusted friend, 
rhe C ■ Pal di klarino, now our doge* 

Mar. And with thai hand did he bestow your heart? 

Jing, He did BO, or it had not been bestow'J. 

Mar, Yel this Bl range disproportion in your years. 
And, let me add, disparity of tempers, 

make the world doubt whether such an union 
Could make you wisely, permanently happy. 

Jing, The world will think with worldlings ; but my 
heart 
Has still been in my duties, which are many, 
But never difficult. 

Mar. And do you love him? 

*1ng. I love all noble qualities which merit 
Love, and I loved «iy father, who first taught mo 
To single out what we should love in others, 
And to subdue all tendency to lend 
The best and purest feelings of our nature 
To baser passions. He bestow M my hand 
Upon Faliero : lie had known him noble, 
Brave, generous, rich in all the qualities 
Of soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all 
Such have I found him as mv lather said. 
His faults are those that dwell in the high bosoms 
Of men who have commanded : too much pride> 
■ deep passions fiercely fbster'd by 
bs of patricians, and a life 
Spent in the storms of state and war; and also 
From the quick tur, which becomes 

A duty to a certain sign, a \ ice 
When overslratn'd, and this I fear in him. 
And then he has been rash from his youth upwards, 

Vet temper 1 d by redeeming nobleness 

In such sort, that the wariest of republics 

Has lavtsh'd all its chief employs upon him, 

From his first fight to his last embassy, 

From which on his return the dukedom met him. 

.War. But previous to this marriage, bad your heart 
Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth, 
Such as in years had been more meet to match 
Beauty like yours ? or since have you ne'er seen 
One, who, if your fair hand were si ill to give. 
Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter? 

Aug. I answer'd your first question when I said 
I married. 

Mar. And the second ? 

Jing. Needs no aoiwei* 

Mar. I pray your pardon, if I have offended. 

wing. I feel no wrath, but some surprise : I knew not 
Thai wedded bosoms could permit themselves 
To ponder upon what I ightchoose, 

Or aught save their past choice. 

Mar. *T is their pnst choice 

That far too often makes them deem they would 
Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 

wing. It may be so, I knew not of such thoughts. 

Mar. Here comes the Doge — shall I retire? 

Jing. It may 

Be better you should quit me ; he seems ropt 
In thought. — How pensively he takes his way ! 

[Exit Marianna. 

Enter the Doge and Fietro. 

Doge, [musing.) There is a certain PhttipCulendaro 
Now in the Arsenal, who holds command 
j Of eighty men, and has great influence 



Act II. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



237 



Besides on all the spirits of his comrades: 
This man, 1 hear, is bold and popular, 
Sudden and daring, and yet secret-, 'twould 
Be well thai he were won : I needs must hope 
That Israel Bertuccio has secured him, 
But fain would be 

Pie. My lord, pray pardon me 

For breaking in upon your meditation ; 
The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, 
Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 
To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 

Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me see- 
Say in the second hour of night. [Exit Pietro. 

•ting. My lord ! 

Doge. My dearest child, forgive me — why delay 
So long approaching me ? — I saw you not. 

Jlng. You were absorbed in thought, and he who now 
Has parted from you might have words of weight 
To be;tr you from the senate. 

Doge. From the senate ? 

Jing. I would not interrupt him in his duty 
And theirs. 

Doge. The senate's duty ! von mistake ; 

*T is we who owe all service to the senate. 

Jing. I thought the Duke had held command in Venice. 

Doge. He shall. — But let that pass. — We will be 
jocund. 
How lares it with von ? have you been abroad? 
The dav 19 overcast, but the calm wave 
Favours ihe gondolier's liglil skimming oar ; 
Or have vou held a levee of your friends? 
Or hastfi'r music made you solitary? 
Say — is there aught that you would will within 
The little sway now left the Duke? or aught 
Of fitting splendour, or of honest pleasure, 
Social or lonely, that would glad your heart, 
To compensate f>r many a dull hour, wasted 
On an old man oft moved with many cares? 
Speak, and 'tis done. 

. In g You're ever kind to me— 

I have nothing to desire, or to request, 
Except to '^ vou ofiener and calmer. 

Doge. Calmer? 

Jing, Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why 

Do you still keep apart, and walk alone, 
And let such strong emotions stamp your brow, 
As not betraying their full import, yet 
Disclose too much ? 

Doge. DisHose too much! — of what? 

"What is there to disclose ? 

Jing. A heart so ill 

At ease. 

Doge. 'T is nothing, child. — But in the state 
You know what daily cares oppress all those 
Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
Now suffering from the Genoese without, 
And malecontents within — 'tis this which makes me 
More pensive and less tranquil than mv wont. 

Atlg. Yet this existed long before, and never 
Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
Forgive me; there is something at your heart 
M ^re than the mere discharge of public duties, 
Which long use and a talent like to yours 
Have rendered liahi, nay, a necesa 
To keep your miftd from stagnating. 'T is not 
In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you ; 
You, who have stood all storms and never sunk, 
And elimb'd up to the pinnacle of power 
And never fainted by the way, and stand 
Upon it, and ''an look down steadily 
Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port, 
Were civil furv raging in St. Mark's, 
You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, 
As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow — 



Your feelings now are of a different kind \ 
Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 

Doge. Pride ! Angiolina? Alas! none is left me. 

Jing. Yes — the same sin that oveilhrew the angels, 
And of all sins most easily besets 
Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
The vile are only vain ; the-great are proud. 

Doge. 1 had the pride of honour, of your honour, 
Deep at my heart But let us change the theme. 

Jing. Ah no! — As 1 have ever shared your kindness 
In all things else, let me not he shut out 
From your distress: were it of public import, 
\ ou know I never sought, would never seek 
To win a word from you ; but feeling now 
Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
To lighten or divide it. Since trie day 
When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
Uufix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed, 
And I would sooth you back to what you were. 

Doge. To what I was ! — have you heard Steno's 
sentence ? 

Jing, No. 

Doge, A month's arrest. 

Jing.. Is it not enough! 

Doge. Enough ! — yes, for a drunken galley slave, 
Who. stung by stripes, mav murmur at his master ; 
But not fir a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
Who stains a lady's and a prince's honour 
Even on the throne of his authority. 

Jing. There seems to me enough in the conviction 
Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
All other punishment were light unto 
His loss of honour. 

Doge. Such men have no honour , 

They have but their vile lives — and these are spared. 

Jing, You would not have him die for this offence ? 

Doge. Not, now ■ — being still alive, I'd have him live 
Long as he can ; he has ceased to merit death ; 
The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges. 
And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 

Jing, Oh ! had this false and flippant libeller 
Shed his voting blood for his absurd lampoon, 
Ne'er from that moment could this breast have known 
A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 

Doge. Does not the law of heaven say olood for 
^ blood ? 
And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it. 
It is the pain of blows, or shame of blows, » 

That makes such deadly to the sense of man ? 
Do not the laws of man sav blood for honour? 
And, less than honour, f .r a little gold ? 
Say not the laws of nations blood for treason ? 
Is 't nothing to have fill'd these veins with poison 
For their once healthful current ? is it nothing 
To have stain'd your name and mine — the noblest names ? 
Is 't nothing to have brought into contempt 
A prince bef >re his people ? to have lail'd 
In the respect accorded by mankind 
To youth in woman, and old age in man ? 
To virtue in your sex, and dignity 
In ours ? — but let them look to it who have saved him. 

•#/tg\ Heaven bids us !■> forgive our enemies. 

Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own? Is Satan saved 
From wrath eternal ? 

Jing. Do not speak thus wildly — 

Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 

Doge. Amen ! May Heaven forgive them ! 

Jing. And will you ? 

Doge. Yes, when they are injjieaven ! 

JJr.g. And not till then? 

Doge. What matters my forgiveness? an old man's, 
Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; what matters then 
My pardon more than my resentment, both 
Being weak and worthless ? 1 liave lived too long.— 
But let us change the argument. — My child 



238 



Marino faliero, doge ofvenil^. 



Act IJ. 



My injured wife, the child of Loredano, 

The brave, the chivalrous, how Utile deenVd 

Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 

That he was linking thee to shame !— Alas! 

Shalne without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst thou 

But had a different husband, any husband 

In Venice save the Dogo, this blight, this brand, 

This hlasphemy had never fallen upon thee. 

S i young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, 

To suffer this, and yel he unavenged ! 

Jlilg. I am too well avenged, for you still tove me, 
And trust, and honour me ; am! all men know 
Thai you are just, and I am true : what more 
Could I require, or you command ? 

1) \ge. 'Til well, 

Ami may be better; but whatever betide, 
Be thou at least kind to my memory, 

Ang. Why speak you thus? 

Doge. It is no matter why ; 

Rut I would still, whatever others think, 
Have your respect bolh now and in my grave. 

. \lig. Why should you doubt it? has it ever fail'd ? 

I) tge. Gome hither, child ; I would a word with you 
Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
Which hind the good more firmly : when, opprest 
With his last malady, he will'd our union, 
It was not to repay me, long repaid 
Before by his great loyally in friendship ; 
His objeci was to place your orphan beauty 
In honourable safety from the perils, 
Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 
A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not 
Think with him, but would not oppose the thought 
Which soothed his death-bed. 

.In a;. I have not forgotten 

The nobleness with which you bade me speak 
If my young heart held any preference 
Which would have made me happier; nor your offer 
To make mv dowry equal to the rank 
Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim 
JMv father's last injunction gave you. 

Doge. Thus, 

'T was not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
Which made me covetous of girlish beautv, 
And a voting bride : for in mv fieriest youth 
I sway'd such passions : nor was this my age 
Fn fee ted with that leprosy of lust 
Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
Making them ransack to the very last 
The dregs of pleasure for their vanishM jovs; 
Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
Too helpless to refuse a state that's honest, 
Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer 
Your father's choice. 

./>!!?. I did so; I would do so 

In face of earth and heaven ; for [ have never 
Repented for mv sake ; sometimes for yours, 
In pondering o'er your late disquietudes, 

Dogt. I knew my heart would never treat you harshlv 
I knew my days could not disturb you long; 
And then the daughter of my earliest friend, 
ilis worthy daughter, free to choose again, 
Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
Of womanhood, more skilful to select 
By passing these probationary years 
Inheriting a prince's name and riches, 
Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
An old man for some summers, against all 
That law's chicane or envious kinsmen mi^ht 
Have urged against her right; my best friend's child 
Wuuid choose more fitly in respect of years, 



And not less tru'v in a faithful heart. 

Jtng. My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes, 
Hallow'd by his last words, anil lo my heart 
For doing all its duties, and replj ing 
With faith to him wiih whom I was affianced. 
Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams; and should 
Tin- hour vou speak of come, it will be seen so. 

DogC. I do believe you ; and I know you true : 

Poi love, romantic love, which in my youth 
I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 
No lure fir me, in mv most passionate days, 
And could not fie so now, did sueh exist. 

But such respect, and mildly paid regard 
As a true feeling for your welfare, and 
A free compliance « iih all honest wishes 
A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 

Not shown, not shadowing o'er Biich Utile failings 
\ ■ youth t* apt in, so us not to check 
Rashly, but win vou from i hem ere you knew 
You had been won bul thought the change your choice, 
A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct] — 
A tms! m you — a patriarchal love, 
And not a doting homage — friendship, faith- 
Such estimation in your eyes as these 
Might claim, I hoped for. 

Jtng. And have ever had. 

Doge. I think so. For ihe difference in our years 
Vou knew it, choosing rne, and chose : I trusted 
Not to my qualities, nor would have faiih 
In sueh, nor outward ornaments of nature, 
Were I still in my five and twentieth spring; _ 
I trusted to the blood of Loredano 
Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
God gave you— to the truths your father taught you— 
To your belief in heaven — to your mild virtues — 
To your own faith and honour, for mv own. 

J&ng. Vou have done well.— I thank you for that trust, 
Which I have never for one moment ceased 
To honour you the more for. 

Doge. Where is honour, 

Innate and precept-strengthen'd, I 1 is the rock 
Oi faith connubial : where it is not — where 
Light thoughts are lurking, or ibe vanities 
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, 
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
'T were hopeless for humanity lo dream 
Of honesty in such iitfeetei! Mood, 
Although 't were wed to him it covets most : 
An incarnation of the poet's got) 
In all his marhle-eiiisellM beauty, or 
The demi-deity, Alcides, in 
His majesty of superhuman manhood, 

Would not mi (fire to hind where virtue is not; 
[f is consistency which forms and proves it : 

V iec cannni tix, and virtue cannot change. 

The oner fill'n woman mosi f >r ever lall ; 

For vice must have variety, while virtue 
Stands like the Bun, and all which rolls around 
Drinks life, am) light, and glory from tier aspect. 

Ulng. An-i seeing feeling thus this truth in others, 
(\ pray you pardon me;) i-m wherefore weld you 

To the most In-ret- of l.i'al passion 

Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate 
Of such a thing as Sleno .' 

Di ■'<■■ Too mistake me. 
It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 
Had j| been so, he should but let that pass. 

Jlttg. What is 'l yOU feel s v. | iOII, even now ? 

Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, 
At once i nso bed in her lord and laws. 

Jln%. Alas ! why will vou thus consider il ! 

Doge. I have thought on 't till bullet rac leaf* 

you back 
To what I urged ; all these things being noted, 



ActU. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OE VENICE. 



239 



I wedded you ; the world iljen did me justice 
Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
They did me right, while yours was all to praise: 
You ha I all Dvedum — all respect — all trust 
From me aril mme: and, bom of those who made 
Princes at home, and swept kings from their thrones 
On foreign shores, in all things you appear'd 
Worthy to be out first of native dames. 
.7 Ig. To what does this conduct? 
Doge. To thus much — that 

A miscreant's an^rv breath may blast it all — 
A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing, 
Even in the midst of our great festival, 
I caused to be conduced forth, and taught 
How to demean himself in ducal chambers; 
A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
The blighting venom of hi< swelteting heart, 
And this shall spread itself in general poison ; 
And woman's innocence, man's honour, pass 
Into a by-word ; and the doubly felon 
(Who lirst insulted virgin modesty 
By a gross affront to vonr attendant damsels 
Aiftidst the noblest of our d;imes in public) 
Requite himself for his most just expulsion 
By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort, 
And be absolved by his upright compeers. 

tSll , r . But he has been condemn'd into captivity. 
Doge. For such as him a dungeon were acquittal ; 
And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
Within a palace. But I 've done with him ; 
The i est must be with you. 

Aug. With me, my lord ? 

Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel; I 
Have let this prey upon me till [ feel 
My life caunoi be long ; and fain would have you 
Regard the injunctions you will find wiihin 

This scroll (Giving her a paper) Fear not ; they are 

for your advantage : 
Read them hereafier at the fitting hour. 

Aug. My loid, in life, and after life, yon shall 
Be honour'd still by me : but may vour days 
Be many yet — and happier than the present ! 
This passion will give way, and you will be 
Serene, and what you should be — what vou were. 

Doge. I will be what I should be, or be nothing; 
But never more— h ! never, never more, 
O'er the few days or hours which yet await 
The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 
Sweel Quiet shed her suns- 1 ! Never more 
Those summer shadows rising from ihe past 
Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life, 
Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 
Shall sooth me ro my moment of long rest. 
I had but little mote 10 lask, nr hope, 
Save the regards due to the blood and sweat, 
An 1 the soul's labour through which I had toil'd 
To make my country honour'd. As her servant— 
Her servant, rhough her chief — I would have gone 
Down to my fathers with a name serene 
And pure .i-^ Iheirs ; but this has been denied me. — 
Would I had died at Z.ira ! 

Ang. There you saved 

The sta:e; then live to save her still. A dav, 
Another day like that would be the best 
jit-proof to them, and sole revenge for vou. 

Doge. But one such day occurs wiihin an ace; 
Mv life is little less than one, and 't is 
Enough for Fortune to have granted once, 
That which scarce one more favour'd citizen 
M iy win in many states and years. But why 
Thus speak I ? Venice has forgot that day- 
Then why should I re-member i: ? — Farewell, 
Sweet Angiolina' I must to my nbinet ; 
There's much for me to do — and the hour hastens, 
jfag. Remember what you wore. 



Doge. It were in vain ! 

Joy's recollection is no longer jov, 
While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 

Ang. At least, whate'er may urge, let me implore 
That you w ill lake some little pause of rest : 
Your sleep for mauv ni?his has been so turbid, 
That it had been relief to have awaked you, 
Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower 
At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers thus 
An hour of rest will give you to your toils 
Willi filter thoughts and freshen'd strength. 

Doge. I cannot — 

I must not, if I could ; for never was 
Such reason to be watchful : yet a few- 
Yet a few days and dream- perturbed nights, 
And I shall slumber well — but wheie? — no matter, 
Adieu, my Angiolina. 

/Ing, Let me be 

An instant — yet an instant your companion! 
I cannot bear to leave you thus. 

Doge. Come then. 

My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert made 
For betier fortunes than to share in mine, 
Now darkling in iheir close toward ihe deep vale 
Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow. 
When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
Even these years warrant, for ihere is that stirring 
Within — abov* 1 — around, that in this city 
Will make the cemeteries populous 
As e'er they were by pestilence or war,— 
When I am nothing, let that which I ivas 
Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 
Which would not have thee morn it, but remember;— 
Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. 

[Exeunt, 
Scenf. II. — A retired Spot near the Arsenal. 
Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calenijaro. 

Col. How sped you, Israel, in your late complaint? 

/. Ber.^Why, well. 

Cat. Is 't possible ! will he be punish'd 7 

/. Ber. Yes 

Cal. With what? a mulct or an arrest? 

/. Ber. "With death !- 

Cal. Now vou rave, or must intend revenge, 
Such as I counseled you, with your own hand. 

/. Ber. Yes ; and for one sole draught of hate, forego 
The great redress we meditate for Venice, 
And change a life of hope for one of exile ; 
Leaving one scorpion crush'd, and thousands stinging 
My friends, my family, my countrymen! 
No, Calendaro; these same drops of blood, 
Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 

For iheir requital But not only his ; 

We will not strike for private wrongs alone: 
Such are for selfish passions and rash men, 
But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 

Cal. You have more patience than I care to boast. 
Had 1 been present when you bore this insult, 
I must have slain him, or expired myself 
In the vain eff >ri to repress my wrath. 

/. Ber. Thank Heaven, you were not — all had els* 
been marr'd : 
As 't is, our cause looks prosperous still. 

Cal. You saw 

The Doge — what answer gave he? 

/. Ber. That there was 

No punishment for such as Barbaro. 

Cal. I told vou so before, and that 't was idle 
To think of justice from such hands. 

/. Ber. At least, 

It lull'd suspicion, showing confidence, 
Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 
Had kept mu iu his eye, as militating 



I 



540 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Act II. 



A silent, solitary, deep revenue. 

Cal. But wherefore not address you to the Council ? 
The Do^e is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him? 

/. Ber. You shall know that hereafter. 

Cal. Why not now ? 

/. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. Get your musters, 
And bid our friends prepare their companies :— 
Set all in readiness to strike the blow, 
Perhaps in a few hours; we have long waited 
For a lit time — thai hour is on the dial, 
It may be, of to morrow's sun : delay 
Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
Thai all be punctual at our place of meeting, 
And ami'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
Who will remain among the troops to wait 
The signal. 

Cat. These brave words have breathed new life 

Into my veins ; I am sick of these protracted 
And hesitating councils : dav on 
Craw I'd on, and added but another link 
To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves, 
Helping 10 swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 
Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
For the result, which must be death or freedom ! 
I 'm weary to the heart of finding neither. 

/. Ber. We will be free in life or death ! the grave 
Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready ? 
And ate the sixteen companies completed 
To sixty ? 

Cal. All save two, in which there are 
Twenty-five wanting to make up the number. 

/. Ber. No matter; we can do without. Whose are they? 

Cal. Bertram's and old Sotanzo's, both of whom 
Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 

/. Ber. Your fiery nature makes you deem all those 
Who are not restless cold : but there exists 
Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them. 

Cal. I do not doubt the elder ; but in Bertram 
There is a hesitating softness, faial 
To enterprise like ours : I 've seen that man 
Weep like an infant o'er the misery 
Of others, heedless of his own. though greater ; 
And in a recent quarrel I beheld him 
Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's. 

/. Ber. The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, 
And feel fir what their duty bids them do. 
I have known Bertram long ; there doth not breathe 
A soul more full of humour. 

Cal, ft may be so ; 

I apprehend less treachery than weakness; 
Yet as he has no mistress, and no wife 
To work upon his milkiness of spirit, 
He may go through the ordeal ; it is well 
He is an orphan, friendless save in us : 
A woman or a child had made him less 
Than either in resolve. 

/. Ber. Such tics are not 

For those who are call'd to the high destinies 
Which purify corrupted commonwealths; 
We must forget all feelings save ihe one— 
We musl resign all passions save nor purpose — 
We must behold no object save our conn try— 
And only look on death as beautiful, 
So that the sacrifice ascend lo hflaven, 
And draw down freedom on her evermore. 

Cal. But if we fail 

/. Ber. They never fail who die 

In a great cause : the block may soak their gore ; 
Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs 
Be strung In city gates and castle walls — 
But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years 
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom, 



They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts 
Which overpower all o nducl 

The world at lasl to fr< edoffl : What were we, 

If Brutus had not lived ? He died in giving 
Rome liberty, but lefi a deathless lesson— 
A name which is a virtue, and a soul 
Which multiplies itself throughout all time, 
When wicked men was mighty, and a state 
Turns servile : he and his friend were styled 
•■ The last of Romans!" Let us be Ihe first 

Of true Veneti ins, sprung from Roman sires. 

Cal. Our fathers did no! fly from Attila 
Into (hese isles, where palaces have sprung 
On hanks redeem'd from the rude ocean's ooze, 
To own a thousand despots in his p 
Better bow down before the Hun, and call 
A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms masters! 
The tir^t at least was man, and used tlifl sword 

ptre : these unmanly creeping things 
Command our swords, and rule us with a word 
As with a spell. 

/. /'' r. It shall be broken soon. 

You say that all things are in r« adirtess ; 
To-day I have not been the usual round, 
And why thou knowest ; but thy vigilance 
Will belter have supplied my care : these orders 
In recent conned lo redouble now 
Our efforts to repair ihe galleys, have 
Lent a fair o ■ in 1 roduction 

Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
As new artificers for their equipment, 
Or fresh recruits obtainM in haste to man 
The hoped-for fleet. — Are all supplied with arms? 

Cal. All who were de< m'dlrust- worthy: thero are some 
Whom ii were well to keep in ignorance 
Till it be time to strike, and thru supply them : 
When in the heat and hurry of the hour 
They have no opportunity lo pause, 
Bui needs musl on with those who will surround them. 

/. Btr. Vim hiive said well. Ihive vmi r- inark'd all SUCD? 

Cal. I 've noted mosl ; and caused ihe other chiefs 
To use like caution in their companies. 
As fai as | have seen, we are enough 
To make the eni< rprise secure, if 'i is 
Commenced to-morrow ; but, till 't is begun, 
Each hour is pregnant with b thousand perils. 

/. Ber. Let the Sixteen meet at the wonted hour, 
Excepl Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
And Marco Giuda, who will keep iheir watch 
Within the arsenal, and hold all ready, 
Expect a nl of the signal we will fix on. 

( ! .■'. \\ i will nol fail. 

/. Ber. Let all the rest be there; 

1 have a stranger to present to them. 

Cal. A stranger ! doth he know the secret ? 

/. Btr, Ves. 

Cat. And have you dared topeiil your friends 1 lives 
On a rash confidence in one we Know not ? 

/. Ber. I have risk'd no mai pt my own — 

Of thai be certain : be is one who may 
Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
His aid ; and if reluctant, he no less 
I- in our power: becomes alone with me, 
And cannot 'scape us ; bul he will not swerve. 

Cal I cannot judge of I his until I know him : 
Is he one of our order .' 

/. Ber. Ay, in spirit, 

Although a child of greatness ; he is one 
Who would become a throne, or overthrow one — 
One who has done ereat deeds, and seen great changes- 
No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny j 
Valianl in war, and sa«e in council; noble 
In nature, although haughty ; quick, though wary ; 
Yet for all this, so full of certain passions, 
That if once siirrd and battled , as he lias been 



Act lit. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



241 



Upon the lenderesl points, there is no Fury 

In Grecian story like to that which wrings 

His vitals with hi r burning hands, till he 

Grows ca [table of all things for revenge ; 

And a Id too, that his rnind is liberal, 

Hi- si i an [feels the people are oppressed, 

And shares their sufferings. Take him all in all, 

We have n< ed of such, and such have need of us. 

(V. Ao I "hat part would you have him take with us? 

1. Bcr. Ii ma) be, that of chief. 

*' ''• What! and resign 

Yuiir own command as leader? 

/. Bi >'. Even so. 

My object is to make your cause end well, 
And nol to push myself to power. Experience, 
Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd me out 
To acl Hi trust as your commander, till 
Some worthier should appear : if I have found such 
A< you yourselves shall own mure worthy, think you 
That I would hesitate from selfishness, 
And, covetous of brief authority, 
Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts, 
1 . than yield to one above me in 

A Lding Qualities ? No, Calendaro, 
Ka iw your friend belter ; but you all shall judge. — 
A -• ;i;. ' and let us meet at the fix'd hour. 
Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 

Cat. Worthy Bertuccio, I have known you ever 
Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan 
What I have still been prompt to execute. 
For my own part, I seek no other chief; 
What the rest will decide I know not, but 
I am with vi»u. as I have ever been. 
In all our undertakings. Now farewell, 
Until the hour of midnight sees us meet, [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — Scene, the Space between the Canal and 
the Church of San Giovanni e San Paolo. An 
equestrian Statue before it. — A Gondola ties in the 
Canal 

Entt r Ike Doge alone, disguised* 
Doge, {solus.) I am before the hour, the hour whose 
voice, 
Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
These palaces with ominous tottering, 
An I rock their marbles tu the corner-stone, 
Waking the sleepers from some hideous dream 
Of in Ustinct but awful augury 
Qf that which will befall them. Yes, proud city ! 
Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which makes 

thee 
A lazar-house of tyranny : the task 
I- forced upon me, I have sought il not ; 
And therefore was I punish'd, seeing this 
Patrician pestilence spread on and on, 
Until at length it smote me in my slumbers, 
And I am tainted, and must wash away 
The pli. i .in the healing wave. Tall fane! 

Where sleep my fathers, whose dim s;atues shadow 
J i Boor which doth divide us from the dead, 
Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold, blood, 
MoulderM into a mite of ashes, hold 
In one shrunk heap, what once made many heroes, 
When what i- now ;i handful shook the earth — 
Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our house ! 
Vaull where two D >ges rest — NSy sires ! who died 
The one of toil, the other in the field, 
With a Ion j race of other lineal chiefs 
An I sages, whose great labours, wounds, and state 
I have inherited, — let the graves gape, 
Till all thine aisles be peopled with the dead, 
And pour them from thy portals to gaze on me ! 
2 F 



1 call them up, and them and thee to witness 

What it hath been which put me to this task— 

Their pure high blood, their blazon roll of glories, 

Their mighty name dishonour'd all in me, 

Not by me, b # ut by the ungrateful nobles 

We fought to make our equals, not our lords : — 

And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave, 

Who perish'd in the field, where I since conquer'd, 

Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 

Of thine and Venice' foes, there* offVr'd up 

By thy descendant, merit such acquittance? 

Spirits ! smile down upon me ; for my cause 

[s yours, in all life now can be of yours, — 

Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, 

And in the future fortunes of our race ! 

Lei me but prosper, and I make this city 

Free and immortal, and our house's name 

Worthier of what you were, now and hereafter '. 

Enter Israel Bertuccio. 

/. Bcr. Who ^oes there? 

Doge, A friend to Venice. 

/. Ber. 'Tishe. 

Welcome, my lord, — you are before the lime. 

Doge. I am ready to proceed to your assembly. 

/. Bt r. Have with you. — I ant proud and pleased to see 
Such confident alacrity. Your doubis 
Since our last meeting, then, are all dispell'd? 

Doge. Not so — but I have set my little left 
Of lifo upon this cast : the die was thrown 
When I first listt-n'd to your treason — Start not! 
That is the word ; I cannot shape my tongue 
To syllable bla< k deeds into smooth names, 
Though 1 be wrought on to commit them. When 
1 heard you tempt your sovereign, and forbore 
To have you dragg'd to prison, I became 
Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may 
If it so please you, do as much by me. 

J. Ber. Strange words, my lord, and most unmerited! 
I am no spy, and neither are we traitors, 

/' . We — We! — no matter — you have earn'd the 
right 
To talk of US. — But to the point. — If this 
Attempt succeeds, and Venice, render'd free 
And flourishing) when we are in our graves, 
Conducts her general ii ns to our tomb*, 
And makes her children with their little hands 
Strew flowers o'er her deliverers' ashes, then 
The consequence will sanctify the deed, 
And we shall be like the two Bruti in 
The annals of hereafter ; but if no', 
If we should fail, employing bloody means 
\n I si ret plot, although to a good end, 
Still we are traitors, honest Israel ; — thou 
No less than he who was thy sovereign 
Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 

/. Ber. 'T is not the moment to consider tlus, 
Else I could answer. — Let us to the meeting, 
Or we may be observed in lingering here. 

Doge. We are observed, and have been. 

/. Ber. We observed! 

Let me discover — and this steel 

Doge. Put up ; 

H'-re are no human witnesses: look theie — 
What see you ? 

/. Ber. Only a tall warrior's statue 

Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
Of the dull moon. 

Doge. That warrior was the sire 

Of my sire's faihers, and that statue was 
Decreed to him by the twice rescued city : — 
Think you that he looks down on us or no? 

/. Her. My lord, these are mere phantasies j there ar# 
No eyes in marble. 

Doge. But there are in Death. 



242 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF YE.. 



a.-t in. 



I tell thee man, there is b spirit in 
.Such things that acts and BoeSj unseen, though kit ; 
And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 
'T is in such deeds as we are non upon. 

i thou the souls of such a race as mine 
- 11 he, their last < 
Stands plotting on the brink of their pure graves 
With smug plebeians ? 

/. Ber. lUiad been as well 

To have pondcr'd this bcl emborkM 

In our great enterprise. — Do you r* 

!>>_.. No— bul I / . /. an i shall do to the lust. 
I cannot quench a glorious life at once, 
Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be, 
And take men's liv t, without some pause: 

Yet doubt me not ; it 3 

And knowing what hi ■ to be thus, 

\\ hich is your besi security. There's not 

A roused mechanii i | clot 

So wrong*d as I, so fall'n, so loudly cal I'd 

To his redress: the very m I reed 

By these fell tyrant i 

Thai I abhor them doubly foi th i 

Which 1 must do to pay tin m back for theirs. 

]. Ber, Lei us away — hark — the hour strikes. 

Voge. On — on — 

It is our knell, or that of Venice — On. 

/. Ber. Say rather) 't is her freedom's rising peal 

Of triumph This way — we are near the pli 

■ . 

Si ENE II. — The House where the Conspirators meet 

Dag lino, Doro, Bertram, Fedele Tri 
Calendaro, Antonio delle Hindi., fitc. &c. 

Call {entering.) Are all here? 

Dag. All with you 5 except the three 

On duty, and our leader [srael, 
Who is expected momently. 

Col Where's Bertram ? 

Ber. Her ! 

Cat. Have you not been able to complete 

The number wanting in youi 

Ber. I had mark'd out some: hut I have not dared 
To trust them with the secret, till assured 
That they were worthy faith. 

(',,', There i^ no need 

( If trusting to their faith : who, save out 
And our more chosen comrades, is a-.- 1 
Fully of our intent? they think themsi 
Engaged in secret lo the Si 

To p - h - I'm ■ mo ■ ■ ■ 

Who have defied the law i : ; 

But once drawn up, and their new bwoi 

In the rank hearts of the more odious senators. 

They « ill 1 >w up 

Their blow upon ths hi 1 ■■, w hen Lhej 
The example of their chiefs, and I for one 
Will set them such, that they fir very shame 
An.) safely will not pause till all ha' 

/; r. How say you 

Cal. 1 wouldst thou spare ? 

Ber. 
I have no powgr to Bpare, I onl] 1 
Thinking lhaj even 1 

1 tight be some, whose age and qualities 
Might mark them out for pity. 

Cal. Yes, such pity 

As when the viper hath been cut to pit 1 
The separate fragments quivering in the sun 
In the last energj of v< nomous life, 
1 Reserve and have. Why, I sliould think as soon 
Of pitying some particular fe.ng which made 
1 'ne in the jaw of thi tent, as 

Of saving one of these : they form but links 



Of one long chain ; on body ; 

' it. and dunk, and live, and breed together, 
Revel, nit kill in conci 

iem die ; 1 

Should one survive, 
1 ; it is not 
thousands, but 
i 

i and if there 
. I tree in life, 
I I , , ■.. oil, and Sj 

fruit. 
a, we must be firm ! 

■ ii 
, t have an t syi 
B r. Who 

1 

I . Not T ; for if I did so, 

1 talk of trust : 

ntol faith, 
thee to be doubted. 
B r. should know 

W bo 1 1 ai me, who and what I am ; a man 

rthrow oppression ; 
A kind man, I am apt (b think, as some 

01 no, 

n me 
Put lo the proof; or, it' you should have doubts, 
1 in on your person! 

Cal, You are welcome, 

o'er, which must not 
brawl. 
/ r. i but can hear myself 

rty be 
f me ; el ■■■ why have I been selected 
of your chiel comrades? but no less 

. . . ■ : ■ 

rn'd t -I indiscriminate murder 

ing : and the si^ht 
Of bloc hoary scalps is not 

thing of triu death 

1 >f in. 1. a glory. Wi II — too well 

I that we must do such things on those 

iuch avengers ; but 
f these h ho could be saved 
. Si our own 
And for our honour, to take oft" son. 

.... ■ Lit 1 .- it wholly 

1 . no 1 

. , nor for BUS] 
Dfl Culm thee, Bertram, 

1 ot, and lake good heart 
Jt is tic cause, ainl noj our will, which a 
■Such actions from our hands : we'll wash, 8 vaj 
All stains in freedom's fountain ! 

1 itAEL Bertctccio ami the Doge, disguised* 
in , Israel. 
I ..'■' welcome. — Brave Bertuccio, thou art 

ranger? 

Cal. ime to name him. 

Our comrades are even now prepared to greet him 

1 have made it known 
That tli ■ brother to our co 

by all, 
is our Mist in all thine anions. Now 
n 
/. Ber. ' N'h ! 

'mself. 
1 . To arms ! — we aro betray'd — it is thi | 

Down with them both ! our traitorous captain, and 
1 ■ . iy rai 

Cal t (di futord.) Hold! Bold! 

Who moves a step against them dies. Hold! hear 



Act III. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



243 



Bertuccio — What ! are you appall'd to see 

I. ■ ild man 

Anion*; ns this mystery ? 

J. Ber, Let them advance and strike at their own 
ims, 

s ! fur on our lives 
Depend their own, I their hopes. 

/> ;■«. Strike! — li'l " ith more fearful 

Thau any your rash weapons can inflict, 
I ■-'.. ' . In il now be here : — Oh, noble Couragi 
The uldest horn of Fear, which makes you brave 
Against I lis solil iry hoary h 

a state 
And shake down senates, mad with wrath and dread 

■ >f one patrician ! — Butcher me, 
Y ft c in : 1 care not.— tsr telj are the ->• men 

ike of? look upon them! 
i ! he has shamed us, and deservedly. 
Was ihis yiiii- trust in your true Chief Berluccio, 
To turn you i 

the them, and hear him. 
/. B; r. I disdain to speak. 

nd must have known a heart like arine 
ry ; and the power 

. . 
They might vas brought 

i Hi been led 
To take his choice — as brother, or as vi 

Doge, And which am I to be ? ■ leave 

3on c vise to doubt lhe*freedom ol 

F. Ber. My lord, we woul together, 

Had these rash men proceede I ; 
They are ashamed of that mad moment's impi 
And droop iheir heads ; b ' ate such 

As I described th :m — Speak to them. 

CV. Ay, speak; 

We are all lis! 

irators.) You are safe, 
Nay, more, a ihact — listen I 

And know my words for truth. 

You see me here, 
As on Ltri said, an old, unarraM, 

; and you saw me 

■ ite, 
reign of our I 
Robed in o 

The edicts of a pow« , , r mine, 

Nor 3 ; ians 

Why I i know : 

Why I am !tcre t he who h 

i 
'. n or no, may an 

re ? 
tow m >■'.■ it, 

\ 

■orn. 

Here at my heart the outrage — hut my words, 

ing plaints, 
Wou tin- more, 

And I come here to s i sn the strong, 

> war 
With ' urge you. 

Our pi public vices 

In thlS— 1 r:i 

Nor kin 

dour, 
iiers, 
II i OU 

< <i ; 
The Greeks of yore m theic slaves to form 



\ pastime for their children. You are met 
To overthrow this monster of a state, 
This mockery of a government, this spectre, 

ised with blood, and then 
the times of truth and justice, 
Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 

-.quality but equal rights, 
Proportion'd like the columns to the temple, 
Giving and taking strength reciprocal, 
And making firm the whole with grace and beauty, 
So that.no part could be removed without 
Infringement of the general symmetry. 
In operating this great change, I claim 
To be one of you — if you trust in me; 
if not, strike home,— :npromised f 

And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 
Than live another day to act the tyrant 
As delegate of tyrants ; such I am not, 
And never have been — read it in our annals ; 
I can appeal to my past government 
In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 
If I were an oppressor, or a man 
Feeling and thinking for my fellow men. 
Haply had I been what the senate sought, 
I and trinkets, dizen'd out 
To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 
nee- signer, 
ler for the Senate and " the Forty," 
A skeptic of a!l measures which had not 
The sanction of" The Ten," a council-fawner, 

i puppet, — they had ne'er 
Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I suffer 
Has reach 1 igh my pity for the people j 

That man Q i they who know not yet 

Will ore day learn : meantime I do devote, 
Whate'ei my last days of life— 

My present power such as it is, not that 
Of Doge, but of a man who has been great 
Before he was degraded to a Doge, 

ual means and mind ; 
I stake tin I I had fame)*— my breath — 

(The least of all, for its last hours are ni 
My heart — my hope — my soul — upon this Ci ! 

I i M I I '■'!' me to you 
Anil to your chiefs, accept me or reject me, 
A Prin ■■■ uld be a citizen 

Or nothing, and who has left his throne to be so. 
Col. I 'alier-o! — Venice shall be free ! 

Consp. Long live Faliero ! 

Comrades ! did I well ? 
Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 

This b no time for eulogies, nor place 
tation. Am I one of you \ 
Ccd us, as thou hast been 

and chie f. 
! — I was general at Zara, 
And Ch ■ ■■ prince in Venice : 

i [hat is, I am ni ■ 

To I ■-> ! a band of whi n I lay 

ilies which I have borne, 

Mate i" my fellows— but now to the point : 
. to me y<-ur whole plan — 
. 
And mt tnily. 

, my friends? 
i d all f>>r a sudden blow j 
il be then .' 

At sunrise. 
]), p. So soon ? 

—raf-h hour accumulate 
■ 
Sim-.' I i l with you; know you not 

The Coui 'he Ten?" the spies, the eyes 

Of the patricians dubious of their slaves, 






444 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Act III. 



\nd now more dubious of the prince they had made one '.' 
I tell you you must strike, and suddenly, 
Full m the Hydra's hi arl — il hi b 

Cod. With all my soul and sword I yield assent ; 
Our companies are ready, sixty each, 
And .ill now underarms by Israel's order; 
Each at their different place of rendezvous, 
An.] vigilant, expectant of some blow; 
Let each ropair for action to - post ! 
An I now, my lord, ih i signal .' 

Dog When you hear 

The great bell of St. Mark's, which may not be 
Si ruck v\i houl speci ! order ol Ihe I I 
(The last poor privilege th j. leave their prince,) 
March ''a Saint Mark's ! 

/. Ber. And lher,e? — 

Doge, By different routes 

Lei j 'Hir march be directed, every sixty 
Entering a separate avenue, an! still 
Upon the way let your cry be of war 
And of the G noese fleet, by the first dawn 
Discern'd before the port ; form round the palace, 
"Within whose court will be drawn out in arms 
My neph ■■•• and the clients of out I 
IM iny and martial ; while the bell lolls on, 

ve, "Saint Murk ! — the foe is on our waters " f 

Cal. I see it now— bul on, mj n ible lord. 

Doge* All the patricians flocking to thi I lounctl, 
(Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
Pealing from out their patron saint's pruud lower) 
Will then be gather'd in onto i ■„• i, 
An I we will reap th.-m wiih the sword For sickle. 
1 ne few should be tardy or absent them, 
*T will be but to be taken fain) and single, 
When the majority are put to St 

''''■ W >uld that die hour were come! we will not scotch, 
But kill. 

Ber. Once more, sir, with your pardon, I 
Would now repeal the question which I ask'd 
Bi I ire Bertuccio added lo our - 
This great ally who renders it more sure, 

And therefore safer, and as Bucfa B I 
Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
Our victims — must all perish in this slaughter? 

Cal. AH who encounter me and mine, be sure, 
The mercy they have shown, I show. 

I 'onsp. All! all! 

Is this a time to talk of pity ? when 

Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it ? 

/• /?' ''■ Bertram, 

This false compassion is a folly, and 
Injustice to thy camradi s an 1 thj caw i ' 
1 >ost thou not see, thai if we single out 
Some for escape, they live bul to avenge 
Tie- fallen ! and how distinguish now ihe innocent 
From «>n i tin- guilty ? all their act? are one — 
A single emanation from one body, 

. ir knit for our opi ■ lion ' 'T is 

Much that we let their children live; I ,| , ,i,r 
If all of these even should be set apart. 
The hunter may reserve Borne single cub 
From out the tiger's lii ler, bul « ho 
Would seek to save the spotti d sire or dam, 
Unless to perish by Men fangs? however, 
I will abide bv Doge Faliero's counsel : 

Let him decide if any should be saved. 

Doge. Ask me not — tempt me not with such a ques- 
tion — 
Decide yourselves, 

/. / You know their private virtues 

Far better than we can, to whom alone 
, Their public vices, and most foul oppression, 
Have made them deadly , if there be anion" them 
One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce. 

Doge. DulfinVs father was my friend, and Lando 



Fought by my side, anJ Marc Cornaro shared 

\ : I saved ihe life 
Of Veniero — abalU saveil lwic< ? 
Would thai I could save them and Venice also! 
\ ; i . men, "r their fathers, were m) friends 
I in came my ■■ n fell frum me 

As faith from the oVrblown flower 

And left me a lone blighted thorny sialk, 
Whi h, in i nothing ; 

So, as they let me wither, let them perish ! 

tisl v, i'h V ■ nice 1 freedom ! 
■ ou know and feel our mutual majsj 
Of many ■■■ i >n ■ - i Ven ye are ignorant 
■ ings of ife, 
To human ties, and a good and dear, 

Lurks in ihe present institutes of \ enice : 

I loved them, tht-y 
aids ; 
We servi we Btniled and wept in concert ; 

■ iM"iil A e 501 row'd side I \ 

We made alliam e ! of blood and m u 
We grew in years and honours fairly, till 
H de lire, nol my ambition, made 
Them choose me for thi ir prince, and then farewell! 
Farewell all social memory ! all thoughts 
In common I and sweel bonds which Imk old friendships, 
When the survivors ol and actions, 

Which now belong to history, sooth the days 
Which vet remain by treasuring each other, 
And never meet, but each beholds the mirror 
Ofh di'a ceniurj, on Ins brother's brow, 
\n I sees a hundred beings, now in earih, 
Flit roun oring of the days gone by, 

\n 1 seeming nut all deal, as long a-, two 

of the bi p hand, 

Which once were on< still retain 

A breath to si hfoi ' n m, a ton 

■ I thai i ■■■■'■ were sih nt, save on marble 

I iiiiir I i lime ' an l musl I do this deed ? 

/. Ber. My lord, you are much moved : it is not now 
That such things must be dwelt upon. 

/ Your patience 

A moment — I recede not : murk with me 

o my vices of this governm< nt. 
From the hour that ma le me Doge, the Doge thet 

me — 
Farewell the past I 1 died to all thai had been, 
Or rather they to me : no friends, no kindness, 
No privacy of life — all were cul off: 

camen ie, such approa' h gave umbrage, 

They could not love me, such was not the law; 
r hey thwarted me, 'l was the slate's policy ; 

baffled me, 'i was a patrician's duty ; 
They wrong'd m- . for such was to right ihe state ; 
They could nut right me, thai would give Buspioiun , 
So thai I was a slave to my own sub 
S,. thai I was a f •- to my own friends ; 

with spies lor guards— with robes for power— 
With pomp for freedom— gaolers for a council — 
Inquisitors fbi fi ten Is — and hell fbi life ! 

ne only fuunl of quiet lefi, 
And//. 1 !// the) poison'd! M) pure household gods 
\\ in shiver' d on my hearth, and o'er their shrine 
Sale grinning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn, 

I. Ber. You have been [deeply wrong'd, and now shall bo 
Nobh . : ire another night. 

i,i all — it hurl me, but I bore it- 
Till this last running ever of the cup 
1 If bitterness — until this lasl loud insult, 
Not only unredress'd, bul sanction'd ; then, 
And thus, I cast all further feelings from me- 
The feelings which they crui h'd fbi me, long, long 
Before, even in their oath of false allegiance! 

liven in thai very hour and vow, they abjured 
Their friend and made a sovereign, as buys uiake 



ACT III. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



245 



Playthings, lo do their pleasure and be broken ! 
I from that hour hitve seen but senators 
In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
Brooding with him in mutual bate aril fear 
They dreading he should snatch the tyranny 

From out their grasp, and be abhorring tyrants. 
To me. th'-n, these men have no pHvatt life, 
Nor claim to ties tbev have cut urf' from others ; 
As senators lor arbitrary acts 
Amenable, I look on them — as such 
Let them be dealt upon. 

CaL And now to action! 

i : n , brethren, to our posts, and may this be 
The last night of mere words : I 'd fain be doing ! 
Saint Mark's greal bell at dawn shall find me wakeful! 
1. Ber. Disperse then to your posts : be firm and 
vigilant ; 
Think on the wrongs we hear, the rights we claim. 
This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 
Watch for the signal, and then march. I go 
To join my b*nd; let each be prompt to marshal 
His separate charge : the Doge will now return 
To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 
We part to meet m freedom ami in glory ! 

Cat. Doge, when I greet you next, my homage to you 
Shall be the head of S-euo on this sword ! 

Doge. No; let h>m be reserved unto the last, 
Nor turn aside lo strike at such a prey, 
Till nobler game is quarried : his offence 
Was a mere ebullition of ihe vice, 
The general corruption generated 
By the foul aristocracy ; he could not — 
He dared not in more honourable days 
Have risk'd it! I have merged all private wrath 
Against him in the though) of our great purpose. 
A slave insults me — I require his punishment 
From Ins proud master's hands ; if he refuse it, 
The offence grows his, and let him answer it. 

Col. Yet, as the immediate cause of the alliance 
Which consecrates our undertaking more, 
I owe him such deep gratitude, that fain 
I would repay him as he merits ; may I ? 

Doge. You would but lop the hand, and I the head; 
You would but smite the scholar, I the master; 
You would but punish Steno, I die senate. 
1 cannot pause on individual hate, 
Iti ihe absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge, 
Which, like the sheeted fire from heaven, must blast 
Without distinction, as it fell of yore, 
Where the Dead Sea halh quetlcliM two cities' ashes. 

/. Bzr. Away, then, to your posts ! I but remain 
A moment to accompany the D>ge 
To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
Have been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 
To where my allotted band is under arms. 
Col. Farewell, then, until dawn! 
/. Ber. Success go with you ! 

Consp. We will not fail— away ! My lord, farewell ! 
[The conspirators salute the Doge and Israel 
Bertuccio, and retire, headed by Philip 
Calgndaro. T'le Doge and Israel 
Bertuccio remain, 
I. B. y r. We have them in the toil — it cannot fail ! 
Now thou 'rl indeed a BOVi reign, and wilt make 
A name immortal greater than the greatest : 
Free citizens have struck at kinjs ere now ; 
Csesars have fallen, and even pa'rician hands 
Have crush'd did itorSj as the popular steel 
Has reacii'd patricians ; but iinil this hour, 
What prince has plotted for Ins people's freedom? 
Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects? 
For ever, and for ever, they conspire 
Against the people, La V i te their bands 
To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 



On yoke, and slavery and death may whet, 
,\ ■«' gluti the never-gorged Leviathan ! 
Now, my lord, to our enterprise ; 't is great, 
And greater the reward ; why stand you rapt ? 
A moment back, and vou were all impatience ! 

Doge. And is ii then decided! must they die? 

/. Ber. Who ? 

Doge. My own friends by blond and courtesy, 

And many deeds and days — the senators .' 

J. Bi r. You pass'd their sentence, and it is a just one. 

I > ige. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you 
You are a patriot, plebeian Gracchu? — 
The rebel's oracle, the people's tribune — 
I blame you not, you act in your vocation; 
They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised you • 
So they have me : but you ne'er spake with them ; 
You never broke :h< ir bread, nor shared their salt ; 
You never had their wine-cup at your lips ; 
You grew not up with them, nor laugb'd, nor wept, 
Nor held a revel in their company ; 

Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their smile 
In social interchange for yours, nor trusted 
Nor wore ibeni in your heart of hearts, as I have : 
These hairs of mine are gray, and so are theirs, 
The elders of the council : I remember 
When all our locks were like the raven's wing, 
As we went forth to take our prey around 
The isles wrung from the false Mahometan; 
And can I sec them dabbled o'er with blood ? 
Each stab to them will seem my suicide. 

/. Ber. Doge ! Done ! this vacillation is unworthy 
A child ; if you are not in second childhood, 
Call back your nerves to your own purpose, nor 
Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens ! I 'd rather 
Forego even now, or fail in our intent, 
Than see (he man I venerate subside 
Fr«m high resolves into such shallow weakness 
Vou have seen blood in battle, shed it, both 
Your own and that of others ; can you shrink then 
Ftom a few drops from veins of hoary vampires, 
Who but t;ive back what they have drain'd from millions ? 

Doge. Bear with me! Step by step, and blow on blow, 
I will divide with you ; think not I waver: 
Ab ! no ; it is the certainty of all 
Which I most do doth make me tremble thus. 
But let these last and lingering thoughts have way, 
To which von only and the Night are conscious, 
Ami both regardless ; when the hour arrives, 
'T is mine to sound the knell, and strike the blow, 
Which shall unpeople many palaces, 
And hew the highest g- nealogic trees 
Down to tiie earth, strew'd with their bleeding fruit, 
And crush their blossoms into barrenness : 
7' is will I— must I — have I sworn to do, 
Nor aught can turn m* from my destiny; 
But still I quiver to behold what I 
Musi be, and think what I have been ! Bear with me. 

/ Ber. Re-man your breast ; I feel no such remorse, 
I understand it not : why should you change ? 
You acted, and you act on your free will. 

Doge. Ay, there it is — you feel not, nor do I, 
Else I should stab thee on the Spot, to save 
A thousand lives, and, killing, do no murder; 
You feet not — you go to this butcher-work 
As if 1 these high-born men were steers for shambles! 
When all is over, you 'll be free and merry. 
And calmly wasli those hands incarnadine; 
But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 
In this surpassing massacre, shall be, 
Shall see and feel— oh God ! oh God ! 't is true, 
And thou dosl well to answer that it was 
" My own free will and act," and yet you err, 
For I will do this '. Doubt not— fear not ; 1 
Will be your most unmerciful accomplice I 
And yet 1 act no more on my free will, 



246 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE?. 



Nor my own feelings— both compel me back ; 
Bui there is hill within me and around, 
Aud lik.- the .Inn hi who believes and trembles 
Must I abhor and do. Away! :. 

Gel thee unto thy fe lows, I w jl| i, 

To L'aiher the retainers of our h 

!.' ' n<»)Saial Wt wake al , Ym - 

except her slaughter'd senate : en the sun 

Be broad upon the Adriatic there 

Shan be a voice of weeping wl ich .hull drown 

1 he roar of waters m the cry of bio id .' 

I am resolved — come on. 

v LBer : With all n>) 

Kei p a hrm rein upon these burst 

Remember what these men have dee I to thee! 

And that this sacrifice will be sue 

By ages of prosperity and freedom 

To this unshackled city: a true tyrant 

Would have lepopi 

Have feltthestrang , , ion , , , , 

I o onrush a lew traitors to Ihe pi 

Trust me such were a pity more misplaced 

rhan the late mercy of the state toS 

Doge. Man, thou hast str whichiars 

All nature from my heart. Hence to out lask ! 



Act IV. 



{!'.■, unt. 

ACT IV. 
Scene l.-Palazzo of the Patri, En . Lion,. Lion, 
t^a^lhemaskandcloakwhi, .(A, Venetian 
Mobletuorem public, all 

Lioni. I will to rest, righl weary of this revel 
The gayest we have held for many moons, 

And yet, I know not why, i, cheer'd me no, : 

1 here came a heaviness acroi mi heart 
Which, in Uw .lightest movement of th, 

Though eye to eye, a and in i 

Even with Ihe lady of my love, oppressed me, 

And through my spirit chill'd my bl I, umil 

A damp like deaih rose o'er my I ., !tr0T9 

2,; jla "" "!"," Seaway, but 'I |,| llul be 

Through all the music ringing in mye84 

A knell was sounding as distinct and, 
Thongh low and lar, as e'er the Adrian wave 
l,,,s sr the city's murmur in thi 

'' ai ; i "" L V7"' K ' ™ ,ward LidoVbulwark: 

bo thai 1 I. ii the festival before 

ftreaclW it. zenith, and wi > my pillow 

Fw'houghta more tranquil, or forgetfiilne,,. 
Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
the lamp within my chamber 
•Inf. v i , 

r> , i es, mv lord • 

1 omraand you no refreshment ? 

/.Mill'. * » T , 

Which wUlnotb. commanded. M '£££«* 

Though my ,„,:,. ,,e, , ,„„,„,„ J ** AntON.O. 

Whether the air will ,"' f > 

A goodly night; .heel , „, ndwhi „ b| 

From the Levant hath crepl 

And the broad moon ha, brigbten'd vVhaf a stillness ' 

And what a comras, with „,i. -!.:;„ , '.. 

Where the tal torches' glare, and silver I, *• 

More pallid gleam alone the tapestried walls 

Spread over the reluctant gloom which ,,„„„„ 

Those vast and dimly-latlicod galleries 

A dazzling mass of artificial light 

Winch abow'd all ■hings, but nothing as they ware 

There iAga essaying to recall the pLi 

After long .staving for the hue, of J-outh 

At he sad labour of the toilet, and 

* ull many a glance at th. too faithful mirror 



rth in all the pride of ornament, 

1 ing to the fa: 

hide 

I 

1 

io and health 

1 

lid not 

tar. 
tie— 



1 ■ 

')'"' '"■" '' and then klace, 

An India 

thin robes, 

I. aven: 

vinnictrv 

i Ii terminate so well— 

lnd,r '"' i ' and nature, 

., " : • '" anddrank 

thesi ■ 

tiers 

A lucid ' ike I., his i ludi d tl 

Mrs and waters— 
A " • m'Tor'd mtheoc, i 
Than torches 
And the greal i 
Whal ocean i to e i ; „„ 

""' '"- 1 ' m " " . be, ous way 

•' smoolhing o'er Ihi lofiy wails ' ' 
i II [host tall p 

rronfs, 

mg the broad ■ 
| 

ire, less strangely 

i yarnl mj ,,.„. giua, ° ' 

Ofarchitectu, , , cs ° 

Wn,< *l ' '" Egypt's plai, a ,, ave 

<!■ All is gentle: nau.ht 
Stirs rudely; but, congenial wi,h Ihe'nieht, 

■nit. ° 
rhe 

Ofsleepl . , . , , [rew 

; A,,,lr; " ' Showing 

l:i " '" J 8 " ' »rd i while hei vol hand, 

Fair as the moonlight of which il teems part, 
s " a, lical ■ | while il tret iL 
: eningil Mice, 

To lei in love through music, makes lis heart 
Thrill like his It 

P nc ol the oar, or rapid twinkle 

■ 

choir 
t back with verse for verse 
I 
= ome ,(! l, 1 ™ ts'pire 

' ' ■•" horn and earth-con indingcily— 

,TT' Mini! 

"■ ■ " :'" ' I I away 

,' »mer ' 

1 could not dissipate : ami with tl b 

nee — 

1 in h, ■: ... . ;lt to reel 

Is almost wronging such a night as this 



rr , , , '•' without 

I Hark ! what is that ? or who a. such a mo,,., ,, ? 



Act IV. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



247 



Enter Antonio. 
Jlnt. My lord, a man without, on urgent business. 
Implores lu be admitted. 

Is he a stranger? 
His r»ce is muffled in his cloak, but both 
His voice and gestures seem familiar to me ; 
I craved his name, hut this he seem'd reluctant 
To trust, save lo yourself; most earnestly 
IT sues lo be permitted to approach you. 

/. mi, * I' is a strange hour, and a suspicious bearing ! 
An 1 yet there is slight peril : 'tis not in 

houses noble men are struck at ; still, 
ugh I know not that I have a foe 
lice, 'I will be wise to use some caution. 
Admit him, and retire ; but call up quickly 
Some of thy fellows, who may wait without. — 
Who call this man be ? 
[Exit Antonio, and returns with Bertram muffled. 

I> ;\ My good lord Lioni,- 

I have no time to lose, nor thou — dismiss 
This menial hence ; I would be private with you. 

. It seems the voice of Bertram — Go, Antonio. 
[Exit Antonio. 
Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour ? 

Bi r. ! '■ hnst'.f.) A boon, my noble patron ; 

you have granted 
Many to client, Bertram ; add 

This one, and make him ha 

Thou hast known me 
Fr in boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
i fair objects of advancement, which 

i .hi one of thy station; I would promise 

was heard, but that the hour, 
Thy bearing, and this strange and honied mode 
Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
Hath B tnoe mysterious import — but say on — 

has occurred, some rash and sudden broil ? — 
A cup too much, a scuttle, and a stab ? — 
Mere things of every day ; so that thou hast not 
Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safety ; 
But then thou must withdraw, for angry friends 
And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance, 
Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 

6 r. My lord, I tbank you ; but 

But what ? You have not 
! a rash hand against one of our order? 
tfso, withdraw und fly, and own it not; 
I mid not slay— but then I must not save thee! 

He who has shed pa'ncian blood 

/,' r. I come 

; ,e patrician blood, and not to shed it ! 
And thereunto I must be speedy, for 

in \ lose a life ; since Time 

the for the twoedged sword, 
A:nl is aboul to , in tead of sand, 
The dust from sepulchres lo fill his hourglass ! — 
G » not thou forth tomorrow ! 

Wherefore not ? 
means this menace ? 
Ber. Do not seek its meanin, 

But do as I implore thee ; — stir not forth, 
"What e'er be stirring ; though the roar of crowds — 
of women, and the shrieks of babes — 
of men — the clash of arms— the sound 
Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 

one wide alarum !— Go not forth 
Uoli! the tocsin 's silent, nor even then 
'JY I i 

Ai.>nin, what does this mean? 
Ber. Again, I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 
Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven — by all 
The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
To emulate them, and to leave behind 

ndants worthy both of them and thee — 
By all thou hast of blest in hope or memory — 



By all thou bast to fear here or hereafter — 
By all the good deeds thou hast done to me, 
Good I would now repay with greater good, 
Remain within — trust to thy household gods, 
And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
As I now counsel — but if not, thou art lost! 

Lioni. I am indeed already lust in wonder; 
Surely thou ravest ! what have J to dread ? 
Who are my foes ? or if there be such, tchy 
Art thou leagued with them ? — thou ! or if so leagued, 
Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 
And not before? 

Ber. 1 cannot answer this. 

Wilt thou go forth despite of this true warning? 

Lioni. I was not born to shrink from idle threats, 
The cause of which I know not : at the hour 
Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
Be found among the absent. 

Ber, Say not so ! 

Once more, art thou determined to go forth? 

Lioni. 1 am. Nor is there aught which shall impede 
inc ! 

Ber. Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul ! — Fare- 
well! [Going. 

Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than my own safety 
Which makes me call thee hack ; we must not part thus. 
Bertram, I have known thee long. 

Ber. From childhood, signor, 

You have been my protector : in the days 
Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets, 
Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember 
Its cold prerogative, we piay'd together; 
Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft, 
My father was your father's client, I 
His son's scarce less than fosterbrother ; years 
Saw us together — happy, heart-full hours ! 
Oh God ! the difference 'twixt those hours and this ! 

Liont. Bertram, 't is thou who bast forgotten them. 

Ber. Nor now, nor ever; whatsoe'er betide, 
I would have saved you : when to manhood's growth 
We sprung, and you, devoted to the state, 
As suits your station, the more humble Bertram 
Was left unto the labours of the humble, 
Still you forsook me not : and if my fortunes 
Have not been towering, 't was no fault of him 
Who ofitimes rescued and supported me 
When struggling with the tides of circumstance 
Which hear away the weaker: noble blood 
Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 
Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
Would that thy fellow senators were like thee ! 

Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against the senate ? 

Ber. Nothing. 

Lioni. I know that there are angry spirits 

And turbulent mutterers of stilled treason, 
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
Muffled to whisper curses to the night ; 
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians, 

i>< rate libertines who brawl in taverns ; 
Thou herdest not with such : 'tis true, of late 
I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
What hath come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
To waste thee. 

Ber. Rather shame and sorrow light 

On the accursed tyranny which rides 
The very air in Venice, and makes men 
Madden as in the last hours of the plague 
Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life ! 

Lioni. Some villains have been tampering with thee, 
Bertram ; 
This is not thy old language, nor own thoughts ; 






248 



MARINO FAL1ERO, DOGE OE VENICE. 



Act IV. 



So ne wretch has made thee drunk with disaffection : 

Biit thou must not be lust so; thou wert g'»ud 

And kind, and art not fit tot such base acts 

As vice and villany would put thee too : 

Confess — confide in me — thou know'sl my nature — 

What is it thou and thin.; are boun 1 to do, 

Whi I) should prevent thy friend, the only son 

Of him who was a friend unto ihy father, 

So that our good-will i-^ u herita i 

We should bequeath to our posterity 

Such as ourselves received it, or augmented; 

I say, what is ii ihou must d", ihal I 

Should deem thee dangerous, ami keep the house 

Like a sick girl? 

Ber. Nay, question me no further: 

l must be gone. 

Li 'iii. And I be murder'd! — say, 

Was it not thus thousaid'sr, my gentle Bertram? 

tier. Who talks of murder ■ whal said I of murder? — 
'T is false ' I did not utter such a word. 

L'oni. Th u didst not; but from out thy wolfish eye, 
So changed from what I knew it, the-e glares forth 
The gladiator. If my life 's thine object, 
Take it — I am unarmed,— "and thru away! 
I would not hold my brvath on such a tenure 
As the capricious mercy of such things 
As thou and those who have set ihee to thv task-work. 

Bet: Sooner than spill thy blood, I peril mine ; 
S>>mr than harm a hair of thine, I place 
In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 

Lioni. Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, Bertram; 
I am not worthy to be singled out 
From such exalted hecatombs — who are thev 
Th if are in danger, and that make the danger ? 

Ber. Venice, and all that she inherits, aro 
Divided like a house against itself, 
And so will perish ere tomorrow's twilight ! 

Lioni. More mysteries, and awful ones! But now, 
Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out, 
And thou art safe and glorious j for 'i is more 
Glorious to save than slay, and slay i 1 the dark too— 
Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for ihee ! 
How would it look to see up n a spear 
The head of him whose heart was open to thee, 
Borne by thy hand before the shuddering people ? 
And such may be my doom ; f)r hear I Bwear, 
Whaie'er the peril or the penalty 
Of thy denunciation, I go forth, 
Unless thou dost deiail the cause, and show 
The consequence of all which led thee here! 

Ber. Is there no way to save thee? minutes fly, 
And thou art lost! — thou ! my sole benefactor, 
The only being who was constant to me 
Through every change. Yet, make me not a traitor ! 
Let me save thee — but spare my honour ! 

LUmi. Where 

Can He the honour in a league of murder ? 
And who are traitors save unto the state ? 

Ber. A league is still a c pact, and more binding 

In honest hearts when words must stand for law 
And in my mind, there is no traitor like 
Him whose domestic treason plants the poniard 
Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 
Lioni. And who will strike the steel to mine ? 
Ber, Not I; 

I could have wound my son] up to all things 
Save this. Thou must not die! and think how dear 
Thy life is, when I risk so many lives, 
Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
Of future generations, not to be 
The assassin thou miscall'st me ; — once,onco more 
I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 
Lioni. It is in vain — this moment I go forth. 



A 1 . Then perish Venice rather than my friend! 
I will disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy— 
Oh, what a villain I become for thee! 

Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the 
state 1 :. ! — 
Speak — pause not — all rewards, all pledges f>r 
Thy safely and thy welfare ; wealth such as 
The state accords her worthiest servants j nay, 
Nobility itself I guarantee thee, 
So that thou art sincere and penitent. 

Ber. I have thought again: it must not be — 1 love 
thee — 
Thou knowest it — that I stand here is the proof) 

■ though las' ; but having done my duty 
By th< e, I now must do it by my country! 
Far<\\ ell —we meet no more in life ! — farewell ! 

. What, ho! — Antonio — Pedro — to the door ! 
See that none pass — arrest this man ! 

Enter Antonio and other armed Domestics, who 
seize Bertram. 

I, >">i ; . [continues.) Take care 

He hath no harm ; bring me my sword and cloak, 
And man the gondola with four oars — quick — 

[Exit Antonio. 
We will unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
And send for Marc Cornaro : — fear not, Bertram; 
This needful violence is for thy safety, 
No l< bs than for the general weal. 

Ber. Where wouldst thou 

Bear me a prisoner ? 

Lioni. Firstly to " the Ten j" 

Next to the Doge. 

Ber. To the Doge? 

Lioni. Assuredly : 

Is he not chief of the state? 

Ber. Perhaps at sunrise — 

Lioni. What mean you? — but we'll know anon. 

B* r * # Art sure? 

Lioni. Sure as all gentle means en make ; and if 
They fail, you know " the Ten" and their tribunal, 
An I that -Saint MarCs has dungeons, and tho dungeons 
A rack. 

Ber. Apply it then before the dawn 
Now hastening into heaven. — One more such word, 
And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
You think to doom to me. 

Re-enter Antonio. 

iBnt. The baik is ready, 

My lord, and all prepared. 

Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 

Bertram, PI I reason with :hee as we go 
To the Maguifico's.sage Gradenigo. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — The Ducal Palace— the Doge's Apartment 

The Doge and his nephew Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge. Are all the people of our house in muster? 

Ber. F. They are array'd, and eager for the signal. 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo. * 
I come for your last orders. 

Doge. It had been 

As well had there been time to have got together, 
From ni) own ti< T, Val di Marino, more 
Of our retainers — but it is too late. 

i>< r. /■'. Me thinks, my lord, 't is better as it is ; 
A sudden swelling < four retinue 
Had waked suspicion ; and, though fierce and trusty, 
Tin' vassuls of (hut district are too rude 
And quick in quarrel to have long maintained 

The seeret discipline we need for such 
A service, till our foes are dealt upon. 

Doge. True ; but when once the signal has been given 
These are the men for such an enterprise ; 
These city slaves have all their private bias, 



Act IV. 



MARINO KALIERO, DOGE OK VENICE. 



249 



Their prejudice against or /or this noble, 

Which may induce them to o'erdo or jspare 

Where mercy may be madness : the fierce peasants, 

Serfs of my county Val di Marino, 

Would do the bidding of their lord without 

Distinguishing for love or hale his foes; 

Alike to them Marcello or Cornaro, 

A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 

They are not used to start at those vain names, 

Nor bow the knee before a civic senate ; 

A chief in armour is their Suzerain, 

And not a ihiog in robes. 

Ber. F. We are enough ; 

And for the dispositions of our clients 
Against the senate I will answer. 

Doge, Well, 

The die is thrown ; but for a warlike service, 
Done in the field, commend me to my peasants ; 
They made the sun shine through the host of Huns 
When sallow burghers slunk back to their tents, 
And cower'd to hear their own victorious trumpet. 
If there be small resistance, you will find 
These citizens all lions, like their standard ; 
But if there's much to do, you'll wUh with me, 
A band of iron rustics at our backs. 

Ber. F. Thus thinking, I must marvel you resolve 
To strike the blow so suddenly. 

Doge* Such blows 

Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
I had o'ermaster'd the weak false renior.se 
Which yearn'd aboui my heart ton fondly yielding 
A moment to the feelings of old days, 
I was most fain to strike ; and, firstly, that 
I might not yield again io such emotions; 
And, secondly, because of all these men, 
Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 
I know not well the courage or the faith : 
To-day might find 'mong ihem a traitor to us, 
As yesterday a thousand to the senate ; 
But once in, with their hilts hot in their hands, 
They must on for their own sakes ; one stroke struck, 
And the mere instinct of the first-born Cain, 
Which ever lurks somewhere in human hearts, 
Though circumstance may keep it in abeyance, 
Will urge the rest on like to wolves; the sight 
Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, 
As the first wine-cup leads to the long reve! ; 
And you will find a harder task to quell 
Than urge them when they have commenced, but till 
That moment a mere voice, a straw, a shadow, 
Are capable of turning them aside.— 
How goes the night ? 

Ber, F. Almost upon the dawn. 

Doge. Then it is time to strike upon the bell. 
Are the men posted ? 

Ber. F. By this time they are; 

But they have orders not to strike, until 
They have command from you through me in person. 

Doge *T is well. — Will the morn never put to rest 
These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the heavens ? 
I am settled and bound up, and being so, 
The very effort which it cost me to 
Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth with fire, 
Now leaves my mind more steady. I have wept, 
And trembled at the thought of this dread duty, 
But now I have put down all idle passion, 
And look the growing tempest in the face, 
As doth the pilot of an admiral galley : 
Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsman ?) it hath been 
A greater struggle to me, than when nations 
Beheld their fate merged in the approaching fight 
Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 
Thousands were sure to perish — Yes, to spill 
The rank polluted current from the veins 
Of a few bloated despots needed more 
2 G 



To steel me to a purpose such as made 
Timoleon immortal, than to face 
The toils and dangers of a life of war. 

Ber. F. It gladdens me to see your former wisdom 
Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
You were decided. 

Doge. It was ever thus 

With mc; the hour of agitation came 
In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
Passion had too much toom to sway ; but in 
The hour of action I have stood ns calm 
As were the dead who lay around me : this 
Thev knew who made me what I am, and trusted 
To the subduing power which I preserved 
Over my mood, when its first burst was spent. 
But they were not aware that tnere ore things 
Which make revenge a virtue by reflection, 
And not an impulse of mere anger ; though 
The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injured souls 
Oft do a public right with private wrong, 
And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
Methinks the day breaks — is it not so ? look, 
Thine eyes are clear with youth ; — the air puts on 
A morning freshness, and, at lea$t to me, 
The sea looks grayer through the lattice. 

Ber. F. True, 

The morn is dappling in the sky. 

Doge. Away then! 

See that they strike without delay, and with 
The first toll from St. Mark's, march on the palace 
With all our house's strength ; here I will meet yuu— 
The Sixteen and their companies will move 
In separate columns at the self-same moment — 
Be sure you post yourself at the great gate 
I would not trust " the Ten" except to us — 
The rest, the rabble of patricians, may 
Glut the more careless swords of those leagued with us. 
Remember that the cry is still "Saint Mark ! 
" The Genoese are come — ho ! to the rescue ! 
" Saint Mark and liberty !" — Now— now to action ! 

Ber. F. Farewell then, noble uncle ! we will meet 
In freedom and true sovereignty, or never! 

Doge. Come hither, my Bertuccio — one embrace- 
Speed, for the day grows broader — Send me soon 
A messenger to tell me how all goes 
When you rejoin our troops, and then sound — sound 
The storm-bell from Saint Mark's! 

[Exit Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge, {solus.) He is gone, 

And on each footstep moves a life. — 'T is done. 
Now rhe destroying Angel hovers o'er 
Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial, 
Ev<-n as the eagle overlooks his prey, 
And for a moment, poised in middle air, 
Suspends the motion of his mighty wings, 
Then swoops with his unerring beak. — Thou day ! 
That slowly walk'st the waters ! march-- march on— 
I would not smite i' the dark, but rather see 
Thai no stroke errs. And yon, ye blue sea-waves I 
I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too, 
With Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore, 
While that of Venice flow'd too, but victorious : 
Now thou must wear an unmix'd crimson ; no 
Barbaric blood can reconcile us now 
Unto that horrible incarnadine, 
But friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter. 
And have I lived to fourscore years for this? 
I, who was named Preserver of the City ? 
I, at whose name the milli-m'scaps were flung 
Into the air, and cries from <ens of thousands 
Rose up, imploring Hca»en to send me blessings, 
And fame, and length of days— to see this day ? 
But this day, black within the calendar, 
Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium 
Doge Dandolo survived to ninety summers 



250 



MARiN' > i-'ALiERO, DOGE 01* VENICE. 



Act IV. 



To vanquish empires, and r- fuse tbcir crown 
] will resign a crown, an 1 m 

iis freedom — but oh! by what means ? 

I iblc end must justify them— ' 

Are a few drops of human I 

ood of tyrants is not human ; they, 
Like to incara e M<3 
l mil 'tis i ime I 

Which they have made so populous. — ' *h world ! 
Oh men ! what are ye, and our b 
That we must work hv crime to punish ci 
And slay as if f leath had bul ihi 

Wh n i f ■•■■« pears would make ihe sword superfluous? 

And I, upon the verge of th* unknown realm] 

Yet send BO many heralds on before me l — 

I must not ponder this pause. 

Hark ! was there not 
A murmur as of distant voices, and 
The tramp of feet in martial uni 
What phantoms evet mr wishes rais< ! 

It cannot be — the signal hath not rung — 
Why pauses i: '.' Mv 
Should be upoi bis way to me, i n 

: n i an draws gi l1 ing back 
Upon its poi s steep ton ei portal, 

Where swing - thi sullen huge oracular bell, 
Which never knells but fora princely death, 
Or for a state in peril, pealing forth 
Tremendous budements ; let it do its office, 
And be this peal its awfullest and last 
Sound till the strong tower rock !— What ! silent still ? 
1 would go forth, but that my post is here, 
To be : Bunion to 

The oft discoi n hich form 

Leagues of this nature, and mpact 

The waveri in nflict ; 

For ifthey sh mi 1 do battle, 'twi 
Within the palace, that the strife will thi 
Then ,i,ics 

Thi master-mover. Hark! he comes — ho comes, 

IWv nephew, brave Bertuccio's messenger. — 
What tidings? Is he marching .' hath he 3ped? — 
They here ! all 's lost— 3 et will I make an effort. 
Enter a Sigxor o: i fie Night*, i 

Sig. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason! 

n ■' - v." 1 i are [hi ■ ' 
1 aii ason uhd < 

Sig. i 

a i nb i Ten. 
Doge. And where are thi 
Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
Preside there, and that duly 's mine : on thine 
I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
To Hie council chamber. 

Duke ! it mo j a 
Nor are they in the wonted Hal] i I 
■ | in th i i 
D .You 

Big. 1 rve 

The slate, and rfeeds must serve it faithfully ; 
My warrant is the will ofthose who ru 

\nd till tMt warrant has my signature 
It is illegal, and, fts i 
Rebellious— Hast th 
That thus you 

- 'T is not my offict to reply, but act— 
I am placed here as guard U| m thy p irson. 
And not as judge to hear or to J | 

Doge, {aside.) I must gain tinW-^So that the storm- 
bell sound 

All may be well yet. — Kinsman, speed — spct*] speed ! 

Our fate is trembling in ihe balance, and 



Wo to the vanquished ! be they prim aple, 

i senate — 

[Th. f.'s tolls 

I, ■! il soui d — il ■ 

boi of the Night ! and you 
i 
Who ■ ■ . 

lusty ] 
Now, knaves, what ransom for yoili i 

Confusion 
da —all 's lost 
at fearful 1 

i or purpose, 
Oi met some unforeseen and hideous obstacle. 
i 
Straight to the tower; the rest remain with me. 

[Exit part of the Guard. 
/' .Wretch! if thou Wouldst have thy vile life, 
implore it ; 

' nds. 
rth ; 
They never shall return. 

So let it be ! 
They die then in their duly, as will I. 

/'■.. b flii al nobler yame 

Than thou ... 

I ^ resistance, 
■ much obscured can bear ■ 
■ free. 
Sig. And learn thou to be captive — It hath cea i ■ '. 
[ The bell ceases Jo toll. 
The trail to hai e Bel 

: nil prej — 
The knell hath rung, but il is not tin senate's ! 

■■I'- sil ni. and all ' ' 
Now, 1 >oge, denounce me 
i 
duty > 

. thou thing ! 
Thou has di ne a worthy deed, and earn'd the prico 

■■\ ill reward l| ■ 
Bul thou werl i prafe, 

ii thine office 
■ 

[a 
in to fail in the respect 
i your rani n this I hi 
/> ii me save to die, 

And yol how ne i i! I would have fallen, 

And pro dly, h iurof li iumph, but 

it thus ! 

iltr. NIGHT, UfUh Ber- 

ruccio I'm iero prisoner. 

2(j : in in the act 

issuti order 

Had id und. 

i all the passes 

■ . 

era 
Are all in chains, anil now on 'rial — 

Their (1 ' icrsed, and many la 

/' - 
/> Il is in vain to varwiih PortlUX 

% haih departed from our I 
Ber. /'. Who would have deem'd it? — Ah! one mo- 

uoner ! 
Doge. Thai moment would have changed the face of 

n ity — ■ We '11 meel it 
■ iph is ii"' n. •!.■ 
Bul who ran make their own minds all in all, 

j fortune I 'roup not, 'tis 
Bui a bri I would go a 



Act V. 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



251 



Yet if they send us, as '( is like, together 
i worthy of our sires and selves. 
P. I shall not shame you, uncle. 
1st Sig, Lords, our orders 

Are to keep guard on both in separate chambers, 
Until the council call ye to your trial. 

Doge. Our tri:d! \\ ill they keep ilieir mockery up 
Even to the last I bul let them deal upon us. 
As we had dealt on them, bul « ith less pomp* 
T is but a gam .• of mutu i 
Wh i the firs I death, and they 

Have won with false dice.— Who :n our Ju 

to answer that. 
B r, F. I 'II answer tor thee— *l is a certain Bertram, 
Ev mi now lepo xel giunta. 

. Bertram. t!i' . With what vile tools 

We operate to slay or save ! This creature, 

>w will earn 
Rewards and hon >urs, 1'd in story 

lich gabbled 
■ ;.\ i k t-, and had an annual ir'v 
MaiiUus, who hurl'd down ihe Gauls, was cast 
n the Tarpeian. 
! H Si*. He aspired to treason, 

v. to rule the stale. 

He saved the state, 
A:U sought but to reform what lie revived — 

; s is idle Gome, si work. 

-. Noble Bertuccio, we must now remove you 
i an inner chamber. 
('.'</-. F. 
[f we shall meet again in [ ki 
B it they perhaps will lei our as 

.1 1| yet go forth, 
Vi 1 do what our tr n i I clay, thus clogg'd, hath fail*d in ! 

.nve hurl'd them from their guilty thrones, 
AnJ such examples will tin i heirs, though distant. 



ACT V. 

Scene !.— The Hall 

Triads of 
the C '■ ton of Mauin'o 

Fali ■ ' 

. fyc. tifC. — Israel Bertuccio 
(7 id Philip ' Ialbndaro as Prisi rs. — Bertram, 
Lioxi, nil ! . £c. 

Ienintende. 

ill 'it 
Their m 

iroaoiince on these ob lurate men 
The sentence of the law : a grievous task 
To those who hear, and these who speak. Alas! 
Thai i* should fall to me! a 

through all 
irs of coming time i ifing record 
T i this oi ist foul and com] 

to all 

gainst 
'(' ,-■ S iracen and th i ireek, 

1 nk ; 
A city ■■ 

_■■• from 
i sen; 
Prou I ■ ^ap 

. 

lives — 
them die the death. 
/. B re prepared; 

Y iur racks have done thai I 

B '■ I!" ye have thai to i trould obtain 

Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta 



Will hear you; ifyo iioconfess, 

Now is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. x 
Ber. F. We stand to hear, and not to speak. 
Ben-. Your crimes 

Are fully proved by your accomplices, 
And all which circumstance can add to aid them ; 
Yet we would hear from your own lips complete 

! of your treason : on the verge 
Of that dread gulf w I i :h none repass, the truth 
Alone can profit you on earth or heaven — 
Say, then, what was your motive ? 

Justice! 
Ben. "What 

ject? 
/. Ber. Freedom 

Y'ou are brief] sir. 
/. Ber. So my life grows : I 
Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 

Ben. Perhaps you think by this blunt brevity 
To brave your ; -pone the sentence / 

/. Ber. Do you be brief as I am, and believe me, 
I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon. 

Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 
/. Ber. Go, ask your inks what they have wrung 
from us, 
Or place us there again ; we have still some blood left, 
And some slight sense of pain in these wrench'd limbs 
But this ye dare not do ; for if we die there — 
And you have left us little life to spend 
Upon your engines gi >rged with pangs already — 
Ye lose the public spectacle, with which 
You would appal your slaves to further slavery ! 
Groans are not words, nor agony assent, 
Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 
Should overcome the soul into a lie, 
Fur a short respite — must we bear or die ? 
B n. Say, who were your accomplices ? 
/. Ber. The senate. 

Be i. What do you mean 

/. B r. Ask of the suffering people, 

Whom your patrician crimes have driven to crime. 
Be i. You know the Doge ? 

T served with him at Zara 
In the ii were pleading here your way 

jed our lives, 
WhUe you but hazarded the lives of others, 
Alike by accusation or defence. 
And. for (he rest, all Venice knows the Doge, 

i his great actions, and the Senate's insults' 
. You have held conference with him ? 
/. Ber. I am weary- 

Even wearier lions than your tortures: 

I pray you pass to jud 

It is coming. — 
And you, too, Philip Calendaro, what 

>u to say why you houlid nol be doem'd? 
Col. I never was a man of many words, 
And now have few left worth the utterance. 
/.' '. A further application of yon engine 
tiange your tone. 

Mosl true; it icill do so 
A firmer application did so; but 
Lt will not change my words, or, if it did — 
What then? 
Cat. Will my avowal on yon rack 

Stand good in law ? 

/; i. Assuredly, 

Col. Whoe'er 

The culprit be whom I accuse of treason 7 

Ben. Without doubt, he will be brought up to trial. 

( '../'. An i lis te imonj « >uJ i he peri h ? 

So your confession be detail'd and full, 
He will stand here in peril of his life 

>ud solf, President, 
For by the eternity which yawns before me, 



252 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Act V 



I swear that thou, and only thou, shall be 
The traitor I denounce upon that rack, 
If I be stretch'd there for the second lime. 

One of the Giunta. Lord President, 't were best pro- 
ceed to judgment ; 
There is no more to be drawn from these men. 

Ben. Unhappy men! prepare for instant death. 
The nature of your crime — our law — and peril 
The state now stands in, leave nut an hour's respite — 
Guards! lead them forth, and upon the balcony 
Of the red column", where, on festal Thursday,* 
The D >*>e stands to behold the chase of bulls, 
Let them he justified : and leave exprfted 
Their wavering relics, in the place of judgment, 
T. the full view of the assembled people! — 
And heaven have mercy on their souls ! 

The Giunta. Amen! 

/. Ber. Signers, farewell! we shall not all again 
Meet in one place. 

Ben, And lest they should essay 

To stir up the distracifd multitude — 
Guards! leLtheir mouths be gaggM,* even in the act 
Of execution. — Lead them hence! 

Oil. What ! must we 

Not even say farewell to some fond friend, 
Nor leave a last word with our confessor ? 

B 'i. A pnest is waiting in the antechamber; 
Bui, f>r your friends, such interviews would be 
Painful to them, and useless all to you. 

Cat. I knew that we were gAgg'd in life; at least 
All those who had not heart to risk their lives 
Upon their open thoughts ; but still [ deem'd 
That, in the last few moments, the same idle 
Freedom of speech accorded to ihe dying, 
Would not now be denied to us ; but since — 

/. Ber. Even let them have their wav, brave Calendaro ! 
"What matter a few syllables? lei's die 
Without the slightest show of favour from them ; 
So shall our blood more readily arise 
To Heaven against them, and more testify 
To their atrocities, than could a volumu 
S.ioken or written of our dying words! 
They tremble at our voices — nay, they dread 
Our very silence — let them live in fear ! — 
Leave th^m unto their thoughts, and let us now 
Address our own above ! — Lead on ; we are ready. 

Cd. Israel, hadst thou hut hearkenM unto me 
tt had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain, 
The coward Bertram, would ■ 

/• Ber. Peace, Calendaro ! 

What brooks it now to ponder upon this ? 

B rt. Alas! I fain you died in peace with me : 
I did not seek this lask ; 't was forced upon me : 
Say. you forgive me, though I never can 
Reirieve my own forgiveness — frown not thus ! 

/. B?r. I die and pardon thee! 

Cal. {spitting at him.) I die and scorn thee ! 

[Exeunt [sRABL Brhtuccio and Philip 
Calf.xdaro, Guards, fyc. 

Ben. Now that these criminals have been disposed of, 
*T is time that we proceed to pass our sentence 
Upon the greatest traitiT upon record 
In any annals, the Doge Faliero! 
The proofs and process are complete; the time 
And crime require a quick procedure : shall 
He now be call'd in to receive the award ? 

The Giunta. Ay, ay. 

Ben. Avogadori, order that the Doge 

Be brought before the Council. 

One of the Giunta. And the rest, 

When shall they be brought up ? 

Ben. When aJl tho chiefs 

Have been disposed oC Some have fled to Chiozza; 
But there are thousands in pursuit of them, 
And such precaution ta'cn on terra firms , 



As well as in the islands, that we hope 
None will escape lo utter tn strange lands 
His libellous tale of treasons 'gainst the senate. 

Enter the Doge as Prisoner, with Guards, 4*c $-f- 

Ben. Doge — for such still you are, and by the law 
Must be consider'd, till the hour shall come 
When you must dotTthe ducal bonnet from 
That head, which could not wear a crown more noble 
Than empires can confer, in quiet honour, 
But it must plot to overthrow your peers, 
Who made you what you are, and quench in blood 
A city's glory — wo have laid already 
Before you in your chamber at full length, 
By the Avogadori, all the proofs 
Which have appear'd against you ; and more ample 
Ne'er rear'd their sanguinary shadows to 
Confront a traitor. What have you to say 
In your defence ? 

Doge. What shall I say to ye, 

Since my defence must be your condemnation? 
You are at once offenders and accusers, 
Judges and executioners ! — Proceed 
Upon your power. 

Btn. Y<>ur chief accomplices 

Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 

Doge. And who be they ? 

Ben. In number many; but 

The first now stands before you in the court, 
Bertram, of Bergamo, — would yon question him? 

Doge, {looking at hitn contemptuously.) No. 

Ben. And two others-, Israel Bertuccio, 

And Philip Calendaro, have admitted 
Their fellowship in treason with the Doge ! 

Doge. And where are they ? 

Ben. Gone to their place, and now 

Answering to Heaven for what they Hid on earth. 

Doge. Ah ! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone ? 
And the quick Oassius of the arsenal? — 
How did they meet their doom ? 

Ben. Think of your own^ 

It is approaching. You decline to plead, then ? 

Doge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 
Can recognise your legal power to try me. 
Show me the law ! 

Ben. On great emergencies, 

The law must he renmdell'd or Emended : 
Oor fathers had not hVd the punishment 
Of such a crime, as on the old Roman tablei 
The sentence against patricide was left 
In pure forgeifulness ; they could not render 
That penal, which had neither name nor thought 
In their great bosoms : who would have foreseen 
That nature could be filed to such a crime 
As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their realms? 
Your sin haih made us make a law which will 
Become a precedent 'gainst such haught traitors, 
As would with treason mount to tyranny ; 
Not even contented with a sceptre, till 
They can convert it to a twoedged sword ! 
Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye? 
What's nobler than the signory of Venice? 

Doge. The signory of Venice! You betray'd me— 
You — you, who sit there, traitors as ye axe ! 
From my equality with you in birth, 
And my superiority in action, 
You drew me from my honourable toils 
In distant lands — on flood — infield — in cities — 
You singled me out like a victim to 
Stand erownM, but bound and helpless, at the altar 
Where vou alone could minister. I knew not, — 
I sought not — wish'd not — dreani'd not the election, 
Which reach'd me first at Home, and I obey'd ; 
But found on my arrival, that, besides 
The jealous vigilance which always led you 



Act V. 



MARINO FAUERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



253 



To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents, 

You had, even in the interregnum of 

My journey lo the capital, curtail'd 

And mutilated the few privileges 

Yet left the duke: all this I bore, and would 

Have bnrne, until my very hearth was stain'd 

By ihf pollution of your ribaldry, 

And he, the ribald, whom I see anions you— 

Fit judge in such tribunal ! 

Bn. {interrupting him,} Michel Steno 
Is here in virtue oi his office, as 
One of the Forty ; " the Ten" having craved 
A Giunta of patricians from the senate 
To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
And novel as the pre ent : he was set 
Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, 
Because the Dnge, who should protect the law, 
Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
No punishment of others by the statutes 
Which he himself denies and violates ! 

Djge. His PUNISHMENT ! I rather see him there. 
Where he now sits to glut him with my death, 
Tnan in the mockery of castigition, 
Which your foul, outward, juggling show of justice 
Decreed as sentence ! Base as was his crime, 
*Twas purity compared with your protection. 

Ben. And can it be. that the great Doge of Venice, 
Wi h three, parts of a century of years 
And honours on his head, could thus allow 
His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
All feeling, wisdom, fai h, and fear, on sit"h 
A provocation as a young man's petulance? 

Doge, A spark creaies the flame — 't is the last drop 
Which makes the cud run o'er, and mine was full 
Already : you oppress' J the prince anil people ; 
I would have freed both, and have failM in both : 
The price of such success would have been glory, 
Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 
As would have male Venetian history 
Rival 'o thai of Greece and Svracuse 
When ihey were freed, and flonrish'd ages after 
And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus : — 
Failing, I know the penalty of failure 
Is present infamy and death — the future 
Will juige, when Venice is no more, or free ; 
Till then, the truth is in abeyance. Pause not ; 
I would have shown no mercy, and I s~fk none; 
My life was staked upon a mighty hazard, 
And bein2 lost, take what I would have taken! 
I would have stood alone amidst your tombs; 
Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it, 
As you have done upon my heart while living, 

B?n. You do confess then, and admit the justice 
Of our tribunal ? 

Do°;e. T confess to have fail'd; 

Forum ■ is female : from mv youth her favours 
Were not withheld, the fault was mine to hope 
Her former smiles again at this late hour. 

Ben. You do not then in aught arraign our equity ? 

Doge. Noble Venetians ! stir me not with questions. 
I am resignM to the worst ; but in me still 
Have something oflho blood of brighter days, 
And am not over-patient. P»ay you, spare me 
Further interrogation, which boots nothing, 
Except to turn a trial to debate. 
I «=ball but answer that which will offend you, 
And please your enemies — a host already ; 
*T is true, these sullen walls should vield no echo: 
But walls have ears— nay, more, they have tongues 

and if 
There were no other way for truth to o'erleap them, 
You who condemn me, you who fear and slay me, 
Yet could not bear in silence to vour graves 
What you would hear from me of good or evil - , 
The secrcl. were too mighty for your souls : 



Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
A danger which would double that you escape. 
Such my defence would be, had I full scope 
To make it famous ; for true words are things, 
And dying men's are things which long outlive, 
And oftentimes avenge them; bury mine, 
If ye would fi in survive me : take this counsel, 
And though loo oft ye made me live in wrath, 
Let me die calmly; vou may grant me this; — 
f deny nothing — defend nothing — nothing 
f ask of you, but silence for rnvself, 
And sentence from the court ! 

Ben, This full admission 

Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
The torture to elicit the whole truth. 

Duge. The torture ! you have put me there already 
Daily since [ was Doge ; but if vou will 
Add the corporeal rack, you may: these limbs 
Will vield with age lo crushing iron ; but 
There's that within my heart shall strain your engines. 

"Enter an Officer. 

OJJirer. Noble Venetians! Duchess Fatiero 
Requests admission to the Giunla's presence. 

Ben, Say, conscript father-, 8 shall *-he be admitted? 

One of tin Giunta, She may have revelations of im- 
portance 
Unto the state, to justify compliance 
With her request. 

Bin. Is this the generat will 1 

.VI. II is. 

Doge. Oh, admirable laws of Venice ! 
Which would admit the wife, in the full hope 
That she might testify against the husband. 
What glory lo the chaste Venetian (James! 
But such blasphemers 'gainst all honour, as 
Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
Now, villain Steno! if this woman fail, 
I '11 pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape, 
And my own violent death, and thy vile life. 

The Duchess enters. 

Ben. Lady ! this just tribunal has resolved, 
Though the request he strange, to grant it, and 
Whatever be its purport, to accord 
A patient hearing with the due respect 
Which tits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues: 
But you turn pale — ho ! there, look to the lady ! 
Place a chair instantly. 

.in?. A moment's faintness— 

*T is past ; I pray you pardon me, I ail not 
In presence of mv pi ince mid of my husband, 
While he is on his feet. 

Ben. Your pleasure, lady? 

Ang. Strange rumours, but most true, if all I hear 
And see be sooth, have reach'd me, and [ come 
To know the worst, even at the worst ; forgive 
The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 

Is it -[ cannot speak- 1 — I cannot shape 

The question — but you answer it ere spoken, 
Wjth eyes averted, and with gloomy brows — 
Oh God ! this is the silence of ihe grave! 

Ben. {after a pause.) Spare us, and spare thyself the 
repetition 
Of our most awful, but inexorable 
Duty to heaven and man ! 

Ang. Yet speak ; I cannot — 

I cannot — no — even now believe these things. 
Is he condemn'd ? 

Ben. Alas! 

,-ln'j. And was he guilty? 

Ben. Lady ! the na'ural distraction nf 
Thv thoughts a-t such a moment makes the question 
Merit (< rgiveness ; else a doubt like this 
Against a just and paramount tribunal 



254 



MAIUNO FALTERO, DOGE OF VEN1 



Act V. 



Were deep offence. BiU question • reu tie. I^oge, 
And if In* can deny the proofs, believe him 
Guiltless as thy own bosom. 

\Ang. Is it so? 

Vly lord — my sovereign— my poor father's friend— 
The mighty in the field, ihe unci! ; 

Unsay the words of this man ! — Thou art silent ! 

Ben. tie hath already own'd i" his own guilt, 
N(»r, as thoo see'stj doth he now deny il now. 

Ang. Ay, but he must not die! ■ iw years, 

Which grief and shame will soon cut down to days! 
Oifc day of baffled crime must no) efface 
Near sixteen lustres crowded with bravi 

B*n. His doom musl be fulfill'd without remission 
Of time or penalty — '( i^ a d 

. He hath been guilty, bul there may be mercy. 

Ben. Not in this case with justice. 

Jlng. Alas ! signor, 

He who is only just is cru*d ; who 
Up r >n the earth would live were all judged justly? 

/>' n. His punishment is safi ■•■ to the 

. fag. He was a subject, and hath served the state ; 
He was your general, ami hath save I the state; 
He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the State. 

One of the Council, II is a traitor, and betray'dthe 

state. 

*Qng. And, bul for him, there now had been no state 
To save or to destroy ; and you who sit 
There to pronounce the death of your deliverer, 
Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar, 
( »r digging iti the Hunnish mines in fetters ! 

One of the (Council. No, lady, there are others who 
would die 
Rather than breathe in slavery ! 

Jing. If there are so 

"Within these walls, thou art not of the number : 
The truly brave are generous to the fallen ! — 
Is there no hope / 

Ben. Lady, it cannot be. 

JJng. (turning to the Doge ) Then die, Faliero 
since it must be so ; 
But with the spirit of my father's friend. 
Thou hast been guilty of a great off nco, 
Half canceU'd by the harshness of these men. 
I would have Bued to them— have pray'd to them — 
Have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for bread— 
Have wept as they will cry unto their God 
For mercy, and be answer'd as they answer — 
\l,i-\ it been fitting I ir thy name or mine, 
Ami if the cruelty tn their cold e; 
Had not announced the hdarllesa wrath within. 
Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom! 

II tge, I have lived too long not to know how to die ! 
Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 
OfOfte lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
t tf seamen to the surge : I would not take 
A life eternal, granted at the hands 
Of wretches, from whose mon Tons villanies 
I sought to free the groaning nations! 

Jtf, Stt no. Do ■■■- 

A word with thee, and with this n< Me lady, 
Whom 1 have grievously offended. Wo tld 
Sorrow, or sham'-, or penance on my part, 

< \inM cancel the inexorable ,■ < i ' 

Bul since that cannot be, us Christiana lal us 
Say farewell, and in peace : with full contrition 

I crave, not pardon, but from vim, 

And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 

Ang. Sage Benintende, now chief fbjdge ol V< nice, 
I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
Inform the ribald Steno, that his words 
Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredanofa daughter 
Further than to create a moment's pity 
For such as he is : would that others had 
Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 



My honour to a thousand lives, could such 
. do) have 
for that 
■ nothing human can impugn — the sense 
.■■I to b hal is ''all'd 
A go • srd, but to it 

the Bcorner'a is the wind 

Unto the rock : bul as there are— al 
Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 
1 tight 8 ■ ' he h hirlw n 

To whom dishonour's sliadow is q substance 

ire ami hereafter ; 

M ii ■•■. fing, 

intents 
. mre, and all pal I > Me 

roud name on 
Xhcil hoped is as the eagle 

Of her hi ;h vv ry ; let w hat » 
B be a lei ton 

To wretches how ihej lampei in their spleen 
W tth bei Insecti 

shaft 

I' the hi bi ave ; 

A wife's dishonour was 
\ v. ife 1 . dishoi our unl tng'd R tune for et er ; 
An injure.! hush&nd brought die Gaul to t usium, 
And then :e to Rome, which perish'd fur a time ; 
\ ti ob & ne »es tire i «1 Cali ;uln 
Ili< life, while earth v el bore ins crui 
A virgin's wr« n a Moorish province; 

Vnd Sien i*a lie, couch'd in two worthless lines, 
i mated Venice, put in peril 
which hath stood eight hundred years, 
crow nless head, 
And forged new fcti ■ ople! 

ioor wretch, like to the co u 
■ ■ this, 
If it so please him — 't were a ir him! 

But let htm not insult the lasl hours of 
Him, who, ■ i i« is. loos a hero, 

By the intrusi »l ' is vi ry pray* is ; 

of good can i m I i im u< ; i a source, 
Nor wot it with him, nor now, nor ever: 

We lea> e I im to hims i. tl It pth 

Of human P n is for men, 

And not for reptiles — we have none for S 
And no resentment ; things like him musl sting, 
And higher beings surfer : 'tis trtei 

i (f life. The man who dies b i '« tang 

May hi ler crush'd, but feels no anger: 

'T was the worm's nature; and some men are worms 
■ than the living hin ol b mbs. 
D . [to Ben.) Signor! complete that which you 
di i m j our duty. 

! Pore we ran pro© duty, 

Wo would request the princess to withdraw ; 

'T will move her tOO much to tO it. 

I know it will, and yet I n mre it, 

For 'i is a part of mine — [ will not quit, 

- — Proceed ! 
, (ear not eithei h, or teat ; 

be -il rit. — s:ieak' 
I have i wh ich shall overmaster all. 

/■'. c ol Venice, 

i lonnl of i ator, 

An ! mn lime < reneral of the Fleet and Army, 
and oft 
ed b) the state with high employments, 
Ev< ii to the higheal, listen to the sen 
1 by many witnesses and pro 
nconl on, ol 
i ird of 

Until this trial — the decree is death. 
Thy good - are confiscate unto the Bit 
Thy name is razed from out her records, save* 



MARINO FAL1ERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



255 



1 poll l public day of thanksgiving 

For [in- our 1 1 1 ■ > s t miraculous deliverance, 

When thou art noted in our calendars 

arthquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes 
Anl ill.- greai enemy of man, as subject 

masses for H. in snatching 

■ ' es ind country from thy wickedness. 

herein as Doge thou shouldst be painted, 
Wnb thine illustrious predecessors, is 
To be lefi vacant, with a death-black veil 

engraved beneath, 
place is of Marino F . 
Decapitated tor his crimes." 

D ■• "His crimes!" 

But let it be sn:— it will be in vain. 
The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, 
And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments, 
Shall draw more gazers than the thousand portraits 
i round it in their pictured trappings — 
I legated slaves — the people's tyrants! 
" Decapitated for his crim--s I 7 ' — What crimes? 
Were tl not better to record the facts, 
Sn that the contemplator might approve, 
Or at the least learn whence the crimes arose? 
n t he beholder knows a Doge conspired, 
■ i lold the cause — it is your history, 

i ■■ must reply to that ; our sons will judge 
ment, which I now pronounce, 
local robes and c;ip, 
I hall be led hence to the Giant's Staircase, 
"Where thou and all our princes are invest* d : 
And tin-re, the local crown being first resumed 
Upon lb':- spot where it was first assumed, 
Thy head shall be struck oflTj and Heaven have mercy 
1 thy soul ! 

Is this the Giunta's sentence? 
Ben. It is. 

Djye. ' I can endure it — And the time ? 
P, u. Must be immediate. — Moke thv peace with God j 
"Within an hour thou must he in his presence. 

/' e. I am already ; and my blood will rise 
To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it. — 
Are all my lands conlidCdted ? * 

They are ; 
And goods, and jewels, and ali kind of treasure, 
I usand ducats — these dispose of. 

Doge. Thai 's Ik h. — I would have fain reserved 
the lands 
Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
From Laurence the Count-bishop of Ceneda, 
In fief perpetual to myself and heirs, 
Cop .ion them (leaving my city spoil, 
My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 
ii my consort and my kinsmen. 
Ben. These 

Lie under the state's ban ; their chief, thy nephew, 
lo peril of his own life ; but the council 
1 ' Lpon Ins trial for the present. If 
Th 'I will'sl a state umo thy widow'd princess, 
Fear not, tor we will do her justice. 

Signors, 
Lrt not in your spoil ! From hencelorth, kdow 

I unto God alone, 
1 'nke my refuge in the cloister. 

Come ! 
i p'ir may be a hard one, but 't will end. 
to undergo save death ? 
B .i. V'H have naughl to do, except confess and die. 
, -\ is robed, the scimitar is bare, 
h await without. — But, above all, 
Think not to speak unto the people; they 
Are now by thousands swarming at the ^'ates, 
■ closed ; the Ten, the Avogadori, 
and the chief men of the Forty, 
Alone will be beholders of thy doom, 



And they are ready to attend the Doge. 
Doge, 'i'li-.- Doge ! 

Bt n. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou shall die 
; i ign ; till the moment which precedes 
Tin- separation of that head and trunk, 
Thai ducal crown and head shall be united. 
Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 
To plot with petty traitors; not so we, 
Who in the very punishment acknowledge 
The prince. Thy vile accomplices have died 
The dog's death, and the wolf's ; but thou shall fall 
As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
By those who feel a proud compassion for thee, 
And mourn even the inevitable death 
Provoked by thy wild wrath, and regal fierceness. 
Now we remit thee to thv preparation : 
Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
Thy guides unto the place where first we were 
United to thee as thy subjects, and 
Thy senate ; and must now be parted from thee 
As such for ever, o*» the self-same spot. — 
Guards ! form the Doge's escort to his chamber. 

[Exeunt. 
Si ene II. — The Doge's Apartment. 
The Doge as Prisoner, and the Duchess attending 
hint* 

Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 't were useless all 
To linger out the miserable minutes ; 
But one pang more, the pang of parting from thee, 
And [ will leave the few last grains of sand, 
Which yet remain of the accorded hour, 
Still falling — I have done with Time. 

Ang. Alas ! 

And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause; 
And for this funeral marriage, this black union, 
Which thou, compliant with my father's wish, 
Didst promise at his death, thou hast seal'd thine own. 

Doge. Not so : there was that in my spirit ever 
Which shaped out for itself some great reverse ; 
The marvel is, it came not until now — 
And yet it was foretold me. 

. / i _ r . How foretold you ? 

D .>. Lon« years ayo — so long, they are a doubt 
In memory, and yet they live in annals : 
When t was in my youth, and served the senate 
And sii'nory as podesta and captain 
Of the town of Treviso, on a day 
f M" festival, the sluggish bishop who 
' Jonvey'd the Hosl aroused my rash young anger, 
Bv strange delay, and arrogant reply 
To mj reproof; I raised mv hand and smote him 
Until he reel'd beneath his holy burden; 
And as be rose from earth again, he raised 
His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards heaven. 
Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from him. 
He tiirnM to me, ami said, " The hour will come 
When he thou hast overthrown shall o'erthrow thee : 
The glory shall depart from out thy house, 
I i dun shall he shaken from thv soul, 

And in thy best maturity of mind 
A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee; 
Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease 
In other men, or mellow into virtues ; 
And majestv, which decks all other heads, 
Shall crown to leave thee headless; honours shall 
But prove to thee the heralds of destruction. 
And hoary hairs of shame, and both of death, 
But not such death as fits an aged man." 
Thus saying, he pass'd on. — That hour is come. 

Jing. And with this warning couldst thou not have 
striven 
To avert the fatal moment, and atone 
By penitence fir that which thou hadst done? 

}i. ■-,■ . I own the words went to my heart, so much 






256 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



Act V. 



Thai I rememher'd them amid the maze 

Of life, us ifthey form'd a spectral voice, 

Which shook me in a supernatural dream; 

And I repented ; bm 't was not fir me 

To pull in resolution : whal must be 

I could not change, and would nor fear. — Nay more, 

Thou canst not have forgot, what all remember, 

That oti my day of landing here as Doge, 

On my return from Rome, a ntisl ofsucfl 

Unwonted density went on 1" fore 
The bucentaur like the columnar cloud 
Which ushered Israel out of Egypt, till 
The pilot was misled, and dtsembark'd ns 
Between the pillars of Saint Mark's, where 'tis 
The CUStom of the state to put to dedlh 
Its criminals, instead of touching at 
The Rdva della Pallia, as the wont is, — 
So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 

•>1ng. Ah! little boots ii now to recollect 
Such things. 

/>■ Aud yet I find a cnmCirl in 

The thought that these thing! are the work of Fate ; 
For I w<»uld rather yield to gods ihan men, 
Or cling to any creed of destiny, 
R ithef than deem these mortals, most of whom 
I know to be as worthless as the dust, 
And weak as worthless, more than instruments 
Of an o*er-ruling power; they in themselves 
Were all incapable — they could not he 
Victors of him who oft had eonquerM for them ! 

>ing. Employ the minutes left in aspirations 
Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
Even with ihese wretches take thy Might to heaven. 

Doge. I am at peare : tin* peace of certainty 
That a sure hour will come, when their sons' sons, 
And this proud city, and these a/ure waters, 
And all which makes them eminent and bright, 
Shall be a desolation, and a curse, 

A hissing and a scoff unto th -■ nations, 

A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel ! 

*$ng. Speak not thus now ; the surg of passion still 
Sweeps o'er thee to the last ; thou dost deceive 
Thyself, and cansi not injure them — be calmer. 

Doge. I stand wiihin eternity, and see 
Iiito eternity, and I behold — 
Ay, pal [table as I see lliy sweet face 
For the last time — the days which I denounce 
Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 
And iliey who are indwellers. 

Guard, {coming forward.) Doge of Venice 
The Ten are in attendance on your highness. 

Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina! — one embrace— 
Forgive the old nun who hath been to thee 
A fond hut fatal husband — love my memory — 
I would not ask so much for me still living, 
Bui ihou canst judge of me more kindly now 
Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 
Besides, of all the fruit of these long years, 
Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and name, 

Which generally leave some llmvr-rs !■■ 1. 1, oin 

Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, HOI even 
A little love, or friendship, or esteem, 

No, not enough to extract an epitaph 
From osteutatious kinsmen ; in one hour 
I have uprooted all mj former life, 
And outlived every thing, except thy heart, 
The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft 
With unimp.iir'd but not a clamorous grief 

Still keep Thou turn's! so pale ! — Alas ! she faints, 

She has no breath, no [mis. ! — Guards lend your aid — 

I cannot leave her thus, and vet 't is better. 

Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 

When she shakes ofl* this temporary death, 

I shall be with the Eternal. — Call her women — 

One look ! — how cold her hand ! — as cold as mine 



Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently lend her, 

And take my last thanks 1 am ready now. 

[The Attendants o/*Asciolina enter and mr- 
round their mistress, who has fainted. — 
Exeunt the Doge, Guards, fyc. fyc. 

Scene III.— The Court of (hi Ducal Palace: the 
outer gate* ar? shut against the people, — The Doge 
enirrs in his ducal robes, m procession with the Council 
of Ten and other Po/ncunU, attended by the Guards 
till thru arrive ut the top of the ' ' Giantir Staircase,* 
[where the Doge* took th* oaths j) tlte Executioner it 
stationed theie with his award. — On arriving, a Chi^f 
of tlie Ten takes t>jf Uie ducal cap from the Doge's head. 

Doge. So now the Doge is nothing, and at last 
I am a^ain Marino Faliero : 
'T is well lo be so, though but for a moment. 
Here was I en.wn'd, and here, bear witness, Heaven* 
With how much more contentment I resign 
That shining mockery, the ducal bauble, 
Than I received the fatal ornament. 

One of the Ten. Thou tiemblest, Faliero ! 

Doge. 'T is with age, then.' 

Bin. Faliero ! hast thou aught further to commend, 
Compatible with justice, to the senate? 

Doge. I would commend my nephew to their mercy, 
My consort to their justice ; for meihinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the state and me. 

Ben. They shall be cared for ; 

Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 

Doge. Unheard of! ay, there *s not a history 
But shows a thousand crown'd conspirators 
Against the people; hut to set them free 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 

Ben. And who were they who fell in such a cause 7 

Doge, The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Venice — 
A -is and Faliero! 

Ben. Hast thou more 

To utter or to do? 

Doge. May I apeak? 

Ben, Thou may'vt; 

Bui recol'ect the people are without, 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 
Of which 1 grow a portion, not to man. 
Ye elements ! in which to he resolved 
I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
Upon you ! Ye blue waves! which bore my bnnnei, 
Ye winds ! which fir'ter'd o'er as if you loved it, 
And fill'd my swelling sails as ihey were wafted 
To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth, 
Which I have bled for, and ihou foreign earth, 
Which drank tins willing blood from many a wound 
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 
Reek up to Heaven ! Ye skies, which will receive it! 
Th. .u mi;i ! which shincsl on these things", and Thou' 
Who kindles) ud who quencbtjrt suns! — Attest! 

T am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 

1 perish, hut not unarvpnged ; far ages 
Float up from the abyss of time io be, 

And shmv these eyes, before they close, the doom 
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 

On her and hers for ever ! Yes, the hours 

Are silently engendering of the day, 

When she, who huilt 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 

Shall yield, and bloodtessly and basely yield 

Unto a bastard Atlila, without 

Shedding so much blood in her last defenco 

As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding hei, 

Shall pour in sacrifice.— She shall be bought 

And ?-old, aud be an appanage to (hose 

Who shall despise her! — She shall stoop to bo 

A province for an empire, petty town 

In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 



NOTES TO MARINO FALIERO 



257 



Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! * 

Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces, ll 

The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 

Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ! 

When thy palricians beg their bitter bread 

In narrow streets, and in iheir shameful need 

Make their nobility a plea for pity ! 

Then, when the few who still reiain a wreck 

Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 

Round a barbanm Vice ofKings 1 Vicegerent, 

Even in the palace where they sway'd a-* sovereigns, 

Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign, 

Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung 

From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 

With some large gondolier or foreign soldier, 

Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 

To the third spurious generation ;— when 

Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, 

Slaves turnM o'er to the vanquished by the victors, 

Despised hv cowards for greater cowardice, 

And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices 

As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 

Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 

Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom, 

AH thine inheritance shall be her shame 

Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 

A wider proverb for worse prostitution ; — 

When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee, 

Vice without splendour, sin without relief 

Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, 

But in its stead coarse lusts of habitude, 

Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness, 

Depraving nature's frailty to an art ; — 

When these and more are heavy on thee, when 

Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure, 

Youth without honour, age without respect, 

Meanness and weakness, and a sense of wo 

'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not murmur, 

Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts, 

Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, 

Amidst thy many murders, think of mm e .' 

Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes! 

Gehenna of the waters! thou sea Sodom! 

Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 

Thee and thy serpent seed ! 

[Here the Doge turns, and addresses the Executioner. 

Slave, do thine office ! 
Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
Strike — and but once ! 
[The Doge throws himself upon his knees, and as 
the Executioner raises his sword the scene closes. 



Scene IV. — The Piazza and Piazzetta of Saint 
Mark's — The People in crowds gathered round the 
grated gates of the Ducal Palace, which are shut. 
First Citizen. I have gain'd the gate, and can discern 
the Ten, 
Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the Doge. 
Second dt. I cannot reach thee with mine utmost 
effort. 
How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight 
Is thus prohibited unto the people, 
Except the occupiers of those bars. 

First Cit. One has approach'd the Doge, and now 
they strip 
The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 
He raises his keen eyes to heaven ; I see 
Them glitter, and his lips move — Hush ! hush !— no, 
'T was but a murmur — Curse upon the distance ! 
His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
Swells up like rnutter'd thunder; would we could 
But gather a sole sentence! 

Second Cit. Hush ! we perhaps may catch the sound. 
First. Cit. 'T is vain, 

I cannot hear him. — How his hoary hair 
Streams on tne wind like foam upon the wave. 
Now — now — he kneels — and now they form a circle 
Round him, and all is hidden— but I see 

The lifted sword in ajr Ah ! Hark '. it falls ! 

[The people murnntr. 
Third Cit- Then they have murderM him who would 

have freed us. 
Fourth Cit. He was a kind man to the commons ever. 
Fifth Cit. Wisely they did to keep their portals barr'd. 
Would we had known the work they were preparing 
Ere we were summonM here, we would have brought 
Weapons, and forced them ! 

Sixth Cit. Are you sure he's dead? 

First Cit. I saw the sword fall — Lo ! what have we 
here ? 
Enter on the Balcony of tlie palace which fro7ils 
Saint Mark's Place, a Chief of the Ten, 1 
with a bloody snvord. He waves it thrice before 
the People, and exclaims, 
" Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor!'* 

[The gates are opened; the populace rush in to- 
wards the " Giant's Staircase," where the exe- 
cution has taken place. The foremost of them 
exclaims to those behind^ 

The <rorv head rolls down the " Giants' steps !" 

[The curtain falls. 



NOTES TO MARINO FALIERO. 



Note 1, page 233, line 80. 
J tmote the tavhj bishop at Treviso. 
An historical fact. See Marin Sanuto's Lives of the 
Doges. 

Note 2, page 235, line 105. 

A. gonaola wffli one oar only. 

A gondola is not like a common boat, but is as easily 

rowed with one oar as with Iwo, (though of course not 

so swiftly,) and often is so from motives of privacy; 

and (since the decay of Venice) of economy. 

Note 3, page 242, lines 44 and 45. 

They think themselves 
Engaged in secret to the Signory. 
An historical tact. 

Note 4, page 249, line 124. 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo. 
The Doge's private family palace. 
2 li 



Note 5, page 250, line 44. 
« Signor of the Night." 

11 I Sitmori di Notte" held an important charge in the 
old Republic. 

Note 6, page 252, line 10. 
Festal Thursday. 
"Giovedi Grasso," u fat or greasy Thursday," which 
I cannot literally translate in the text, was the day. 
Note 7, page 252, line 21. 
Guards ! let their mouths be gagg J d, even in the act. 
Historical fact See Sanuto, in the Appendix to this 
tragedy. 

Note 8, page 253, line 97. 
Say, conscript fathers, sluill she be admitted? 
The Venetian senate took the same title as the 
Roman, of "Conscript Fathers." 



258 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



Note 9, page 236, line S6. 

'Tit with age, then. 

This was the actual reply of Bailli, maire of Paris, 
lo a Frenchman who made him the same reproach on 
his way to execution, in the earliest part of tneir revo- 
lution. I tind in reading o?er, (sine- the completion of 
this tragedy,) for the first time these sii vean . ''Ve- 
nice Preserved," a similar reply Ou a different 
by Renault, and other coincidences arising from the 
subject. I need hardly remind the gentles! read r, that 
such coincidences must be accidental, from the very 
facility of theii 'let. cii'. n by reierenc - i*- 1 so p ■ 
play on the stage and in the closet as Otway s chef 
d'eeuvre. 

Note 10, page 257, line 1. 

Beggars far nobles, prtndcrsfor a people ! 

Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, lei the 
reader look to the historical, of the period prop 
or rather of tin- few years preceding thai |" riod, Vol- 
taire calculated their " nostre liene merits Meretrici" 
at 12,000 of regulars, without including volunteers and 
local militia, on what authority I know not; but it is 
perhaps the only [tart of the population nut decreased. 

Venice once contained 200,000 inhabitants, there are 

now about 90,000, and these ! ! few individuals can 
conceive, and none could describe the actual stale into 
which the more than infernal tyranny of Austria has 
plunged this unhappy city. 



Note II, page 257, line 2. 

Then u '■' n Vu Beomo'sfii thy palaces. 

The chief palaces on the Brcnta now belong to the 

Jews; who in the earlier nines of the republic were 

only allowed to inhabit Mestri, and no) lo enb r the city 

ol veuira The whole o iree is in the hands of 

and the lluus form the garrison. 

Note 12, page 257, line 42. 
Tlvm den of drunkard* with tfie blood »f princes. 
Of ihe tirst fifty Doges, five abdicated— zfive were 
hau. -he. 1 with their eyes put out— Jtve were uassa- 
i. Ki.it — ami nine deposed : so that Rrneteen out of rifiy 
lost the throne hv violence, besides two who fell in 
battle: this occurred long previous to the reign of Ma- 
rino Fallen.. One ol his more inuni diate pre. lei - 
Andrea Daudolo, died of vexation. Marino Faliero 
himself perished as related. Among his bucci 
/"< iri sj ■ ■( * ' ing his son repeatedly tortured and 
banished, was deposed, and died of breaking a blood- 
ii bearing \\ e lull of Saint Marks toll for il.e 
election of bis successor. Horosini eras impeached 
lor the loss of Candia ; hut tins was previous to his 
dukedom, during which he conquered the More a, and 
was styled the PelopowH sum. Faliero might truly say 

*' Thou dell of drunkards with the blood of pimtt-s I' 1 

Note 13, page 257, line 79. 

Chief of the Ttn. 

" Un Capo de' Dieci" are the words of Sanuto's 
Chronicle. 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



MCCCLIV. 
MARINO FALIERO DOGE XLIX. 

*' Fu eletto danuarant uno Elettori, il quale era Ca- 
valiereeconte di vald imarino in Trivigiana, ed era riccp, 
e si trovava ambasciadore a Ruin. E a dl 9, di Set- 
tembre, dopo sepolto il suo predecessore, fu chiaroato 
il nan Consiglia e fu preso di fare il Don.- gmsta il so. 
Ijto, E furono (atti i cinque Correttori, Sor Bernardo 
CKustiniani Procuratore, ser Paolo Loredano, Sor Fi- 
hppo Aurio, Ser Pie ro Trivisano, e Ser Tommnso 
Viadro. I qnali a dl 10, mi-iero queste correzioni alia 
promozione del Doge: che i Consiglieri non odano gli 
Oratori e Nunzi de 1 Signori senza i Capi de' quaranta, 
ue possano rispondere ad afcuno, se nun saranno quat- 
tro Consiglieri e due Capi de' Quaranta. K che osser- 
viiid la forma del suo Capitolare, E che Messer lo 
Do»e si metta nella raiglior parte, quando i giudici tra 
loro non fossero d' accordo. E ch* egli non possa lai 
venders i suoi imprestitj, salvo eon legittima causa, e 
col voler di cinaue Consiglieri, di doe Capi da' Quaranta, 
e dello due parti deljConsiglio de' Pr< rati. Hem. che 
in luogo di tre mJIa polli di Copigli, che debbon darei 
Zaratini per regalia al I »o_' -, n >n trovandosi i tnte pi Iti, 
gli diano I l.ie.itj oitiiirn I' anno. E [i >i a dl 1 1, detl \ 
misero etiam altre correzioni, che se d d i«e, che sara 
eletto, fosse fuori di Venezia, isavj possano pi iwedere 
del son ritorno. E qu tndo 1 •■ a il D ige amm il i i 
Viccdoge uno de' Consiglieri, da essere eletto tra loro. 
E che il dettosia nominafo Viee.iutwoten.-nu- di Messer, 
lo Doge, quando i giudici farann ■> i suoi atri. I'. nota, 
perche fu fatto Dn'o unn, ch' era assonte, che fu Vice- 
doge Ser Marino Badoero pu'i vecchio de' Consiglieri. 
I lem ^ che it goverpp del Ducato sia comraesso a' Con- 
siidien, e a' Capi de* Quaranta, quando vachera il Du- 
cato fineh<> sara eletto I' altro Doge. E cosi a til 11 ■ t ■ 
Settembra fu creato il prerhto Marino Faliero Doge. 
E fu pre*r>, che il governo del Ducato sia tomr/Jesso a 1 
Consiglieri e a' Capi d-i' Quaranta. I quali stiano in 
Palazzo di continuo, fino che verra il D^ge. Sicche di 
continuo stiano in Palazzo due Consiglieri e un Capo 



de' Quaranta, E ButntO furono spedite tettere al detto 
Doge, il quale era a Roma Orature al Legato di Papa 
[nnocenzo VI. ch 1 era in Avignone, Fu preao nel gran 
ConsigUo d' eleggere dodici ambasciadori incontro a 
Marino Faliero Doge, il quale veniva da Roma. E gi- 
unto a Chioggia, il Podesta mando Taddeo Giustiniani 
suo figliuolo incontro, con qnindici Ganzaruoli. E poi 
venuto a S Clenvnte nel Bucintoro, renns un gran 
caligo, adeo che il Bucintoro non -i poe l.-vate. I,:tonde 
il Doge co' geniiluomiiii nelle piatte vennero di lungo 

mi quests Terra a' o d'Ofohre del 13od. E dovendo 
smontare alia riva d» Ila Pa^li [»ei lo raligo andarono 
ad israontare alia riva delta Piazza in nu-zzo alle due 
colonne dove si l"i la Giusiizia, che fu un maUssimo an- 
gurio. E a' 6, la mattina venne alia Chiesa di Pan 
Marco alia laud isi me di quello. Era in questo tempo 
Cancellinr Grande Messer Bonintende. I quarantuno 
Elettori furono, Snr Giovanni Contarini, Ser' Andrea 

1 JlUStiniani, S T Mtchele Morns-. ini, Ser Siruone I >:-,|i- 

lolo, Ser Pietro Lando, Set Marino (J sdeniuo, Ser 
Marco I). .'I'm", Se ^'■ olo Paliero, See Gioranni Qui. 
rini, Ser Lorenzo Soranzo, Ser Marco Bembo, Sara 
Stefano Kelegno, Ser Francesco Loredano, Ser Ma- 
rino Veto-'o, Ser Giovanni Mocenigo, Ser Andrea 
Barbara, Ser Lorenzo Barbarigo, Sei Beitinoda Wol- 
lino, Ser' Andrea Arizzo Procuratore, Ser Marco I 
Ser Paolo I ton v ■. S r Rer'urei Grimani, Ser Pietro 
Steno Set Lit i D odo, Ser* Andrea Pisani, Ser Fran- 
cesco Caravello, Ser Jacopo Trivisano, Sere Schiavo 
Marcello, Ser Maffeo Aimo, Ser Marco Capello, Ser 
Pancrazio Giorgio, Ser Giovanni Foscarini, Ser Tom- 
maso Viadro, Sere Schiava I'olani. Ser i\l ireo Polo, 

Ser Marino N.i or lo, S tre Stefano Mariani, Ser Fran- 

I'esro Sur ano. S« r < trio I'asqualigo, Ser' Andrea Gritu 
Ser Buono da Mo to. 

" Tr.itf tt» fit Menter Marino Faliero Doge, trnito da 
una Croniea nntim. Bsfiendo venuto il Gloved) delta 
Caccia, fu fatta jriusta il solito la Caccia. E a* que' 
tempi dopo fat i a la Cajecia B*andava in Palazzo del Doge 
in una ili quelle sale, o con donnv facevasi una festic- 
ciuola, dove si hal'ava fino alia piima campana, e ve- 
niva una colazione; la quale upesa faceva Messer lo 
Doge, quando v' era la Dogaressa. E poscia tutti an- 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



259 



davano a casa sua. Sopra la qual festa, pare, che Ser 
Mtchele Steno, molto giovane e povero gentiluomo, ma 
ardito e astute,, il quale era umamoraio in ceria don- 
zella della Dogaressa, esaendo sul Solajo appresso le 
donne, facesse cert' atlo non convenieitie, wUo che il 
Do*v comandd ch' e' fosse butia'o gift dil Solajo. K 
cosi quegli Bcudieri del Doge lo spiitsero giii di quel 
Solajo* Laonde a SerMiuhele parve,'che fossegli stata 
(aria tnippo grande iguomuua, E nun consider and o 
oltrameate il line, ma supra quella passione fornita la 
fesia, e andati tutu via, quella notte egb" ando, e Bulla 
cadfega, d »?e aedeva il Doge Delia Sala dell' Udienza 
1 1" rche allora i D >gi non tenevano panno di seta sopra 
lacadrega, ma sed wano in una cadrega di legno) scrisse 
alcune parole disoneste del Doge e delta Dogaressa, 
cioi: Marin faliero dalla bellu moglie: Altri la gnde, 
ed tgli la maatiene. E la raattina furono vedute tali pa- 
role scritte. E parve una brutta cosa, E per la Signoria 
fu coramessa lacosa agli Avvogadori del Comuue am 
grande efficacia, I quau Avvogttd tri subito diedero iay- 
lia grande per venue in chiaru delta veri.a di chi avea 
scrltto tal lettcra, E tattdem ?i seppe, die Michele Steno 
aveale scritte. E fu per li Quarama preso di ritenerlo; e 
riteauto confcsso, che in quella passione d* essere stato, 
ipin i giu dal S »lajo, presente la sua amante, egli aveale 
Bcrilte. Onde poi fu placiiaio nel dettn Consiglio, c 
i u i ft) Consiglio si per rispetlo alF'ela, cume per la 
' t d'amore, di condannarlo a compiere due mesi 

in prigi m ■ serrato, e poi ch' e 1 fosse bandito di Venezia 
e dal distretto per un' anno. Per la qual condennagione 
tanto piccola il Doje ne prese grande sdegno, paren- 

dogli che a 'ii I s aia fatta quella estimazione della 

cosa, che ricercava lasuadigniiadelDucalo. Ediceva, 
ch 1 eglioo doveano averlo fat to appiccare per la gola, o 
bandtrlo in perpetuo da Venezia. E perche 
(quaildo dee succedere un 1 effetto e necessario che vi 
concorra la cangione a fare tal 1 efFelto) era destinato, 
che a Messer Marino Doge fosse ta^liata la testa, per- 
cio occorse, che entrata la Quaresima il giorno dopo 
che fu eondannato il detto Ser Michele Steno, un gen- 
tiluoino da Cii Barbaro, di natura colierico, andasse all' 
Arsenate, domandasse certe cose ai Padroni, ed era alia 
presenza de' Signori I'AmmiragSia dell' Arsenate. II 
qaalo intesa la domanda, disse, che non si poteva fare. 
Quel geniiluomu venne a parole coll' Ammuaeiio, e 
diedegli un pugno su un'occhto. E peiche uvea un'- 
aoello in dito, colt' anello s'i .nippe la pelle, e fece san- 
gue. E I'Ammiraglio cosi baituio e insanguinato andu 
al Doge a lamentarsi, acciocche il Doge facesse Tire 
gran punizione contra il detto da Ca Barbaro: II Dnge 
disse: Che ouoi che ti fncda? Guarda It ignominiom 
parole scritte di ma, e il modo cA*j stato puniio quel ri- i 
brddn ilt IWickete Steno, che,le Kfixse, E quale stima\ 
haunt ! Quaranta fatto aella p a ? Laonde 1'- 

Ammiraglio gli disse: Me*ser la Doge t se voi vol* U farvi 
Signore e fare tagliare tutti questi becchi gentHuomivi n\ 
oexxi m ft mta Fanimo, dandomi vi i ajulo ) di farvi Sig- 
nore d't <iu»*ta Terra. I? allora voiputrete eastigare tutti 
eottoro. [nteso questo, il Doge disse, Come si pub fare 
una simile cosa? E cosl enfrarono in ragionamento. 

'It Doge itionlo a chianiere Ser Bcrtuccio Falicro 
Buo nipote, il quale stava con tni in Palazzo, e entrarono 
in quest a macchinazione. NesipartironodiH,cheman- 
darono per Piltppo Catendaro, uomo mariitimoedigfan 
Beguito, e pt»r Bertuc :io [srweJIo, insjcgnere e uoino as- 
lutusi ii". B c on --ijliatisi insiume diede ordine di chia- 
mare alcuni altri. E eosl per alcuni giorni la nntte si 
riducevano in^ieme in Pa'azzo in casa del D«-ge. E 
chiamarono a parte a pane altri, riddiret Niccnlti Fa- 
gitiolo, Gu.vaniii rla Corfb, Stefano Fagiano, Nircolo 
dalle Bende, NiccoW Biondo, e Stefano Trivisano. 
E ordiu" di fai •■ sedici <» diciassette Capi in dircrsi tiioghi 
della Terra, i qualiavessero Ccdaun di loro quaram* 
uomiui provvigionati, preparati, obndic ml" a' detti Buoi 
quaraiita nuello, che volessero fare. Ma che il giorno 
stahi'iio si mostrasse di far quisUone tra loro in diversi 
tuoghi, accioccltel il Doge facesse sonare a San Marco 
'e campaoe, le quali non si pbssono suonafe, s' egli not 
comanda. E at suono detle campane questi sedici o 
diciassette co* snoi uomini venissern a San Marco alle 
strade, che buttano in Piazza. E cos] i nohili e primarj 
cittadini, che venisscro in Piazza, per sapere del romore 



ci6 ch'era, li tagliassero a pezzi. E seguito questo. che 
fosse chiamato per Signore Messer Marino Faliero 
Doge. E fermate le co»e Ira loro, siahiliio fu, che questo 
dovess' essere a' 15 d'Apnle del 1355 in giorno di Mer- 
coledl. La quale macchinazione tiauaia tu tra loro tanlo 
segretamenle, the rnai n6 pure se ne sospetto, non che 
se ne sapesse cos' alcuna. Ma il Signor' Iddio, che ha 
sempre ajutato questa gloriosissima cnta, e che per to 
sanumoniu e giustizie sue mai non t'ha abbandoiiata, 
ispird a un HeUraniu Bergamascoil quale fu messo Capo 
Hi quarant' uomiui per uno de' detti congiuraii (il quale 
intese qualche parol a, sicche cornprese t'efleto the 
doveva succedere, e il qual era di casa di Ser Niccolu 
LionJ di Santo Stefano) di an dare a di + + ** d'Apnle 
a casa del detio Ser Isiccolo Lioni. E gli disse ogni 
cosa dell' ordin dato. 11 quale intese le cose, rimase 
come tnorto; c intese molte particolarita, il detio bel- 
'raiuo il pregti che lo tenesse segreto, e glielo disse, ac- 
ciocclie il detio Ser Niccolo non si parlisse di casa a dl 
I i accioccbe egli non fosse morto. Ed egli volendopar- 
ursi, il fece riunere a suoi di casa, e serrarlo in una ca 
mera. Ed esso andii a casa di M. Giovanni Gradentgo 
Nasiine, il tpiaie fu poi Doge, che slava anch'egii a Santo 
Stefano ; e dissegh la cota. La quale parendogli, com'- 
era.d'uua grandissima importanza, tutti e due andarono 
a casa di irer Marco Cornaro, che stava a San Felice. 
E dettogli il tuilo, tutli e tre dehberarono di venire a ca- 
sa del dttto Ser Niccolo Lioni, ed esanunare il detio Bel- 
tramo. E quelloesaminato, intese le cose, il fecero stare 
serrato. E andarono tutti e ire a San Salvatore in sa- 
cristia, emandorono i loro famigli a chiamare i Consigli- 
eri, gli Avvogadori, i Capi de' Dicci. e que' del Consiglio. 
E ridotli inaieme dissero loro le cose. I quali rimasero 
mortl. E deliberarono di mandare pel detio Beltramo, 
e fatlolo venire cautamente, ed esannnatolo, e verificate 
le cose, ancorchc ne sentissero gran passione, pure pen- 
sarono la provvisione. E mandarono pe' Capi de' 
Quaranta, pe' Signori di notte, pe Capi de' Sestteri, 
e pe Cinque della Pace. E ordinato, ch' eglino co' 
loro uomini irovassero dcgli aliri buoni uomini, e man- 
dasserO a casa d«' capi de' congiurati. ut supra mettes 
sero loro lb inani addosso. E tolsero idetli leM^acslrerie 
dell 1 Arsenate, accioche i provvisionati de' congiurati 
non polessero offenderli. E si ridussero in Palazzo ver- 
so la sera. Dove ridotti fecero serrare le porte della 
curie del Palazzo. E mandarono a ordinare ai cam- 
panaro, che nun sonasse le campane. E cosl fu eseguito, 
e ni' s- ( le mani addosso a lutti i nommatidi sopra. furo- 
noque' condotti al Palazzo. E vedendo il Consiglio de' 
Dicci, che il Doge era nella cospirazione, presero di 
• ■!■ ggere venti de 1 primarj delta Terra, di giunta al detto 
Consiglio a consigliare, non peto che potessero met 
[ere pallotta. 

"t Consiglieri furono questi: Ser Giovanni Moce 
nigo, del Sestiero di San Marco; Ser Almoro Veniero 
da Santa Marina, del Sestiero di Castello; Ser Tom* 
maso Viadro, del Sestiero di Caneregio; Ser Giovanni 
San udo, del Sestiero di Santa Croce ; Ser Pi^tro Tri- 
visano, del Sestiero di San Paolo; Ser Pantalione 
Harho il Grande, del Sestiero d'Ossoduro. Gli Avvo- 
gadori del Cnmnne furono Ser Znfredo Morosini, e 
Ser Orio Pasqu align, e questi non ballottarono. Que' 
del Consiglio de' Dieci; furono: Ser Giovanni Mar- 
cello. S.i Tommaso Sanu,do, c Ser Micheletto D<>Uino, 
Capi del detto Consiglio de' Dieci ; Ser Luca da Legge, 
e Ser Pietro da Mosto, Inquisi'ori del deito Consiglio: 
Ser Marco Potani, Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lando 
Lombardo, Ser Nicoletto Trivisurio da Sam' Ar giolo. 
Questi elessero tra loro una Giunta, nella none ridotli 
quasi sul romper del giorno, di v* mi nobili di Venezia 
de' migliori, de 1 pni aavj, e de' pill antichij per consul- 
tare, non pen' che meiiessero pallofiola. E non vi 
vollcro alcuno da Ca Faliero. E cacciafbnb (Jiori del 
Consielio Niccold Faliero, e un' aljro.NiccoW Faliero, 
da SanJEommaso, per esSere della casnta del Doge. 
E questa provigipne dj chiamare i yenli della Gibnla 
fu molto commendata per tutla la Terra. Questi 
I furono i ven i della Giunta, Ser Marco Giusuniani, 
I Procnra'ore, Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Procura'ore, Ser 
Lionardo Cnustiniani, Procuraiore, Ser* Andrea Con- 
tarini, Ser Simone Dandolo, Ser Niccolo Volpe, Ser 
[Giovanni Lor<-dano, Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni 






260 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



Gradenigo, Ser' Andrea Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco 'il luogo vacuo con lettcre, che diconocosi; Hie est locus 
Boranzo, Ser Rimeri da Mosto, Sir Liazanu M an/el ]<■, Marini FaUtro, d< copitati pro criminibus. E pare, che 
S'-r Marino Morosino, Sere Stefano Belegno, S r la sua casa fosse data alia Chiesadi Sant' Apostolo, la 
£$ccolb Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, Sei Marco Trinsano, qua) i ra qui Ha grande sul ponte. Tamen vedo il con- 
S'-r Jaeopu IJr.L^.i lni.., S'-r Liiuvanm Foscarini, K Lrario i he e purs di Ca Fallen*, o che 1 Fallen la ricu- 
cbiamati quesii venti Del Consiglio de* Disci fu man- perassero con danari'dalm Chiesa. Ne vogtio restar di 
daio per Mcsser Marino Faliero Doge, il rjuale andava senv re ulcuni, che volevarto, che fosse messo nel suo 
pel Palazzo con gran genie, gentiluomini, e altra buona breve, cioe : Marinua Foletro Dux y temeritas me eepit, 
gente, che non sapeano ancora come il fatto stava. In pa-mt.\ lm } rfecapttatus pro criminibus. Altri vi fecero 
questo tempo fu condotto , e legato, Bsrtuccio un distico assai degno a! suo merito, il quale 6 questo. 



Israello, uno de* Capi del traltato per que' di Santa 

Croce, e ancora fu preso Zanello del Brin, Nicoleito di 
Rosa, e Nicoleito Alberto, il Guardiaga, e altri uomiui 
da mare, e d' all re con li-ioiu. 1 quali furono esaminati, 
e trovata la verita del tradimento. A dl 16 d \ trili 
tii lentenziato pel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, che Fibppo 
( lalandario, e Bertucci Israello fbssero appiccati e 
colonne roase del balconate del Palazzo, nelle quail sta 
a vedere il Qo:je la festa della ' 'accia, E cos) furono 
appiccati can spranghe in bocca. E nel riorno - 
guente' quesii furono condannati, Niccolb Zuccuolo, 
Nicoleito Bioudo, Nicoletto Doro, Marco Giuda, Jaco- 
mello D-igolino, Nicoleito Fedele figbuolo di Filippo 
Calendaro, Marco Torelto, detto Israello, Stefano Tri- 
risan i, cambiatore di Santa Margherita, Antonio dalle 
Beiide. Furono luiu presi a Chioggia, che fuggivano, 

6 dipoi in diversi jjiurni a due a due, id a unu a uno, 

per sentenza fait a nel di-ito Consiglio de 1 Dieci, furono 
appiccati per la gola alle colonne, cuniiuuando dalle 
tosse del Palazzo, seguendo fin verso il Canale. E 
altri presi furono lascialL perchfe sentirono il fatio, ma 
non vi furono tal che fu dato loro ad intendere p 
questi capi, che venissero coll' arms, per pn adere 
alcuni malfattori in servigio dwlla Signoria, ne alt 
sapeano. Fu encora liberate Nicoleito Alberto, il 
Guardiaga, e Bartolommeo Ciriuota, e suo figliuolo, e 
m »iti altn. che non erano in colpa, 

" E a dl 16 d'Apiih-, iiiuriio di Vcnerd), fu senten/iato 

nel detto Consiglio de' I (ieci, 'It tagliare la U sta i Meg. 
ser M irin • Fabero D ige buI pato della seals di pietra 
dove i Dogi giuran i il prim i sagramento, quando mon- 
tano prima in Palazza E cost serrato il Palazzo, la 
mattina seguente a ora di terza, fu tagtiata la testa al 
detto Doge ad) 17 d' April e. E prima la berretta fu 
lolta di testa al detto I > Ige, avanii che venisse gill dalla 
scala. E compiuta la giustizia, pare che un Capo de' 
Dieci andasse Colonne del Palazzo supra la Piazza, 
e mostrasse la spada insanguinata a tutu, dicendo: E 
ttala Jatta la gran giit$tizia del Ttadkore, E aperta la 
porta, tutti entrarono denlto con gran furia a vedere il 
Doge, ch' era stato iustiziato. E' da sapere, che ■ fare 
la delta giustizia nun I'u s,-r Giovanni Sanudo il Consi- 
gliere, perchd era andato a casa per difetto della persona, 
sieein- furono quattordici soli, che ballottarono, ciofc 
cinque (J miglieri, e nove del Consiglio de' Dieci E 
fu preso, che tutti i bom del Doge fbssero ennfiscau* nel 
Comuno, e cosl degli altri traditori. Kl fu conccduto 
al detto Doge pel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, ch' egli po- 
le.;.;,, ordinate il'i -uu |eT ilui'a' I due mila. VnCOra fll 

preso. che tutti i Consiglisri, e Avvogado i del Convine, 
qm?' del Consiglio de' Dieci, e della Giunta, ch 1 erano 
st. u i n fare la detta sentenza del Dftge, e d'altri, avessero 
licenza di portar' arme di dl e di notte in 7enezia e da 

( f r-id'i tinu ,i (iavar/.t*re, ch* e solto tl 1 I igato, COH due 
laud in vita lorn, stando i (Unti con essi in CASB al sou 
pane e al suo viu'u. E chl nun avesse fanti, p itesse dar 
tal Licenza a' suoi Bgliuoli •>-, \ ero fl atelli, due perft e n m 
piu. E/iandiu fu data license dell 1 arme a quattra Notaj 
delta Caqcelleria, cioe della 1 lortc Ma igiore, che furono 

it pren lere le deposis cj ■ inquisizioni. in perpetuo a 

loro soli, i quali furono Amadto, Nicoletto di Lorono. 
Stelfanello, e Pietro do* Compostelli. Scrivani de* Si, 
gnori di notte. Ed essendo stati impiccati i traditori, e 
tagliata la testa a I Doge, rimase la Terra in gran riposo 
e que-te. {•', conte m una croiiica ho trova o, fn por- 
tato il corpo del Doue in una barca con otto doppieri 
a seppelire nella sua area a San Giovanni e Paolo, la 
quale al prescnte fr in quell* amino per mezzo la Chie- 
suola di San'a Maria della Pace, [ajta Ikre pel Vescovo 
Gahriello di Ber-jamu, r nn c iRsone di pietra '-"'i quaate 
iettere i neicjacei Domimti Marinas Fatetro Dux. E 
Uel grau Consiglio non gli 6 stuto falto aicuu brieve, ma 



da cessere po.^to su la sua sepoltura : 

. netumji 
■, 



\ line, palritm \»\ pndan tentaiia, 
uum, perdtdil, kiqua capal." 



" Non voglio restar di scrivere quello che ho letto in 
una cronica, cioe, che Marino Faliero trovandosi Po- 
desta e Capitano a Treviso, e dovendosi fare una pro- 
i i, y i rovo sletle troppo a far venire il Corpo 
-'.i'u to [1 detto Faliero era di tanta superbia e ar- 
. che diede un buffetto al prefato Vescovo, per 
tnodo ch 1 egli quasi cadde in terra. Per6 fu permesso, 
che u Falii ro p< rd< '^- I'mtclleuo, e fees la mala murte, 
come ho scritto di sopra." 

******* 

Cronica di Sanuto — Muratori S. S. Rerum Italicurum 
— voLuil 628—639. 



II. 
MCCCLIV. 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 
On ihe eleventh day of September, m the year of 
our Lord 1354, Marino Faliero was elected and chosen 
to be the Duke of the Commonwealth of Venice. Ho 
was Count of Valdemarino, in the marches of Troviso, 
and a Knight and a wealthy man to boot. As soon as 
the election was completed, it was resolved in the 
Great jCounciL that a deputation of twelve should be 
despatched to Mannu Fali< ro, the Duke, who was then 
on lus way from Home; for, when he was chosen, he 
was ambassador al ths court of the Holy Father, at 
Rome, — the Holy Father himself held his court at 
Avignon, Winn Messer Marino Faliero, the Duke, 
was about to land in tins city, on the 6th day of Oc- 
tober, 1354, a thick haze came on, and darkened the 
air ; ami he was enforced to land on the place of Saml 
Mark, between the two column-;, 00 ilie Spot where 
evil doers are put to death ; and all thought that tins 
was the worst of tokens. — Not must I IbrgeJ 10 write 
that which I have read in a chronicle. — When Messei 
Marino Faliero was podesta and Captain of Treviso, 
the bishop delayed coming in with the holy sacrament, 
on a day when a procession "as to take place. Now 
the said Marino ratiero was so very proud and wrath 
ful, (hat he buffeted the bishop, and almost struck lum 
in the ground. And therefore, Heaven allowed Ma- 

rino l'i i ro lo ■: il of his right senses, in order that 

he nn j !ii bring himself to an evil death. 

When this Duke had held (he dukedom durini: nine 

months and six days, he being wicked and ambitious, 
sought to make himself l<"d of Venice, in the manner 
which I have lead in an BJtcienl chrODICle. When lie 

Thursday arrived upon which they were wont to hunt 
the bull, the hull-hunt took place as usual ; and, ac 
cording to the usage of those times, after the hull-hunt 
had ended, they all proceeded unto the palace of the 
Duke, and ass< mbled together in <>ne of his halls ; and 
they disported themselves with the women. And until 
the first bell tolled they danced, and then a banquet 
was served up. My Lord the Duke paid the expenses 
thereof, provided he had a Duchess, and after the ban- 
quel they all returned to their homes. 

Now to tins feast there came a certain Ser Michelo 
Steno, a gentleman <>f poor estate and very young, but 

rat'lv and daring, and who loved one of the damsels of 

the Duchess. Ser Michele stood among the women 

Upon the SolajO^ and he behaved indiscreetly, so that 
my Lonl the Duke ordered that he should be kicked otf 
the solajo: and the esquires of ihe Duke Hung him 
down from the solajo accordingly. Ser Michele thought 
that such an affront was beyond ail bearing; and when 
the feast was over and all other persons had left the' 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



261 



palace, he, continuing heated with anger, went to the 
hall of audience, and wrote certain unseemly words 
relating to the Duke and the Duchess, upon the chair 
in which the Duke was used to ail ; for in those days 
the Duke did nut cover lus chair with cloth of senda!, 
but he sal in a chair of wood. Ser Michele wrote 
thereon : — " Marin FaUer } the husband of the fair wife ; 
others kiss htr, but he keeps her."" In the morning the 
words were se u. and the matter was considered to be 

scandalous; and the Senate commanded the Av 
vogadori of the Comm in wealth to proceed therein with 
the greatest diligence. A largess of great amount was 
immediately proffered by the A v vogadori, m order to 
discover who had written these words. And at length 
U was known that .Michele Steno had written them. 
It was resolved in the Council of Forty that he should 
be arrested; and he then confessed, that in a fit ofvex- 
l i i i x\i 1 fgpite, occasioned by Ins bring thrust off" the 
solajo in the presence of his mistress, he had written 
the* word--. Therefore the Council debated thereon. 
And the Council took his youth into consideration, and 
thai he was a lover, and therefore ihey adjudged that 
he should be kepi m close confinement during two 
months, an 1 that afterwards he should be banished from 
Venice and the state during one year. In consequence 
OJ tins merciful sentence the Duke became exceedingly 
wroth, it appearing to him that the Council had not 
acted in such a manner as was required by ihe respect 
due to his ducal dignity; and he sail that they ought 
to have condemned Ser Michele to be hanged by the 
neck, or at least to be banished for life. 

Now it was fated thai my Lord Duke Marino was to 
have his head cut olf. An I as it is necessary, when 
any effect is to be brought about, that the cause of such 
effect must happen, it therefore came to pass, that on the 
very day after sentence had been pronounced on Ser 
Michele Sieno, being the first day of Lent, a gentleman 
of the house of Barbaro, a choleric gentleman, went to 
the arsenal and required certain things of the masters 
of the galleys. This he did in the* presence of the 
admiral of the arsenal, and he, hearing the request, 
answered, — No, it cannot be done. — High words arose 
between the gentleman and the admiral, and the gen- 
tleman struck him with his fist just above ihe eye, and 
as he happened to have a ring on bis finger, the ring 
cut the admiral and drew blood. The admiral, all 
bruised and bloody, ran straight to the Duke to com- 
olain, and with the intent of praying him to inflict some 
heavy punishment upon the gentleman of Ca Barbaro. 
— ,l What wouldst thou have me do tor thee 7" answered 
ihe Duke; — "think upon the shameful gibe winch hath 
been written concerning me; and think on the manner 
in which they hav* punished that ribald Michele Steno, 
uli i wrote ti ; and see how the Council ofForty respect 
our person." — Upon this the admiral answered ; — 
'• My Lord Duke, if you would wish to make yourself a 
prince, an 1 to cut a'! those cuckotdy gentlemen to pieces, 
I have the heart, if you do but help me, to make you 
prince of ail this state ; and then you may punish them 
all.' 1 — Blearing this, the Duke said ; — " How can such 
a matter be brought abou^ .'" — and so they discoursed 
thereon. 

The Duke called for his nephew, Ser Berfnccio Fa- 
liero, who lived with him in the palace, and they com- 
muned about this plot. And, without leaving the place, 

n' for Plulip Calendaro, a seaman of great re- 
pute, and f«r Bertuccio Israello, who was 'exceedingly 
wily and cunning. Then taking counsel among them- 
selves, they agreed to call in some others ; and so for 
several m«hts successively, they met with the Duke at 
, ;I ,, palace. An I th^ flowing men were called 

m'v; to wit;— Niccolo F igiuolo, Qiovanni da 
Corfu, Stefano Fagiano. Niccolo dalle Bende, Niccolo 
Biondo, and Stefano Trivisan >. — It was concerted that 
sixteen or seventeen leaders should be stationed in va- 
rious parts of the city, each beini at the head of forty 
men, armed and prepared : bul the followers were not 
to know their destination. On ihe appointed day they 
were to make affrays am >ng themselves here and there, 
in oider that the Duke might have a pretence for tolling 
tne bells of San Marco : these bells are never rung but 
by the order of the Duke. And at the sound of the 



bells, these sixteen or seventeen, with tneir followers, 
were to come to San Marco, through the streets which 
open upon the Piazza. And when the noble and lead- 
ing citizens should come into the Piazza, to know ihe 
cause of the riot, then the conspirators were to cut 
them in pieces; and this work being finished, my Lord 
Marino Faliero the Duke was to be proclaimed tho 
Lord of Venice. Things having been thus set led, 
they agreed to fulfil their intent on Wednesday, the 
fifteenth day of April, in the year 1355. So covertly 
did they plot, that no one ever dreamt of their machi- 
nations. 

But the Lord, who hath always helped this most 
glorious city, and who, loving its righteousness and 
holiness, hath never forsaken it, inspired one Bellramo 
Bergamasco to be the cause of bringing the plot to light 
in the following manner. This Bellramo, who be- 
longed to Ser Niccolo Lioni of Santo Stefano, had 
heard a word or two of what was to take place ; and 
so, in the before-mentioned month of April, he went 
to the house of ihe aforesaid Ser Niccolo Lioni, and 
told him all the particulars of the plot. Ser Niccolo, 
when he heard all these things, was struck dead, as it 
were, with affright. He heard all the particulars, and 
Heltramo prayed him to keep it all secret ; and if he 
told Ser Niccolo, it was in order that Ser Niccolo 
might stop at home on the fifteenth of April, and thus 
save his life. Bcltramo was going, but Ser Niccolo 
ordered his servants to lay hands upon him and lock 
him up. Ser Niccolo then went to the house of Mes- 
ser Giovanni Gradenigo Nasoni, who afterwards 
became Duke, and who also lived at Santo Stefano, 
and told him all. The matter seemed to him to be of 
the very greatest importance, as indeed it was; and 
they two went to the house of Ser Marco Conaro, who 
lived at San Felice ; and, having spoken with him, they 
all three then determined to go back to the house of 
Ser Niccolo Lioni, to examine the said Bellramo; and 
having questioned him, and heard all that he had to 
say, they left him in confinement. And then they all 
three went into the sacristy of San Salvalore, and sent 
their men to summon the Councillors, the Avvogadori, 
the Capi de' Dieci, and those of the Great Council. 

When all were assembled, the whole slory was told 
to them. They were struck dead, as it were, with 
affright. They determined to send for Bellramo. He 
was Drought in before them. They examined him, and 
ascertained that the matter was true ; and, although 
they were exceedingly troubled, yet they determined 
upon their measures. And they sent for ihe Capi de* 
Quaranta, the Signori di Notte, the Capi de' Sestien, 
and the Cinque della Pace ; and they were ordered to 
associate to their men other good men and true, who 
were to proceed to the houses of the ringleaders of the 
conspiracy and secure them. And they secured the 
fireman of the arsenal, in order that the conspirators 
might not do mischief, Towards nightfall they assem- 
bled in the palace. When they were assembled in 
the palace, they caused the gates of the quadrangle of 
the palace to be shut. And they sent to the keeper of 
tin bell tower, and forbade the tolling of the bells. All 
this was carried into effect. The before-mentioned 
conspirators were secured, and they were brought to 
ill'- palaci-; and as the Council of Ten saw that the 
Duke was in the plot, they resolved that twenty of the 
leading men of the state should be associated to them, 
for the purpose of consultation and deliberation, but 
thai they should nol be allowed to ballot. 

The counsellors were the following : Ser Giovanni 
Mocenigo, of the Sestiero of San Marco : Ser Almoro 
Veniero da Santa Marina, of the Sestiero of Casiello; 
Ser Tommaso Viadro, of the Sestiero of Caneregio ; 
Ser Giovanni Sanudo, of the S*-stiero of Santa Croce ; 
Ser Pietro Trivisano, of the Sestiero of San Paola; 
Ser Pantalione Barbo il Grande, of the Sestiero of Or- 
soduro The Avvogadori of the Commonwealth were 
Zufredo Morosini, and Ser Orio Pasqualigo; and these 
did not ballot. Those of the Council of Ten were Ser 
Giovanni Marcello, Ser Tommaso Sanudo, and Ser 
Micheletto Dolfino, the heads of the aforesaid Council 
of Ten. Ser Luca da Legge, and Ser Pietro da Mosto, 
inquisitors of the aforesaid Council. And Ser Marco 



262 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIkKO. 



Polani, Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lantlo LombarJu, 
and Ser Nicoletto Trivisano, of Sam' Angelo, 

L Lte in the night, jusl b ifbi e the dawnin 
chose a junta of twenty nobiem n of Venice from 
among the wisest and the worthiest and the oldest. 
They were to rive co incil, bul noi to ballot. And they 
would not admit any one of CJi Faliero. An I Niccolu 
Faliero, and another Niccolo Faliero, ol San Tomm i o, 
were expelled from the Coun il, heraus,- they belonged 
to the family of the Doge. And this resolution of 
creating the junta of twenty was m 11 b prai le I 
throughout the state. The fol iwing were the mem- 
bers of the junta of twenty : — St Marco ( Si 

Procuratore. Ser* Andrea Cirizzo, Procuratore, Ser Lio> 

nan] i Gius til >. Pi o iui store, Sei Ari : 

Ser Simone Dandolo, Ser Niccolo Volpe, Ser Giovan- 
ni L iredan », Ser Marco Died >, Ser Giovanni Graden- 
igo, Ser Andrea Cornar >, Cavaliere, Sor Marco So- 
ranzo, Ser Rinieri da Mo^to, Ser Gdzano Marcello, 
Ser Marino Moroiioi, Ser Stefano Belegno, S r Nic- 
colo Lioni, S-r Kilypo w.i,, s r M u. ■■> Invi.ur., 
Ser Jacopj Bragadino, Ser Giovanni Foscarina. 

Those twenty were iccordingij called into the ' foun 
cilof Tent; and thej ' Lord Marino Faliero 

the Duke; and my Lord Marino, was then consorting 
in the palace with people ol Lte, gentlemen, 

and other gou-i m in, d me of whom kn :w yel how the 
fact stood. 

At the same time Bertuccio Israello, who, as one of 
the ringleaders, was to lit;* 1 the c inspirators in Santa 
Croce, was arrested and bo tnd, and brought before the 
Council, Zanel o del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, Nico- 
letto Alberte, and the Gif&roiaga, were also taken to- 
gether, with several seamen, and people of various 
rank'*. These were examined, and the truth of the plot 
was ascertained. 

On the sixteenth of April, judgment was given in the 
Council of Ten, that Filippo Calendaro ana Bertuccio 
Israello should be hanged upon the red pillars of th< 
balcony of the palace, from which the Duke is wont to 
look at the b'lll-hunt : and they wore ban ;ed with gags 
in their months. 

The next day the following were condemned: — Nio 
colo Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Btondo, Nicoletto I >oro. M ir- 
co Giuda, Jacomello Dagoliho, '■> tto Fidele, th< 
son of Philip Calendaro, Marco torello, called I raello, 
Stefano [ViTisano, the mmey-changei of Santa Mar- 
gherita, an I Antonio dalle Bende. These were all 
taken nt Chi rzza, for they were en leavonring to escape. 
Afterwards, bv virtue of the sentence which was passed 
Upon them in the Council of T<n, th.-y were handed on 
successive days, some singly and some in couples, upon 
the columns of the palace, beginning from the red cl- 
umns, and so going onwards towards 'lie canal. And 
other prisoners were discharged, because, although they 
had been involved in the conspiracy, yet they bad noi 
assisted in it: for they were given to understand by 
some of the heads of the pi it, that they were to come 
arm • 1 an. I prepared for ine service of the state, and 
in order to secure certain criminals, and they knew 
nothing else. Nicoletto Alberto, the Guardiaga, and 
Birt.olommeo Cniuola and Ins son, and severafothers, 
wh i were n it guilty, were disch irg id. 

On Fn lay, the sixteenth day of April, judgment 
was also given, in the aforesaid Council of Ten, that 
my Lord Marino Faliero, the Duke, Bhould have his 
head cul off, an l that the execution Bhould !"■ done on 
the landing-place of the stone staircase, where the 
Dukes take their oath when they first enter the p i 1 ice 
On Hie following day, the seven e m h of april, the 
doom of the galace being shut, the Duke had his head 
cut off, about the hour of no mi. And tin- cap ofeslati 
was taken from the Duke's h ta I before he came down 
stairs. When the execution was over, il is said that 
on-' of the Council of Ten went to thr columns nf the 
palace over a«ainal the place of St. Hark, and that he 
showed the bloody sword unto the people, crying out 
with a loud voice— "The terrible doom hath fallen 
upon the traitor!" — and the doors were opsin I, and 
the people, all rushed in, to sec the corpse of the Duke 
who had heen heheaded. 

It must be known that Ser Giovanni Sanudo, the 



councillor, was not present when the aforesaid sentence 
was pronounced \ because he was unwell and remained 
al home. So thai only fourteen balloted; that is to 
i . and nine of the Council of Ten* 

And ii was adjudged, that all the lands and chattels of 
the Duko, as well as of the other traitors, should be 
forfeit* 'I to the Btate. And, as a grace to the Duke, it 
;\. i ni ilie Council of Ten, that he should bo 
allowed to dispose of two thousand ducats out of Ins 
own property. And it was resolved, that all the coun* 

ind all the Avvogadori of the commonwealth, 
those of the Council of Ten, and the members of the 
junta who had assisted in passing sentence on ihe 
i»: and the other traitors, should have the privilege 

vine -inns both by day and by night in Venice, 
and f im Grado to Cavazere. And they were also to 
: I two footmen carrying arms, the aforesaid 
iving and boarding with them in their own 
houses. Ana he who did not keep two footmen might 
transfer the privilege to Ins sons or his brothers; but 
only to two. Permission of carrying amis was also 

grant d t«> tin' four Notaries of" ihe Chancery, that is 
■•< Bay, of ilir Suurrine Court, who took tin* rlrposi. 

dons; and they were A medio, Nicoletto di Lorino, 
StefTanello, and Pieiro de ComposMli, the secretaries 
of the si.',MMi di Notte. 

After ilu- traitors had been hanged, and the Duke 
had Ins head cul off] the state remained in great 
: v and peace. And, as I have read in a chron- 
icle, ihe corpse of the Duke was removed in a barge, 
with eight torches, to his tomb m the church of San 
Giovanni e Paolo, where it was buried. The tomb is 
now in that aisle in the middle of the little church of 
Santa Maria della Pace, which was built by Bishop 
< rabriel of Bergamo. It is a coffin of stone, with these 
wo! engraved thereon: lt ffeicjacet Dominut JMnri* 
Po/erro Dux." — And they did nor paint Ins portrait 
in the hall of the Great Council: — Bul in the place 
wl ii ought to havo been, you see these words: — 
u II est locus Marvni flaletn.aecq itati pre criminibu* 9 * 
— and it is thougSl thai his bouse was granted to the 
chur h iii'S. int' Apostolo: itwas that great one mar 
the bridge. Fet this could noi be the case, or else ilie 
lUfihl it back from the church; for it still be- 
longs to Ca Faliero. 1 must not refrain from Doting, 
me wished to write the following words in the 
place where Ins portrait ought to have been, as aibre. 
said:—" Manntu Fuletro Ditx, temtritas me cepit, 
paenas lui, decapitatus pro criminihu*. n Others, also, 
indited a couplet, worthy of being inscribed upon his 
tomb. 

" Dm Vrii.ium jhi-M li. if, juiirliim qui [irodrre ttntani, 
I eolUm, 1'rnli.lit, atque MfKlt." 

>no1 ihe old chronicle to Mr. 

P. Cohen, to wl i the render will find hlmaeir Indebted foreeenlaa 

ihftl I coo Id noi myeelf to eh niter rmoj vmn' Intercourse with lt»l- 

kui,) h&vi i. nit so purely uikI «o laitlilully. J 



in. 



"A I. ::'"Vant' Po?e Andrea Pandoli. surredrlte lin 

vecchio, il quale iardi si pose al lira me d'lla repubblica. 
ma aempre prima di quel, che faces dVopo a lui, ed alia 
patria: '■■•\> ft Warino Paliero personnagKio a me nolo 
per anlica dimestichez7a. Falsa era t'opinione intomo 
B lui. giacchft egli -i mostrO fornito pit) di coragijio 
che di senno. Non paso delta prima digniUL enlro 
eon sinistro piede nel pubblico Palazzo: impoTciocchft 
n in I) ige del Vi'ii- ti, maiiisirato smro in luiti i se- 
i oh, che dagli antichi fu sempre veneratoqual nume in 
quells citth I' a!tr' ieri fu decoUato n»l vestibolo deU 1 
istesso Palazzo. Discorrerei fin dal princinio le cause 
Hi mi tale evento, se cosl vario, ed smbiguo non ne 
fosse tl grido. Nessuno peril lo scusa, tutti afTermano, 
abbis voliiio cangiar qualche cosa nell* ordine 
della repubblica a lui tramandato dai maggiori. Che 
desiderava egu di pin ? To son d'avviso, che eg\\ ahbia 
often u to cib, cfii non si concedette a neesun altro: 
ademniva gli ufficj di legato preaso il Pontefice, 
r guile rive del Rodano iratava la pace, che io prima 
di lui avevo ind irno tentato di conchiudere, gli fu con- 
ferito f onore del Ducato, che ne chiedeva, ne s' aspel> 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



263 



tava. Tomato in patria, penso a quelJo, cui nessuno 
nun pose mente giammai, e sotTrl qnello che a niuno 
accade mad de sojfrire : giaeche in quel luogo celeber- 
rimo, e chiarissimo, e bellissimo infra tutti quelli, che 

10 nut, ove i Buoi antenati avevano ricevuti grandissimi 
(iiiwii in mezzo alte pompe irionfali, ivi egli iu trascinu- 
to in iiulo servile, e spo^liato delle insegne ducali, 
perdette la testa, e macchiu co! proprio sangue le soglie 
de] LempiO] I 1 atrio del Palazzo, e le scale marmoree 
rendute spesse volte illuslri o dalle solenni festivita, o 
dalle o-uili spoglie. Ho notalo il luogo, ora noto il 
tempo : e 1' anno del Natale di Oi-;o 1353. Ri il giorno 
18 d' Aprile. Si alio 6 il grido sparso, che se alcuno 
esaminera la disciplina, e le costumanze di quel! a cilta, 
c quanto mutamento di cose venga minacciato dalla 
morte di un sol uomo (quantunque molti altii, come 
narrano, essendo comphci, o subirono 1' istesso suppli- 
cio, o to aspeltano) si accorgera, che nulla di piu grande 
cavvenne ai nosiri tempi nell Italia. Tu fbrse qui 
an. mi !i il raio giudizio; assolvo i! popolo, se cre'di re alia 
fima, benche abbia potuto e castigare piO mitamente, 
e con majgior dolcczza vendicare il suo dolore : ma 
Don cosl facdra :nte, si modera un 1 ira giusta insieme, e 
grande in un numeroso popolo principalmente, nel 

3uaie il precipitoso, ed instabile volgo aguzza eli stimo i 
■II 1 iracondia con rapidi, e sconsigfiati cla i. Com- 

paiisco, e n IT btcsso tempo mi adiro con quell 1 infi Lice 
uomo, il qua) i o I irno di un' ins ilito onore, non so che 
cosa si voles.se negli estremi anni della sua vita: la 
calamita di tu'i diviene sempre piu grave, pen ' 
senteiua contra di esso promulsata apcrira, che egli In 
Don sol i misero, mi insano, e demente, e che con vane 
arii si usurp!) per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapicnza. 
AmmonUco i Dogi, i quali gli succederanno, che qui sto 
<■ un esempio p isto innanzi ai loro occhi, quale specchio 
Del quale veggano di essere non Si^nori, ma Duci, 
anzi nemmsno Duci, ma onorati servi dtdla Repubbiiea. 
Tu sta sano : e giaeche fluttua.no le publicche cose, 
sforziamoci di guvernar modestissimamente i privati 
nosiri aifari." 

Lecati. Viaggi di Petrarca } vol. iv. p. 3_.i. 

The above Italian translation from the Latin epis I 
of Petrarch, proves — 

lstly, That Marin > Faliero was a personal friend of 
Petrarch's : " antica dimesticjiezza," old intimacy, is the 
phrase of the p «t, 

2-lly, That Petrarch thought thai he hs I m ire c »u- 
raj ■ than conduct, " pin di e rraggi • che ,di senno." 

3 lly. Thai there was some jealousy on the part nf 
Petrar :li j I u he saj a thai M irino Paliero was treating 
of the peace which he himselj had '• vainly ai 
to conclud ■." 

4thly, That the honour of the dukedom was con- 
! red upon him, which he neither - >u [hi nor expected. 

11 che ne i hie I ;va nfes 1 aspettava," an I which ha I n ;vei 
been granted I * any other in like circum stances, " cifi 
che non si conccdette a nessun altro;" "proof of the 
high esteem in which he must have been he! 1." 

5'hly, That h- had a reputation foi unsdom i only 
forfeited by the last enterprise of his life, (; si surpu 
per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza." — *■ He had 
! Rsrao many years a false fame of wisdom;* 
rather a difficult task, I should think. People are gene- 
rally fonn I oat before eighty years of age, at least in a 
republic. 

Prom thisa, and the other historical notes which I 
Alerted, it may he inferred that Marino F.uiero 
possessed m my of the qua iti is, butnol the success of 
a hero ; and that his passions wpre too violent, The 
paltry an 1 ignorant account of Dr. Moore fills to the 
ground P -irarch say-, "that there had been no 
grea'er event in his times," (ourthhes literally,) n otri 
tempi," m [taly. Ht* al- a differs from the historian In 
Sftymg tha ( Faliero was "on the hanks of the Rftone" 
instea I of at il *me i when elected ; the other ace i mts 
say, that the, deputation of (he Venetian senate met 
him at Ravenna. How this may have been, it is not 
for me to decide, and is of no great importance Had 
the man succeeded, he would have changed the far.- of 
Venice, and purliaps of Italy. As it is, what are ihey 
both? 



IV. 

Eaciraii de Vouvrage. — Histoire de la Ripubhque de 
I . ."';<■, j>ar P. Daru, de VA.cad6mie Francaise. 
torn. v. hv, xxxv. p. 95, &e. Edition de Pans 
MDCCCXIX. 

"A ces attaques si frequentcs que le gouvernctnenj 
diri ail cunlre le clerge, a ces luttes etablies entre les 
dificrons corps coi)Stilu4s, a ces entreprises de la masse 
de la noblesse contre les deposit aires du pouvoir, a 
tomes ces propositions d'innovation qui se terminaienl 
toujours par di s coups d'etat ; il faut ajouter une autre 

cause, non i ns propre a propager le mepris des an- 

,.',' fext i 5 '/- la coniiption. 

"Ceite liberie de mceurs, qu'on avail, long-lempg 
vantee comme le charme principal de la sociele de 
V. nise, etait devenue un dusordre scaudaleux; le hen 
du manage ctait moins sacrel dans ce pays caiholique 
que dani ceux oil les lots civiles et religieuses per- 
mettent de le dissoudre. Faute de pouvoir rompre le 
contrat, on supposait qu'il n'avail jamais existe, et les 
moyens de nulii:e\ allelgues avec imnudeur par les 
elpoux, etaienl adrais avec la meme facilite par des ma. 
:^istraLs et pardes pretres egalement corrompus. Ces 
divorces co ores d'un autre nom devinrent si frequents, 
que facte Le plus important de la sociele civile se trouva 
le la competence d'un tribunal d'exception, et que ce 
fut a la police de r£primer Le scandale. Le conseil des 
dix ordonna, en 17S2, que toute femme qui intenterait 
une 'I mande en dissolution de mariage serait obligee 
Tin attend re le jugem'ent dans un couvent que le tri- 
bunal designerait* Bientdl apres il evoqua devant lui 
toutes les causes de cette nature. f Cet eimpietement 
sur la jurisdiction ecclesiastique ay ant occasionne des 
reclamations de la part de la cour de Rome le conseil 
se reserva le droit, de debouter les epoux ae leur de- 
mande; et consentit a la renvoyer devant PofficiaJite, 
toutes les foies qu'il ne L'aurait pas rejet^e.| 

11 II y eut un moment oti sans doute le renversement 
d s fortunes, la perte des jeunes gens, les discordes do- 
mesliques, d^term'tnerent le gouvernement k s'ecarter 
des maxiinea quHl s^tail faites sur la l.berte de nioeurs 
qu r il permettait a ses sujets : on chassade Venise toutes 
les court-isanes. Mais leur absence ne suffisaii pas pour 
ramener aux bonnes majors toute une population elevee 
dans la plus honteuse licence. Le desordre penetra 
dans I'm itii nr des families, dans les cloitres ; et Von se 
crul oblig^ d ■ rapp iler, d'indemniser m£me§ des femmes 
qui surprenaient quelquefois d'importants secrets, et 
lu'on pouvait employer ublement a ruiner des hommes 
que leur fortune aurait pu rendre dangereux. Depuis, 

a licence est touj - s allele croissant, ei 1'on a vu non 

3eul< i m i-ti t des meres trafiquer de la virginite de leura 
lilies, mats la vendre par un contrat, dont I'authenticitf 
.iait garantie par la signature d'un officierf public, et 
execution m e sous -la pi oteolion des lois.|| 

1 Les parloirs dea couvents otl 6taiem tenferme^es les 
filles nobles, les maisons des courtisanes, quoique la 
police v entretinl sntgneusement un grand nombre de 
iurveillan*. Etaienl les seuls poin - de reunion de la so- 
-■ie i' de Venise, el dans ces deux endroits si divers on 
e*taii i ■'.-.lenient libre. La musique, les collations, la 
galanterie, n'tftaienl pas plus interdites dans les parloirs 
que dans les casins. I' y avait un grand nombre do 
easins destines aux reunions publiques, ou le jeu etait 
! i prtneipale occupa-'ion de la soeicte. Cet ait un sin- 
gulier spectacle de voir autour tl'une table des personnes 
I.! i\ sexes en masque, el de graves personnaiies en 
robe de ma^istralnre, implorant le hasard, passant des 
-l-i d£sespoir aux illusions de Ptsperance, et 
cela sans prof^rer une parole; 

11 Les riches avaienl des casins particuliers; mais ils 
y vivaicnt avec mystere ; leur- femmes deUaisseles Irou- 
vai nt un dedommasemenl dans la liberie dont elles 



• CorreBpondrner fit M.Schllck, cbiirgtf d'offiires de France, dd- 
pSi he itu -.M AoQt, 1782 

1 Ibid, tV^rl^d.i 31 Ao.'it. 

I Ibid. Dflptche d« S Septembre, 17S5. 

^ [ffdtfcrtl ^f rmppel '<■« driilenall ioui le nom de nottri benemrrila 

mtrttriet. ' '" leuranlcnt in i Il el -tt'. m.it«onn nppel^es Cote rant- 

pant d'oO virot In dtfoemlnoUoo iojurleutt de Caramprme. 

It Mny.T, Oatertptton tie Ventsc, loio. 11. ei M. Aicheoiiolli, Tableau 
dt i Italic, lora- L. $W.2. 



264 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALTERO. 



Jboissaienl ; la corruption des moaura lea wail privies 
lie i out leur empire: on vient de parcourir tout 
toire de Venice, ct on ne les a pas »ues une 
excrcer la moindre influence.*' 



V. 



iCrtm'-f from tltr HUtory qi tfu ReptiJttic of PVniee, by 
P. Dartif Member ••> On i vol. v. b. 

xxxiv. p. 95, &--. Paris Edit. 1819. 
"To those attacks bo l equenth pointed by the 
government against the clergy, — to the continual strug- 
gles between the different ca to these 

enterprises carried on by th > ma ia against 

lip' depositaries of power, — to all those project 
vation, which always ended by a strok< ol state poUcy ■ 
we must add a cause not less fitted to spi 
fir ancient doctrines ; UUs wm tfte excess of corrup- 
tion. 

"That freedom of manners which had been long 
i i of as the principal charm "l* Venetian society, 
had le [enerafed into scan lalou . . the tie 

of marriage was less sacred "< thai Catholic country, 
than amon_ f tho-a* nafnms where the laws and religion 
admil ol its b ting di ■ ;oU ed. Because thej con I a 
break the contract, th i\ I i med the tl had a »l existed ; 
and the ground of nullity, immodestly alleged by the 
married pair, was a Imitte I wilh e pial facility by priests 
an I ni igistrates, alike corrupt. Th ise divorces, \< iled 
under another name, 1) icame so ti equent, thai the most 
important act of civil society was discovered to be 
amenable to a tribunal of exceptions ; and to restrain 
the open scandal of such pricei-dinus became the office 
of the p iliee. In 17H2 the ( '.nmnl of Ten deera-ed, that 
every woman who should site for a dissolution of her 
marriage should be compelled '<» await the decision of 

the judges in soul ■ convent, to he named b) tin- court 11 
Soon afterwards the n'-d all causes 
of thai nature before itself.'] This infringemenl on 
ecclesiastical jurisdiction having oc a toned some re- 
monstrance from Rome, the council retained only the 
right of rejecting the petition of the married pe , 

ami consented to refer sin h eau^ ■> t.t 1 he hoi) Orl 

it should not previously have rejected. J 

11 There was a moment in which, doubtless, the dc- 
Btruotion of private fortunes, the rum of youth, the do- 
mestic discord occasioned by these abuses, determined 
the government to depart from its established maxims 
concerning the freedom of manners allowed the ubjecl 
All the courtesans were banished from Venice ; but their 
absence was not enongh to reclaim and bring back 
good morals to a whole people brought up in the most 

SC ill lal ill- her ■!,■[:. M-ll"- . [ >.';.! ;iVll_V re.) ■ h ■ ■ I f J 1 i V - I V 

bosoms of private families, and even into the cloister; 
and they found themselves obliged to recall, and even 
to indemnify!) women who sometimes gained posses- 
sion of important secret*, ami who miejit be usefully 
employed m the ruin of men whose fortunes might 
h.-iv rendered them dan-emus. Since thai time licen- 
tiousness has gone on increasing, and we have seen 
mothers, not only selling the innocence of theii dau li- 
ter-, but selling ii by a contract, authenticated by the 
signature of a public officer, end the performance of 
which was secured by the protection of the laws j| 

"The parlours of the convents nf nobie ladies, and 
the houses of the courtea ins, though tl a p ilici i 
kepi up a number of spies about them, were the only 
assemblies f. r society m V.-niiv ; an,| ut these two 
places, so different from each other, there was equal 
tiee, bun. Music, collations, gallantry, were not more 
forbidden in the parlours than at the casin is. There 
were a number of casinos for the purpoi of public 
assemblies, where gaming was the principal pursuit of 



• Cnrre» [ion-ten ee of M. Sehlick, French chared d'ltffiuru. Deipalcli 
of 21th Ausnat, 1782. 

t IliiH. Dct|tntr.h, 31*1 Autrmt. 

i Ibid. Deapttch. Sri September. 1785. 

§ T b t dacree foi< their rw»tl dealcniitei tltrm 11 nottrt btntmtrita 
ntrrtnr, Alunrl ami •omc houaen tiled Ctu§ mmpani wurottfiiencd 
to them rneilU ihe opprohrimu nppelUtion of Carnmutm. 

II M'lyer , Dr*c iption of Venice, vo\.li uil! M, Archeiiholtt, Picture 
V/'a-V. vol. I. chip. 2. 



It was a strange sight to see persons of 
either sex masked, or crave personages in their ■ 

and a table, invoking chance, and giving 
way at one instant to the agonies of despair, at the next 
and that without uttering a 
single woid. 

" 'j le- rich h fived incog* 

nito in them; and the wives whom they abandoned 
found compensation in the liberty they enjoyed. Tho 
corruption of morals had deprived them of their em- 
pire. We have just reviewed |he whole history of 
Venice, and we have not once seen them exercise the 
slightest influent «'." 

From the pn and degeneracy of Venice 

under the barbarians, there are some honourable indi- 
vidual exceptions. Th< re is Pasqualigo, the last, and 
alas ' po thumous son of ihe marriage of the Doges with 
iatic, who fbughl hu frigate with far greater 
gallantry his French coadjutors in In 

morable action off Lissa. T came home in the squadron 
with the prizes in 1811, and reenlb-ct io bare heard Sii 
William Host.-, and the other offii in that 

ih in the highest terms of Paequa- 
hgo's behaviour. There is the Abbate MoreUi, There 
is Alvise Querini, who, alter a Ion b honourable 

■ ■ ■■ . II ■ I , Ijlhl ■ I II ■■' !' I. .(I 1' »] lit. ■ 

of his country, in the pursuits of literature, with his 
nephew, Vittor Benzori, the snn of the celebrated beauty, 
the heroine of i( La Biondina in Gondoletta." There 
are the patrician poel Morosini. and the poet Lamberti, 
the author of the "Biondina, fcc. and manv other 
estimable productions; and, not least in an english- 
man's estimation, Madame Michelli, '1m- translator of 
Shakspeare. There are the young Dandolo, and the 
improvvisatnre Carrer, and Giuseppe Albrizu, the ao- 

ciiniplished sun nf an I mother. Th 

Aglictii, and, were there nothing else, there is the im> 

ol Canova. Cicoenara, Mustorithi, B 
&c. -V-'. I do ie>' reckon, because the oni ia a Greek, 
and the others were in.ru al least a hundred mi 
which, throughout Italy, constitutes, if not a foreigner 
at leas! | /,-. r\ iturt.) 



VI, 



Ertrait — JZutoire littfraire <T Unite, par 

P. L Gineut n< . torn, iv. chap, xxxvi p. 144. Edi 

tion de Paris, MDCCCXIX. 

'■'II y a une pr£dt< tion fb i singuliere snr Venise: ( Si 
to tie changes pas,' dit etle it cette r^puKtique altiere, ' ta 
liberty, qui di|i -'» nftiit, ne eomptera pas un siccleaprea 
la miliieme annfie.' 

"En faisant remonter I'epoque de la liberie Vt'ni- 
tienne jusqu'.i 1 ', :.iMi-s ( - m < nt du L'ouvernement sous le- 
quel la relpublique a fleuri, on trouvera que lelection du 
premier Doge date de *>'n. el si l*on v ajoute un siecle 
aprea mi lie, e'est-a-dire onze cents ans, nn trouvera 
encore que le sens de la prediction esl tithfralement 
eelui-ei : ' Ta liberty ne compters pas jusqu^ Pan 1797. 
R >voua maintenanl que venise a cessel d'etre 

libre en Tan cinq de la Republique rrancaise, ou en 
1799 ; vous verrez qu'il n'v eul jamais de pr^dictionplua 
precise et plua ponctuellemenl suiviede I'effet. Vous 

noterez d ■ comme tres n m ■ - troia vera do 

rAlamani, adresses b Venise, que peraonoe pourtant 
n'a reman] 

i peneler, 1'nn urcol »oto 
Mom ■ ■ nnno 

Ttlll Ii ■ .;. mil. * Volo.' 

Bien des prophelties oni passe* pour telles, et bien des 
nl eh appi l'-s prophetes a meilleur march£. n 



VTT. 



Extract Jivm the Literary History of Italy, fcy P. Z* 
Oinguend, vol. ix. p. 144. Paris Edit. 18*19. 

"Trebi is one very singular prophecy concerning 
Venice : ■ [fthou dost not change,' it says to that proud 
republic, 'thy liberty, which is already on the wing, will 
not reckon a century more than the thousandth year.' 



SAKDANAPALUS. 



265 



" If we carry back the epocha of Venetian freedom lo 
the establishrai aenl under which the re- 

public flourished, we shall fiud that the date ofthe elec- 
tion of >geis697; and if we add one century 
to a thousand, that is, eleven hundred years, we shall 
fin I the si nse of*h i pi edic ion lo 1 ■ I his : ' Thv 
srill ool tasl till 1707.' Recollect that Venice 
ce is ■! to be ii e in the | eai I 796, i ■ ax of the 
French republic; and you . thai there never 
was prediction more pointed, or more exactly followed 
dv the event, Sou will, therefore n ite as very remark- 
able thelhsee lines of Alamanni, addressed to Venice, 
which, however, no one has pointed out; 

1 St non . 'i;- ' pri 

:i , iiino iinno 

Tun lib* gendu >i veto-.' 

Many prophecies have passed for such, and many men 
have been called prophets for much 

If the Doge's pr6|ihecy teem remarkable, took to ibe aoove, mule by 
AiniTuii'i; two buuured and seventy years ago. 



The author of " Sketches Descriptive of Ita!v, M &c. 

one of [he hundred tours lately published, is extremely 

anxious to i claim a possible charge of plagiarism 

■■ Childe Harold' and " Beppo.^ He adds, that 

still less could this presumed coincident arise from 

"my conversation," n- ; h« had repeatedly declined an 

■ 

Who this pei [ know not; but he must 

have been deceive ! by all or any of those who " repeat* 

him, as I ha 
refused to receive anj English with whom I was not 
previously acquainted, even when they had letters 
from England. If the whole assertion is" not an inven- 
tion, I request this person not to sit down with the 



notion that he could have been introduce^ since there 
has been nothing 1 bai so carefully avoided as any 
kmd of intercourse with his countrymen, — excepting 
the very few who were a considerable nine resident 
In Venice, or had been of my previous acquaintance. 
Whoever made him any such offer was possessed of 
ii ii I nee equal to that of making such an assertion 
without having had it. The fact is, that I hold in utter 
. contact with the travelling English, as 
my friend the ConsuUGeneral Hoppner, ami the Coun- 
tess Benzoni, (in whose house the Conversazione most- 
ly frequ nted by them is held,) could am pi) testily, 
were it worth while. I was persecuted by these tourists 
even to mj riding-ground at Lido, and reduced to the 
n osl dii o avoid them. At Madamo 

i I repeatedly refused to be introduced to 
them; — of a thousand such presentations pressed upon 
me, I accepted two, and both were to Irish women. 

I should hardlj hav< descended to speak of such 
trifles publicly, it' the ■ of tins "sketcher* 1 

had not forced me to a refutation of a disingenuous 
and gratuitously impertinent assertion; — so meant to 
b , for what could it import ro the reader to be told 
author " had repeatedly declined an inlroduc 
lion," even had it been irue, which, for the reasons 1 
ireely possible. Except .Lords 
Lansdowne, Jersey, and Lauderdale; Messrs. Scott, 
: tumphry I lavy, the late M. Lewis, W. 
I in. in. ■ Moore, Lord Kinnaird, 
his brother, Mr. Joy, and JMr. Hobhouse, I do not re- 
collect to have exchanged a word with another English- 
■ I left their country ; and almost all these I 
had known before. The others — and God knows ihere 
>me hundreds— who bored me with letters c - vis- 
its, I refused to have any communication with, and shal 
be proud and happy when that wish becomes mutual. 



SAKDANAPALUS. 

A TRAGEDY. 



TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE 

A STRANGER PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE OF A LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEGE LORD, 
THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, WHO HAS CREATED THE LITERATURE 
OF HIS OWN COUNTRY, AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. 
THB UNWORTHY PRODUCTION WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO BUS IS ENTITLED 

SAKDANAPALUS. 



PREFACE. 
In publishing the following Tragedies I have only to 

repeat that they were not composed with the most 

remote new to the Btage. 

On the attempt ma '■ by the Managers in a former 
instance, the public opinion has been already expressed. 

With regard to mv own private feelings, as it seems 
that thej are to stand for nothing, I Bhall say nothing, 

For th< rical foundation of the following compo- 

sitions, the reader is referred to the Notes. 

The Auihor has in one instance attempted to preserve, 
and in the other to approach the " unities;" conceit ing 
that with any ?ery distant departure from them, there 
may be poetry, but can be no drama. lie is aware ol 
the unpopularity of this notion in present English litera- 
ture ; but it is not a system of his own, being merely an 
opinion, which, not very long ago, was the law of literature 
■2 I 



throughout the world, and is still so in the more civilized 
parts of it. But " Nous avons change tout cela," and are 
reaping the advantages of the change. The writer is 
far from conceiving that any thins he can adduce by per- 
sonal precept or example can at all approach his regular, 
or ev< n irregular predecessors: he is merely giving a 
reason why he preferred the more regular formation of a 
structure, however feeb'e, to an entire abandonment of all 
rules whatsoever. Where he has failed, the failure is in 
the architect,— and not in the art. 



In this tragedy it has been my intention to follow the 
account of Diodorus Siculus ; reducing it, however, to 
such dramatic regularity as I best could, and trying to 
approach the unities. I therefore suppose the rebellion 
to explode and succeed in one day by a sudden conspira- 
cy instead of the long war of the history. 






266 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Act I. 



DRAMATIS PERSON.E. 
MEN. 
Sardanapaltjs, King of Ninevah and Assyria, fyc. 
Arbaces, the Mtde who aspired to the Throne. 
B&LB6ES, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 
Salemenes, the King's Brother-in-law. 
Altada, An Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 
Pahia* 
Zames. 
Sfero. 
BaLea. 

WOMEN. 
Z irin \, the Queen. 
Myrrha, an Ionian female Slave, and the Favouritt 

of Sardanapalus. 
Women composing the Harem of Sardanapalus, 
Guards, Attendants, Chaldean Priests, Medes, 
4-c. $-C 
Scene — a Hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the Palace. 
Salemenes, (solus.) He hath wrongVI his queen, but 
st ill he is her lord ; 
He hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my brother ; 
He hath wrong'd his people, still he is iht:ir sovereign, 
And I must he his friend as well as subject : 
He must not perish thus. I will not see 
The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis 
Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 
Of empire ending like a shepherd's lale ; 
He must be roused. In his effeminate heart 
There is a careless courage which corruption 
Has not all quench'd, and latent energies, 
Reprees'd by circumstance, but not desiroy'd — 
Steep'd, but not drown'd, in deep voluptuousness. 
If born a peasant, he had been a man 
To have reach 'd an empire ; to an empire born, 
He will bequeath none ; nothing but a name, 
Which his sons will not prize in heritage :— 
Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
His sloth and shame by only being that 
Which he should be, as easily as the thing 
He should not be and is. Were it less toil 
To swav his nations than consume his life ? 
To head an army than to rule a harera ? 
He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul, 
And saps his goodly strength, in toils which yield not 
Health like the chase, nor gh>ry like the war — 
He must be roused. Alas ! there is no sound 

[Sound of soft music heard from within. 
To rouse him short of thunder. Hark ! the lute, 
The lyre, the timbrel ; tlie lascivious llnklingfl 
Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
Of women, and of beings less than women, 
Must chime in to the echo of his revel, 
White the great king of all we know of earth 
Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem 
Lies negligently by to be caught up 
By tho first manly hand which dares to snatch it. 
Lo, where they come ! already I perceive 
The reeking odours of the perfumed trains, 
And see the bright gems of the glittering girls, 
At once his chorus and his council, flash 
Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels, 
As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female, 
The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen. 
He comes! Shall I await him? yes, and front him, 
And tell him what all good men tell each other, 
Speaking of him and nis. They come, the slaves, 
Led by the monarch subject to his slaves. 



Scene II. — Enter Sardasafalis effeminately 

dressed, his head crowned with flowers, and 

his robe negligently flowing, attended by a train 

of women and young slaves. 

Sar. (speaking to some of his attendants.) Let the 
pavilion over the Euphrates 
Be garlanded, and lit, and furnishM forth 
For an especial banquet ; at the hour 
Of midnighl we will sop there: see naught wanting, 
And bid the gallery be prepared. There is 
A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river: 
We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign 
To share the soft hours of Sardanapalns, 
We 'II meet again in that the sweetest hour 
When we shall gather like the stars above us, 
And you will foim a heaven as bright as theirs ; 
Till then, let each be mistress of her time, 
And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha. I choose, 
Wilt thou along with them or me ? 

M yr. My lord— — 

Sar. My lord, my life '. why answ crest tf.ou so coldly 7 
It is the curse of kings to be so answer'd. 
Rule thy own hours, thou nilest mine — say, wouldsl thou 
Accompany our guests, or charm away 
The moments from me? 

JVt/r. The king's choice is mine. 

Sot. I pray thee say not so : my ehiefest joy 
Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
I do not dare to breathe my own desire, 
Lest it should clash with thine; for thou art still 
Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others. 

Myr. I would remain : I have no happiness 
Save in beholding thine; yet 

Sar. Yet! what yet? 

Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 

JnTyi*. I think the present is the wonted hour 
Of council ; it were better I retire. 

Sal. (comes forward and says,) The Ionian slave says 
well ; let her retire. 

Sar. Who answers? How now, brother? 

Sal. The queen's brother, 

And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 

Sar. (addressing his b'ain.) As I have said, let all 
dispose their hours 
Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. 

[The court retiring, 
(To Myrrh a, who is going.) Myrrha ! I thought thou 
wouldsl remain. 

Myr. Great king, 

Thou didst not say so. 

Sar. But thou lookedsi it ; 

I know each glance of those Ionic eyes, 
Which said thou wouldsl not leave me. 

J\Iyr. Sire ! your brother — — 

Sal. His consort's brother, minion of Ionia ! 
How dan-st thou name me and not blush ? 

Sar. Not blush! 

Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make her crimson 
Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows, 
And then reproach her with thine own cold blindness, 
Which will not see it. What, in tears, my Myrrha ? 

Sal. Let them flow on ; she weeps for more than one 
And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 

Sar. Cursed be he who caused those tears to flow ! 

Sal. Curse not thyself — millions do that already. 

Sor. Thou dost forget thee : make me not remember 
I am a munarch. 

Sal. Would thou couldst ! 

Myr, My sovereign, 

I pray, and thou, too, prince, permit my absence. 

Sar. Since it must be so, and this churl has check'd 
Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
That we must forthwith meet : I had rather lose 



«ct i. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



An i empire .han thy presence. [ &a M TRRHi . 

Thou will | os0 both, an,) both fur ever ! 

Sar. n .1- 

. . . Brother, 

I can at leas! command myself, who listen 
To language such as ihis ; jet urge me not 
Beyond my easy nature. 

• S ' J '- '. ' T is beyond 

i tal easy, lar too easy, Hie naiure, 
Which I would urge thee. O ihat I could rouse thee ! 
i Hough i were against myself. 

_. SBr " . . % 'he god Baal ! 

1 he man would make me tyrant. 

~ ' : '.", , So thou art. 

I timk st thou there is no tyrannv but that 
Of blood and chains ? the despotism of vice— 
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury— 
The negligence— the apathy— the evils 
Of sensual sloth- produce ten thousand tyrants, 
»Vhose delegated cruelly surpasses 
The worst acts of one energetic master 
However harsh and hard in his own bearing 
The false and fend examples of ihv lu-ts = 
Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
in the same mon.enl all thy pageant power 
And those who should sustain ,t : so that whether 
A t .reign foe invade, or civil broi! 
Distract within, bolh will a ike prove fatal : 
I he first thy subjects have no heart to conquer; 
Ihe lasi (hey ralher would assisi ,han vanquish. 

Sar. \\ hy what makes thee ihe mouth-piece of the 



267 



people ? 
3 ti Forgiveness of ihe queen, my sister's wrongs ; 
A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
Failh to the kino, a faith he may need shortly, 
In more than words ; respect fur Nimrod's line ; 
Also, another thing thou knowest not. 
Sar. What's that .' 
,'■ To thee an unknown word. 

. ."""" , Vet speak it; 

I love to learn. 

Sal. Virtue. 

Sar. Not know the word ! 

Never was word yet rung so in my ears — 
W irse than the rabble's shout, or splitting trumpet ; 
I ve heaid thy sister talk of nulling else. 

SoL To change the irksome theme, then, hear ofvice. 

Sar. From whom ? 

Sal. Even from the winds, if thou couldst listen 
Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 

Sar. Come. Pro indulgent, as ihou knowest, patient 
As thou hast often proved— speak out, what moves thee ? 

Sal. Thy peril. 

Sot. Say on. 

Sal- Thus, then : all ihe nations, 

For they are many, whom thy father left 
In heritage, are loud in wrath against thee. 

Sar. 'Gainst me ! What would the slaves ? 

s ''■ A king. 

. *•■■ . And what 

Am I then 7 

Sal. In their eyes a nothing; but 

In mine a man who might be something still. 

Sar. The railing drunkards ! why, what would ihev 
hive? 
they not peace and plenty? 

s ' Of Ihe first 

More than is glorious ; of ihe last, far less 
Than the king recks of. 

Sar. Whose then is the crime, 

But the false satraps, who provide no better? 

Sal. And somewhat in the monarch who ne'er looks 
Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs 
Beyond them, 't is but to some mountain palace, 
Till summer beau wear down. O glorious Baal ! 



A ho built up this nut empire, and wert made 
A god, or at Ihe least shinest like a god 
rhrough the long centuries of thy renown, 
This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero, 
W on with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peril 
For what ? to furnish imposts for a revel, 
Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 

Sar. 1 understand thee— thou wouldst have mo .-o 
I- 01 lb as a conqueror. By all Ihe stars 
Which ihe Chaldeans read— the restless slaves 
Deserve that I should curse them with their wishes, 
And lead them forth to glory. 

. Sj '- Wherefore not? 

Semiramis — a woman only — led 
These our Assyrians lo the solar shores 
Of Ganges. 

Sar. 'T is most true. And hint) retum'd? 

Sal. Why, like a man — a hero ; baffled, but 
Not vanquished. With bui (wenly guards, she made 
tjood her retreat to Bactria. 

Sar - And how many 

Left she behind in India to the vultures ? 

Sal. Our annals say not. 

~. Sar - . , Then I will say for them-- 

I hat she had better woven within her palace 

Some twenty garments, than with twenty guards 

Have fled to Baclria, leaving to the ravens, 

And wolves, and men— Ihe fiercer of the three 

Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this glory ? 

Then lei me live in ignominy ever. 

Sal. All warlike spirits have noi (he same fa(e. 
Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
A hundred kings, although she fail'd in India, 
Brought Persia, Media, Baclria, lo (he realm 
Which she once sway'd— and ihou might' si sway. 

-,. i " , . I stent/ ihem — 

she but subdued them. 

„," I' may be ere long 

Thai they will need her sword more than your sceptre. 
] Sar. There was a certain Bacchus, was there not? 
I ve heard my Greek girls speak of such— they say 
He was a god, that is, a Grecian god, 
An idol foreign to Assyria's worship, 
Who conquer'd Ihis same golden realm of Ind 
Thou pral'sl of, where Semiramis was vanquish'd. 

Sal. I have heard of such a man ; and thou perceiv'st 
That he is deem'. I a god for what he did. 

Sat. And in his godship I will honour him 

Not such a man. What, ho '. my cupbearer ! 

Sal. What means the king ? 

Sar. To worship your new god 

And ancient conqueror. Some wine, I say. 

Enter Cupbearer. 

Sar. [addressing the Cupbearer.) Bring me the 
golden goblet thick with gems, 
Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence 
Fill full, and bear it quickly. [Exit Cupbearer. 

Sal. Is this moment 

A fitting one for the resumption of 
Thy yet unslepl-olf revels ? 

Re-enter Cupbearer, with wine. 

Sar. (taking the cup from him.) Noble kinsman, 
If these barbarian Greeks of Ihe far shores 
And skirts of these our realms lie not, this Bacchus 
Conquer'd the whole of India, did he not? 

Sal. He did, and thence was deem'd a deity. 

Sar. Not so :— of all his conquesls a few column* 
Which may be his, and mighl be mine, if I 
Thought ihem worth purchase and conveyance, are 
The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed, 
The realms he wasted, and the hearts he broke. 
But here, here in this goblet is this title 



268 



SARDANAPAT.US. 



Act I. 



To immortality — the immortal grapo 
From which he tir-t express'd Lhe soul, am! gave 
To gladden that of in. m. as some atom meat 
For tli'- victorious mischiefs he ha i done. 
Had it m>t been for this, he would have been 
A nMrt.il still in nam 'rave ; 

And, like my ancestor Qemiramis, 
A suit of semi-glorious human monster. 
Heft 's that which deified him — let h now 
Humanize thee ; my surly, chiding brother, 
Pledge me to the Greek god ! 

S ''. For all thy realms 

1 would not so blaspheme our country's 

iy, thou thinkest him a hi ro, 
Thai he shed bloo I by o 
Beca ise he turn'd a fruil to an i n :h tntment, 
Which cheers the sad rei ivi s the old, inspires 
The young, makes Weariness forget his [oil, 
A nil Fear her Junker ; opens a n sw world 
w hi n this, the present, palls. Well, then 1 pli i 
An i 5 i n as a true nun, who did his utm 
In goo ise mankind. [ Drinks. 

Sal, \\ ilt thou resume a revel at this h 

Sor. And if I did, *t were better than a trophy, 
B ting bought without a tear. But that i 
My present purpose: since thou will not pledge me, 
Continue what thou pleasest. 
[To the Cupbearer,) Boy, retire. 

[Exit Cupbearer. 

Sal. I would but have recallVl thee from thy dream : 
Bettor by me awaken'd than rebellion. 

Sor. Who should rebel ? or why ? what cause? pretext ' 
1 am lhe lawful king, descended from 
A rare ol kings who knew no predecessors. 
What have 1 dime to thee, or to the pi o ■ 
Thai thou shnuldsi rail, or ihey ri i nsl me? 

Sal. Of what thou hast d me lo mc, 1 speak not. 

.Sir. But 

Thott think'se that [have wroi leen: U'l not so ? 

Sal. Ti ink ! Th ai hasl wrong'd her! 

S a'. Pat'li ni in . . , an 1 hear me. 

She has all power and splendour of her station, 
Respect, the tutelage of Assyria's heirs. 
The h image and (he appanage "I soveri tgnty, 

I married her as m marchs wed -for star-', 

And loved her as most husbands love 'tun- wives. 

II she or Hunt SUppOSedsl i could link me 
Like a Chaldean peasant to his m 

He kne v mi not monarchs, nor mankind. 

Sal. [pray thee, change the theme : m) bl 1 disdains 

I ' impl am, and Salemene 
Reluctant love evi n from A ri t's ! ird ! 
Nor woul I »he deign to aoc«p! divi led passion 
With foreign Stt umpi ts and Ionian slaves. 
'I'll.' q ieen is Bilent. 

S ir. An 1 why not her brother ? 

Sal. I only echo thee the voice ofeqipires, 
Which he who fang neglects not long "ill govern, 

Sar. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! thev 
murmur 
Because I have noi \ hed their bloo I, nor led them 
i desei t's dusl bj m i 

Or whiten with their bom a the banks of Go 
Nor decimated them with ssv ige laws, 
Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, 
Or Babylonian walls. 

Sal. Yet these are tropl 

More worthy <>f a people and theii Q 

Than sun-., and lutes, and feasts, and concubines?, 

And lavish M treasures, and contemned virtues. 

Sar. Or for my trophies I have [bunded cities : 
There's Tarsus and Anchiatus, both built 
In one day — what could thai blood-loving beldame, 

My martial gran lam, ehasfe Serniramis, 
Uo more, except destroy them ? 



Sah 'Tis most true; 

I own thy merit in those founded cities, 
r a whim, recorded with a verse 
Which shames both ihem and thee to coming ages. 

Sor. Shame me ! By Baal, the cities, though well built, 
Are nol more goodly than the verse ! Say what 

i i t life or rule, 

But nothing 'gainst lhe truth nf that brief record 
W I v, thoa ■ few lines contain the history 
things human ; hear — " Sardanapalus, 

The kiiej. and BOH of A naryinhiri 

In one ■' ■ in and Tarsus. 

Eat, drink, and love ; the rest 's not worth a fillip.*** 

S <■'. A worthy moral, and a wise inscription, 
For a king lo pot up b< fore his subjects ! 

Ob, thou wpuldsl have trie doubtless set up 
its — 

■ i ibey the king — contribute to his treasure — 
iii his phalanx— spill your blood at bidding — 

Fall down and worship, or gel up and toil." 

is — •• Sardanapi i -pot 

Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 

i bres, and this his trophy." 
i leave such things to conquerors; enough 
For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
The weight of human misery less, and glide 
CTngroaning to the. tomb ; I take no licence 
Which I deny to them. We all are men. 

SaL Thy sires have been revered as gods — 

Sar, In dust 

And death, where they are neither gods nor men 
Talk nol of such to me! (he worms are gods; 
At least thev banqueted upon our gods, 
An i died for lack of farther nutriment. 
Those gods were merely men ; look to their issue— 
I foe! a th «t me, 

Hut nothing godlike, unless it may be 
The thing which you condemn, a disposition 
To love and to be merciful, to pardon 
The follies uf mv species, and (that's human) 
To he indulgent to my own. 

Sal. A'as! 

rhe doom of Nineveh is seaFd.— Wo— Wo 
To the uiuivaird city \ 

Sar. What dost drf-ad ? 

,SV. Thuii art guarded by thy foes : in a few hours 
The lempest may break out which overwhelms thee, 
And thine and mini' ; an I in another day 
hall be the past ofBelus 1 race. 

Sar, What must we dread .' 

Sal, Ambitious treachery 

h is environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
, .. e is res iuri e : amp >wer me with thy signet 

To quel! the machinations, and I lay 

H ol thy chiel I i" fo t thy feet. 
S . The heads— how many .' 

Must I stay lo number 
; me own *s in peril? Let me go; 
■trust me " ith the rest. 
Sar. I will trusl no man with unlimited lives. 
\\ hen we I Lkc those from others, we nor know 
What we have taken, nor the thing we give. 

Wouldsl thou not take their lives who seek 
hine ? 
Sfl ". Thai 's a hard question — But, I answer Yes. 
t !annol the thing be dune n ithoul ? Who are they 
Whom thou suspectest ? — Let them be arrested. 
Sal. 1 would thon wouldsi not ask me: the nezl moment 

■ I my answer through thy babbling troop 
i >f paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace, 
Even lu the city, and so battle all. — 
Trusl me. 

Sar. Thou knowesl I have done so ever ; 

i iu the Bignet [Gives the signet, 

Sal. I have one more request.— 



Act I. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



269 



Sar, Name it. 

SaL That thou this ni^ht forbear the banquet 
In ihe pavilion over the Euphrates. 

Sar, Forbear ihw banquet ! Not for all the plotters 
Thai ever shook a, kingdom ! Let them come, 
An I da their worst : I shall not blench for them ; 
N ir rise the sooner ; nor forbear the goblet ; 
Nor crown me with a single rose the less ; 
Nor lose one joyous hour.— I fear them not. 

Sat. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, if 
needful ? 

Sar. Perhaps. I have the goodliest armour, and 
A sword of such a temper ; and a bow 
And javelin, which mijjht furnish Nimrod forth : 
A little heavy, but yet □ it unwieldly. 
And now 1 think on 't, 't is long since I 've used them, 
Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brother ? 

Sal I> this a time ^or such fantastic trifling ? — 
If need be, wilt lliou wear them ] 

Sar. Will I not ? 

Oh ! if it must h-i so, and these rash slaves 
Will not be ruled with Tess, I 'II use the sword 
Till they shall wish it turn'd into a distaff. 

S i'. They say, thy sceptre's turn'd to that already ? 

Sar. That's false '.but let them say so: the old Greeks, 
Of whom our captives often sing, related 
The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest 
The populace of all the nations seize 
Each calumny they can to sink their sovereigns. 

Sal. They did not speak thus of thy fathers. 

Sar. No ; 

They dared not. They were kept to toil and combat, 
And never changed their chains but for their armour : 
Now they have peace and pastime, and the licence 
To revel and to rail ; it irks me not. 
I would not give the smile of one fair girl 
For all the popular breath that e'er divided 
A name from nothing. What are the rank tongues 
Of this vik- herd, grown insolent with feeding, 
That I should prize their noisy praise, or dread 
Their noisome clamour? 

Sal. You have said they are men ; 

As such their hearts' are something. 

Sar. So my dogs' are ; 

And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed; 
Thou hast my signet : — since they are tumultuous, 
Let them be teroper'd, yet nut roughly, till 
Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain, 

■ i received; we have enough within us, 
The m< ■• m the loftiest monarch, 

Not to add to each other's natural burden 
Of mortal misery, but rather lessen, 
Bv mild reciprocal alleviation, 
The fatal penalties imposed on life : 
But this they know not, or they will not know. 
I have, by Baal ! done all I could to sooth them : 
I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
I interfered not with their civic lives, 
I let them pass their days as best might suit them, 
Passing my own as suitedjne. 

Sol. Thou siopp'sl short 

Of the duties of a king ; and therefore 
They say thou art unfit to be a monarch. 

i 'hey Lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 
To be aught save a monarch ; else for me 
The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 

Sal. There is one Mede, at least, who seeks to be so. 

Sar. What mean'st thou? — 'tis thy secret; thou 
desirest 
Few questions, and I'm not of curious nature. 
Take the fit steps; and, since necessity 
Requires, I sanction and support ihee. Ne'er 
Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
The peaceful only ; if they rouse me, better 



They had conjured up stern Nimrod from his ashes, 
" The mighty hunter." I will turn these realms 
To one wide desert chase of brutes, who were, 
But would no more, by their own choice, be human. 
What i hey have found me, they belie ; that which 
They yet may find me — shall defy their wish 
To speak it worse ; and let them thank themselves. 

Sal. Then thou at last canst feel? 

Sar. Feel ! who feels not 

Ingratitude? 

Sal. I will not pause to answer 

With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake that energy 
Whii h sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee, 
And thou may'st yet be glorious in ihy reign, 
As powerful in thy realm. Farewell ! 

[Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. (sohis.) Farewell! 

He 's gone ; and on his finger bears my signet, 
Which is to him a sceptre. He is stern 
As I am heedless; and the slaves deserve 
To feel a master. What may be the danger, 

I know not : he hath found it, let him quell it. 
Must I consume my life — this little life — 

In guarding against all may make it less ? 

II i- not worth so much ! It were to die 
Before my hour, to live in dread of death, 
Tracing revolt ; suspecting all about me, 
Because they are near ; and all who are remote, 
Because they are far. But if it should be se- 
lf they should sweep me off from earth and empire, 
Why. what is earth or empire of the earth ? 

I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my image; 

To die is no less natural than those — 

Acts of this clay ! 'T is true I have not shed 

Blood as I might have done, in oceans, till 

My name became the synonyme of deaths 

A terror and a trophy. But for this 

I feel no penitence ; my life is love : 

If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 

Till now, no drop from an Assyrian vein 

Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest coin 

i H' Niniveh's vast treasures e'er been lavish d 

On objects which could cost her sons a tear : 

If then they hate me, 't is because I hate not : 

If they rebel, 't is because I oppress not. 

Oh, men! ye must be ruled with scythes, not sceptres, 

And mow'd down like the grass, else all we reap 

Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 

Of discontents infedin° the fair soil, 

Making a desert of fertility. — 

I 'il think no more. Within there, ho! 

Enter an Attendant. 
Sar. Slave, tell 

The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her presence. 
Attend. King, she is here. 

Myrrha enters. 

Sar. (apart to Attendant.) Away 
{JSddrt Ming Myrrha.) Beautiful being 

Thou dost almost anticipate my heart ; 
It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comest : let me 
Deem that some unknown influence, some sweet oracle, 
Communicates between us, though unseen, 
In absenc*-, and attracts us to each other. 

JWyr. There doth. 

Sar. I know there doth, but not its name ; 

What is il ? 

Myr* In my native land a God, 

And in my heart a feeling like a God's, 
Exalted ; yet I own 't is only mortal ; 
For what I feci is humble, and yet happy — 

That is, it would be happy ; but 

[Myrrha pauses. 

Sar. There cornea 



270 



SARDANAPAl.TS. 



Act L 



For ever something between us and what 
We deem our happiness: let me remove 
The barrier which that hesitating accent 
Proclaims lo thine, anil mine is Ral'd* 

Myr. My lord !— 

Sar. My lord — my kins — sire — sovereign ; thus it is— 
For ever thus, addressM with awr. I ne'er 
Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's 
Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 
Have gorged themselves up to equality, 
Or I have quati'M me down to their abasement. 
Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these mines, 
Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was I prized 

them, 
That is, I suller'd them — from slaws and nobles 
But when they falter from the lips I love, 
The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill 
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
Of this my station, which represses feeling 
In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me 
Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, 
And share a cottage on the ( !anc;isus 
With thee, and wear no crowns but those of flowers. 

JSIyr. Would that we could ! 

Sar. And dost thou feel this ?— Why ' 

Myr. Then thou wouldst know what thou canst never 
know. 

Sar. And that is ■ 

Myr. The true value of a heart ; 

At least, a woman's. 

Sar. I have proved a thousand — 

A thousand, and a thousand. 

Myr. Hearts? 

Sar. 1 think so. 

Myr, Not one ! the time may come ihou may'st, 

Sar. 'it will. 

Hear, Myrrha ; Salemenes has declared — 
Or why or how he hath divined it, 13 el us, 
Who founded our great realm, knows more than I — 
But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
In peril. 

Myr. He did well. 

Sar. And say\si thou so? 

Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared 
Drive from our presence with his savage je>-rs, 
And made thee weep and blush? 

Myr. I should do both 

More frequently, and he did well to call me 
Back to my duty. But thou spakest of peril — 
Peril to thee 

Sar. Ay, from dark plots and snares 

From Medes — and discontented troops and nations. 
I know not what — a labyrinth of things — 
A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : 
Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
But he is honest. Come, we '11 think no more on *t — 
But of the midnight festival. 

Myr, *T is time 

To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 
Spurn'd his sage cautions ? 

Sar. What ?— and dost thou fear 7 

Myr. Fear? — I 'm a Greek, and how should I fear 
death ? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 

Sar. Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale ? 

Myr. I love. 

Sar. And do not I ? I love thee far — far more 
Than either the brief life or the wi le realm, 
Which, it may be, are menaced ; — yet I blench not. 

Myr. That means thou lovesl nor thyself nor me ; 
For ho who loves another loves himself, 
F.ven for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. 

Sar. Lost ! — why who is the aspiring chief who dared 
Assume to win them? 



Myr. Who is lie should dread 

K) much ? When he who is their ruler 
Forgets himself, will they remember him? 

S .r. Myrrha ! 

Myr, Frown not upon me : you have smiled 

T Hen on rne not to make those frowns 

Bitterer lo bear than any punishment 
Which they may auuur. — King, I am your subject! 
Master, I am your slave ! Alan, I have loved you!— 
Loved yon, I know not by what fatal weakness, 

h a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs — 
A slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
1 1. m;,,), ,| t, v that passion than by chains! 
Si ill [ have loved you. If ihat love were strong 
Enough to overcome all former nature, 
Shall it not claim the privilege to save you? 

Sa . Soot me, my beamy ! Thou art very fair, 
And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 

Myr. And without love where dwells security? 

Sar. I speak of woman's love. 

Myr. The very first 

I >f human life must spring from woman's breast, 
Your firsi small words are taught you from her lips, 
Your first tears queneh'd by her, and your last sighs 
Too often breathed out tit a woman's hearing, 
When men have shrunk from 1 lie ignoble care 
Of watching the last hourof him who led them. 

S I . My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st music ; 
The very chorus of ihe tragic song 
I have heard thee talk of as the fuvourite pastime 
Of thy far-fither land. Nay, weep not — calm thee. 

My I weep not. — But I prny thee, do not speak 
About my fathers or their land. 

Son Yet oft 

Tl.<:'t speakest of them. 

Myr, True — true : constant thought 

Will overflow in words unconsciously ; 
But when another spe;iks of Greece, it wounds me. 

S l . Welt, then, bow wouldst thou save me, as thou 

-:in!st ? 

Myr, By teaching thee to save thyself, and not 
Thyself alone, hut these vast realms, from all 
Ths ragO of the worst war — the war of brethren. 

SttT. Why, child. I loathe all war, and warriors 
I live in peace and pleasure : what can man 
Do more ? 

Myr. Alas! my lord, with common men 
There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
The substance of sweet peace ; and for a king 
'T is Bometimea better to he fear'd ihan loved. 

Sar. And I have never sought but for the last. 

Myr. And now art neither. 

Sof, Deal thou say so, Myrrha? 

Myr, I speak of CIVIC popular love, se//love, 
Which means that ni- n are kepi in awe ami law, 
Y.i no) oppressed — at least they must not think so; 
( >r if ihev think BO, di em il necessary, 

To ward otT worse oppression, their own passions. 
A king of feasts, and il<>w. rs, and wine, and revel, 
And lore, and mirlh, was nei-er king of glory. 

Snr. (ilory ! what's that ? 

Myr. Ask of the goas tby fathers. 

Sar. They cannot answer; when the priests speak 
for them, 
'T is fur some small addition to the Lei 

Myr. Look to the annals of thine empire's founders. 

SoT. They arc so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 
But what wouldst have? the empire has been founded. 
I cannot <jo on multiplying empires. 

Myr, Preserve thine own. 

Sar. At least I will enjoy it. 

Come, Myrrha, let us on to the Euphrates*. 
The hour invites, the galley is prepared, 
And the pavillion, deck'd for our return, 



Act H. 



SARDANAPALCS. 



271 



In til ftdoromenl for (he evening banquet, 
Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
It seems unio the stars which are above U3 
Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 
Crown'd with fitsh flowers like 

Myr. Victims. 

Sar. No, like sovereign.':, 

The shepherd king of patriarchal times, 
Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreaths, 
And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on, 

Eater Pania. 

Pan. May the king live for ever ! 

Sar, Not an hour 

Longer than he can 1 ive. How my soul hates 
This 1 (Ugu&^e, which makes life itself a lie, 
Flattering dust with eternity. Welt, Pania! - 

Be brief. 

Pan. I am charged by Salemenes to 
II it'-ra e his prayer unto the king, 
That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
The palace ; when the general returns, 
He will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
Of his presumption. 

Star, What ! am I then coop'd / 

Already captive? can I not even breathe 
The breath of heaven ? Tell prince S demenos, 
Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
In mutinous myriads, I would still go forth. 

Pan. I must obey, and yet — 

Myr, Oh, monarch, listen. — 

How many a day and moon thou hast reclined 
Within these palace walls in silken dalliance, 
An I never shown thee to thy people's lunging; 
Leaving thy subject's eyes ungratified, 
The satraps uncontroIlM, the gods unworshipp'd, 
And all things in the anarchy of sloth, 
Till all, save evil, sluinber'd through the realm! 
And wilt thou not now tarry fir a day, 
A day which may redeem thee? Wilt thou not 
Yield to the few still faithful a few hours, 
For them, for thee, for thy past father's race, 
And for thy son's inheiitance ? 

Pan. *T is true ! 

From the deep urgency with which the prince 
Despatched me to your sacred presence, I 
Must dare to ad 1 on feeble voice to that 
Which now has spoken. 

Sffr. No, it must not be. 

Myr. For the sake of thy realm ! 

Sar. Away! 

Pan. For that 

Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
Round thee and thine. 

Sar. These are mere phantasies; 

There is no peril : — 't is a sullen scheme* 
Of Salemenes lo approve his zeal, 
And show himself more necessary to us. 

Myr. By all that 's good and glorious take this counsel. 

Snr. Business to-morrow. 

Myr. Ay, or death to-night. 

Sir. Why let it come then unexpected v 
'Mi l>t joy and gentleness, and mirth and Love ; 
So let me fall like the pluck'd rose ! — far better 
Thus than be wither'd. 

Myr. Then thou wilt not yield, 

Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
A monarch into action, to forego 
A trifling revel. 
Sar. No. 

Myr. Then yield for mine; 

For my sake ! 
Sar. Thine, my Myrrha ! 

Myr. 'T is the 6 rst 



Boon which I everask'd Assyria's king. 

Sar. That *s true, and wer 't my kingdom must be 
granted. 
Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence! 
Thou hear'st me. 

Pan. And obey [Exit Pania 

Sar. I marvel at thee. 

What is thy motive, Myrrha, thus to urge me?, 

Myr, Thy safety ; and the certainty that naught 
Could urge the prince thy kinsman to require 
Thus much from thee, hut some impending danger. 

Sar. And if I do not dread it, why shouldst thou? 

My.-. B' < m- - (holt dost not fear, I fear for thee. 

Sot. To-morrow thou wilt smile at these vain fancies 

.Myr. If the worst come, I shall be where none weep, 
And (hat is better than the power to smile. 
And thou? 

Sar. I shall be king, as heretofore. 

Myr. Where? 

Snr. Willi Baal, Nimrod, and Semiramls, 

Sole in Assyria, or with them e'sewhere. 
Fate made me what I am — may make me nothing — 
But either that or nothing must I be; 
I will not live degraded. 

Myr. Hadst thou fell 

Thus always, none would ever dare degrade thee. 

Sot. And who will do so now ? 

Myr. Dost thou suspect none ? 

Sar. Suspect! — that's a spy's office. Oh! we lose 
Ten thousand precious moments in vain words, 
And vainer fears. Within there ! — ye slaves, deck 
The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel : 
If I must make a prison of our palace, 
At least we'll wear out fetters jocundly ; 
If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
The summer dwelling on its beauteous border, 
Here we are still uuunenaced. Ho! within there 

[Exit Sardanapahts. 

Myr. (solus.) Why do I love this man ? My country's 
daughters 
Love none but heroes. But I have no country ! 
The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I love him ; 
And that 's the heaviest link of the long chain — 
To love whom wc esteem not. Be it so : 
The hour is coming when he '1J need all love, 
And find none. To fall from him now were baser 
Than to have stabb'd him on his throne when highest 
Would have been noble in my country's creed : 
I was not made fur either. Could I save him, 
I should not love him belter, but myself; 
And I have need of ihe last, for I have fallen 
[In my own thoughts, by loving this soft stranger; 
And yel methinks I love him more, perceiving 
That he is hated of his own barbarians, 
The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 
Could I but wake a single thought like those 
Which even the Phrygians felt when battling long 
'Twixt Ition and the sea, within his heart, 
He would tread down the barbarous crowds, and 

triumph. 
He loves me, and I love him ; the slave loves 
Her master, and would free him from his vices. 
If not, I have a means of freedom still, 
And if I cannot teach him how to reign, 
Mav show him how alone a king can leave 
His throne. I must not lose him from my sight. [Exit, 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — The Portal of the same Hall of the Palace, 

Beleses, (solus.) The sun goes down : methinks he 
sets more slowly, 
Taking his last look of Assyria's empire 



272 



SARDANAVAIA'S. 



Act JI. 



How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds, 
Like ihe blood he predicts If not in vain, 
Th"U son that sinkest. and ye stars which rise, 
I have outwaichM ye, reading ray by ray 
The edicts of your orbs, which make Time trcmblo 
For what be brings the nations, *t is (he furthest 
Hour ol Assyria'.-* years. And yel how calm! 
An earthquake should ami itince so greal a tall — 
A summer's sun discloses it. 'i on disk, 
To the star-read Chaldean, beard upon 
Its everlasting page the end of wh il 
Seem'd everlasting ; bul oh) thou true sun! 
The burning oracle of all thai live, 
As fountain of all life, and symbol of 
Him who bestows it, wherefore dosl thou limit 
Thy lore unto calamity ' Why not 
Unfold the lise of days more worthy thine 
All glorious burst from ocean .' why not dart ■ 
A beam of hope athwart the future years, 
As of wrath to its days ? Hear me! oh! hear me ! 
I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant — 
I bave gazed on th e al lliy rise rind fall, 
And how',) my head beneath thy mid-day brums, 
When my eye dared not m ■- i Ihee. I have watch'd 
Fur thee, end after thee, and pray'd to thee, 
Ami sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd ihee, 
And ask'd of thee, and thou has' answer'd — but 
Only to thus much : white I speak, he sinks- 
Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not bis knowledge, 
To the delighted west, which revels in 
Its hues of dying glory. Yel what is 
Death, so il be but glorious ? 'T is a sunset ; 
And mortals may I"- happy to resemble 
The gods but in decay. 

Enter Arbaces, by an inner door. 

Arb. Belescs, w hy 

So rapt in thy devotions ? Dost [hou stand 
Gazing to trace thy disappearing god 
Into some realm ofundiscover'd day - 
Our business is with night — 'l is come. 

Bel. But not 

Gone. 

Arb. Let it roll on — we are ready. 

BeL Yes. 

Would it were over. 

Arb. I) m.'s tin- prophet doubt, 

To whom the very stars shine victory? 

Bel. I do not doubt of victory — but the victor. 

Arb. Well, let thy silence settle that. Meantime 
I have prepared as many glittering spears 
As will oul-sparkle our allies — your planet?, 
There is no more to thwart us. The she-king, 
That less than woman, is even now upon 
The waters with his female mates. Thfl order 
Is issued for the feast, in the pavilion. 
The first cup which he drains will be the last 
QaiatPd by the line of Nimrod. 

Bel. "['■.'. i .1, 

. Irb. And is a weak one — 't is worn oul — we'll mend i'. 

Bel. Art sure of th.tt .' 

Arb. Its founder i vas a hunter— 

I am a soldier — what is there to fear .' 

Bel. The soldier. 

Arb. And the priest, it may be ; but 

If you thought tins, or think, why not retain 
Your king of concubines ? why stir me up ? 
Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
No less than mine ? 

Bel. Look to the sky 

Arb. I look. 

Bel. What seest thou ? 

Arb. A fair summer's twilight, and 

The gathering of the stars. 

Bel. And midst them, mark 



Yon earliest, and the brightest, which so quivers, 
As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 

Arb. I 

/;,/. 'T is thy natal ruler — thy birth planet. 

.Jib. [touching his scabbard.) My star is in this 

■ ml: when it shines. 

It shall out-dazzle comets, Lei us think 

Of what is to be done to justify 

Thy planets and their portents. When we conquer, 

They shall have temples — ay, ami prirsis — and thou 

Shalt be the ponlitfof — what gods ihou wilt j 

For I observe I .1 Lhey are ever just, 

Anl own th-' hr.iv.'^i for the mOSl devout. 

/; / \ ■ . and the most devote for brave — ihou hast not 
me turn back from bat!-'. 

Arb, No; I own thee 

A- linn in fighl as Babylonia's captain, 
As skilful in Chaldeans worship ; 1. 
Will it but picas.- theeto forge I the priest, 
And be the warrior '.' 

Bel. Why not both? 

Arb. The belter, 

And yel it almost shames me, we shall bave 
So little to effect. This woman's ■ 
Degrades the very conqueror. ' ■ ihave uluck'd 
A bold and bloody despot from his throne, 
And grappled with him, clashing steel with steel, 
Thai wen- heroic or to win or fall ; 
But to upraise my sword against this silkworm, 
And hear liim whine, it may be 

Bel. Do not deem it : 

He has that in him which may make you strife yet; 

And were he all you think, bis rd • are hardy, 

And headed by the cool, stern Salem 

. fro. The] 'II not resist. 

Bel. Why not? they are 

Arb. True, 

And then need a soldier to command them. 

/.' /. Thai $al< menes is. 

. / ''. But not their king. 

Besides, lie hates the effeminate thing that governs, 
For the queen's sake, his sister. .Mark you not 
He keeps aloof from all the revels ' 

Bel. But 

Not from the council— theie he is ever constant. 
Arb. And ever thwarted ; what would you have more 

To make a rebel out of? A fool reigning, 

His blond dishonoured, and himself disdain'd; 

Why, il is his revenge we work for. 

Bel. 
He but be brought to think so : this, I doubt of. 

. Ii h. What, if we sound him ? 

Bel. Yes — if the lime served. 

Enter Balea. 

Tin'. Satraps ! The king commands your presence at 
The feast to-night. 

/,' .'. To hear is to obey. 

In the pa* 

/.' d. No ; here in the palace. 

Arb. How! in the palace? it was notthusorder'd. 

!'■,<'. [l is order'd now. 

./ '■ And why 7 

/; ■'. I know not. 

May I retire ? 

. Irb. Stay. 

Bel. (to. Irb. aside.) Hush ! let him go bis way. 
[Alternately to Bal.) Yes, Balea, thank the monarch, 

kiss the hem 
Ofhis imperial robe, and say. Ins slaves 
Will take the crums ho deigns to scatter from 
Hh royal 'able al Ihe hour — was 'l midnight ? 

Baf. It was : the place, the hall of Nimrod. Lords, 
I humble me before you, and depart. [Erit Balea 



Act II. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



273 



Jlrb. I like not this same sudden change of place ; 
There is some mystery : wherefore should he change it • 

Bel. Doth he not change a thousand times a day ? 
Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
And moves more parasangs in its intents 
Than generals in their marches, when they seek 
To leave their foe at fault. — Why dost thou muse ? 

Arb. He loved that gay pavilion, — it was ever 
His summer dotage. 

Bel. And he loved his queen — 

And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
And he has loved all things by turns, except 
Wisdom and glory. 

Arb. Still— I like it Dot 
If he has changed — why, so must we : the attack 
Were easy in the isolated bower. 
Beset with drowsy guards and drunken courtiers ; 
But in the hall of Ninirol 

Bel. Is it so ? 

Meihonght the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
A throne too easily — does it disappoint thee 
To find there is a slipperier step or two 
Than what was counted on? 

Arb. When the hour comes, 

Thou shall perceive how far I fear or no. 
Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily play'd for — 
But here is more upnn the die — a kingdom. 

Bel. I have foretold already — thou will win it: 
Then on, and prosper. 

Arb. Now were I a soothsayer. 

I would have boded so much to myself. 
But be the stars ohey'd — I cannot quarrel 
With them, nor their interpreter, Who'shere? 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. Satraps! 

Bel. My prince ! 

Sal. Well met — I sought ye both. 

But elsewhere than the palace. 
Arb. Wherefore so ? 

Sal. 'T is not the hour. 

Arb. The hour !— what hour? 

Sal. Of midnight. 

Bel. Midnight, my lord ! 

Sal. What, are you not invited ? 

Bet. Oh! yes — wc had forgotten. 
Sat. Is it usual 

Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation ? 
Arb. Why — we but now received it. 
Sal. Then why here ? 

Arb. On duty. 

Sal. On what duty ? 

Bel. On the slate's. 

We have the privilege to approach (he presence ; 
But found the monarch absent. 

Sal. And I too 

Am upon duty. 

Arb. May we crave its purport ? 

Sat. To arrest two traitors. Guards ! Within there ! 

Enter Guards. 

Sal. (continuing.) Satraps 

Your swords. 

Bel. (delivering his.) My lord, behold my scimitar. 

Arb. (drawing hi3 sword.) Take mine. 

Sal. (advancing.) I will. 

Arb. But in your heart the blade — 

The hilt quits not this liand. 

Sal. (drawing.) How ! dost thou brave me ? 

'T is well — this saves a trial, and false mercy. 
Soldiers, hew down the rebel! 

Arb. Soldiers • Ay— 

Alone you dare not 

Sal. Alone ! foolish slave — 

9K 



What is there in thee that a prince should shrink from 
Of open force? We dread thy treason, not 
Thy strength : thy tooth is naught, without its venom— 
The serpent's, not the lion's. Cut him down. 

Bel. (interposing.) Arbaces! Are you mad ? Have ) 
not render'd 
My sword ? Then trust like me our sovereign's justice 

.Irb. No — I will sooner trust the stars thou prat'st o(- 
And this slight arm, and die a king at least 
O r my own breath and body— so for that 
None else shall chain them. 

Sal. (to the Guards.) You hear him and me. 
Take him not, — kill. 

[The Guards attack Arb aces, icho defends himsetj 
valiantly and dexterously till they waver. 

Sal. la it even so ; and must 

[ do the hangman's office ? Recreants ! see 
How you should fell a tiaitor. 

[Salemenes attacks Arbaces. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 

Sar. Hold your hands— 

Upon your lives, I say. What, deaf or drunken? 
My sword ! O fool, I wear no sword; here, fellow, 
Give me thy weapon. [To a Guard. 

[Sardanapalus snatches a sicord Jrom one of the 
soldiers, and makes between the combatants— 
they separate. 
Sar. In my very palace ! 

What hinders me from cleaving you in twain, 
Audacious brawlers? 

Bel. Sire, your justice. 

Sal. Or— 

Your weakness. 

Sar. (raising the sword.) How? 
Sal. Strike ! so the blow's repeated 

Upon yon traitor — whom you spare a moment, 
I trust, for torture — I'am content. 

Sar. What — him! 

Who dares assail Arbaces ? 
Sal. I ! 

Sar. Indeed ! 

Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what warrant? 
Sal. (showing. the signet.) Thine. 
Arb. (confused.) The king's ! 

Sal. Yes ! and let the king confirm it. 

Sar. T parted not from this for such a purpose. 
Sal. You parted with it for your safety — I 
Employ M it for the best. Pronounce in person. 
Here I am but your slave — a moment past 
I was your representative. 

Sar. Then sheathe 

Your swords. 

[Arbaces and Salemenes return their swords tit 

the scabbards. 
Sal. Mine's sheathed : I pray you sheathe not yours 
'Tis the sole sceptre left you now with safety. 

Sar. A heavy one ; the hilt, loo, hurts my hand. 
(To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take thy weapon back. 

Well, sirs, 
What doth this mean? 
Bel. The prince must answer that* 

Sal. Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 
Sar. Treason — Arbaces ! treachery and Beleses ! 
That were an union I will not believe. 
Bel. Where is the proof? 

Sal. I '11 answer that, if once 

The king demands your fellow-traitor's sword. 
Arb. (to Sal.) A sword which hath been drawn as 
oft as thine 
Against his foes. 

Sal. And now against his brother, 

And in an hour or so against himself. 



274 



SARDANAPALTJS. 



Sar. That is not possible, he dared not • no- 
No— I 'II not near of such things. These vain bickering 
Are spawn d in courts by bam intrigues, and baser C 
Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's lives. 
You must have been deceived, my brother 

T 8 ,t AV ■ ■ F ' r * 

l.et him deliver up his weapon, and 
Proclaim himself your subject by that duty 
And I will answer all. ' ' 

_ Sap - Why, if I thought so— 

But no, it cannot be: the Mode Arbaces— 
The trusty, rough, true soldier— the best captain 

•J i all who discipli i r nations No 

I'll not insult him thus, to bid him render 

Thescimilar to me he never vi 

Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your weapon 

Sal. iddmermgiacktlu Hgnet.) Monarch, take back 
your signet. 

*'"''• No, retain it ; 

But use it with more moderation 

, *''/. , Sire, 

I used it for your honour, and restore it 
Because I cannot keep it with „iy own. 
Bestow it on Arbaces. 

Sar. So I should: 

He never ask'd it. 

Sal. Doubt not, he will have it. 

Without that hollow semblance of respect. 

Bel. I know not what hath prejudiced the prince 
So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom none 
Have been more zealous lor Assyria's weal. 

SaL Peace, factious priest, and faithless soldier 1 thou 
Unn st in thy own person the worst vicos 
Ofihe most dangerous orders of mankind, 
Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies 
For those who know thee not. Thy fellow's sin 
Is, ,n the least, a bold one, and not temper'd 
By the tricks taught thee in chaldea. 

„, /; ''- Hear him, 

My liege— the sonofBelus! he blasph m 
The worship of the laud, which bows the knee 
Before your fathers. 

Sar. Oh ! for that I prav you 

Let him have absolution. I dispense wiih 
The worship of dead men; feeling that I 
Am mortal, and believing ihat ihe race 
From whence I sprung are— what I see them— ashes 

Jlil. King ! Do not deem so : they are w ill, the stars 
And 

Sor. Ton shall join them there ore they will rise 
II you preach farther— Why, this is rank treason. 

Sal. My lord ! 

Sar - To school me in the worship of 

Assyria s idols ! Lei him be released— 
Give him his sword. 

. S "'- M y lord, and king, and brother, 

1 pray ye pause. 

° or - Yes, and he sermonized, 

And dinn',1, and deafen',! wilh dead men and Baal, 
And all Chaldea's slurry mysteries. 

Bel. Monarch ! respect them. 

*"''• Oh ! for that— I love them 

I love to watch them in the deep blue vault, 
And to compare them with my ftl , 
I love to see their rays redoubled in 
The tremulous silver of Ruphrates' wave, 
As the light breeze of midnight crisus the broad 
And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 
Which fringe his banks : but whether they may be 
Gods, as some say, or the abodes 
As others hold, or simply lamps of night, 
Worlds, or the lights of worlds, I know nor care not. 
There's something sweet in my uncertainly 
I would not change for your Chaldean lore ; 
Breidee, I know of these all cley oan Imow 



Act II. 



Of aught above it, or below it— nothing 

leir brilliancy and feel their beauty- 

! ",v gravel shall know neither. 

11' I. lor neither, sire, say Better 

tt * ar - , ' I will wait, 

[fit so please you, pontiff, for that knowledge 
In the mean lime receive your sword, and know 
I hat [ prefer your service mililant 
Unto (TOUT ministry— not loving either. 
Sal, [aside.) His lusts have made him mad. Then 
musi I save him, 
s i"ir of himself. 

, j "',' „ , Please y° u ,0 hear me, Salraps! 

kndi iiefly ihou, my pries., because I doubl thee 

m the soldier; and would doubl thee all 
Wert thou not half a warrior : let us part 
'" ! ■ ace— I'll not say pardon— which must be 
Earnd by the guilty ; this I 'II not pronounce ve, 
Although upon this breath of mine depends 
Your own; and, deadlier for ye, on my fears. 
Bui rear not— for that I am soft, not fearful— 
And so lire ..... Were I the thing some think me, 
Your h.ads would now be dripping the last .Irons 
Of their anointed pore from the high gates 
Ofthis our palace, into Ihe dry dust, 
Their only portion of the coveted kingdom 

T h 7 """'' nm "' ,J '" reign o'er— let that pass. 

As I have said, I will no) deem ye guilty 
Nor doom ye guiltless. Albeit bettor men 
I han ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 
And should I have your fate to sterner judges, 
And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice 
Two men, who, whatsoe'. r they now are, were 
Once honest. Ye arc free, sirs'. 

,,,,' . Sire, this elemenev 

BelHInterrujOmg him.) Is worthy rfyouredf: and, 
although innocent, 

We thank 

Sar Priesl ! keep your thanksgivings for Belus ; 

tiis offspring needs none. 

..' ' . But being innocent 

Sar. Be silent— Guilt is loud. If ye are loyal 

. eare „,,,„„] ,„,,„ „„,, Bhou|(| be sa(J _ noi srat ; f||I _ 

Bel. So we should he, were justice always done 
By earthly power omnipotent ; but innocence 
Musi oft receive herrighj as .-, mere favour. 

Sar That's a g | sentence for a homily, 

1 hough .)-, i for this occasion. Prithee keep it 
I o i plead thy sovereign's cause before his people. 

Bel, I trust thcro is no cause. 

„ . '"' No cause, perhaps ; 

lint many causers :— if ye meet with such 
In Ihe ■ reraise of your inquisitive fimction 
On earth, or should you read ofil in heaven 
in some mysterious twinkle of the stars, 
Which are your chronicles, I prav yon note 
Thai there are worse Aings betwixt earth and heaven 
1 " '" lll,M ■■'<'■• • ileth many and slnys none ■ 
And, hating n... hint his fellows 

,' "'I to, l" *enihose who would not spar* him 

v "" \ " ""»««•-- but that's doubtful. Satraps' 

1 our swords and persons are at liberty 
To use ihe,,, as V e will— but from this' hour 

have no call for either. Salemenes ! 
r ollow me. 



[fcnini SaoDan-apalus, Salemenes, and the 
J rain, <$-c. /earing- Arbaces and Beleses. 
'9rb. Beleses ! 

'•''• _ Now, what think you ? 

.#."&. That we are lost. 

a'l' „„ , Ti,ttt we l,!1V0 won ,he kingdom. 

Jtro. \\ hat ? thus suspected— with the sword slung 
o er us 
I But by a single hair, and that still wavering, 



Act H. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



275 



To be blown down by his imperious breath 
Which spared us— why, I know not. 

BeL Seek not why ; 

But let us profit by the interval. 
The hour is still our own — our power the same — 
The night the same we destined. He hath changed 
Nothing except our ignorance of all 
Suspicion into such a certainly 
As must make madness of delay, 

Arb. And yet 

Bel. What, doubting still? 

Jfarb. He spared our lives, nay, more, 

Saved them from Salemenes. 

Bel. And how long 

Will he so spare? till the first drunken minute. 

Jlrb. Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly: 
Gave royally what he had forfeited 
Basely 

BeL Say bravely. 

J&rb, Somewhat of both, perhaps. 

But it has touch'd me, and, whatever betide, 
I will no further on. 

Be], And lose the world ! 

*irb. Lose any thing except my own esteem, 

Btl. I blush that we should owe our lives to such 
A king of distaffs ! 

*irb. Bur no less we owe them, 

And I should blush far more to lake the gramor's! 

Bel. Thou may'st endure whatever thou wilt, the stars 
Have written otherwise. 

Arb. Though they came down, 

And marshall'd me the way in all their brightness, 
I would not follow. 

B I. This is weakness — worse 

Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead, 
An 1 waking in the dark. — Go to — go to. 

Jlrb. JVIethought he look'd like Nitnrod as he spoke, 
Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
Looking the nvmarch of the kin^s around it, 
And swavs, while they but ornament, the temple, 

Bel. I told you that you had too much despised him, 
And that there was some royalty within him — 
What then? he is the nobler foe. 

Arb. But we 

The meaner : — Would he had not spared us* 

Bel. B So— 

Wouldst thou he sacrificed thus readily? 

*$rb. No — but it had been better to have died 
Than live ungrateful. 

/). /. Oh, the soul-; of some men ! 

Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 
Fools treachery — and, behold, upon the sudden, 
Because for something or for nothing, this 
Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
'Twixt thee and Salemenes. thou art turn'd 
Into — what shall I say 7 — Sardanapalus ! 
I know no name more ignominious. 

Jrb. But 

An hour ago, who dar^d to term me such 
Had held Ins life but lightly — as it is, 
I must forgive yon, even as he forgave us — 
Semiramis herself would not have done it. 

Bel. No — The queen liked no sharers of the kingdom, 
Not even a husband. 

. / V I must serve him truly 

Bel And humbly ? 

Jlrb. No, sir, proudly — being honest. 

I shall be nearer thrones than you to heaven ; 
And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty. 
You may do your own deeming — you have cod>-s, 
And mysteries and corollaries of 
Right and wrong, which I lack for my direction, 
And must pursue but what a plain heart teaches. 
And now you know me. 

Bel. Have you finish'd 1 



Arb. Yes— 

With you, 

Bel. And would, perhaps, betray as well 
As quit me? 

.lib. That's a sacerdotal thought, 

And not a soldier's. 

Bel. Be it what you will — 

Truce with these wranglings, and but hear me. 

Arb. No.— 

There is more peril in your subtle spirit 
Than in a phalanx. 

Bel. If it must be so— 

I 'II on alone. 

jSrb, Alone! 

Bel. Thrones hold but one. 

Arb. But this is filPd. 

Bel. With worse than vacancy— 

A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces: 
I have still aided, cherish'd, loved, and urged you; 
Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 
To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 
Seem'd to consent, and all events were friendly, 
Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 
Into a shallow softness ; but now, rather 
Than see my country languish, I will be 
Her saviour or the victim of her tyrant, 
Or one or both, for sometimes both are one ; 
And, if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 

Jlrb. Your servant ! 

Bel. Why not ? better than be slave, 

The pardoned slave of she Sardanapalus. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. My lords, I bear an order from the king. 

Arb. It is obey'd ere spoken. 

Bel. Notwithstanding, 

Let 's hear it. 

Pan. Forthwith, on this very night, 

Repair to vour respective satrapies 
Of Babylon and Media. 

Bel. With our troops 

Pan. My order is unto the satraps and 
Their household train. 

Jrb. But 

Bel. I* must be obey'd , 

Say, we depart. 

Pan. My order is to see you 

Depart, and not to bear your answer. 

Bel. {aside.) Ay! 

Well, si*, we will accompany you hence. 

Pan. I will retire to marshal forth the guard 
Of honour which befits your rank, and wait 
Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not. 

[Exit Pania. 

Bel. Aoh? then obey ! 

, .rh. Doubtless. 

Bel. Yes, to the gatei 

That grate the palace, which is now our prison, 
No further. 

.}rb. Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed! 

The realm itself, in all its wide extension, 
Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me. 

Bel. Graves ! 

Jlrb. If I thought so, this good sword should dig 
One more than mine. 

Bel. It shall have work enough. 

Lft me hope better than thou augurest ; 
At present let us hence as best we may. 
Thou dost a^ree with me in understanding 
This order as a sentence? 

Jlrb. Why, what other 

Interpretation should it bear? it is 
The very policy of orient monarchs— 
Pardon and poison — favours and a sword— 
A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 



276 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Act II. 



How many satraps in his father's time — 
For he I own is, or at least 10 as, bloodless — 

Bel, But will not, can not bo so now. 

Jlrb. I doubt it. 

How many satraps hare I seen set out 
In his sire's day for mighty vice-royalties, 
Whose tombs are on their path ! I know not how, 
Hut ihey all sicken'd by the way, it was 
So long and heavy. 

Bel. Let us but regain 

The free air of the city, and we '11 shorten 
The jmirn- y. 

. Irb, *T will be shorten'd at the gi 

It may he. 

Bel. No ; they hardly will risk that. 

Thi v mean us [o die privately, but not 
Within the palace or the city walls, 
Where we are known and may have partisans : 
It they had meant to slay us here, we were 
No longer with the living. Let us hence. 

Jhb. If I but thought he did not mean mv life 

Bel. Fool! hence what else should despotism 

alarm' J 
Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 

. irb. Towards our provinces ? 

Bfl. No ; towards your kingdom. 

There's lime, there's heart, and hope, and power, and 

means, 
W hich their half measures leaves us in full scope. — 
Awav ! 

.irb. And I even yet repenting must 
Relapse to guilt! 

Ihi. Self defence is a virtue, 
Bole bulwark of all right Away,] say! 
Lei 'a leave this place, the air grows thick and choking, 
And ihe walls have a scent of nightshade — hence! 
Lei us nol leave them time tor further council. 
Our quick departure proves our civic zeal | 
Our quick departure hinders our good escort, 
The worthy Pania, from anticipating 
Tho orders of some parasangs from hence; 
Nay, there 's no other choice, but hence, I say. 

[Exit with Arbaces, who follows reluctantly. 

Enter Sardanapalcs and Salemenes. 

Sar. Well, all is remedied, and without bloodshed, 
That worst of mockeries of a rrmedy ; 
We are now secure by these men's exile. 

Sal. Yes, 

As he who treads on flowers is from tho adder 
Twined round their roots. 

Sar. Why, what would st have me do? 

Sal. Undo what you have dune. 

Sar. Revoke my pardon ? 

Sal. Replace the ceo wn now tottering on your temples. 

Sar. That were tyrannical. 

Sal. But sure. 

Sar. We are so. 

What danger can they work upon the front ir / 

Sal. They are not there yet— never should they be so, 
Were I well listen'd to. 

Sar. Nay, I hnvr listen'd 

Impartially to thee — why not to thern? 

Sal. Yon may know that hereafter ; ris il 1 , 
I take my leave to order ford) the guard. 

Sitr. And you will join us at the banquet? 

Sal. Sire, 

Dispense with me — I am no wassailcr: 
Command me in all service save the Bacchant's. 

Sar. Nay, but *t is fit to revel now and then. 

Sal. And fit that some should watch for those who 
revel 
Too oft. Am I permitted to depart 7 



S 11 '. Yes -Stay a moment, my good Salemenes, 
My brother, my best subject, better prince 
Than I am king. You should have been the monarch, 
And I — I know not what, and care not ; but 
Think not I am insensible to all 
Thine honest wisdom, and ihy rough yet kind, 
Though "ii reproving, eufierance of my follies. 
If I have spared these men against thy counsel, 
Thai is, their lives — it "s not f hat I doubt 
i : ■ n is sound ; but, let ihem live: we will not 

Cavil about tiieir lives — so let them mend (hem. 
Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep, 
Which their death had not left me. 

Sal, Thus you run 

The risk in sleep for ever, to save traitors — 
A moment's pang now changed for years of crime. 
Si ill let them be made quiet. 

SflT. Tempt me not : 

Mv word is past. 

S '/. But it may be recall'd. 

S it. 'T is royal. 

Sal, An I should therefore be decisive. 

This half indulgence of an exile serves 
Bui to provoke— 4l pardon should be full, 
Or it is none. 

Sar. And who persuaded me 

After I had repeal'd them, or at least 
Only dismissed them from our presence, who 
Urged me to send to them their satrapies? 

Sal. True ; that I had forgotten ; that is, sire, 
If they e'er reached their satrapies — why, then, 
Reprove me more fur my advice. 

Sot. And if 

The; do nol reach them — look to it! — in safety, 

mark me — and security- 
Look to thine own. 

Sal. Permit me to depart ; 

Their safety shall be cared for. 

Sot. Get thee hence, then, 

And, prithee, think more gently of ihy brother. 

Sal. Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 

[Exit Salemexes. 

Sar. (solus.) That man is of a temper too severe j 
Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
From all the taints of common earth — while I 
Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers. 
But as our mould is. must the produce be. 
H I have err'd this time, 't is on the side 
Where error sits most lightly on that sense, 
I know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
With me ofitimes for pain, and sometimes pleasure-, 
A spirit which seems placed aboul my heart 
To court its throbs, not quicken them, and ask 
Questions which mortal rn-vt-r dared to ask me, 
Nor Baal, though an oracuTar deity — 
Albeit his marble face majestical 
Frowns as ihe shadows of the evening dim 
lli^ brows to changed 1 tpreasion, till at times 
I think the statin- looks in act to speak. 
Away with these vain thoughts, I will be joyous- 
Ami here comes Joy's true herald. 



Enter Myrriia. 

Myr. King ! the sky 

Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder, 
In cloude that seem approaching fast, and show 

In Inrk'.-d ll.ishes a i.-.ni,inaii iin^ h'mjiest. 

Will you then quit the palace? 

Sar. Tempest, sayst thou ? 

Jrfyr, Ay, my good lord. 

Sar. For my own part, I should be 

Not ill content to vary the smooth scene, 
And watch the warring elements ; but this 



Act lit. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



277 



Would Utile suit The silken garments and 
Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, Myrrha, 
Art thou of those who dread the roar of clouds ? 

Myr. In my own country we respect their voices 
As auguries of Jove, 

Sar. Jove — ay, your Baal — 

Ours also has a property in thunder, 
And ever and anon some falling bolt 
Proves his divinity, and yet sometimes 
Strikes his own altars. 

M/r. That were a dread omen. 

Sar. Yi.'s — for the priests. Well, we will not go 
forth 
Beyond the palace walls (o night, but make 
Our feast within. 

Myr. Now, Jove be praised ! that he 

Hath heard the prayer thou wouldst not hear. The 

gods 
Are kinder to thee than thou to thyself, 
And Hash this storm between thee and thy foes, 
To shield thee from them. 

Sar. Child, if there be peril, 

Methinks it is the same within these walls 
As on the river^s brink. 

Myr. Not so; these walls 

Are high and strong, and guarded. Treason has 
To penetrate through many a winding way, 
And massy portal ; but in the pavilion 
There is no bulwark. 

Sar. No, nor in the palace, 

Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle sits 
Nested in pathless clefts, if treachery be : 
Even as the arrow finds the airy king, 
The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm : 
The men, or innocent or guilty, are 
Bani-h'd, and far upon their way. 
Myr. They live, then ? 

Sar. So sanguinary ? Thou ! 
Myr. I would not shrink 

From just infliciion of due punishment 
On those who seek your life : wer 't otherwise, 
I should not merit mine. Besides, yon heard 
The princely Salumenes. 

Sar. This is strange; 

The gentle and the austere are both agaitist me, 
And urge me to revenge. 

Myr. 'T is a Greek virtue. 

Sar. But not a kingly one — I 'II none on 't ; or 
If ever I indulge in 't, it shall be 
With kings — my equals. 
Myr. These men sought to be so. 

Sar. Myrrha, this is too feminine, and springs 

Prom fear 

Myr. For you. 

Sar. No matter, still 't is fear. 

I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath, 
Are timidly vindictive to a pilch 
Of perseverance, which I would not copy. 
I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
The childless helplessness of Asian women. 

Myr. My lord, T am no boaster of my love, 
X it of my attributes : I have shared your splendour, 
And will partake your fortunes. You may live 
To find one slave more true than subject myriads ; 
But this the gods avert! I am content 
To be beloved on trust for what I feel, 
Rather than prove it to you in your gri< fs, 
Which might not yield to any cares of mine. 

Sar. Grief cannot come where perfect love exists, 
Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
That which it could not scare away. Let's in — 
The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
To meet the invited guests, who grace our feast. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT in. 

Scene I. — The Hull of the Palace illuminated— Sauda- 
napalus and his Guests at Table. — A Storm without^ 
and Thunder occasionally heard during (he Banquet. 

Sar. Fill full ! why this is at it should be : hero 
Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 
Happy as fair! Here sorrow cannot reach. 

Zam. Nor elsewhere — where the king is, pleasure 

sparkles. 
Sar. Is not this belter now than Nimrod's huntings, 
Or my wild grandam's chase in search of kingdoms 
She could not keep when conquer'd ? 

Alt. Mighty though 

They were, as all thy royal line have been, 
Yet none of those who went before have reach'd 
The acme of Sardanapalus, who 
Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true glory. 

Sar. And pleasure, good Altada, to which glory 
Is but the path. What is it that we seek ? 
Enjoyment ! We have cut the way short to it, 
And not gone tracking it through human ashes, 
Making a grave with every footstep. 

Zam. No ; 

AH hearts are happy, and voices bless 
The king of peace, who holds a world in jubilee. 
Sar. Art sure of that ? I have heard otherwise, 
Some say that there be traitors. 

Zam. Traitors they 

Who dare to say so! — 'T is impossible. 
What cause ? 

Sar. What cause? true, — fill the goblet up 

We will not think of (hem : there are none such, 
Or if there bej they are gone. 

Jilt. Guests, to my pledge ! 

Down on your knees, and drink a measure to 
The safety of ihe king — the monarch, say I? 
The god Sardanapalus ! 

[Zames and the Guests kneel, and exclaim-r 
Mightier than 
His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus ! 

[It thunders as they kneel; some start up in 
confusion. 
Zam. Why do you rise, my friends ? in that strong peal 
His faiher gods consented. 

Myr. Menaced, rather. 

King, wilt thou bear this mad impiety? 

Sar. Impiety ! — nay, if the sires whoreign'd 
Before me can be gods, I Ml not disgrace 
Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends; 
Hoard your devoiion for the thunderer there ; 
I see but to be loved, not worshippM. 

Alt. Both— 

Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 

Sar. Metlvnks the thunders still increase : it is 
An awful night. 

Myr. Oh yes, for those who have 

No palace to protect their worshippers. 

Sar. That's true, my Myrrha ; and could I convert 
My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
I'd do it. 

Myr. Thou 'rt no god, then, not to be 
Able to work a will so good and general, 
As thy wish would imply. 

Sar. And your gods, then, 

Who can, and do not ? 

Jtfyr. Do not speak of that, 

Lest we provoke them. 

Sar. True, they love not censure 

Better than mortals. Friends, a thought has struck me 
Were there no temples, would there, think ye, be 
Air worshippers ? that is, when it is angry, 
And pelting as even now. 

Myr. The Persian pray« 

Upon his mountain. 



278 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Act III. 



Sar. Yes, when the ma shines, 

Myr, And I would a^k if this your palace were 
Unroof'd and desolate] how many flatterers 
Would lick the dust in which the kinz lay low? 

.}!. The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 
Upon a naiion whom she knows not well ; 
The Assyrians know do pleasure hut their king's ; 
And homage is their pride. 

Sar. Nay, pardon, guests, 

The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 

Ml. Pardon! sire: 

We honour her of all things next to thee. 
Hark ! what was that? 

Zoffl. That! nothing but the jur 

Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 

Jill, It sounded like tht: clash of — hark again ! 

Zam. The big rain pattering on the roof. 

Sar. No more. 

Myrrha, my love, hast thou thy shell in order ? 
Sine me a son* of Sappho, her, thou know 'si, 
Who in my country threw 

Enter Pakia, with his sword and garments bloody, 
and disordered. The Guests rise in confusion. 

Pan. (to tht Guards.) Look to the portals ; 

And with your best speed to the walls without. 
Your arms! To arms! the king's in danger. Monarch ! 
Excuse this haste, — 'tis faith. 

Sar. Speak on. 

Pan. It is 

As Sa'emenes fear'd : the faithless satraps — — 

Sar. You are wounded — give some wine. Take 
breath, good Pania. 

Pan. 'T is nothing — a mere flesh wound. I am worn 
Wore with niv speed to warn my sovereign, 
Than hurt in his defence. 

Myr. Well, sir, the rebels ? 

Part. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses rpach'd 
Their stations in the city, they refused 
To march ; and on my attempt to use the power 
Which I was delegated with, they call'd 
Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 

Mijr. All ? 

Pan. Too many. 

Sar, Spare not of thy free speech, 

To spare mine ears the truth. 

Pan. My own slight guard 

Were faithful, and what \ left of it is still so. 

Myr. And are these all the force still faithful / 

Pan. No— 

The Hadrians, now led on by Salemenes, 
Who even then was on his way, si ill urged 
By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs, 
An' numerous, and make strong head against 
The rebels, lighting inch by inch, and forming 
An orb around the palace, where they mean 
To centre ill their force, and Bave the king. 
(Hie hesitates.) I am charged to 

Myr, 'T is no time for hesitation. 

Pan. Prince Salemenes doth implore the king 
To arm himself, although hut for a moment] 
And show himself unio the soldiers : his 
Sole presence in this instant might do more 
Than hosts can do in his behalf. 

Sar. What, ho ! 

My armour there. 

Myr. And wilt thou? 

Sar. Will I not? 

Ho, there ! — but seek not for the buckler : 't is 
Too heavy : — a light cuirass and my sword. 

Where are the rebels? 

Pan. Scarce a furlong's length 

From the outward wall, the fiercest conflict rages, 
Sar. Then 1 may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho ! | 



Order my horse out. There is space enough 
Even in our courts, and by the outer gate, 
To marshal half the horsemen of Arabia. 

Exit Sfero for the armour. 

Myr, How I do love thee ! 

S '. I ne'er doubted it. 

Myr. But now I knoxv thee. 

Sar. (to his Attendant.) Bring down my spear to— 
\Y L. n \s Salemenes ? 

Pan. Where a soldier should be, 

In the thick of the fight. 

Sor. Then hasten to him Is 

Tie- path still open and communication 
Lcfl 'twist the palace and the phalanx? 

Pan. *T was 

When I late left him. and I have no fear ; 
Our troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd. 

Sar. Tetl him to spare his person for the present, 
And that I will uol spare my own — and say, 
I come* 

Pan. There 's victory in the very word. 

[Exit Pania. 

.Sar. Aliada — Zames — forth, and arm ye! There 
Is all in readiness in the armoury. 
See that the women are bestow'd in safety 
In the remote apartments, let a guard 
Be set before them, with strict charge to quit 
The post but with their lives— command it, Zames. 
Aliada, arm yourself, and return here; 
Your post is near our person. 
[Exeunt Zames, Altada, and all save Myrrha 
Enter Sfero and others with the King's Jfrms, 4*c. 

Sfe. King ! your armour. 

Sar. [amiing himSi \f,) QlV« me the cuirass — so: my 
baldric ; now 
My sword ; 1 had forgot the helm — where is it ? 
That 's well — no, *t is too heavy : you mistake, too, 
It w,t^ not this I meant, but that which bears 
A diadem around it. 

Sfe. Sire, I deenVd 

That too conspicuous from the precious stones 
To risk your sacred brow beneath — and, trust me, 
This is of better metal, though less rich. 

Sar. You deem'd ! Are you too turn'd a rebel ? Fellow 
Your part is to obey : return, and — no — 
It is too late — I will go forth without it. 

Sfe. At least wear this. 

Sar. Wear Caucasus! why, 't is 

A mountain on my temples. 

Sfe, Sire, the meanest 

Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to battle. 
All men will recognize you— fur the storm 
Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her bright- 
ness. 

Sar. I go forth to he recognized, and thus 
Shall be so sooner. Now— my spear ! I 'm arm'd. 

\li\ going stops short, and turns to Sfero. 
Sfero— I had forgotten— bring the mirror.* 

Sfe. The mirror, sire ? 

Sar. Yes, sir, of polish'd brass, 

Brought from the spoils of India — but be speedy. 

]Exit Sfero. 

Sar. Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
Why went you not forth with the other damsels? 
Myr. Because my place is here. 

Sor. And when I am gone 

Myr. I follow. 

Sar. You ! to battle ? 

Myr, If' 1 were so, 

T were not the first Greek girl had trod the path. 
I will await here your return. 



' Such (he mirror Otho held 
la the lUyriao fiejtl."— B« Juvewrt. 



Act HI. 



SARDANAPALU3. 



279 



Sar. The place 

Is spacious, and the first to be sought out, 
If they prevail ; and, if it should be so, 
And I return not — 

Myr, Still we meet again. 

Sar. How ? 

Myr, In the spot where all must meet at last — 

In Hades ! if there be, as I believe, 
A shore beyond the Styx : and if there be not, 
In ashes. 

Sar. Darest thou so much? 

Myr. I dare all things 

Except survive what I have loved, to be 
A rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest. 

Re-enter Sfero with the mirror. 

Sar. {looking at himself.) This cuirass fits me well, 
the baldric belter, 
And the helm not at all. Methinks I seem 

[Flings airay the helmet after trying it again. 
Passing well in these toys : and now to prove them. 
Altada! Where 's Altada? 

S/e. Waiting, sire, 

Without : he has your shield in readiness. 

Sar. True ; I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
By right of blood, derived from aje to age. 
Myrrha, embrace me; — vet once more — once more — 
Love me, whate'er betide. Mv chiefest glory 
Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 

Myr. Go forth, and couquei ! 

[Exeunt Sardanapalus and Sferh. 
Now, I am alone, 
All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 
Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
Not for that he is king; for now his kingdom 
Ror.ks underneath his throne, and the earth yawns 
To yield him no more of it than a grave ; 
And yet I love him more. Oh, mighty Jove ! 
Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian, 
Who knows not of Olympus! yes, I love him 

Now, now, fir more than Hark — lo the war shout \ 

Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 

[She draws forth a smaUxnaL 
This cunning Colchian poison, which my fattier 
Learn'd to compound on Euxine shores, and taught me 
How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed me 
Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 
1 half forgot I was a slave: — where all 
Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude, 
So they are served in turn by something low et 
In the degree of bondage, we forget 
That shackles worn like ornaments no less 
Are chains. Again that shout ! and now the clash 
' tf arms — and now — and now 

Enter Altada. 

flit. Ho, Sfero, ho ! 

Myr. He is not here ; what wouldst thou with him ? 
How 
Goes on the conflict? 

,i [. Dubiously and fiercely. 

Myr. And the king? 

,fl/f. Like a king. I must find Sfero, 

And bring him a new spear and his own helmet. 
He fights till now bareheaded, and by far 
Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face, 
And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad light, 
His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
Is pointed at ihe fair hair and fair features. 
And the broad fillet which crowns both. 

Myr. Ye gods, 



Who fulminate o'er my father's land, protect him! 
Were you sent by the king ? 

Jilt. By Salemenes, 

Who sent me privily upon this charge, 
Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign. 
The king ! the king lights as he revels ! ho ! 
What, Sfero! I will seek the armoury — 
He must be there. [Exit Altada. 

Myr. *T is no dishonour — no — 

'T is no dishonour to have loved this man. 
I almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
Before that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
She-garb, and wielding her vile distaff; surely 
He, who springs up a Hercules at once, 
Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to manhood, 
And rushes from the banquet to the battle, 
As though it wete a bed of love, deserves 
That a Greek girl should be his paramour, 
And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
His monument. How goes the strife, sir? 
Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Lost, 

Lost almost past recovery. Zames ! Where 
Is Zames? 

Myr. Posted with the guard appointed 

To watch before the apartment of the women. 

[Exit officer, 

Myr. (solus.) He 's gone ; and told no more than 
that all's lost! 
What need have I to know more? In those words, 
Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
Of thousands, and the fortune of all left 
With life, are merged ; and I, too, with the great, 
Like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
Which bore it, shall he nothing. At the least 
My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
Shall count me with his spoils'. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. Away with me, 

Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
A moment — all that's left us now. 

Myr. The king? 

Pan. Sent me here to conduct you hence, beyond 
The liver, by a secret passsage. 

Myr. Then 

He lives 

Pan. And charged me to secure your life, 
And beg vou to live on for his sake, (ill 
He can rejoin you. 

Myr Will he then give way? 

Pan. Not till the last. Still, sriil he does whate'er 
Despair can do; and step by step disputes 
The very palace. 

Myr, They are here, then : — ay, 

Their shouts come ringing through the ancient halls, 
Never profaned by rebel echo* s till 
This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line ! 
Farewell to ali of Nimrod ! Even the name 
Is now no more. 

Pan. Away with me — away! 

Myr. No: I 'II die here ! — Away, and tell your king 
I loved him lo the last. 

Enter Sardanapalcs ami Salemenes with soldiers. 
Pania quits Myrrha, and ranges himself with them, 

Sar. Since it is thus, 

We'll die where we were horn — in our own halls. 
Serry your ranks — stand firm. I have despatched 
A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
All fresh and faithful ; they Ml be here anon. 
All is not over. — Pania, look to Myrrha. 

[Pania returns towards Myrrha. 



280 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Act III. 



Sal. We have breathing lime ; yet once more charge 
m v friends — 

One for Assyria ! 

Sar. Rather say fur Bactria ! 

My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
King of your nalion, and we'll hold together 
This realm as province. 

Sal. Hark ! they come — they come. 

Enter Belesf.s and Arbaces with the Rebels. 
Arb. Set on, we have them in the toil. Charge ! 

Charge ' 
Bel. On ! on ! — Heaven fights lor us, and with us. — 
On! 
[They charge the King and Salemeses with their 
'/', o ips, who -A ft n t thi "' elves 'ill thi Arrival of 
ZametfWith Ote Guard bej <■<'.. Zni 

R Is are then driven off\ and pursued In/ Sale* 
heses. tyc. Am the King j.n going to joinUic 
pursuit t Belkses gtosh | 
r ,,!. Hi! tyrant — { will end this war. 
Sar. Even so, 

Mv warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
Grateful and trusty subject : — yield, 1 pray thee. 
I would reserve thee for & filter doom, 
Rather than dip my hands in huly blood. 
Bel. Thine hour is come, 

Soft No, thine. — I 've lately read, 

Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
An I, ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
That thou wilt now he crush'd, 

Be*. Bui not by thee. 

[ Tha/ fight ; Belesi - U w >un<ft d an,d disarmed. 
Sar, { ■ i word to dt ipatch him, exclaims) — 

Now call Upon thy planets, will they shoot 
From the sky to preserve their seer and credit ? 

(./ party of Rebels enter and rescue Belesbs. 
They assail the King, who, in turn, is n sated 
by a Party of his Soldiers, who drive the 
Rebels off. 
The villain was a prophet after all. 
Upon them — ho ! there — victory is ours. 

[Exit in pursuit. 
Myr. {to Pan.) Pursue! Why stand's! thou here, 
and leaves! the ranks 
Of fellow-soldiers conquering without thee? 
Pan. The king's command was, not to quit theo. 
Myr* Me ! 

Think not of me — a single soldier's arm 
Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
I need no guard: what, with a world at stake, 
Keep watch Upon a woman ? Hence, I say, 
Or thou an shamed ! Nay, then, / will go Forth) 
A feeble female, 'midsl their desperate strife, 

And bid thee guard tab then — where thou shouldsl shield 

Thy sovereijn. [Exit Mykrha. 

Pan. Y'-t stay, damsel ! Sue 's gone. 

If aught of ill betide her, better I 
Had losl my life. Surdanapatua holds her 
Far dearer than his kin- I. .in. yet he Eights 
Fur that too ; and can I do less than he, 
\\ ho never flashed a scimitar till now? 
Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
In disobedience to the monarch. [Exit Pania. 

Enter Altada and Spbro by an apposite, door. 

Jilt. Myrrha! 

What, gone? yet she was here when l he fight raged, 
And Pania also. Can ought have befallen them ? 

Sfe. I saw both safe, when late the rebels fled: 
They probably are but retired to make 
Their way back to (he harem. 

Jilt. If the king 

Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 



To worse than captive rebels. 

Sfe. Let us trace them, 

She cannot be fled far ; and, found, she makes 
A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
Than his recovered kingdom. 

.ill. Baal himself 

Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire, than 
His silken son to save it ; he defies 
All augury of foes or friends; and like 
i b and sultry summer's day, which bodes 

A twilight tempest, bursts forth in such thunder 
As swet ip nd deluges the earth. 

The man 'a ins* I ul &b •■. 

Sfe. Not more than others. 

All are the sons of circumstance : away — 
Let's seek the slave out, or prepare to be - 
Tortured for his infatuation, and 
Condemn'd without a crime. [Exeunt. 

Enter Salem en es and Soldiers, fyc. 

Sal. The triumph is 

Flattering : they are beaten backward from the palace 

And we have i.jh n'd r 

To the (.roups st;iii"ii\l on the other side 

Euphrates, who may still be 'rue ; nay, must be, 
When they hear of our victory. But where 
Is the chief victor ? where 's the king I 

Enter Sardanai*ai.us,cmjh suis, §-c. and Mtrrha. 

Sar. Here, brother. 

Sal. Unhurt, I hope. 

Sar. Not quite ; but let it pass. 
We 've clear'd the palace 

Sal. And I trust the city. 

Our numbers gather ; and I 've ordered onward 
A cloud of Parlhiane, hitherto reserved, 

All fresh and fury, to be pour'd upon them 
In iheir relrent, which soon will be B flight. 

Sar, It is already, or at least they march'd 
Faster than I eould follow wiih my Bactrians, 
Who spared no speed. I am spent : give me a seal. 

Sal. There stands the throne, sire. 

Sar. 'T is no place to rest on, 

For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 

[They place a seat* 
A peasant's stool, I care not what : so — now 
I breathe more freely. 

Sal. This great hour has proved 

The brightest and most glorious of your life. 

Sar. And the most tiresome. Where 's my cupbearer'' 
Bring me some water. 

Sal. {smiling.) *T is the first time he 

Ever had such an order: even I, 
Your most austere of counsellors) would now 
Suggest a purplcr beverage. 

Sar, Blood, doubtless. 

But there 's enough of that shed ; as for wine, 
I have leam'd lo-nighl (he price of the pure element. 

Thrice have I drank of It, and tinier renew'd, 
Willi gn ater Strength than the grape ever gave me, 

args upon the rebels. Whore 's the soldier 
Who gave me water in his helmet? 

Om of thi Guards. Slain, sire! 

An arrow pierced his brain, while, scattering 
The last drops from his helm, ho stood in act 
To place it on his brows. 

Sar. Slain ! unrewarded ! 

And slain to serve my thirst: that 's hard, poor slave! 
Had he but lived, I would have gorged him with 
Gold : all the gold of eanh could ne'er repay 
The pleasure of that draught ; for I was parch'd 
As I am now. f They bring water — he drinks. 

I live again — from henceforth 
The goblet I reserve for hours of love, 
But war on water. 



ArT IV. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



281 



Sal. And that bandage, sire, 

Which girds your arm ? 

Sar. A scratch from brave Beleses. 

Myr. Oh ! he is wounded ! 

Sar. Not too much of that ; 

And yet it feels a little stiff and painful, 
Now I am cooler. 

Myr. You have bound it with 

Sar. The fillet of my diadem : the first time 
That ornament was ever aught to me, 
Save an incumbrance. 

Myr. {to the attendants.) Summon speedily 
A leech of the most skilful: pray, retire; 
I will unbind your wound and lend it. 

Sar. Do so, 

For now it throbs sufficiently: but what 
Know'st thou of wounds ? yet wherefore do I ask ? 
Know 'si thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
This minion I 

Sab Herding with the other females, 

Like fright enM antelopes. 

Sar. No: like the dam 

Of the young lion, femininely raging, 
(And femininely meaneth furiously, 
Because all passions in excess are female,) 
Against ihe hunter flying with her cub, 
She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldiers, 
In the pursuit. 

So7. Indeed! 

Sar. You see, this night 

Made warriors of more than me. I paused 
To look upon her, and her kindled cheek ; 
Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her long hair 
As it stream'd o'er her; her blue veins that rose 
Along her most transparent brow ; her nostril 
Dilated from its symmetry ; her lips 
Apart ; her voice that clove through all the din, 
As a lute's piercelh through the cymbal's clash, 
Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling ; her 
Waved arms, more dazzling with their own born 

whiteness 
Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up 
From a dead soldier's grasp ; all these things made 
Her seem unto the troops a prophetess 
Of Victory, or Victory herself, 
Gome down to hail us hex's. 

Sat. [aside.) This is too much. 

Again the love-fit *s on him, and all *s lost, 
Unless we turn his thoughts. 

(.lloud.) But pray thee, sire. 
Think of your wound — you said even now 't was painful. 
Sar. That's true, too ; but I must not think of it. 
Sat. I have look'd to all things needful, and will DOW 
Receive reports of progress made in such 
Orders as I had given, and then return 
To hear your further pleasure. 

Sar. Be it so. 

Sat, I'm retiring.) Myrrha! 

Myr. Prince! 

Sal You have shown a soul to-night, 

Which, were he not my sister's lord But now 

I have no time : thou lovest the king ? 

Myr, I love 

Sardanapalus. 

Salt Bui wouldst have him kins still? 

Myr. I would not have him less than what he should be. 
Sal. Well then, to have him king, and yours, and all 
He should, or should not be ; to have him live, 
Let him not sink back into luxury. 
You have more power upon his spirit than 
Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 
Racing without : look well that he relapse not. 

Myr. There needed not the voice of Salemenes 
To urge me on to this : I will not fail. 
2 L 



Is power 



All that a woman's weakness can — 

Sal. 
Omnipotent o'er such a heart as hi; 
Exert it wisely. [Erit Salemenes. 

Sar. Myrrha! what, at whispers 

With my stern brother? I shall soon be jealous. 

Myr. [smiling.) You have cause, sire; for on the 
earth there breathes not 
A man more worthy of a woman's love — 
A soldier's trust — a subject's reverence — - 
A king's esteem — the whole world's admiration ! 

Sar. Praise him, but not so warmly. I must not 
Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in aught 
That throws'me into shade ; yet you speak truth. 

Myr, And now retire, to have your wound look'd to. 
Pray, lean on me. 

SoT. Yes, love ! but not from pain- 

[Exeunt omnes* 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Sardanapalus discovered sleepingupon 
a Couch, and occasionally disturbed in his Slum- 
bers, with Mirrha watching. 

Myr. (sola, gazing.) I have stolen upon his rest, if 
rest u be, 
Which thus convulses slumber : shall I wake him ? 
No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Ctuiet ! 
Whose reign is o'er seal'd eyelids and soft dreams, 
Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd, 
Look like thy brother, Death — so still — so stirless— - 
For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
Are happiest of all within the realm 
Of thy stern, silent, and unwakening twin. 
Again he moves — again the play of pain 
Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gU3t 
Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 
Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the blast 
Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
I must awake him — yet not yet: who knows 
From what I rouse him? It seems pain; but if 
1 quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 
Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
His wound, though slight, may cause all this, and shake 
Me more to see than him to suffer. No: 
Let nature use her own maternal means,— 
And I await to second not disturb her. 

Sar. (awakening.) Not so — although ye multiplied 
the stars, 
And gave them to me as a realm lo share 
From you and with you ! I would not so purchase 
The empire of eternity. Hence— hence — 
Old hunter of the earliest brutes! and ye, 
Who hunted fellow- creatures as if brutes! 
Once bloody mortals — and now bloodier idols, 
If your priests lie not ! And thou, ghastly beldame '. 
Dripping with dusky £°re, and trampling on 
The carcasses oflnde — away ! away! 

Where am I? Where the spectres? Where No— 

that 
Is no false phantom : I should know it 'midst 
All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
From their black gulf to daunt the living. Myrrha! 

Myr. Alas' thou art pale, and on thy brow the drop 
Gather like ni^ht dew. My beloved, hush — 
Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another world, 
And thou art loved of this. Be of good cheer; 
And all will go well. 

Sar. Thy hand — so — 't is thy hand ; 

*T is flesh ; grasp — clasp — yet closer, till I feel 
Myself that which I was. 

Myr. At least know me 



2S2 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Act IV. 



For what I am, and ever must be — thine. 

Sar. I know it now. I know this life again. 
Ah, Myrrha ! I have been where we shall be. 

Myr. My lord! 

Sar. 1 've been i' the grave — where the worms arc lords, 

And kings are But I did not deem it so ; 

I thought 't was nothing. 

Myr, So it is ; except 

TTnto the timid, who anticipate 
That which may never be. 

Sar. Oh, Myrrha! if 

Sleep show such things, what may not death dia 

.Mur. I know no evil death can show, which life 
Has not already shown to those who lire 
Embo lied longest. If there be ind< ed 
A shore, where mind survives, 'i will be as mind, 
All unincorporate : or if there Sits 
A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay, 
Which stalks, methii our souls and heaven, 

And fellers us to earth — at least the phantom] 
Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 

S ir, I fear it not ; but I have felt— have seen — 
A legion of die dead. 

.Mip: And so have I. 

The dust we tread upon was once alive, 
And wretched. But pro.-i . ■,] : what hast thou seen? 

Sneak it, 'twill lighten thy dimm'd mind. 

S tr. Methought 

Jtfyr, yet pause, thou art lired — in pain— exhausted | 
all 
Which can impair both strength and spirit : seek 
Rather to sleep again. 

Sar. Not now — I would not 

Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 
What I have dreamt : — and canst thou bear to hear it ? 

JhTyr. I can bear all things, dreams of life or death, 
Which I participate with you, in semblance 
Or full reality. 

Sar. And this look'd real, 

I tell you : after thai these - yes were open, 
I saw them in their flight — for then they tied. 

Myr. Say on. 

Sar. I saw, that is, I dreamM myself 

Here— here — even where we are, guests as we were, 
Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest, 
Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
But, uii tnv right hand and my left, instead 
Of theo and Zanies, and our accustom'd meeting, 
Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark, 
And deadly face — I could not recognize it, 
Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where ; 
The features were a giant's, and the eye 
Was still, yet lighted ; his long locks curl'd down 
On his vast bust, whence a huge quiver rose 
With shaft-heads feather'd from the eagle's wing, 
That peep'd up bristling through his serpent hair. 

I invited him to fill the cup which stood 

Between us, but he answer'd not — I fiU'd it — ■ 
He took it not, but stared upon me, till 
I trembled at the hVd glare of his eye: 

I frown. I u "in him as a king should frown — 
He frown'd not in his turn, but look'd upon mo 
With the same aspect, which appal I'd me more, 
Because it changed not ; and I tuni'd For refuge 
To milder guests, and sought them on the right, 

Were thou wert wont to be. Bui 

[He pauses. 

J\Jyr. What instead ? 

Sar. In thy own chair — thy own place in the ban- 
quet — 
I sought thy sweet face in the circle — but 
Instead — a gray-hair'd, wither'd, bloody-eyed, 
And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing, 
Female in garb, and crown'd upon the brow, 
FurrowM with years, yet sneering with the passion 



Of vengeance, leering too wiih that of lust, 
Sate: — my veins curdled. 

Mgr. Is this all? 

Sar. I T pon 

Her right hand — her lank, bird-like right hand — stood 
A goblet, bubbling o'er with blnoa ; and on 

. another, filt'd i ith— what I saw not, 
But lurn'd from it and her. Bur all along 
The table sate a range of crowned wretches, 
Of various aspects, hut of one expression. 

. And felt you not this a mere vision? 

It was so palpable, I could have touch'd litem. 

n face to another, in 
The hope to find at last one which I knew 
Ere I saw theirs : but no — all turn'd upon me, 
And stared, but neither ate nor drank, hut stared 

i half to be, 
Vim breathing m tan, tot I felt life in them, 
And life in me : there was .1 horrid kind 
l if sympathy betw< en us, as if they 

a part uf death lo come tome. 
And I the half of life to sit by them. 
\\v weir in ;iu existence all apart 

From heaven or earth And rather let me see 

Death all than such a being ! 

Myr. And the end? 

Sar. At last I sate marble, as they, when rose 
The hunter, and the crew ; and smiling on me — 
Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
The hunter smiled upon m( — I should say, 
Hi- lips, for his eyes moved not — and the woman's 
Thin lips relaxM to something like a smile. 

■ ■. and the crown'd figures on each hand 
Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
Mere mimics even in death — but I sate still : 
A desperate coinage crept through every limb, 
And at the last I fear'd them not, but laugh'd 
Full io their phantom faces. But then — then 
The hunter laid his hand on mine : 1 took it, 
And grasp'd it — but it melted from my own, 
While he too vanish 'd, and left nothing but 
The memniy of a hero, for he look'd so. 

lAfvr. And was : the ancestor of heroes, too, 
And thine no less. 

Sot. Ay. Myrrha, but the woman, 

The female who remam'd, she flew upon me, 
And burnt my lips up with her noisome kisses, 
And, Singing down the goblets on each hand, 
Methought their poisons fiow'd around us, (ill 
Each form'd a hideous river. Still she clung ; 

Ti ther phantoms, like a row of statues, 

Stood dull as i m temples, but she still 

Embraced me, while I shrunk from her, as if, 

in lieu ofher remote descendant, I 

Had been the son who sl--w her tor her incest. 

Then - then— a chaos ol all loathsome things 

ThrnngM thick and shapeless : I was dead, yet feeling— 

Buribd and raised a gain — consumed By wt 

l 'in god '!'■ ;: " Harm \ and w ilherM in the air ! 

1 can ti\ nothing further of my thoughts, 

Li 1 long'd for thee, and sought for thee, 
11 e agonies, and woke and found thee. 

Myr, So shall ihou find me ever at thy side, 
Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
But think not of these things — the mere creations 
1 If tale event-;, acting upon a frame 
Unused to toil, yet overwrought by toil 
Such as might try the sternest. 

Sar. I am better. 

Now ihat I see thee once more, what was seen 
Seems nothing. 



Sat. 



Enter Salemeses. 
Is the king so soon awake ? 



Act IV. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



283 



Sar. Yes, brother, and I would I had not slept ; 
For al! the predecessors ofour line 
Rose up, methought, to drag me down to them. 
My father was among them, too; but he, 
I know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
Between the hunter-founder of our race, 
And her, the homicide and husband-killer, 
Whom you call glorious. 

Sal. So I term you also, 

Now you have shown a spirit like to hers. 
By day-break I propose that we set forth, 
And charge once more ihe rebel crew, who still 
Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not quite quell'd. 
Sar. How wears the night? 

Sat. There yet remain some hours 

Of darkness : use them fur your further rest. 

Sar. N ', n >t to-night, if't is not gone : methought 
I pass'd hou.s iii that vision. 

Juyr. Scarcely one ; 

I watch'd by you: it was a heavy hour, 
But an hour uniy. 

Sar. Let us then hold council ; 

To-morrow we set forth. 

Sal. But ere that time, 

I had a grace to seek. 

Sar. 'T is granted. 

Sal, Hear it 

Ere you replv too readily ; and 't is 
For your ear only. 

Jtfyr. Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit Mtrrha. 
Sal. That slave deserves her freedom, 
Sar. Freedom only ! 

That slave deserves to share a throne. 

Sal. Your patience — 

'T is not yet vacant, and 't is of its partner 
I come to speak with you. 

Sar. Hnw ! of r he queen ? 

Sal. Even so. I judged it fitting for their ^ifety. 
That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her i iluren 
For Paphlagonia, where our kinsman Cotta 
Governs ; and there at all events secure 
My nephews and your eons their lives, and with them 

Their just pretensions to the crown in case 

Sar. I perish — as is probable: well thought — 
X.et them set fjrth with a sure escort. 

Sal. That 

Is all provided, and the galley ready 
To drop down the Euphrates; but ere they 

Depart, will you not see 

Sar. My sons ? It may 

Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep ; 
And what can I reply to comfort them, 
Save with some hollow hopes, and ill-worn smiles ? 
You know I cannot feign. 

Sal. Bur you ran feel ; 

At least, T trust so : in a word, the queen 
Requests to see you ere vou part — for ever. 

Sar. Unto what end .' what purpose? I will grant 
Aught — all th.iLshe can ask — but such a meeting, 

S i r Tou know, or ought to know, enough of women, 
Since von have studied them so Bteadily, 
That what they ask in aught that touches on 
The heart, is dearer to their feeling? or 
Their fancy, than the whole external world. 
I think as you do of my sister's wish ; 
But 't was her wish — she is my sister — you 
Her husband — will you grant it ? 

Sar. 'T will be useless : 

But let her come. 
Sal. I go. 

{Exit Salf.menes. 
Sar. We have lived asunder 

Too long to meet again — and now to meet! 
Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow, 



To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows, 
Who have ceased to mingle love? 

He-enter Salemexes «ji(/Zarin'a. 



Sal. My sister ! Courage, 

Shame not our blood with trembling, but remember 
From whence we sprung. The queen is present, sire. 

Zar. I pray thee, brother, leave me. 

So!, Since you ask it. 

[Exit Salemenes. 
Zar. Alone with him ! How many a year has past, 
Though we are still so young, since we have met, 
Which I have worn in widowhood of heart. 
He loved me not : yet fie seems little changed — 
Changed to me only — would the change were mutual! 
He speaks not — scarce regards mc — not a word — 
Nor look — yet he it'as soft of voice and aspect — 
Indifferent, not austere. My lord ! 

Sar. Zarina ! 

Zar. No, not Zarina- — do not say Zarina. 
That tone — that word — annihilate long years, 
And things which make them longer. 

Sar. 'T is too late 
To think of these past dreams. Let's not reproach — 
That is, reproach me not — for the last time 

Zar. Andjirst. I ne'er reproach'd you.. 

Sar. 'T is most true; 

And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 
Than But our hearts are not in our own power. 

Zar. Nor hands ; but I gave both. 

Sar. Your brother said 

It was your will to see me, ere you went 
From Nineveh with (He hesitates.) 

Zar. Our children : it is true. 

I wish'd to thank you that you have not divided 
My heart from all that's left it now to love — 
Those who are yours and mine, who look like you, 
And look upon me as you look'd upon me 
Once But they have not changed. 

Sar. Nor ever will. 

I fain would have them dutiful. 

Zar. I cherish 

Those infants, nor alone from the blind love 
Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
They are now the only tie between us. 

Sar. Deem not 

I have not done you justice : rather make them 
Resemble your own line than their own sire. 
1 trust them with you — to you : fit them for 

A throne, or, if that be denied You have heard 

Of this night's tumults? 

Zar. I had half forgotten, 

And could have welcomed any grief save yours, 
Which gave me to behold your face again. 

Sar. The throne — I sav it not in fear — but 'tis 
In peril; they perhaps may never mount it: 
But let ihem not for this lose sight of it. 
I will Hare all things to bequeath it them j 
But if 1 fail, then they must win it back 
Bravelv — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
Have wasted down my royalty. 

Zar. They ne'er 

Shall know from me of aught but what may honour 
Their father's memory. 

Sar. Rather let them hear 

The truth from von than from a trampling world. 
If they be in adversity, they'll learn 
Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless princes, 
And 6nd that all iheir father's sins are theirs. 
My bovs ! — I could have borne it were I childless. 

Zar. Oh ! do not say so — do not poison all 
Mv peace lift, by unwishing that thou wert 
A father. If thou conquerest, they shall reign, 
And honour him who saved the realm for ihem, 



284 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Act IV. 



So Utile cared for as his own ; and if 

Sar. 'T is lost, all earth will cry out thank your father .' 
And they will swell the echo with a curse. 

Zar. That they shall never do ; hut rather honour 
The name of him, who, dying lik*- akin 
In hia last hours did more fur Ins own memory 
Than many monarchs in a length of da] 
Which date the flight of time, hut make no annals. 

Sar. Our annals draw perchance unto their close 
Hut at ihe least, whatever the past, their end 
Shall be like their beginning memoi able. 

Zar. Yet, be not rash — be careful of your life, 
Live but fur those who love. 

Sar. And who are they ? 
A slavej who loves from pas-inn — I Ml not say 
Ambition — she has seen thrones shake, and loves; 
A few friends, who have revell'd till we are 
As one, fjr they are nothing if I fall ; 
A brother I have injured — children whom 
i have neglected, and a spouse 

Zar. Who loves. 

Sar. And pardons ? 

I have never thought of tins, 



And / — let me say we — shall yet be happy, 
\ ni is not all the earth — we Ml find 
A world out of our own — and be more blest 
Than I have ever been, or thou, with all 
An empire to indulge thee. 

Enter Salemenes. 



And cannot pardon till I have condeum'd. 

Sar. My wife ! 

Zar. Now blessings on thee for that word ! 

I never thought to hear it more — from thee. 

Sar. Oh! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. Yes — 

These slaves whom I have nurtured, p.imper'dj fed, 
And swoln with peace, and gorg'd with plenty, (ill 
They reign themselves-— all monarchs in their mansions. 
Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
His death, who made tin-it lives a jubilee; 
While the few upon whom 1 have no claim 
Are faithful! This is true, pel monstrous. 

Zar. 'T is 

Perhaps too natural ; fur ben 
Turn poison in bad mind 

Sar. And good ones make 

Good out of eviL Happier than the bee, 
Which hives not but from wholesome flowers. 

Zar. Then reap 

The honey, nor inquire whence 't is derived. 
Be satisfied — you are not all abandoned. 

Sar. Mv life insures mi- that. How long, bethink you 
\\ i e not I yet a king, should I be mortal ; 
That is, where mortals are, not where Hi' i must be? 

Zar. I kno v not. But yet live for my — that is, 
Your children's sake ! 

S.u\ My gentle, wrong'd Zarina ! 

I am the very slave of circumstance 
And impulse — borne away with every hreaih ! 
\l i iplaced upon the throne - misplaced in life, 

I know not what I COUld have been, but feel 

I am not what I should be — let it end. 
But take this with thee : if I was notfbrmM 
Vo prize b love life thine, ;i mind tike thine. 
Nor dote even mi thy beauty — as I 've doled 
On losser charms, for nocau ■ Bavi thai -such 

Pevotion was a duty, ami 1 h 

All that look'd like a chain for me or others, 
(Tins even rebellion must avouch ;) yet hear 
These words, perhaps among Im last— that none 

K'er valued more ihv virtues, though he knew not 

To profit bv them— as the minei lights 
Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 
That which avails him nothing: he hath found it, 
But 't is not his — but some superior's, who 
Placed him to dig, but not dh ide the wealth 
Which sparkles at his feet ; nor dare he lift 
Nnr poise it, but must grovel on, upturning 
The sullen earth. 

Zor. Oh ! if thou hast at length 

JDiscover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
I ask no more — but lot us heocc together, 



SaL I must part ye— 

The moments, which must not be lost, arc passing. 

Y.ar. Inhuman brother! wilt thou thus weigh out 
Instants so high and blesl ' 

Blest ! 
Zor. He hath been 

So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
Of quitting. 

Sol. So — this feminine farewell 

Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 
1 thought as much, and yielded against all 
M v better bodings, But it must not be. 
Zar. Not be? 

SaL Remain, and perish 

Zor. With my husband . 

Sal. And children. 
Zar. Alas » 

Sal. Hear me, sister, like 

jtft| sister : — ill 's prepared to make your safety 
Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes ; 
'T is not a single question of mere feeling, 
Though that were much — but M is a point of state : 
The rebels would do more to Eeize upon 

The ofispring of their sovereign, and so crush 

Zor. Ah ! do not name it. 

Sal. Well, then, mark me : when 

They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the rebels 
Have miss'd their chief aim — the extinction of 
The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
Fill, his sons live tor victory and vengeance. 
Zar. But could not I remain, alone / 
Sal. What ! leave 

Your children, with two parents and yet orphans — 
In a strange land — so young, so distant ? 

Zor. No— 

My heart will break. 

Sal. Now you know all — decide. 

Sar. Zarina. he hath spoken well, and we 
Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
Remaining here, you may lose all ; departing, 
foil save the better part of what is left, 
To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
As vet beat in these kingdoms. 

Sal. The time presses. 

Sor. Go, then. If e'er we meet again, perhaps 
I mav be worthier of you — and, il not, 
i: tm mber that my faults, though not atoned for, 
Am- ended. Yet.I dread th\ nature will 
' rrieve more above the blighted name and e 

Which once were mightiest in Assyria — than 

But r grow womanish again, and most ni 

I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 

, i |j 1( . softer order hide thy tears — 

i do ri"' bid thee not to shed them— 't were 
Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
But let me not behold them ; they unman mc 
Here when I had n iiiannM myself. My brother, 
Lead her away. 

Zar. Oh, God J I never shall . 

Behold him more ! 
Sal. (striving to conduct her.) Nay, sister, I mnst bo 

obey'd. 
Zar. I must remain — away ! you shall not hold me. 
What, shall he die alone? — / live alone ? 

Sal. He shall not die alone ; but lonely you 
Have lived for years. 



Act IV. 



SARDANAPALUS. 285 

And lord it o'er the heart of the world's lord ? 
Myr. Were you the lord of twice ten thousand 
worlds — 
As you are like to lose the one you sway'd — 
I did abase myse-!f as much in being 
Your paramour, as though you were a peasant — - 
Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 

Sar. You talk it well 

Myr* And truly. 

Sar. In the hour 

Of man's adversity all things grow daring 
Against the falling ; but as I am not 
Quite fall'n, nor now disposed to bear reproaches, 
Perhaps because I merit them too often, 
Let us then part while peace is slill between us. 
Myr. Part ! 

Sar. Have not all past human beings parted, 

And must not all the present one day part? 
Myr. Why ? 

Sar. For your safety, which I will have look'd to 
With a strong escort to your native land ; 
And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
A queen, shall make your dowry worth a kingdom. 
Myr, I pray you talk not thus: 
Sar. The queen is gone : 

Y"ou need not shame to follow. I would fall 
Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 

Myr. And I no pleasure but in parting not. 
You shall not force me from you. 

Sar. Think well of it- 

It soon may be too late. 

Myr. So let it be ; 

For then you cannot separate me from you. 

Sar. And wilt not ; but I thought you wish'd it. 
Myr. I .' 

Sar. You spoke of your abasement. 
Myr. And I feel it 

Deeply — more deeply than all things but love. 
Sar. Then fly from it. 

Myr. 'T will not recall the past — 

'T will not restore my honour, nor my heart. 
No — here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 
I live to joy in your great triumph; should 
Your lol be different, I 'II not weep, but share it. 
You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 

Sar. Your courage never — nor your love till now; 
And none could make me doubL it save yourself. 

Those words 

Myr. Were words. I pray you, let the proofs 

Be in the past acts you were pleased to praise 
This very night, and in my further bearing, 
Beside, wherever you are borne by fate. 

Sar. I am content: and, trusting in my cause, 
Think we may yet be victors and return 
To peace — the only victory 1 covet. 
To me war is no glory — conquest no 
Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right 
Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs 
These men would bow me down with. Never, never 
Can I forget this night, even should I live 
To add it to the memory of others. 
I thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 
An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
A green spot amidst desert centuries, 
On which the future would turn back and smile, 
And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign. 
I thought to have made my realm a paradise, 
And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
I took the rabble's shouts for love — the breath 
Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 
My only guerdon — so they are, my Myrrha : 

[He kisses her* 
Kiss me. Now let them take my realm and life 
They shall have both, but never thee ! 



Zar. Thai *s false ! [ know he lived, 

And lived upon his image — lei me go ! 

Sat. {conducting her off the stage.) Nay, then, I must 
use some fraternal force, 
Which you will pardon. 

Zar. Never. Help me ! Oh ! 

Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
Torn from thee ? 

Sal. Nay — then all is lost again, 

If that this moment is not gain'd. 

Zar. My brain turns — 

My eyes fail^-where is he? [She faints. 

Sar. (advancing.) No — set her down — 

She 's dead — and you have slain her. 

Sal. 'T is the mere 

Faintness of o'erwrought passion : in the air 
She will recover. Pray, keep back. — [*iside.] I must 
Avail myself of this sole moment to 
Bear her to where her children are embark'd, 
I' the royal galley on the river. 

[Salemenes bears her off. 

Sar. ( solus.) This, too — 

And this too must I suffer — I, who never 
Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
A voluntary pang ! But that is false — 
She loved me, and I loved her. — Fatal passion! 
W In dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
Which thou hast lighted up at once ? Zarina ! 
I must pay dearly fur tho desolation 
Now brought upon thee. Had I never loved 
But thee, I should have been an unopposed 
Monarch of honouring nations. To what gulfs 
A single deviation from the track 
Of human duties leads even those who claim 
The homage of mankind as their born due, 
And find it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 

Enter Mvrrha. 

Sar. I'owhere! Who call'd you ? 

Myr. No one — but I heard 

Far off a voice of wail and lamentation, 
And thought- — 

Sar. It forms no portion of your duties 

To enter here till sought for. 

Myr. Though I might, 

Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours, 
(Although they too were chiding,) which reproved me. 
Because I ever dreaded to intrude ; 
Resisting my own wish and your injunction 
To heed no time nor presence, but approach you 
Uncall'd for : 1 retire. 

Sar. Yet stay — being here. 

I pray you pardon me : events have sourU me 
Till I wax peevish — heed it not: I shall 
Soon be myself again. 

Myr. I wait with patience, 

What I shall see with pleasure. 

Sar. Scarce a moment 

Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 
Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 

Myr. Ah! 

Sar. Wherefore do you start? 

Myr, Did I do so ? 

Sar. 'T was well you enterM by another portal, 
Else you had met. That pang at least is spared 
her! 

Myr. I know to feel for her. 

Sar. That is too much, 

And beyond nature — 'l is nor mutual 
Nor possible. You cannot pity her, 
Nor she aught but 

Myr. Despise the favourite slave ? 

Not more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 

Sar. Scorn'd ! what, to be the envy of your sex, 



286 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Act V. 



Jtfyr. No, never '. 

Man may despoil his brother man of all 

That 'a greal "r glittering — kingdoms fall — hosts yield — 

Friends fall — slaves fly — ami nil betray — and, more 

Than all, the most indebted — but a heart 

That loves without self-love ! 'T us here — now prove it. 



Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I sought you — How ! she here again ? 

Sar. Return not 

.Vote to reproof: methinks your aspect speaks 
Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 

Sal. The only woman whom it much imporls me 
At such a moment now is safe in absence — 
The queen 's embark'd. 

Sar. And well ? say that much. 

Sal. Ves. 

Her transient weakness has pass'd o'er ; at least, 
It settled into tearless silence : her 
Pale face and glittering eye, alter a glance 
Upon her sleeping children, were still fix'd 
Upon the palace towers as the swift galley 
Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the starlight ; 
But she said nothing. 

Sar. Would I felt no more 

Than she has said ! 

Sal. *T is now too late to feel ! 

Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang : 
To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 
That ihe rebellious JVIedcs and Chaldees, marshall'd 
By their two leaders, are already up 
In arms again ; and, serrying their ranks, 
Prepare to attack: they have apparently 
Been joiu'd by other satraps. 

Sar. What ' more rebels ? 

Let us be first, then. 

Sal. That were hardly prudent 

Now, though it was our first intention. If 
By noon to-morrow we arejoin'd by those 
1 Ye Bent f>r by sure messengers, we shall bo 
In strength enough to venture an attack, 
Ay, and pursuit loo ; but till then, my voice 
Is to await the onset. 

Sar. I detest 

That waiting ; though it seems so safe to fight 
Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not — 
My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them, 
Though they wore piled on mountains, I would have 
A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! — 
Let mo then charge. 

Sal. You talk like a young soldier. 

Sur. I am no soldier, but a man : speak not 
Of soldiurship, f loathe the word, and those 
Who pride themselves upon it ; but direct mo 
Where I may pour upon them. 

Sal. You must spare 

To expose your life loo hastily ; 't is not 
Like mine or any other subject's breath : 
The whole war turns upon it — with it ; this 
Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it — 
Prolong h — end it. 

Sar. Then let us end both! 

'T were better thus, perhaps, than prolong either ; 
1 'm sick of one, perchance of both. 

[.1 trumpet sounds without. 

Sal. Hark ! 

Sar. Let us 

Reply, not listen. 

Sal. And your wound ! 

Sar. 'T is bound — 

*T is heal'd— I had forgotten it. Away ! 



A leech's lancet would have scratch'd me deeper; 
The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
To have struck so weakly. 

Sal. Now, may none tins hour 

Strike with a better aim ! 

Sar. Ay, if we conquer ; 

But if not, they will only leave to me 
A task they might have spared their king. Upon them? 

[Trumpet sounds again. 

Sal. I am with you. 

Sar. II", my arms! again, my arms! 

[Exeunt 



ACT V. 

Scene [*— The same Hall in the Palact. 

Mvrhha and Balea. 

Jtfyr. ( ti a window,) The day at least has broken 
What a nighl 
Hath usher'd it ! IIuw beautiful in heaveu ! 
Though varied with a transitory storm, 
More beautiful in that variety ! 
How hideous upon earth ! where peace and hope, 
And love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
By human passions to a human chaos, 
Nil V i resolved to separate elements — 
'T is warring still ! And can the sun so rise, 
So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
Vapours mure lovely than the unclouded skv, 
With golden pinnacles, and snowv mountains, 
And billows purpler than the ocean's, making 
In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 
So like we jilniust deem it permanent ; 
So fleeting, we '-an scarcely call it aught 
I U n I i i ion, 't is su transiently 
Scattered along the eternal vault : and yet 
It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul, 
And blends itself into the soul, until 
Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
Of sorrow and of love ; which they who mark not, 
Know not the realms where those twin genii 
(Who chasten and who purify our hearts, 
So that we would not change their sweet rebukes 
For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
The air with clamour) build the palaces 
Where their fond votaries repose and breathe 
Briefly ; — but in that brief cool calm inhale 
Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
The rest ofcomuiuii, heavy, human hours, 
And dream them through in placid sufferance. 
Though seemingly employ'd like all the rest 
Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 
Of pain or pleasure, tiro names for one feeling, 
Which our internal, restless agony 
Would vary in the sound, although the sense 
Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 

Hal. You muse right calmly : and can you so watch 
The sunrise which may be our last? 

Jtfyr. It is 

Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
Those eyes, which never may behold it more, 
For having look'd upon it oft, too oft, 
Without the reverence and the rapture due 
To thai which keeps all earth from being as fragile 
As I am in this form. Come, look upon it, 
The Chaldee's god, which, when 1 gaze upon, 
I grow almost a convert to your Baal. 

Bal. As now he reigns in heaven, so once on earth 
He swayM. 

Myr. He sways il cow far more, then ; never 



Act V. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



287 



Had earthly monarch half the peace and glory 
"Which centres in a single ray of his. 

BtL Surely he is a god! 

Myr. So we Greeks deem too; 

An 1 yel I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 
Mil-it rather be the abode of gods than one 
Ol the immortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 
Through all the clouds, and fills my eyes with light 
That shuts the world out. I can look no more. 

Bat. Hark! heard you not a sound? 

iMyr. No, 't was mere fancy ; 

They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
As in late midnight conflict in ihe very 
Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
Since that insidious hour; and here within 
The very centre, girded by vast courts 
And regal halls of pyramid proportions, 
Which must be carried one by one before 
They penetrate to where they then arrived, 
We :ire as much shut in even from the sound 
Of peril as from glory. 

Bal, Bui they reach'd 

Thus far before. 

Myr. Yes, by surprise, and were 

Beat back by valor ; now at once we have 
Courage and vigilance to guard us. 

Bat. May they 

Prosper ! 

Myr. That is the prayer of many, and 
The dread of more : it is an anxious hour ; 
I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas! 
How vainly ! 

Ba 1 . It is said the king's demeanour 

In the late action scarcely more appali'd 
The rebels than astonish'd his true subjects. 

Myr. 'T is easy to astonish or appal 
The vulvar mass which moulds a horde of slaves; 
But he did bravely. 

Ba'. Slew he not Beleses? 

I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 

Myr. The wretch was overthrown, but rescued to 
Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanquish'd him 
In fight, as he had spared him irj In 5 peril ; 
And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 

BaL Hark! 

Myr, You are right ; some steps approach, hut slowly. 

Enter Soldiers, bearing in Salem en es wounded, 

with a broken Javelin in his side; they seat him 

upon one of the Couches which furnish the Apart- 
ment. 

Myr, Oh, Jove! 

Bal. Then all is over. 

Sal. That is false. 

Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. 

Myr. Spare him — he *s none : a mere court butterfly, 
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 

Sal. Let him live on, then, 

Myr, So wilt thou, I trust. 

Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and the event, 
But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here? 

S'jl. By the king's order. When the javelin struck you, 
You fell and fainted ; 't was his strict command 
To bear you to this hall. 

Sal. 'T was not ill done : 

For seeming slain in that cold di2zy trance. 
The sight might shake our soldiers — but — 'l is vain, 
I feel it ebbing ! 

Myr. Let me see the wound ; 

I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
'T is part of our instruction. War being constant, 
We are nerved to look on such things. 

Sol. Best extract 

The javelin. 

Myr. Hold ! no, no, it cannot be. 



Sal. I am sped, then ! 

Myr, With the blood that fast must flow 

The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 

Sal. And I not death. Where was the king when you 
Convey'd pie from the spot where I was stricken? 

Sol. Upon the same ground, and encouraging 
With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
Who had seen you fall, and faltcr'd back. 

Sal. Whom heard ye 

Named next to the command ? 

Sol. I did not hear. 

Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 't was my last request 
That Zanies take my post until the junction, 
So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Oflatanes, 
Satrap of Susa. Leave me here : our troops 
Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 

Sol. But, prince 

Sal, Hence, I say! Here's a courtier and 

A woman, the best chamber company. 
As yon would not permit me to expire 
Upon the fit-Id, I'll have no idle soldiers 
About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding ! 

[Exeunt the Soldiers, 

Myr. Gallant and glorious spiiit ! roust the earth 
So soon resign thee ? 

Sat. Gentle Myrrha, 't is 

The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
The monarch or the monarchy by this ; 
As 't is I have not outlived them. 

Myr. You wax paler. 

Sal. Your hand ; this broken weapon but prolongs 
My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
To make me useful : I would draw it forth 
And my life with it, could I but hear how 
The fight goes. 

Enttr Sardanapai.vjs and Soldiers. 

Sar. My best brother ! 

Sal, And the batile 

Is lost? 

S er. (despoyidingly.) You see me here. 

Sal. I'd rather see you thus 

[fie draws out the weapon from the wound 
and dies. 

Sar. And thus I will be seen ; unless the succour, 
The last frail reed of our beleaguer'd hopes, 
Arrive with Ofratanes. 

.Wi/r. Did you not 

Receive a token from your dying brother, 
Appointing Zanies chief? 

Sar. I did. 

Myr. Where 's Zames ? 

Sar. Dead. 

Myr. And Altada? 

Sar. Dying. 

Myr, Pania? Sfero ? 

Sar. Pania yet lives ; but Sfero 's fled, or captive. 
1 am alone. 

Myr. And is all lost? 

Sar. Our walls, 

Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out against 
Their present force, or aught save treachery : 
But i'the field 

JVfyr. I thought 'twas the intent 

Of Salemenes not to risk a sally 
Till ye were strenythen'd by the expected succours. 

Sar. /overruled him. 

Myr, Well, the fault 's a brave one. 

Sar. But fatal. Oh, my brother ! I would give 
These realms, of which thou wert the ornament, 
The sword and shield, the sole-redeeming honour, 

To call back but I will not weep for thee ; 

Thou shall be mourn'd for as thou wouldst be mourn'd* 






288 



SARDANAPALI'k?. 



Act V. 



It grieves me most that thou couldst quit this hit? 
Believing thai I could survive what thou 
Hast died for — our long royally of race. 
If I redeem it, I will give thee blood 
Of thousands, tears of millions, for atonement, 
(The tears of all the good are thine already*) 
If not, we meet again soon, if the spirit 
Wiiltin us lives beyond: — thou readest mine, 

And dost m..- justice now. I,rt im oik >• « ■ J;i \< 
That yet warm hand, and fold that throi less heart 

[Embraces the body. 
To this which beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
The body hence. 

Sol. Where? 

Sar. To my proper chamber. 

Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
The king lay there: when this is done, we will 
Speak further o( the rights due to such ashes. 

[Exeunt Soldiers with the body o/Salemen&s 

Enter Pania. 

Sar. Well, Pania! have you placed the guards, and 
issued 
The orders hVdon? 

Pan. Sire, I have obey'd. 

Sar. And do the soldiers keep their hearts up? 

Pan. Sire? 

Sar. I \ti answer'd ! When a king asks twice, and has 
A question as an answer to hit question, 
It is a portent. What ! they are disheartened ? 

Pan. The death of Salemenes, and the shouts 
Of the exuhing rebels on his fall, 
Have made them 

Sar. Rage — not droop— it should have been 

We'll find the means to rouse them. 

I'd 'i. Such a loss 

Might sadden even a victory. 

Sat. Alas ! 

Who can so feel it as I feel ? but yet, 
Though coop'd within these walls, they are strong, and we 
Have those without will break their way thruugh hosts. 
To make their sovereign's dwelling what it was- 
A palace ; not a prison, nor a fortress. 

Enter an Officer t hastily. 

Sar. Thy face seems ominous. Speak! 

Ojji. I dare not. 

Sar. Dare not ? 

While millions dare revolt with sword in .hand ! 
That 's strange. I pray thee break that loyal silence 
Which loathes to shock its sovereign ; we can hear 
Worse than thou hast to tell. 

Pan. Proceed, thou hearest. 

Ojji, The wall which skirled near the river's brink 
!•< thrown down by the sudden inundation 
Of the Euphrates, which now rolling, swoln 

From the enormous mountains where tl rises. 
By the late rains of thai tempestuous region, 
O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroyed the bulwark. 

Pan. That's a b'ack augury! it has been said 
For ages, " That the city ne'er should yield 
To man, until the river grew its fiw." 

Sar. I can forgive the omen, not the ravage. 
How much is swept down of the wall ? 

Ojji. About 

Some twenty stadii. 

Sar. And all this is left 

Pervious to the assailants? 

Offi. For the present 

The river's fury mvist impede the assault ; 
But when he shrinks into his wonted channel, 
And may be cross'd by the accustom'd barks, 
The palace is their own. 



Sar. That shall be never. 

Though men, and gods, and elements, and omens, 
Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked them, 
My fathers' house shall never be a cave 
For wolves to horde and howl in. 

Pan. With your sanction 

I will proceed to the spot, and take such measures 
For the assurance of the vacant space 
As time and means permit. 

Sat ■ About it straight, 

And bring me back as speedily as full 
And fair investigation mav permit 
Report of the true state of this irruptiun 
Of waters. 

[Exeunt Pania and the Officer. 

J\Iy>\ Thus the very waves rise up 

Against you. 

Sar. They are not my subjects, girl, 

And may be pardon'd, since ihey can't be punish'd. 

Jflyr. I joy to see this portenl shakes you not. 

Sor. 1 am past the fear of portents : they can tell me 
Nothing I have not told myself since midnight: 
Despair anticipates such things. 

Myr. Despair] 

Sar. No ; not despair precisely. When we know 
All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 
Word than this is to give it utterance 
But what are words to us ? we nave well nigh done 
With them and all things. 

Myr. Save one deed — the last 

And greatest to all mortals; crowning act 
Of all that was — or is — or is to be — 
The only thing common to all mankind, 
So different in their births, tongues-, sexes, natures, 
Hues, features, clime?, times, feelings, intellects, 
W ithodl one point of union save in this, 
To which we tend, lor which we 're born, and thread 
The labyrinth of mystery, call'd life. 

Sar. (lur clew being well nigh wound out, let's bo 
cheerful. 
They who have nothing more to fear may well 
Indulge a smile at that which once appall'd ; 
As children at discover'd bugbears. 
Re-enter Pama. 

Pan. "Tis 

As was reported : I have order'd there 
A double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
Wlii r< it was strongest the required addition 
To watch the breach occasion'd by the waters. 

Sar. You have done your duty faithfully, and as 
My worthy Pania! further ties between us 
Draw near a close. I pray you take this key ! 

I Gives a key* 

It opens to a secret chamber, placed 

Behind the couch in my own chamber. (Now 

PressM by a nobler weight than e're it bore— 

Though a long line ofsi in down 

Along its golden frame — as bearing for 

A tune what laie was Salemeiies.) Search 

The secret covert to which this will lead you-, 

' T is full of treasure ; take it for yourself 

And your companions : there 's enough to load ye, 

Though ye bo many. Let the slaves be freed, too; 

And all the inmates of the palace, of 

Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 

Thence launch the regal barks, once form'd for pleasure, 

And now to serve for safety, and embark. 

t 's broad and swoln, and uncommanded 
(More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
Fly ! and be happy! 

Pan. Under your protection ! 

So you accompany your faidiful guard. 

Sar. No, Pania ! that must not bo ; get thoe hence, 



Act V. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



289 



And leave me to my fate. 

Pan. 'T is the 6rst time 

I ever disobey' d : but now - - 

Sar. So all men 

Dire beard me now, and Insolence within 
Apes Treason from without. Question no further; 
'T is my command, my last command. Wilt thou 
Oppose it ? thou ! 

Pari. But yet— not yet. 

Sar. Well, then, 

Swear that you will obey when I shall give 
The signal. 

Pan. With a heavy but true heart, 

I promise. 

Sar. 'T is enough. Now order here 

Faggots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such 
Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole spark ; 
Brins cedar, too, and precious dru^s, and spices, 
And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pile ; 
Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, lor it is 
For a great sacrifice I build the pyre; 
And heap them round von throne. 

Pan. My lord! 

Sar. I have said it, 

And you have sworn. 

Pan. And could keep my faith 

Without a vow. 

[Exit Pa xi a. 

J\hjr. What mean you? 

Sxr. You shall know 

Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forget. 

Pania, returning with a Herald. 

Pan. My kin;:, in Going forth upon my duly, 
This herald has been brought before me, craving 
An audience. 

Sar. Let hira speak. 

Her. The King Arbaces 

Sar. What, crown'd already? — But, proceed. 

Her. Beleses, 

The annointed high-priest 

Sar. Of what god or demon ? 

With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed ; 
You are sent to prate your master's will, and not 
Reply to mine. 

Her. And Satrap Ofratanes 

Sar. Why, he is ours. 

II- r. {Showing a ring.) Be sure that he is now 
In the camp of the conquerors ; behold 
His signet ring. 

Sar. 'T is his. A worthy triad ! 

Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 
To see one treachery the less : this man 
Was thy true friend and my most trusted subject. 
Proceed. 

Her. They offer thee thy life, and freedom 
Of choice to single out a residence 
In any of the further provinces, 
Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in person, 
Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; but on 
Condition that ihe three young princes are 
Given up as hostages. 

Sar. (Ironically.) The generous victors! 

Her. I wait the answer. 

Sar. Answer, slave! how long 

Have slaves decided nn thp doom of kings? 

Her. Since they were fiee. 

Sar. Mouthpiece of mutiny ! 

Thou at least shalt learn the penalty 
Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania ! 
Let his head be thrown from our walls within 
The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river. 
Away with him! 

[Pania and the Guards seizing him. 

Pan. I never yet obey'd 

2 M. 



Your orders with more pleasure than the present. 
Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this hall 
Of royalty with treasonable gore ; 
Put htm to rest without. 

Her. A single word : 

My office, king, is sacred. 

Sar. And what's mine ? 

That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
To lay it down? 

Her, I but obey'd my orders, 

At the same peril if refused, as now 
Incurr'd by my obedience. 

Sar. So there are 

New monarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
As sovereigns swathed in purple, and enthroned 
From birth to manhood ! 

Her, My life waits your breath. 

Yours (I speak humbly) — but it may be — vours 
May also be in danger scarce less imminent : 
Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
A peaceful herald, unarm'd, in his office ; 
And violate not only all that man 
Holds sacred between man and man — but that 
More holy tie which links us with the gods ? 

Sar. He's right. — Let him go free. — My life's last act 
Shali not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, take 

[Gives him a golden cup from a table near. 
This golden goblet, let it hold your wine, 
And think of me; or melt it into ingots, 
And think of nothing but their weight and value. 

Her, I thank you doubly for my life, and this 
Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more precious. 
But must I bear no answer ? 

Sar. Yes, — I ask 

An hour's truce to consider. 

Her. But an hour's? 

Sar. An hour's : if at the expiration of 
That time your masters hear no further from me, 
They are to deem that I reject their terms, 
And act befittingly. 

Her, I shall not fail 

To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 

Sar. And, hark ! a word more. 

Her. I shall not forget \l t 

Whate'er itbe. 

Sar. Commend me to Beleses ; 

And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
Him hence to meet me. 

Her. Where? 

Sar. At Babylon. 

At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 

Her. I shall obey you to the letter. 

[Exit Herald, 

Sar. Pania! — 

Now, my good Pania ! — quick — with what I orderM. 

Pan. My lord, — the soldiers are already charged. 
And, see ! they enter. 
[Soldiers enter, and form a pile about the Throne, fyc 

Sar. Higher, my good soldiers, 

And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 
Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
Its own too subtle flame ; nor yet be quench'd 
With aught officious aid would bring to quell it. 
Let the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
Leave that, save fraught with fire unquenchable, 
To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
'T were to enkindle the strong tower of our 
Inveterate enemies. Now it bears an aspect! 
How say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
For a king's obsequies? 

Pan, Ay, for a kingdom'% 

I understand you, now. 

Sar. And blame me f 



290 



SARDANAPALUS. 



Act V. 



Pan. No— 

Let me but fire the pile, and share it with you. 

Jtfyr. That duty's mine. 

Pan, A woman's ! 

Jtfyr. 'T is the soldier's 

Fart 10 die for his rovereign, and why not 
The woman's with her lover. 

Pan . 'T is most strange ! 

Jtfyr. But not so rare, my Pania, aa thou tbinVot it. 
In thf meantime, live thou. — Farewell ! the pile 
Is ready. 

Pan, I should shame to leave my sovereign 
With but a single female to partake 
lhs death. 

Sar. Too many Par have heralded 

Me to the dust, already. Get thee hence; 
Enrich thee. 

Pan. And live wretched ! 

Sar. Think upon 

Thy vow : — 't is sacred and irrevocable. 

Pan. Since it is so, farewell. 

Sar. Si arch well my chamber, 

Feel no remorse at hearing off the gold ; - 
Remember, what you leave you leave the slaves 
Who slew mo : anil when you have borne away 
All safe off to your huts, l»lo-v <mc lon^ blast. 
Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
The river's hrink is too remote, its stream 
Too loud at present to permit the echo 
To reach distinctly from its banks. Then fly, — 
And as yon sail, turn back ; but still keep on 
Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
Is safe with my three sons in Colta's court, 
Say what you saw at parting, and request 
Thai she remember whai I said at one 
Parting more mournful still. 

Pan. That royal hand! 

Let me then once more press it to my lipa ; 
And these poor soldiers who throng round you, and 
Would faio die with you! 
[The Soldiers and P ania throng round kirn, kissing 
his hand and the htm of his robe, 

Sar. My best ! my last friends ! 

Let's not unman each other: part at once: 
All farewells should be sudden, when for ever, 
Else they make an eternity of moments, 
And clog the last sands of life with tears. 
Hence, and be hippy : trust me, I am not 
Now to be pitied ; or far more for what 
Is past than present ; — for the future, '[ is 
In the hands of the deities, if such 
There he : I shall know soon. Farewell — Farewell. 
[Exeunt Pania and Soldier:. 

Jtfyr. These men were honest : it is comfort still 
That our last looks should be on loving faces. 

Sai . Ana lovely ones, my beautiful! — Lui hear me ! 

If at this moment] lor we now are on 
Tim brink, tnou feelest an inward shrinking from 
This leap through flame into the future, say it : 
1 shall not love thee less ; ii.iv, perhaps more, 
For yielding to thy nature : and there s time 
Yet for thco to escape hence. 

My* Shall Might 

< >ne of ill'- torches that ]]i- qi ;iili 

The ever-burning lamp lhat burn? without, 
Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall? 

Sar. Do so. Is that thy answer? 

Jtfyr* Thou shalt see 

[Exit Myrrha. 

Sar. (mollis.) She's firm. My fathers ! whom I will 
rejoin, 
It may be, purified by death from some 
Of the gross stains of too material being, 



I would not leave your ancient first abode 

To (he defilement of usurping bondmen ; 

If I have not kept your inheritance 

As yt bequeauVd it, this bright part of it, 

Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 

Of arms, and records, monuments, and spods, 

In which they would have revell'd, 1 bear with me 

To you in that absorbing element. 

Which mosl personifies the soul as leaving 

I of matter nnconsumed before 
Fts fier) workings : — and the light of this 
Most royal of funereal pyres shall be 
Nut a mere pillar lormM of cloud and flame, 
A b'-acon in the horizon let b 
And Ihen a mount of ashes, but a light 
To lessen ages, rebel nations, and 
Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench many 
A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 
Sweep empin after empire, like this first 
Of empires, into nothing ; but even thi n 
Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 
A problem few dare imitate, and none 
Despise — but, ii may be, avoid the life 
Which led to such a consummation. 
Myrrha returns with a lighted Torch in one hand, 
and a Cup in the other. 

Jtfyr. Lo! 

I 've lit the lamp which lights us lo the BtJ 

Sar. And the cup? 

Jtfyr. *T is my country's custom to 

Make a libation to the gods. 

Sar. And mine 

To make libations among men. I 've nol 
Forgot the custom; and although alone, 
Will drain one draught in memory of many 
A joyous banqiu-i past. 

[Sardanapalus takes the cup, and after drinking 
and tinkling the reversed cup, as a drop fails 
exclaims — 

And this libation 
Is for the excellent Beleses. 

Jtfyr. Why 

Dwells i''. mind rather upon that man's name 
Than on his mate's invillany 1 

Sar, y The one 

Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
Of human sword in a friend's hand ; the other 
Is master-mover of his warlike puppet: 
But I dismiss them from my mind. — Vet pause, 
My Myrrha ! dost thou truly follow me, 
Freely and fearlessly ? 

Jtfyr. And dost thou think 

,\ i ireelf girl .lares not do for love, that which 
An Indian widow braves for custom? 

Sar. Then 

We Inn await the signal. 

Jtfyr. 1 [ is long 

in Bounding* 

Sar. Now, farewell ; one last embrace, 

Jtfyr. Embrace, but nut the last ; there is oneThore. 

Sar, True, the commingling fire will mix our ashes. 

.yiur. And pure as is my love to thee, shall they, 
Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly passion, 
Mi\ pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me, 

Sar. Say it. 

Jtfyr. It is that no kind hand will gather 

The dust of both into one urn. 

Sar, The better: 

Rather let them be borne abroad upon 
The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air, 
Than be polluted more by human hands 
Of slaves and traitors ; in this blazing palace, 
And its enormous walls of reeking ruin, 
We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



291 



Hath piled in her brick mountains, o'er dead kings, 


Myr. N<no ! 


Or hine, for none know whether those proud piles 


Sar. Adieu, Assyria! 


Be for their monarch, or their ox-cod Apis: 


I loved thee well, rny own, my fathers' land, 


So much for monuments thai have forgotten 


And better as my country than my kingdom. 


Their very record ! 


1 satiated thee with peace and joys ; and this 


JV/i/r. Then farewell, thou earth ! 


Is my reward! and now I owe thee nothing, 


And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell. Ionia! 


Not even a grave. [He mounts the pile. 


Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 


Now, Myrrha! 


Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer 


Myr. Art thou ready ? 


Was for thee, mv last thoughts, save one, were of thee ! 


Sar. As the torch in thy grasp. 


Sar. And dial ? 


[Myrrha fires the pile. 


Jtfyn Is yours. 


J\Jyr. 'T is fired ! I come. 


[The trumpet of Pania sounds without. 


[As Mtrrma springs forward to throw herself into 


Sar Hark! 


the flames, the Curtain falls. 



NOTES TO SARDANAPALUS. 



Note 1, page 26G, line 60. 
And thou, my own Ionian JMyrrha. 
B The Ionian name had been still more compre- 
hensive, having included the Achaians and the Boeo- 
tians, who, together with those to whom it was after- 
wards confined, would make nearly the whole of the 
Greek nation, and among the orientals it was always 
the general name for the Greeks." — mil/old's Greece, 
vol. 1. p. 199. 

Note2, page 268, lines 83—86. 
— — " Sardanapaltu 

The king, and snn of Anaryndnraxes^ 
In one day built Anchialus tail Tarsus. 
Eat, drink, and low; the nsf\ not worth a fillip. .'* 
" For this expedition he took not onlv n small chosen 
body of the phalanx, but all his light t oops. In ih^ 
first day's march he reached Anchialus, a town said to 
have been founded by the king of Assyria, Sardana- 
palus. The fortifications, in their magnitude and ex- 
tent, still in Arrian's time, bore the character of 
greatness, which the Assyrians appear singularly to 
have aflVcfed in works of the kind. A monument 
representing S&rdanapalus was found there, warranted 
by an inscription in Assyrian characters, of course in 
the old Assyrian language, which the Greeks, whether 
well or ill. interpreted thus : ' Sardanapalus, son of 
Anacyndaraxes, in one day founded Anchialus and 
Tarsus. Eat, drink, play : all other human joys are 
not worth a fillip.' Supposing this version nearly exact, 



(for Anian says it was not quite so,) whether mo 
purpose has not been to invite to civil order a people 
disposed to turbulence, rather than to recommend im- 
moderate luxury, may perhaps reasonably be ques- 
tioned. What, indeed, could be the object of a king 
of Assyria in founding s,ic h towns in a country so dis- 
tant from his capita', and so divided from it by an 
immense extent of Bandy deserts and lofty mountains, 
and, still more, how the inhabitants could be at once in 
circumstances to abandon themselves to the intem- 
perate joys which their prince has been supposed to 
nave recommended, is not obvious; but it may deserve 
observation that, in that line of coast, the southern of 
Lesser Asia, ruins of cities, evidently of an age after 
Alexander, vet barely nanW in history, at this day 
astonish the adventurous traveller by their magnificence 
and elegance. Amid the desolation which, under a 
singularly barbarian government, has for so many cen 
turies been daily spreading in the finest countries of 
the globe, whether more from soil and climate, or from 
opportunities f >r commerce, extraordinary means must 
have been found for communities to flourish (J >•, 
wjvence it may seem that the measures of Sardana- 
palus were directed by juster views than have been 
commonly ascribed to him : but that monarch having 
been the" last of a dynasty, ended by a revolution, 
obloquy on bis memory would follow of course from 
the policy of his successors and their partisans. 

" Tire inconsistency of traditions concerning Sarda- 
napalus is striking in Diodorus' account of him/' — Mit. 
ford's Greece, vol. i\\ pp. 311, 312, and 313. 



THE TWO FOSCARI, 

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



The father softens, but the gn«nwr 's resolved. 

I [til 1U. 



DRAMATIS PERSON.E. 
MEN. 
Franc : • Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
Jacopo Foscari, Son af the Doge. 
James Loredano, a Patrician. 
Marco Memmo, a Chief of the Forty. 
Barbarigo, a Senator. 
Other Senators, the Council of Ten, Guards, 
attendants, £e. fyc. 

WOMAN. 

Marina, Wife of young FosCARr. 

Scene— the Ducal Palace, Venice. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo, meeting. 

Lor. "Where is the prisuner ? 

Bar. Reposing from 

The Question. 

Lor. The hour 's past — fix'J yesterday 

For the resumption of his trial. — Let us 
Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
Uige his recall. 

Bar. Nay, let hint profit by 

A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs; 






292 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Act I. 



He was overwrought by the Question yesterday, 
And may din under it if now repeated. 
Lor. Well ? 

Bar. I yield not to you in love ofjustice, 

Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
Father and sun, and all their noxious race ; 
But the poor wretch has sutfer'd beyond nature's 
Most stoical endurance. 

Lor. * Without owning 

His crime? 

Bur. Perhaps without committing any. 

But lie avow'd the letter to the Duke 
Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone lor 
Such weakness. 

Lor. We shall see. 

Bar. You, Loredano, 

Pursue hereditary hate too far. 

Lor. How far? 

Bar. To extermination. 

Lor. When they are 

Extinct, you may say ibis; — Let 's in to council. 

Bar. Yet pause — t!ie number of our colleagues is not 
Complete yet ; two are wanting ere we can 
Proceed. 

Lor. And the chief judge, the Doge? 

Bar. No— he 

With more than Roman fortitude, is evei 
First at the board in this unhappy process 
Against his last and only son. 

Lor. True — true — 

His last. 

Bar. Will nothing move you ? 

Lor. Feels he, think you? 

Bar. He shows it not. 

Lor. I have mark'd that — the wretch ! 

Bar. But yesterday, I hear, on his return 
To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the threshold 
The old man fainted. 

Lor. If begins to work, then. 

Bar. The work is half your own. 

Lor. And should be all mine — 

My father and my uncle are no more. 

B>ir. I have read their epitaph, which says they died 
By poison. 

Lor, When the Doge declared that he 
Should never d -em himself a sovereign till 
The death of Peter Loredano, both 
The brothers sicken'd shortly : — he is sovereign. 

Bar. A wretched one. 

Lor. What should they he who make 

Orphans ? 

/.' ir. Bui did the Doge make you so? 

J. <>r. Yes. 

Bar, What solid, proof! ' 

Lor. vYTien princes set themselves 

To work in secret, proofs and process are 
Alike made difficult ; but I have such 
Of the first, as shall make ihe second needless. 

Bar. Bui you will move by law? 

Lor. B»' all the laws 

Which he would leave i 

Bar. They are such in this 

Our state as render retribution easier 
Than 'mongst remoter nations. Is it true- 
That you have written in your books of commerce, 
(The wealthy practice of our highesl nobles,) 
'- Doge Foscari, my lebtor for the deaths 
Of Marco and Pietro Loredano, 
My sire and uncle?'* 

Lor. It is written thus. 

Bar. And w;ll you leave it unerased ? 

Lor. Till balanced. 

Bar. And how ? 

[ Two Snealors pass over the stage, as in their 
way to " the Hail of the Council of Ten." 



J. or. You see the number is complete. 

Follow me. [Exit Loredano. 

Bar. {solus.) Follow thee! 1 have follow'd long 
Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
The wreok that creaks to the wild winds, and wretch 
Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as gush 
The waters through them ; but this son and sire 
Might move the elements to |-ause, and yet 
Must Ion hardily like them — Oh! would 
I could as blindly and remorselessly !— 
Lo, where he comes! — Be still, my heart! they are 
Thy foes, must be ihv victims i wilt thou beat 
te who almost broke thee? 

Enter Guards, with young Foscari as prisoner, fye, 

i ■ Hard. Let him rest. 

Sign i , take time. 

/ ■ / '■' I thank thee, friend, I 'm feeble ; 

Bui thou may'el stand reproved. 

Guard* I '11 stand the hazard. 

Jac. Fos. That 's kind : — I meet some pity, but no 

III- T' 

This is the first. 

Guard. And might be last, did they 

Who rule behold us. 

Bar.(advancingtothe Giwrd.) There is one who does 
Y' t fear not ; 1 will neither be thy judge 
Nor thy accuser ; though the hour is past, 
Wait their last summons — I am of" the Ten," 
A tul wailing for thai summons, sanction you 
Even by my presence : when the last call sounds, 
We 'II in together. — Look well to the prisoner! 

Jac. Fos. W b*1 voice is that ! — 'T is Barbarigo's! Ah! 
Our house's foe, and one it my few judges. 

Bar. To balance such a foe, if such there be, 
Thy father sits among thy judges. 

Jac. Fos, True, 

He judges. 

Bar, Then deem not the laws too harsh 
Which yield so much indulgence lo a sire 
As to allow his voice in such high matter 
As the state's safety 

Jac. For* And his son *s. I 'm faint ; 

Lei me approach] I pray you, for a breath 
Of air j von window which o'erlooks the waters. 

Entt r tm Officer, who whispers Barbarico. 
/>' ir. {t» the Guard.) Let him approach. I must 
not speak with him 
Further than thus ; I have transgress'd my duty 
In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
Within the Council Chamber. [Exit Barbarigo. 

[Guard conducting J acopo Foscari to the window. 

Guard, There, sir 'tis 

Open — How feel you ? 
Jac. Fos. Like a boy — Oh Venice ! 

Guard- Aiid your limbs? 

Jac. Fos. Limbs! how often have they borne me 
Bounding o*er yon blue tide, .'is i have skinun*d 
The gondola along in childish race, 

And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst 
\\-. I- comix liters, noble as T, 
Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of strength; 
\\ bile the fair populace of crowding beauties, 
Plebeian as patrician, cheerM us on 
With d izzling smiles, and wishes audible, 
And waving kerchii ft, and applauding hands, 
Even to the goal ! — How many a time have I 
I ! 'Vi ii with arm still lustier, breast more daring, 
The wave all roughen'd ; with a swimmer's stroke 
Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair, 
And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, 
Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 
The waves as they arose, and prouder still 



i 



Act I. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



293 



The loftier they uplifted me; and oft, 

In wantonness of spirit, plunging down 

Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 

My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen 

By those above, till they wax'd fearful ; then 

Returning with niv grasp full of such tokens 

As show'd that I had searched the deep : exulting, 

With ri far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep 

The l.>ng-suspended breath, again I spurn'd 

The foam which broke around me, and pursued 

My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy ihen. 

Guard. Be a man now : there never was more need 
Of manhood's strength. 

Jac. Fos. {looking from the lattice.) My beautiful, my 
own, 
My only Venice — this is breath .' Thy breeze, 
Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how il fins my face ! 
Thy very winds feel native to my veins, 
And cool them into calmness ! How unlike 
The hot gales of ihe horrid Cyelades, 
Which howPd about my Candiote dungeon, and 
Made my heart sick. 

Guard. I see the colour comes 

Back to yourcheek : Heaven send you strength to bear 
What more may be imposed! — I dread to think on't. 

Jac. Fos. They will not banish me again? — No — no, 
Let them wring on ; I am strong yet. 

Guard. Confess, 

And the rack will be spared you. 

Jac. Fos. I confess'd 

Once — twice before : both limes they exiled me. 

Guard. And die third time will slay you. 

Jac. Fos. Let ihem do so, 

So I be buried in my birthplace : better 
Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. 

Guard. Andean you so much love the soil which 
hates you? 

Jac. Fos. The soil ! — Oh no, it is the seed of the soil 
Which persecutes me ; but my native earth 
Will take me as a mother to her arms. 
I ask do more than a Venetian grave, 
A dungeon, what they will, so it be here. 

Enter an Officer, 

O/ft. Bring in the prisoner ! 

Guard. Signor, you hear the order. 

Jac. Fos. Ay, I am used to such a summons ; *t is 
The third tune they have tortured me: — then lend me 
Thine arm. [To the Guard. 

OJJi. Take mine, sir; 'tis my duty to 
Be nearest to your person. 

Jac. Fos. You ! — you are he 

Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
Away ! — I Ml walk alone. 

O0i. As you please, signor ; 

The sentence was not of my signing, but 
I dared not disobey the Council when 
They 

Jac. Fos. Bade thee stretch me on their horrid engine. 
I pray thee touch me not — that is, just now ; 
The time will come they will renew that order, 
But keep off from me till 't is issued. As 
I look upon thy hands my curdling limbs 
Quiver with the anticipated wrenching, 

And the cold drops strain through my brow, as if 

But onward— I have borne it — I can bear it. — 
How looks my father ? 

Ofji. With his wonted aspect. 

Jac. Fos. So does the earth, and sky, the blue of ocean, 
The br ghtness of our city, and her domes, 
The mi th of her Piazza, even now 
Its merry hum of nations pierces here, 
Even here, into these chambers of the unknown 
Who govern, and the unknown and the unnumber'd 
Judged and destroy'd in silence, — all things wear 



The self-same aspect, to my very sire ! 
Nothing can synipaihize with Foscarj, 
Not even a Foscari. — Sir, I attend you. 

[Exeunt Jacopo Foscari, Officer, fyc. 

Enter Memmo and another Senator. 

Mem. He 's gone — we are too late : — think you " the 
Ten" 
Will sit for any length of time to-day? 

Sen. They say the prisoner is most obdurate, 
Persisting in his first avowal ; but 
More I know not. 

Mem. And that is much ; the secrets 

Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 
From us, the premier nobles of the state, 
As from the people. 

Sell. Save the wonted rumours, 

Which (like the tales of spectres that are rife 
Near ruin'd buildings) never have been proved, 
Nor wholly disbelieved : men knew as little 
Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
Unfuihoui'd mysteries. 

Mem. But with length of time 

We gain a step in knowledge, and I look 
Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 

Sen. Or Doge ? 

Mem. Why* no ; not if lean avoid It. 

Sen. 'Tjs the first station of the state, and may 
Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
Attain'd by noble aspirants. 

Mem. To such 

I leave it : though born noble, my ambition 
Is limited : I 'd rather be an unit 
Of an united and imperial " Ten," 
Than shine a lonely, though a gilded cipher. — 
Whom have we here ? the wife of Foscari ? 

Enter Marina, with a female Attendant. 

Mar. What, no one ? — I am wrong, there still are 
two ; 
But they ure senators. 

Mem. Most noble lady, 

Command us. 

Mar. I command I — Alas ! my life 

Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 

Mem. I understand thee, but I must not answer. 

Mar. {fiercely) True — none dare answer here save 
on the rack, 
Or question save those 

Man. {interrupting her,) High-born dame ! bethink 
thee 
Where thou now art. 

Mar. Where I now am ! — It was 

My husband's father's palace. 

Mem. The Duke's palace. 

Mar. And his son's prison ; — true, I have not forgot it; 
And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 
Remembrances, would thank the illustrious Memmo 
For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 

Mem. Be calm ! 

Mar. (looking up toicards heaven.) I am; but oh, thou 
eternal God ! 
Canst thou continue so, with such a world ? 

Mem. Thy husband yet may be absolved. 

Mar. He is, 

In heaven. I pray you, signor senator, 
Speak not of that ; you are a man of office, 
So is the Doge ; he has a son at slake 
Now, at this moment, and I have a husband, 
Or had ; they are there within, or were at least 
An hour since, face to face, as judge and culprit : 
Will he condemn him ? 

Mem. I "" U31 not, 



294 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Act I. 



•War. But if 

He does not, there are those will sentence both. 

Mi m. They can. 

Mar. And with them power and will are one 

In wickedness : — my husband 's lost ! 

Mem. Not so ; 

Justice is judge in Venice. 

Mar. If it were so, 

There now would be no Venice. But lei il 
Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
Of nature's summons ; but " the Ten's" is quicker, 
And we must wait on 't. Ah ! a voir.- <.f u.ul ! 

[,1 faint cry vithin. 

Sen. Hark ! 

Mem. 'T was a cry of — 

Mar. No, no ; not my husband's — 

Net Foscari's. 

Mem. The voice was — 

Mar. Not his : no. 

He shriek ! No ; that should be his father's part, 
Not his — not his — he'll die in silence, 

[. I faint groan again icithin. 

Mem, Whal ! 

Mar. His voice ! it seem'd so : I will not 
Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
To love; but — no — no — no— it must have been 
A fearful pang, which wrung a groan from him. 

Sen. And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs, wouldst 
thou 
Have him bear more lhan mortal pain, in silence? 

Mar. We all must bear our tortures. I have not 
Left barren the great house of Foscari, 
Though they sweep both the Doge and son from life ; 
I have endured as much in giving life 
To those who will succeed them, U they can 
In leaving it : but mine were joyful pangs ; 
And yet they wrung me till I could have Bhriuk'd, 
But did not, for my hope was to bring forth 
Heroes, and would not welcome them with tears, 

Mem. All *s silent now. 

Mar. Perhaps all \s over ; but 

I will not deem ii : he hath nerved himself, 
And now defies them. 

Enter an Officer hastily, 

Mem. How now, friend, what seek you ? 

Ofji. A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 

[Exit Officer. 

Mem. Lady, 

'T were better to retire. 

Sen. [offering to assist her.) I pray thee do so. 

Mar. Off! /will tend him. 

Mem. You ! Remember, lady ! 

Ingress is given to none within those chambers, 
Except " the Ten," and their familiars. 

Mar. Well, 

I know that none who enter there return 
As they have enter'd — many never; but 
Thev shall not balk my entrance. 

Mem* Alas' this 

Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse, 
And worse suspense. 

Mar. Who shall oppose me ? 

Mem. They 

Whose duty *t is to do so. 

Mar, 'T is their duty 

To trample on all human feelings, all 
Ties which hind man to man, to emulate 
The fiends, who will one day requite them in 
Variety of torturing! Yet I 'U pass. 

Mem. It is impossible. 

Mar. That shall bo tried. 

Despair defies even despotism : there is 
That in my heart would make its way through hosts 
With leveU'd spears ; and think you a few jailers 



Shall put me from my path ? Give me, then, way; 
This is the Doge's palace ; I am wife 
Of the Duke'a SOU] the innocent Duke*s son, 
And they shall hear this! 

Ml m. It will only serve 

.More to exasperate his judges. 

M u: What 

Are judges who give way to anger? they 
Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 

[Exit Marina. 

Sen. Poor lady ! 

.Mt t:i. 'T is mere desperation ; she 

Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. 

s,n. And 

Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
But, see, the officer returns. 

[The Officer passes over the stage with another person, 

Mem, I hardly 

Thought that " Ten" had even this touch of pity, 
Or would permit assistance to tins sufferer. 

Sen. l'i'y ! ls'i pity to recall to feeling 
The wretch to<> happy to escape to death 
By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last 
Resource against the tyranny of pain? 

Mem. I marvel they condemn him not at once. 

Sen. That 's not (heir policy; they' d have him live, 
Because he fears not death ; and banish him, 
Because all earth, except bis native land, 
To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison, 
Consuming but not killing. 

Mtm, Circumsiance 

Confirms his crime?, but he avows them not. 

Sen. N-me, save the letter, which he says was written 
Addressed to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge 
That it would fall into the senate's hands, 
And thus he should be reconvened to Venice. 

Mem. But as a culprit. 

Si n . Yes, but to ids country ; 

And that was all he sought, so he avouches. 

Mem. The accusation of the bribes was proved. 

Sen. Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 
Has been annull'd by the death-bed confession 
Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late 
Chiefof'MheTen." 

Mem. Then why not clear him? 

Sen. That 

They ought to answer ; for it is well known 
That Almoro Donato, as I said, 
Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. 

Mem. There must be more in this strange process 
than 
The apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 
But here come two of " the Ten;" let us retire. 

[Exeunt Memmo and Senator. 
Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. {addressing Lor.) That were too much: 
believe me, 'twas not meet 
The trial should go further at this moment. 

Lor. And so the Council must break up, and Justice 
Pause in her full career, because a woman 
Breaks in on our deliberations ? 

Bar. No, 

Thai's not the cause ; you saw the prisoner's state. 

Lor. And had he not recover'd 1 

li ar . To relapse 

Upon the least renewal. 

Lor. 'T was not tried. 

Bar. *T is vain to murmur ; the majority 
In council were against you. 

Lor. Thanks to you, sir, 

And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
The worthy voices which o'erruled my own. 

Bar. I am a judge; but must confess ihat^art 



Act U. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



295 



That you would sometimes feel, 



Of our stern duty, which prescribes (he Question, 
And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 

Makes me wish 

Lor. \Vl ia t ? 

Bar. 
As I do always. 

Lor. Go 10, you 're a child, 
Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
About by every breath, shook by a sigh, 
And melted by a tear — a precious judge 
Fur Venice ! and a worthy statesman to 
Be partner in my policy ! 

Bar. He shed 

No tears. 

Lor. He cried out twice. 

Bar. A saint had done so, 

Even with the crown of glory in his eye, 
At such inhuman artifice of pain 
As was forced on him ; but he did not cry 
For pity ; not a word nor groan escaped him, 
And those two shrieks were not in supplication, 
But rung from pangs, and fUlow'd by nu prayers. 

Lor. He mutter'd many times between his teolh 
Bui inarticulately. 

Bar. That I heard not, 

Yon stood more near him. 

Lor. I did so. 

Bar, Methought, 

To my surprise too, you were tourh'd with mercy, 
And were the first lo call out for assistance 
When he was failing. 

Lor. I believed that sivoon 

His last. 

Bar. And have I not oft heard thee name 
His and his father's death your nearest wish? 

Lor. If he dies innocent, that is to say, 
With h ; s guilt unavow'd, he 'II be lamented. 

Bar. What, wouldst thou slay his memory? 

Lor. Wouldst thou have 

His state descend to his children, as it must, 
If he die unattainted ? 

Bar. War with them too? 

Lor. With all their house, till theirs or mine are 
nothing. 

Bar. And the deep asony of his pale wife, 
And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
And princely brow of his old father, which 
Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though rarely, 
Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
In stern serenity ; these moved you not? 

[Exit LOREDANO. 

He *s silent in his hate, as Foscari 

Was in his suffering ; and the poor wretch moved me 

More by his silence than a thousand outcries 

Could have effected. 'T was a dreadful sight 

When his distracted wife broke through into 

Tlie hall of our tribunal, and beheld 

What we could scarcely look upon, long used 

To such sights. I must think no more of this 

Lest I forget in this compassion for 

Our fues their former injuries, and lose 

The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 

For him and me ; but mine would be content 

With lesser retribution than he thirsts for, 

And I would mitigate his deeper haired 

To milder thoughts ; but for the present, Foscari 

Has a short hourly respite, granted at 

The instance of the elders of the Council, 

Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 

The hall, and his own sufferings. — Lo ! they come : 

How feeble and forlorn ! I cannot bear 

To look on them again in this extremity : 

I Ml hence, and try lo soften Loredano. 

I [Exit Barbarico. 



ACT II. 
Scene I. — J Hall in the Doge's Palace, 
The Doge and a Senator. 
Sen. Is it ynur pleasure to sign the report 
Now, or postpone it till to-morrow ? 

Doge. Now . 

I overlook'd it yesterday : it wants 

Merely the 'signature. Give me the pen 

[77ieDocE sits down and signs the paper. 
There, signer. 

Sen. (looking at the paper.) You have forgot; it is 
not sign'd. 

Doge. Not sign*d ? Ah, I perceive my eyes begin 
To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
That I had dipp'd the pen without effect. 

Sen. {dipping the pen into the ink, and placing the 
paper before the Doge.) Your hand, too, 
shakes, my lord : allow me, thus — 

Doge. 'T is done, I thank you. 

Sen. Thus the act confirm'd 

By you and by " the Ten," gives peace to Venice. 

Doge. 'T is long since she enjoy 'd it : may it be 
As long ere she resume her arms ! 

Sen. 'T is almost 

Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 
With the Turk, or the powers of Italy ; 
The state had need of some repose. 

Doge. No doubt : 

I found her queen of ocean, and I leave her 
Lady of Lombardy ; it is a comfort 
That I have added to her diadem 
The gems of Brescia and Ravenna; Crema 
And Bergamo no less are hers ; her realm 
By land has grown by thus much in my reign, 
While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 

Sen. »T is most true, 

And merits all our country's gratitude. 

Doge. Perhaps so. 

Sen* Which should be made manifest. 

Doge. I have not complain'd, sir. 

Sen. My good lord, forgive me. 

Doge. For what ? 

Sen. My heart bleeds for you. 

Doge. For me, siguor ? 

Sen. And for your 

Doge. Stop ! 

Sen. It must have way, my lord I 

1 have too many duties towards you 
And all your house, for past and present kindness, 
Not to feel deeply for your son. 

Doge. Was this 

In your commission ? 

Sen, What, my lord? 

Doge. This prattle 

Of things you know not : but the treaty 's sign'd ; 
Return with it to them who sent sou. 

Sen. I 

Obey. I had in charge, too, from the Council 
That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 

Doge. Say, when they will — now, even at this 
momt nt, 
[f it so please them : I am the state's servant. 

Sen. They would accord some time for your repose. 

Doge. I have no rt pose, that is, none which shall cause 
The loss of anhour's time unto the state. 
Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 
Where I should be, and what I have been ever. 

[Exit Senator, 
[The Doge remains in silence. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Mi, Prince! 
Doge. Say on. 



296 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Act XL 



M. 
Requests an audience. 

Doge. 
Marina \ 



The illustrious lady Foscari 

Bid her enter. Poor 

[Exit Attendant. 



[The Doge remains in silence as be/ore. 
Enter Marina. 

Mar. I have Ventured, father, on 
Your privacy. 

Doge. I have none from you, my child. 

Command my time, when not commanded by 
The slate. 

Mar. I wish'd to speak to you of him. 

Doge. Your husband ? 

Mar, And your son. 

Doge. Proceed, my daughter ! 

Mar. I hail obtaia'd permission from the " Ten" 
To attend nty husband for a limited number 
Of hours. 

Doge. You had so. 

Mar. 'T is revoked. 

Doge. By whom ? 

Mar. "The Ten."— When we had reach'd "the 
Bridge of Sighs," 
Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
Demurr'd : a messenger was sent back to 
" The Ten ;" but as the court no longer sate, 
And no permission had been given in writing, 
I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
Until that high tribunal bad reassembled 
The dungeon walls must still divide us. 

Doge. True, 

The form has been omitted in the haste 
With which the court adjourn'd, and till it meets, 
'T is dubious. 

Mar. Till it meets! and when it meets, 

They Ml torture him again ; and he and / 
Must purchase by renewal of the rack 
The interview of husband ami of wife, 
The holiest tie beneath the heavens! — Oh God ! 
Dost thou see this ? 

Doge. Child— child 

Mar. {abruptly.) Call me not "child!" 

You soon will have no children — you deserve none — 
You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
In circumstances which would call forth tears 
Of blood from Spartans ! Though these did not weep 
Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
StretchM forth a hand to save them 7 

Doge. You behold me : 

I cannot weep — I would I could ; but if 
Each white hair on this head were a young life, 
This ducal cap the diadem of earth, 
This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
A talisman to still them — I M give all 
For him. 

Mar. With less he surely mighl be saved. 

Doge. That answer only shows you know not Venice. 
Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself] 
In all her mystery. Hear me — they who aim 
At Foscari, aim no less at his father ; 
The sire's destruction would not save the son ; 
They work by different means to the same end, 
And that is but they have not conquer'd yet. 

Mar. But they have crushed. 

Doge. Nor crush'd as yet — I live. 

Mar. And your son, — how long will he live ? 

Doge. I trust, 

For all that yet is past, as many years 
Ami happier than his father. The rash boy 
With womanish impatience to return, 
Hath ruufd all by that detected letter : 
A high crime, which I neither can deny 



Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke : 
Had he but borne a little, little longer 

His Candiote exile, I had hopes he has quench'd 

lb em — 
He must return. 

Mar, To exile ? 

Doge. I have said it. 

Mat. And can I not go with him ? 

Doge. You well know, 

This prayer of yours was twice denied before 
By Ihe assembled " Ten," and hardly now 
Will be accorded to a third r> 

pravated errors on the part 
Of your lord renders them still more austere. 

Afar. Austere ' Atrocious! The old human fionds, 
With one foot in the gr.ive, with dim eyes, strange 
To tears save drops of dotage, with long white 
And scanty hairs, ami shaking hands, and heads 
As palsied as their hearts are hard, they council, 
.Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
Wen- no more than the feelings long extinguished 
In their accursed bosoms. 

Do<re. You know not— — 

Mar. I do — I do — and so should you, methinks— 
That these are demons ■ could it be else that 
Men, who have been of women born and suckled — 
Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love — have given 
Their hands in sacred vows — have danced their babes 
Upon their knees, perhaps have mourn'd above ihem 
In pain, in peril, or in death — who are, 
Or were at least in seeming human, could 
Do as they have done by yours, and you yourself, 
You, who abet them 7 

Doge. I forgive this, for 

You know not what you say. 

Mar. You know it well, 

And feel it nothing* 

/),.;,. I have borne so much, 

That words have ceased to shake me. 

Mar. Oh, no doubt 

You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh 

shook not ; 
And after that, what are a woman's words ? 
No more than woman's tears, that they should shake you. 
■ Doge. Woman, this clamorous grief of thine, I tell 

thee, 
Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that 
Which but I pity thee, my poor .Marina! 

Mar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from me; 
Pity thy son ! Thou pity !— 't is a word 
Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy lips ? 

Doge. I must bear these reproaches, though they 
wrong me. 
Couldst thou but read 

Mar. 'T is not upon thy brow, 

Nor m thine eyes, nor in thine ads,— where then 
Should 1 behold this sympathy ? or shall } 

Doge, (pointing downtrends.) There! 

Mar. I n 'he earth 7 

Do^e. To which I am tending : when 

It lies upon this heart, far lightlicr, though 
Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which press it 
Now, you will know mc better. 

Mar. Are you, then, 

Indeed, thus to be pitied ? 

f) f ,gt\ Pitied! None 

Shall ever use lhat base word, with which men 
Cloke their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 
To mingle with my name ; that name shall be, 
As far as I have borne it, what it was 
When I received it. 

J\Jar. But for the poor children 

Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save, 
Yon were the last to bear it. 

J)o<re. Would it wcr^so, 



Act II. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



297 



Better for him he never had been born. 

Better for me. — I have seen our house dishonour'd. 

Mar. That's false! A truer, nobler, trustier heart, 
More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
Within a human breast. I would not change 
My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
Oppress'd but not disgraced, crush'd, overwhelm'd, 
Alive, or dead, for pi ince or paladin 
In story or in fable, with a world 
To back his suit. Dishonour'd! — ke dishonour'd ! 
I tell thee, Doge, 't is Venice is dishonour'd ; 
His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
Fur what be suffers, not for what he did. 
'T is ye who are all traitors, tyrant ! — ye! 
Did you but love your country like this victim 
Who totters back in chains to tortures, and 
Submits to all things rather than to exile, 
You 'd fling yourselves before him, and implore 
His grace for your enormous guilt. 

Doge. He was 

Indeed all you have said. T better bore 
The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me 
Than Jacopo's disgrace. 

Mar. That word again? 

Doge. Has he not heen condemn'd ? 

Mar. Is none but guilt so ? 

Doge. Time may restore his memory — I would hope 
so. 

He was my pride, my but 't is useless now — 

I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
When he was born : those drops were ominous. 

Mar, I say he's innocent! And were he not so, 
Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us 
In fatal moments ? 

Doge. I shrank not from him : 

But I have other duties than a father's ; 
The slate would not dispense me from those duties ; 
Twice I demanded it, but was refused ; 
They must then be fulfil I'd. 

Enter an Attendant, 

Jitt. A message from 

"The Ten." 

Doge. Who bears it? 

Att. Noble Loredano. 

Doge. He! — but admit him. [Exit Attendant. 

Mar. Must I then retire ? 

Doge. Perhaps it is not requisite, if ihis 
Concerns your husband, and if not — Well, signor, 
Your pleasure ! [To Loredano entering. 

Lor. I bear that of " the Ten.'' 

Doge. They 

Have chosen well their envoy. 

Lor. *T is their choice 

Which leads me here. 

Doge. It does their wisdom honour, 

And no less to their courtesy. — Proceed. 

Lor. We have decided. 

Doge. We? 

Lor. " The Ten" in council. 

Doge. What ! have they met again, and met without 
Apprising me ? 

[,nr. They wish'd to spare your feelings, 

No loss than age. 

Doge. That 's new — when spared they cither ? 

I thank them, notwithstanding. 

£0^ You know well 

That they have power to act at their discretion, 
With or without the presence of the Doge. 

Do<*e. 'T is some year* since I tearn'd this, long before 
I became Doge, or dream'd of such advancement. 
You need not school me, signor: I sate in 
That council when you were a young patrician. 

Lor. True, in my father's time ; I have heard him and 
The admiral, his brother, sav as much. 
2N 



Your highness may remember them ; they both 
Died suddenly. 

Doge. And if they did so, better 

So die than live on lingeringly in pain. 

Lor. No doubt; yet most men like to live their days 

out. 
Doge. And did not they ? 

Lor. The grave knows best : they died, 

As I said, suddenly. 

Doge. Is that so 6tran?e, 

That you repeal the word emphatically? 

Lor. So far from strange, that never was there death 
In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
Think you not so? 

Doge. What should I think of mortals ? 

Lor. That they have mortal foes. 
Doge. I understand you ; 

Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things. 
Lor. You best know if I should be so. 
~"Doge. I do. 

Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 
Foul rumours were abroad ; I have also read 
Their epitaph, attributing their deaths 
To poison. 'T is perhaps as true as most 
Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
A fable. 

Lor. Who dares say so? 
Doge. I ! — 'T is true 

Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 
As their son e'er can be, and I no less 
Was theirs ; but I was openly their foe ; 
I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 
Of practice against life by steel or drug. 
The proof is, your existence. 

Lor. I Tear not. 

Doge. You have no cause, being what I am ; but 
were I 
That you would have me thought, you long ere now 
Were past the sunse of fear. Hate on ; I care not. 

Lor. I never yet knew that a noble's life 
In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 
That is, by open means. 

Doo-e.- But I, good signor, 

Am, or at least teas, more than a mere duke, 
In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they know 
Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 
Striven all they dare to weigh me down : be sure, 
Before or since that period, had I held you 
At so much price as to require your absence, 
A word of mine had set such spirits to work ' 
As would have made you nothing. But in all things 
I have observed the strictest reverence; 
Not for the laws alone, for those you have strainM 
( I do not speak of you but as a single 
Voice of the many) somewhat beyond what 
I could enforce for my authority 
Were I disposed to brawl ; but, as I said, 
[ have observed with veneration, like 
A priest's for the high altar, even unto 
The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet, 
Safety, and all save honour, the decrees, 
The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 
And now, sir, to your business. 

Lor. "T is decreed, 

That, without farther repetition of 
The Question, or continuance of the trial, 
Which only lends to show how stubborn guilt is, 
(•' The Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 
Which still prescribes the Question till a full 
Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
Avow'd his crime in not denying that 
The letter to the Duke of Milan's his,) 
James Foscari return to banishment, 
And sail in the same galley which convey'd him. 



293 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Act II. 



Mar. Thank God. At least they will nut drag him 
more 
Bt-fiire thai horrible tribunal. Would he 
Bui think so, to my mind the happiest doom, 
Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
Desire, were to escape from such a laud. 

Dige. That is not a Venetian thought, my daughter. 

M tr. No, 't was too human. May I share his exile 1 

Lor. Of this " the Ten" said nothing. 

M tr. So I thought : 

That were too human, aUo. But it was rut 
Inhibited? 

Lor. It was not named. 

Mir. {to the Doge.) Then rather, 

Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 

[To LOREDANO. 

And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
Permitted to accompany my husband. 

Doge. I will endeavour. 

M '.n: And you, signor ? 

Lor. Lady! 

*T is not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
Of the tribunal. 

Afar. Pleasure! what a word 
To use for the decrees of 

!)_•,_ Daughter, know you 

In what a presence you pronounce these things ? 

Mar. A prince's and his subject's. 

Lor. Subject! 

Mar. Oh! 

It galls you : — well, you are his equal, as 
You think ; but that you are not, nor would be, 
Were he a peasant : — well, (hen, you 're a prince, 
A princely noble; and what then am I? 

L"ir. The offspring of a noble house. 

Mar. And wedded 

To one as noble. What or whose, then is 
The presence that should silence my free thoughts? 

Lor. The presence of your husband's judges. 

Doge. And 

The deference due even to the lig'i'est word 
Tin! falls from those who rule in Venice. 

Mar. Keep 

Those maxims for your mass of scared mechanics, 
Your merchants, your Dalmatian anil Greek slaves, 
Your tributaries, yourdumb citizens. 
And tnask'd nobility, your sbirri, and 
Your spies, your galley and ynur other slaves, 
To whom your midnight carryings off and drownings, 
Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 
The water's level; your mysterious meetings, 
Anil unknown dooms, and sudden executions, 
Your " Bridge of Sighs," your strangling chamber, and 
Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem 
The beings of another and worse world ! 
Keep such for them : I fear ye not. 1 know ve ; 
Have known and proved your worst, in the infernal 
Process of mv poor hn.-«bftnd ! Treat me as 

Ye treated him :— your did so, in so dealing 

With him. Then what have I to Tear from you, 
Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
I trust I am not ? 
Doge. You hear, she speaks wildly. 

Mar. Not wisely, yet not wildly. 

Lor. Lady ! words 

Utler'd within these walls I bear no further 
Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
Between the Duke and me on the state's service. 
Doge! have you aught in answer? 

Dotre. Something from 

The Doge ;'it may be also from a parent. 

Lor. My mission here is to the Doge. 

Doge. Then say 

The Doge will choose his own ambassador, 
Or state in person what is meet , and for 



The father 

.Lor. I remember mine. — Farewell! 

I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady, 
And bow me to the Duke. [Exit Loredako. 

Mar. Are you content ? 

Doge. I am what you behold. 

Mar. And that 's a mystery. 

Do"e. All things are so to mortals ; who can read 
them 
Save he who made ? or, if they can, the few 
And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
That luii'hsome volume — man, and pored upon 
Those blacb arid bloody leaves, his heart and brain, 
Rut learn a noagie which recoils upon 
The adepl who pursues it : all the sins 
We find in others, nature made our own ; 
All our advantages are thus.- of fortune; 
Birth, weal i h, health, beauty, are her accidents, 
it we cry out against Kate, 't were well 
We should re'member Fortune can take naught 
Save what she gave — "he rest was nakedness, 
And lusts, and appetites, and vanities, 
The universal heritage, t i battle 
With as we miv, an I least in humblest stations, 
Were hunger swallows all in one low want, 
And the original ordinance, that man 
Must sweat for his [..mi pittance, keeps all passions 
Aloof, save fear of famine ! AH is low, 
Ami false, and hollow — clay from first to last, 
The prince's urn no less than poller's vessel. 
Our fame is in nun's breath, our lues upuii 
Less than their breath ; our durance upon days, 
I lur days on seasons ; our whole being on 
Something whit h is not Us ' — So, we are slaves, 
The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 
Upon our will; the will itself no less 
Depends upon a straw than on a storm; 
And when we think we lead, we arc most l.d, 
And still towards death, a thing which comes as much 
Without our act or choice as birth, so that 
Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old world, 
And this is hell: the best is, that it is not 
Eternal 

Mar. These are things we cannot judge 
On earth. 

Doge. And how then shall we judge each other, 
Who are all earth, and I, who am call'd upon 
To judge my son ? I have administer'd 
Mv country faithfully — victoriously — 
I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
She was and is : my reign has doubled realms ; 
And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice 
1 [as left, or is about to leave, me single. 

Jtf tr. And Foscari .' I do not think of such things, 

So I be left with him. 

Ooge. 1 on shall bo so; 

Thus much they cannot well deny. 

t V>tr. And if 

They should, I will fly with him. 

!> That can ne'er be. 

. \iiil win her would you tlv ? 

Mar. I know not, reck not— 

To Syi la, Egypt, lo the Ottoman — 
Any where, where we might respire unfetter'd, 
And live nor girt by spies nor liable 
To edicts of inquisitors of state. 

/' '. What, wouldst thou have a renegade for 
husband, 
And turn him into traitor? 

Mar. He is none! 

The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
tier best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
Is fir the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem 
None rebels except subjects? The prince who 
Neglects or violates his trust is more 



Act Iir. 



THE TWO FOSCART. 



299 



A bngani than ihe robber-chief. 

Doge. 1 cannot 

Charge me will; such a breach of faith. 

Mar. No ; thou 

Observ'st, obey'si, such laws as make old Draco's 
A code of mercy by comparison. 

Doge. I found the law ; I did not make it. Were I 
A subject, still I might Hud parts and portions 
Fit for amendment * but as prince, [never 
Would change, fur the sake of in)- house, the cliarter 
Left by our t i 

Mttr. Did ihey make it for 

The rum of their chiklren ? 

Doge. Under such laws^ Venice 

Has risen to what she is — a slate to rival 
In deeds, and tUys, and sway, and, let me add, 
In glorv, (for we h&ve had Roman spirits 
Among us,) all thai history has bequeathed 
Of Koine and Carthage in their best times, when 
The people sway'd by,senates. 

Mar. Rather say, 

Groan'd under the stern oligarchs. 

Doge. Perhaps so 

But yet subdued the world : in such a slate 
An individual, be he richest of 
Such rank a-i is permitted, or ihe meanest, 
Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
The policy, irrevocably lending 
To one great end, must be maintained in vigour. 

■Afar. This means-lhat you are more a Doge dt an father. 

Doge. It means, I am more citizen than either. 
If we had not tor many centuries 
Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
I trust, have still such, Venice were no city. 

■Afar. Accursed he the city whore the taws 
Would slide nature's ! 

Doge. Had I as many sons 

As I have years, I would have given them all, 
■Not without feeling, hut 1 would have given them 
To the state's service, to fulfil her wishes 
On the flood, in the field, ur, if it must be, 
As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism, 
Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
She might decree. 

JuTor. And this is patriotism? 

To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
Let me seek out my husband : the sage u Ten,'' 
With all lis jealousy, will hardly «ar 
So tar wi !i a weak woman as deny me 
A moment's access to his dungeon. 

Doge. . I 'U 

So far take on myself, as order that 
You may be admitted. 

JH ':(/-. And what shall I say 

To Foscari from his father ? 

Doge. That he obey 

The laws. 

JU ir. And nothing mote ? Will you not see him 

Ere he depart -' II may be the last time. 

Doge The last ! —my boy ! — die last tune I shall see 
My last of children I Tell him I will come. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT III. 
Scene I. — The Prison of Jacopo Foscari. 
Jac. Fos. {solus.) No light, save yon faint gleam, 
which shows me walls 
Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sounds, 
The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 
Of feet on which the iron claiik'd, the groan 
Of death, the imprecation of despa 
And yet for this I have return'd to Venice, 
With some faint hope, 't is true, that time, which wears 



The marble down, had worn away the hate 

Of men's hearts ; but I knew them not, arid here 

Must I consume my own, which never beat 

For Venice but with such a yearning as 

The dove has for her distant nest, when wheeling 

High in the air on her return to greet 

Her callow brood. What letters are these which 

[•Approaching the wall. 
Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall ? 
Will ihe gleam let me trace them? Ah! the names 
Of mv sad predecessors in this place, 

The dates ol Lheir despair, the brief words of 
A grief too great fur many. This stone page 
Holds like an epitaph their history, 
And ihe poor captive's lale is graven on 
His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 
Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
His o"wn and his beloved's name. Alas! 
I recognise some names familiar to me, 
And blighted like to mine, which I will add, 
Fittest tor such a chronicle as this, 
Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches. 

[He engraves his name. 

Enter a Familiar of " the Ten. n 

Fain. I bring you food. 

Jac. Fos. I pray you set it down; 

I am past hunger : but my lips are parch'd — 
The water ! i 

Font. There. 

Jac. Fos. (after drinking.) I thank you : I am better. 

Fam. I am commanded to inform you 
That your further trial is postponed. 

Jac. Fos. Till when? 

Fam. I know not. — It is also in my orders 
That your illustrious lady bo admitted. 

Jac. Fos. Ah ! they relent, then — I had ceased to 
hope it : 
'T was time. 

Enter Marina. 

JJIfftT. My best beloved! 

Jac. Fos. {embracing her.) My true wife, 
And only friend ! What happiness ! 

Mar. We 'II part 

No mo-* 5 . 

Jac. Fos. How ! would'st thou share a dungeon ? 

Mar. Ay, 

The rack, the grave, all — any thing with thee, 
But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
Be ignorant of each other, yet I will 
Share that — all things except new separation ; 
It is too much to have survived the first. 
How dost thou ? How are those worn limbs ? Alas ! 
Why do I ask? Thy paleness 

Jac. Fos. 'T is the joy 

Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
Back to my heart, and Itft my cheeks like thine, 
For thou art pale, too, my Marina ! 

Mar. 'T is 

The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sudden glare 
Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 
To darkness more than light, by lending to 
The dun aeon vapours iis bituminous smoke, 
Which cloud what'er we gaze on, even thine eyes — 
No. not thine eyes — they sparkle — how they sparkle ! 

J ic. Fos. And thine ! — hut I am blinded by the torch. 

Mar. As I had been without it. Couldst thou see 
here? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing at first ; but use and time bad 
taught me 
Familiarity with what was darkness; 
And the gray twilight of such glimmerings as 



300 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Act III. 



Glide through the crevices made by the winds 
Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun, 
When gorgeously o'ergiUling any towers 
Save those of Venice ; but a moment ere 
Thou earnest hither I was busy writing. 
Mar. What? 

Jac. Fos. My name: look, 't is there— recorded next 
The name of him who here preceded me, 
If dungeon dates say true. 

Mar. And what of him? 

Jac. Fos. These walls are silent of men's ends ; they 
only 
Seem lo hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walla 
Were never piled un oVr the dead, 

Or those who soon must be so — What of him ? 
Thou askest. — What of me ? may soonbeaskM, 
With the like answer — doubt and dreadful surmise — 
Unless thou tell'si my tale. 
.Mar. I speak of thee! 

Jac. Fos. And wherefore not? All then shall speak 
of me : 
The tyranny of silence is not lasting, 
And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 
Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's ! 
I do not doubt my memory, but my life ; 
And neither do I fear. 

J\f<$r. Thy life is safe. 

Jac. Fos. And liberty ? 

Mar. The mind should make its own. 

Jac. Fos. That has a noble sound ; but 't is a sound] 
A music most impressive, but too transient : 
The mind is much, but is nol all, The mind 
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
And torture positive, far worse than death, 
(If death be a de.-p sleep,) without a groan, 
Or with a cry which rather, shamed my judges 
Than me ; but '; is nol all, for there are things 
More woful — such as this Binall dungeon, where 
I may breathe many years. 

Mar. Alas ! and this 

Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee 
Of this wide realm, of which ihy sire is prince. 

Jac. Fos. That thought would scarcely aid me to en- 
dure it. 
My doom is common, many are in dungeons, 
But none like mine, so near their father's palace 
But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 
Will stream alon« those muted rays of light 
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
Our only day ; for, save the jailer's torch, 
And a strange firefly, which was quickly caught 
Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
1 ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas! 
I know if mind may bear us up, or no, 
For I have such, and shown it before men ; 
It sinks in solitude : my soul is social. 
Mar. I will be with thee. 

Jac. Fos. Ah! if it were so ! 

But that they never gi anted — nor will grant, 
And I shall he alone : no men — no books — 
Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
I ask'd Ibr even those outlines of their kind, 
Which they term annate, history, what you will, 
Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
Refused me, so these walls have been mj 
More faithful pictures of Venetian Btorj . 
With all their blank, or dismal stain-, than is 
The hall not far from hence, which bears on high 
Hundreds if doges, and their deeds and dates. 
Mar. I come to tell thee the result of their 
Last council on thy doom. 

Jac. Fos. I know it — look! 

[He points to his limbs, as referring to the tortures 
which he had undergone. 
Jtfor, No — no — no more of that i oven they relent 



From that atrocity. 

Jac. Fos. What then? 

.Mar. Thai you 

Return to Candia. 

Jac. Fos. Then my last hope's gone. 

I could endure my dungeon, for 'l was Venice; 
I could support the torture, there was something 
fn my native air that buoy'd my spirits up 
Like a ship on the ocean toeVd bv storms, 
But proudly still bestriding the high waves, 
\hl holding "ii its course ; but there, afar, 

lu that BCCUrsed isle of .-laves, and captives, 
And unbelievers, like a -stranded wreck, 
\\\ verj soul seem'd mouldering in my bosom, 
And piecemeal 1 shall perish, if remanded. 
Mar. And here ? 

Jac. i OS. Atoncc — by better means, as briefer. 

What ! would they even deny me my sire's sepulchre, 
As well as home and heritage? 

Mar. My husband ! 

I have sued to accompany ihee hence, 
And not so hopelessly. This love <>f thine 
For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil 
Is passion, and not patriotism; forme, 
So I could sec thee with a quiet aspect, 
And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, 
I would not cavil about climes or regions. 
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
A paradise; its first inhabitants 
Were wretched exiles. 
Jac. Fos, Well I know Acta wretched* 

Mar. And yet you see how from their banishment 
Before the Tartar into these salt isles, 
Their antique energy of mind, alt that 
Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance, 
Created by degrees an ocean-Rome ; 
And shall an evil, which so often leads 
To good, depress thee thus / 

Jac. Fos. Had I gone forth 

From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking 
Another region, with their flocks and herbs; 
Had I been cast out like th ■ Jews from Zion 
Or like our fathers, driven by Aitila 
From fertile Italy, to barren islets, 
I would have given some tears to my late country, 
And many thoughts ; but aflerwards address'd 
Myself, wnh those about me, to create 
A new home and fresh stale: perhaps I could 
Have borne this — though I know nol. 

Mar, Wherefore not 

It was the lot of millions, and must be 
The fats of myriads more. 

Jac. Fos. Av-t— we but hear 

Of the survivors' toil in their new lands, 
Their numbers and success ; but who can number 
The hearts which broke in silence of that parting, 
Or after their departure ; of that malady* 
Which calls up -.'teen and native fields to view 
From the rough deep, with such identity 
To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 
Can scarcely be i est) lined from treading them ? 
That melody,] which out of tones and tunes 
Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 
t't the sad mountaineer, when far away 
From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds, 
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought, 
And dies. You call this weakness ! It is strength, 
I say.— the parent of all honest feeling. 
He who loves nol his country, can love nothing. 
Mar. Obey her, then: 't is she that puts thee forth, 
Jac. Fos. Ay, there it is ; *t is like a mother's curse 
Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 



T Alluding io th« S*i« cir and it* effect*. 



Act III. 



THE TWO POSCARI. 



301 



The exiles you speak of went fonh by nations, 
Their hands upheld eacii other by the way, 
Their tents were piich'd together — I'm alone. 

Mar. You shall be so no more — I will go with thee. 
Jac. Fos. My best Marina! — and our children? 
JVfor. They, 

t fear, by the prevention of the state's 
Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties 
As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure,) 
"Will not be suffer'd to proceed wilh us. 
Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them ? 
Mar. Yes. With many a pang. 

But — I can leave them, children as they are, 
To teach you to be less a child. From this 
Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 
By duties paramount ; and 'tis our first 
On earth to bear. 

Jac. Fos. Have 1 not borne ? 

Mar, Too much 

From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
To teach you not to shrink now from a lot, 
Which, as compared with what you have undergone 
Of late, is mercy. 

Jac. Fos. Ah ! you never yet 

Were far away from Venice, never saw 
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance, 
"While every furrow of the vessel's track 
Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart ; you never 
Saw day go down upon your native spires 
So calmly wilh its gold and crimson glory, 
And after dreaming a disturbed vision 
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 

.Mar. I will divide this with you. Let us think 
Of our departure from this much-loved city, 
(Since you must love it as it seems,) and this 
Chamber of stale, her gratitude allots you. 
Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
And by my uncles ; we must sail ere night. 

Jac. Fos. That's sudden. Shall 1 not behold my 

father ? 
Mar. You will. 
Jac. Fos. Where ? 

Jtfor. Here or in the ducal chamber 

He said not which. I would that you could bear 
Your exile as he bears it. 

Jac. Fos. Blame him not. 

I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
He cnuld not now act otherwise. A show 
Of feeling or compassion on his part 
Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
Suspicion from " the Ten," and upon mine 
Accumulated ills. 

Mar, Accumulated ! 

What pangs are those they have spared you? 

Jac. Fos. That of leaving 

Venice without beholding him or you, 
Which might have been forbidden now, as 'l was 
Upon my former exile. 

Mar, That is true, 

And thus far I am also the state's debtor, 
And shall be more so when I see us both 
Floating on the free wave — away — away — 
Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd, 

Unjust, and 

Jac. Fos. Curse it not. If I am silent, 
"Who dares accuse my country ? 

Mar. Men and Angels ! 

The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven, 
The groans of slaves in chains, and men in dungeons, 
Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and subjects, 
Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads ; and 
Though last, not least, thy silence. Couldst thou say 
Aught in its favour, who would praise like thee 7 

Jac. Fos. Let us address ua then, since so it must be, 
To our departure, Who comes here 7 



Enter Loredano, attended by Familiars. 

Lor. (to the Familiars.) Retire, 

But leave the torch. [Exeunt the hvo Familiars. 

Jac. Fos. Most welcome, noble signor. 

I did not deem this poor place could have drawn 
Such presence hither. 

Lor. 'T is not the first time 

I have visited these places. 

Mar. Nor would be 

The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. 
Came you here to insult us, or remain 
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 

Lor. Neither are of my ofRce, noble lady ! 
T am sent hither to your husband, to 
Announce " the Ten's" decree. 

Mar. That tenderness 

Has been anticipated : it is known. 
Lor. As how ? 

Mar. I have inform'd him, not so gently, 

Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe, 
The indulgence of your colleagues; but he knew it. 
If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence ! 
The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you, 
And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
Their sting is honester. 

Jac. Fos. I pray you, calm you: 

What can avail such words ? 

Mar. To let him know 

That he is known. 

Lor. Let the fair dame preserve 

Her sex's privilege. 

Mar. I have some sons, sir 

Will one day thank you better. 

Lor. You do well 

To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know 
Your sentence, then ? 

Jac. Fos. Return to Candia ? 

Lor. True— 

For life. 

Jac. Fos. Not long. 
Lor. I said — for life. 

Jac. Fos. And I 

Repeal — not long. 

Lcr. A year's imprisonment 

In Qanea — afterwards the freedom of 
The whole isle. 

Jac. Fos. Both the same to me : the after 

Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
Is 't true my wife accompanies me? 

Lor. Yes, 

If she so wills it. 

Mar, Who obtain'd that justice ? 

Lor. One who wars not with women. 
Mar* But oppresses 

Men : howsoever let him have my thanks 
For the only boon I would have asked or taken 
From him or such as he is. 

Lor. He receives them 

As they are offer'd. 

Mar. - May they thrive with him 

So much ! — no more. 

Jac. Fos. Is this, sir, your whole mission 

Because we have brief time for preparation, 
And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
This lady, of a house noble as yours. 
Mar. Nobler ! 
Lor. How nobler ? 

Mar. As more generous ! 

We say the " generous steed" to express the purity 
Of his high blood. Thus much I 've learnt, although 
Venetian, (who see few steeds save of bronze,) 
From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coast* 
Of Egypt, and her neighbour Araby : 
And why not say as soon the " generous man T % 



302 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



Act III. 



If race be aught, it is in qualities 

More than in years; and mine, which is as old 

As yours, is better in its product, nay— 

Look not so stern — but get yon back, and pore 

Upon your genealonic tret's most green 

Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 

Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush'd 

For such a son— thou cold inveterate botes ! 

Jac Fos. Again, Marina! 

Afar. Again ! still, Marina. 

See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
With a last look upon our mi 
Let him partake it ! 

Jac. Fos. That were difficult. 

Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes it now — 
Ay. he may veil beneath a maible brow 
And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 
A few brief words of truth Bhame the devil's servants 
No less than master; I have probed his soul 
A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long, 
Will reach it always. See bow she shrinks from me! 
With death, and chain 1 ;, and exile in hie hand 
To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit : 
They are his weapons, not his armour, for 

I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart* 
J care not for his frowns ! We can but die, 
And he but live, for him the very worst 
Of destinies : each day secures him more 
His tempter's. 

Jac. Fos. This is mere insanity. 

Mar. It may be so ; and who hath made us mad 7 

J. or. Let her go on ; it irks not me. 

Mar. That's false ! 

You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
Of cold looks upon manifold gri fs ! You came 
To b«* sued to in vain — to mark our tears. 
And hoard our groan — to gaze upon the wreck 
Which you have made a princ's son — my husband ; 
In short, to trample on the fallen — an office 
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him! 
How have you sped ? We are wretched, sign or, as 
Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us, 
And how feel you 1 

Lor. As rocks. 

Mar. By thunder blasted : 

They feel not, but no lees are shiver'd. Come, 
Foscari; now let us go, and have this felon, 
The sole fit habitant of such a cell, 
Which he has peopled ofien, but ne'er fitly 
Till he himself shall brood in il alone. 

Enter the Doge. 

Jac. Jos. My father ! 

Doge, (embracing him.) Jaeopo! my son — my son! 

Jac. Fos. My father stilt ! How long it is since I 
Have heard thee name my name — our name ! 

t>oge. IU y boy ! 

Couldst thou but know 

Jac. Fos. I rarely, sir, have nmrmur'd 

Doge. I feel too much thou hast not, 

Mar. Doge, look there ! 

[She points to I.okedano, 

Doge. I see the man— what mean's! thou? 

Mar. Caution' 

Lor. Being 

The virtue which this noble lady most 
May practise, she doth well to recommend it. 

Mar. Wretch ! 't is no virtue, but the policy 
Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice : 
As such I recommend it, as I would 
To ono whose fool was on an adder's path. 

Doge. Daughter, it is superfluous ; I have long 
Known Loredano. 

Lor. You may know him better. 

Mar. Yes ; worse he could not. 



Jac. Fus. Father, let not these 

Our pining hours be lost in listening to 
Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it, 
Indeed, our last of meetings? 

Doge. You behold 

These white hairs ! 

Jac. Fus. And 1 feel, besides, that mine 

Will never be so white. Kmbrace me, father ! 
I loved you ever — never more than now. 

I k to my children — to your last child's children: 

Let them be all to you which he was once, 
Arid never be to you what I am now. 
May I not see them also ? 

•Afar. No— not here. 

Jac. Fos. They might behold iheir parent anywhere. 

.War. I would that they beheld their father in 
\ p which would not mingle fear with love, 

To freeze iheir young blood in its natural current. 
I : \ have fed well, slept soft, and knew not ihut 
Their tire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well, 
I know bu late may one day be their heritage, 
But let it only be their heritage, 
And not their present fee. Their senses, though 
Alive to love, are yet awake to terror; 
And these vile damps, loo, and yon (Atcfc green wave 
Which flouts above the place where we now stand — 
A cell so far below the water's level, 
Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 
Might strike them : this is not their atmosphere, 
However you — and you — and, most of all, 
As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano! 
M ■■■■ t» ■ tine i| n ithout prejudice. 

Jnc. Fos, I had not 

Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
I shall depart, then, without meeting them ? 

Doge. N H so: they shall await you in my chamber. 

./ C. Fos. And must I leave them all } 

Lor. y uu must. 

Jac. Fos. Not one? 

Lor. J hey are the state's. 

■Afor. I thought they had been mine. 

Lor. They are, in a!l maternal things. 

Mar. That is, 

tn all things painful. If they're sick, they will 
Be leTt 10 me to tend them ; should they die, 
To me to bury and to mourn ; but if 
They live, they'll make you soldiers, senators. 
Slaves, exiles — what you will ; or if thev are 
Females with portions, brides and bribes for nobles! 
Behold the stale's care for its sons and mothers ! 

/.</'. The hour approaches, and the wind is fair. 

Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where the genial 
wind 
Ne'er blows in all its blusteiing freed- rn ? 

Lor. 'T was so 

When 1 came here. The galley floats within 
A bow-shol of the " Riva di Schtavoni.* 1 

Jac. Fos. Father ! I pray you to precede me, and 
Prepare my children to behold their father. 

Doge. Be firm, my son! 

Jac. Fos. I will do my endeavour, 

Mar. Farewell ! at least to this detested dungeon, 
And him to whose good offices yon owe 
In part your past imprisonment. 

Lor. And present 

Liberation. 

Doge. He speaks truth. 

Jac. Fos. No doubt ! but 't is 

Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him. 
He knows this, or he had not sought to change them — 
But I reproach not. 

Lor. The time narrows, signor. 

Jac. Fos. Alas ! I little thought so lingeringly 
To leave abodes like this: but when I feel 
That every step I take, even from this cell, 



Act IV. 



THE TWO FOSCARr. 



303 



Is one away from Venice, I look back 
Even on these dull damp walls, and 

Doge. Boy ! no tears. 

Mar. Let them flow on : he went not un the nek 
To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. 
They will relieve his heart — that too kind heart — 
And [ will find an hour to wipe away 
Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now, 
But would not gratify yon wretch so far. 
Let us proceed. Dose, lead the way. 

Lor. (to the Familiar.) The torch, there ! 

Mar, Yes, light on us, as to a funeral pyre, 
With Loredano mourning like an heir. 

Doge. My son, you are feeble; take this hand. 

Jac. Fjs. Alas! 

Must youth support itself on age, and I 
Who ought to be the prop uf yours ? 

Lor. Take mine. 

Jtfar. Touch it not, Foscari ; 't will sting you. Signor, 
Stand off"! be sure, that if a grasp of yours 
Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are plunged, 
No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. 
Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you ; 
It could not save, but will support you ever. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

ScEHE I. — A Hall in the Ducal Palace, 
Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. And have you confidence in such a project? 

Lor. I have. 

Bar. 'T is hard upon his years. 

Lor. Say rather 

Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 

Bar. 'T will break his heart. 

Lor. Age has no heart to break. 

He has seen his son's half broken, and, except 
A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
Swerved. 

Bar. In his countenance, I srant you, never ; 
But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 
Had naught to envy him within. Where is he? 

Lor. In his own portion of the palace, v\iih 
His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 

Bar. Bidding farewell. 

Lor. A last. As soon he shall 

Bid to his dukedom. 

Bar. When embarks the son ? 

Lor. Forthwith — when this long leave is taken. 'T is 
Time to adinonisli them again. 

Bar. Forbear ; 

Retrench not from their moments. 

Lor. Not I, now 

We have higher business for our own. This day 
Shall be the last of the old D>oe's reign, 
As the first of his son's last banishment, 
And that is vengeance. „ 

J$ar. 1° m >' mind, too deep. 

Lor. 'T is moderate — not even life for life, the rule 
Denounced of retribution from all time ; 
They owe me still my fa'her's and my uncle's. 

Bar. Did not the Doge deny this strongly ? 

Lor. Doubtless. 

Bar. And did not this shake your suspicion ? 

Lor. No. 

Bar. But if this deposition should lake place 
By our united influence in the Council, 
It must be done with all the deference 
Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 

Lor. As much of ceremony as you will, 



So that the thing be done. You may, for aught 
I care, depute the Council on their knees, 
(Like Barbarossa to the Pope,) to beg him 
To have the courtesy to abdicate. 

Bar. What, if he will not? 

Lor, We Ml elect another, 

And make him null. 

Bar. But will the laws uphold us ? 

Lor. What laws ?— '• The Tea" are laws ; and if 
they were not, 
I will he legislator in this business. 

Bar. At your own peri! ? 

Lor. There is none, I tell you, 

Our powers are such. 

Bar, But he has twice already 

Solicited permission to retire, 
And twice it was refused. 

Lor, The better reason 

To grant it the third time. 

Bar. Unask'd? 

Lor. It shows 

The impression of his former instances : 
If they were from his heart, he may be thankful : 
If not, 'twill punish his hypocrisy. 
Come, they are met by this time ; let us join them, 
And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 
I have prepared such arguments as will not 
Fail to move them, and to remove him: since 
Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, do not 
Foil, with your won'ed scruples, teach us pause, 
And all will prosper. 

Bar. Could I but be certain 

This is no prelude to such persecution 
Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
I would support you. 

Lor. He is safe, 1 tell you ; 

His fourscore years and five may linger on 
As long as he can drag them : 't is his throne 
Alone is aim'd at. 

Bar. But discarded princes 

Are seldom long of life. 

Lor. And men of eighty 

More seldom still. 

Bar. And why not wait these few years? 

Lor. Because we haye waited long enough, and he 
Lived longer than enough. Hence ! In to council ! 

[Exeunt Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Enter Memmo and a Senator. 

Sen. A summons to " the Ten!" Why so? 

Mem, ' "The Ten" 

Alone can answer ; they are rarely wont 
To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
By previous proclamation. We are suminon'd— 
That is enough. 

Sen. For them, but not f.,r us; 

T would know why. 

Mi in. Yo\\ will know why anon, 

[f you obey; and, if not, you no less 

Will krjw why you should have obey'd. 

,S r ,i 1 mean not 

To op ose them, but 

Mi .,,. In Venice " 6»f ' 's a traitor. 

But me no " bvfs" unless you would pass o'er 
The Bridge which few repass. 

S ,, I am silent. 

Mem, W ny 

Thus hesirate? " The Ten" have call'd in aid 

Of lheir delibi rafii n five and twenty 

Patricians of the senate — you are one, 

And I another; and it seems to me 

Both honour'd by the choice or chance which leads us 

To mingle with a body so august. 

Sen. Most true. I say no more. 

Mem. As we k !^ signor, 



304 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



Act IV 



And att may honestly (that is, all those 
Of noble blood may) one day hope to be 
Decemvir, it is surely for the senates 
Chosen delegates, a school of wisdom, to 
Be thus admitted, though as novices, 
To view the mysteries. 

Sen. Let us view them: they 

JNo doubt, are worth it. 

.Vein. Being worth our lives 

If we divulge them, doubtless they arc worth 
Something, at least to you or me. 

Sen. I sought not 

A place within the sanctuary ; bin being 
i Ihosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
I shall lultil my office. 

Mi m. Let us not 

Be latest in obeying " The Ten's" summons. 

Sen. All are not met, but I am of your thought 
So far — let 's in. 

Mem, The earliest are most welcome 

In earnest councils — we will not be least so. [Exeunt. 

Enter the Dogc, Jacopo Foscahi, and Marina. 

Jac. Fos. Ah, father ! though I must and will depart, 
Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 
That I once more return unto my home, 
Howe'er remote ilie period. Let there be 
A point of time as beacon to 01} heart, 
Wnli any penalty annex VI they please, 
But let me still return. 

Doge. Son Jacopo, 

Go and obey our country's will : 'i is not 
For us to look beyond. 

Jac. Fos. But still I must 

Look back. 1 pray you think of me. 

/> •:.< Alas ! 

You ever were my dearest offspring, when 
They were more numerous, nor can be less so. 
Now von are last ; but did the state demand 
The exile of ihe disinterred ashes 
Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth, 
And their desponding shades (flune flitting round 
To impede the act, I must n.> less obey 
A duty, paramount to every duty. 

Mar. My husband ! lei us on : this but prolongs 
Our sorrow. 

Jac. Fos. But we are not summon'd yet ; 
The galley's sails are not unfurl'd : — who knows ? 
The wind may change. 

Mar. And if it do, it will not 

Change their hearts, or your lot : the galley's oars 
"Will quickly clear the harbour. 

Jac. Fos. O ye elements ! 

Where are your storms? 

Mar, In human breasts. Alas! 

Will nothing calm you ? 

Jac. Fos. Never yel did mariner 

Put up to patron saint such prayers fur prosperous 
And pleasani breezes, a* 1 call Upon you, 
Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! which 
Ye love not with more holy love than I, 
To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves, 
And waken Aaster, sovereign of the tempest ! 
Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
A broken corse upon the barren Lido, 
Where I may mingle with the sands which skirt 
The land 1 love, and never shall see more ! 

Mar. And wish you this with me beside you ? 

Jac. Fos. No- 

No — not for thee, too good, too kind ! May'st thou 
Live long to be a mother to those children 
Thy fond fidelity for a time deprives 
Of such support ! But for myself alone, 
May all the winds of heaven howl down the Gulf, 
And tear the vessel, till the mariners, 



Appall'd, turn their despairing eyes on me, 
As the I'henicians did on Jonah, then 
Cast mc out tV m, U an offWing 

To appease the waves. The billow which destroys me 
Will be more merciful than man, and bear mc, 
1 Dead, but still bear me to a native grave. 
l-'r in fisher's hands upon the desolate strand, 
\\ bieh, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received 
On-' lacerated like the ln-art which then 

Will be But wherefore breaks it not ? why live I 7 

^hir. To man thyself, I trust, with lime, to master 
Such useless passion. Until now thou wert 
A sufferer, but no! a loud MM : why 

What i< lias to the things thou hast borne in silence — 
Imprisonment and actual torture .' 

Jac. Fos. Double, 

Triple, and tenfold torture ! But you are right, 
It must be boine. Father, your blessing. 

Doge* "Would 

It could avail thee ! but no less thou hast it. 

Jac. Fos. Forgive 

Dtge. What ? 

Jac. Fus. My poor mother, for my birth 

And me for having lived, and you yourself 
(As I forgive you) for the gift of life, 
Which you bestow 'd upon me as my sire. 

Mar. What hast thou dune? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing. I cannot charge 

My memory with much save sorrow : but 
I have been so beyond the common lot 
Chasten'd and visited, I needs must think 
That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
What I have undergone here keep me from 
A like hereafter ! 

Mar. Fear not : that 's reserved 

For your oppressors. 

Jac . Fos. Let me hope not. 

Mar, Hope not * 

Jac. Fos. I cannot wish them all they have inflicted. 

Mar, .III! the consummate fiends! A thousandfold 
May the worm which ne'er dieth, feed upon them ! 

Jac. Fos. They may repent. 

Mar. And if they do, Heaven will not 

Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 

Enter an Officer and (Guards. 
OJfi. Signor! the boat is at the shore — the wind 
Is rising — we are ready to attend you. 

Jac. Fos. And I to be attended. Once more, father, 
Your hand ! 

Dos;e. Take it. Alas ! how thine own trembles * 

Jac. Fos. No — you mistake ; 't is yours that shakes, 
my father. 
Farewell ! 

Doge. Farewell! Is there aught else ? 

Jac. Fos. No— nothing. 

[To the Officer. 
Lend me your arm, good signor. 

Ojft. You turn pale — 

Let me support you — paler — ho ! some aid there ! 
Some water ! 

Mar. Ah, he is dying! 

Jac. Fos. Now, I 'm ready — 

My eyes swim strangely — where 's the door? 

Mar. Away! 

Let me support him — my best love ! Oh, God ! 
How faintly beats this heart — this pulse! 

Jac. Fos. The light! 

Is it the light ?— I am faint. 

[Officer presents him tcith water. 

Offi. He will be better, 

Perhaps, in the air. 

Jac. Fos. I doubt not. Father — wife— 

Your hands ! 

Mar. There 's death in that damp, clammy grasp 



Act. IV. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



305 



Oh God ! — My Foscari, how fare you ? 

Jac. Fos. Well ! 

[He dies. 
Offi. He 's gone ! 

Doge. He 's free. 

•Afar. No — no, he is not dead ; 

There must be life yet in that heart — he could not 
Thus leave me. 

Doge. Daughter! 

Mar. Hold thy peace, old man! 

I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
Oh, Foscari! 

Offi. We must remove the body. 

Mar. Touch it not, dungeon miscreants! your base 
office. 
Ends with his life, and goes not bevond murder, 
Even by your murderous laws. Leave his remains 
To those who know to honour them. 

OJJi. I must 

Inform the signory, and learn their pleasure. 

Doge Inform the signory from mfi, the Doge, 
They have no further power upon those ashes : 
While he lived, he was theirs, as his a subject — 
Now he is mine — my broken hearted boy ! 

[Exit Officer. 

Mar. And I must live! 

Doge. Your children live, Marina. 

Mar. My children! true — they live, and I must live 
Tt> bring them up to serve the state, and die 
As died their father. Oh ! what best of blessings 
Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
Had been so ! 

Doge. My unhappy children ! 

Jtfor, What ! 

You feel it then at last — you ! — Where is now 
The stoic of the state? 

Doge, (throicing himself down by the body.) Here ! 

■Mar. Av, weep on! 

I thought you had no tears — you hoarded them 
Until they are useless ; but weep on ! he never 
Shall weep more — never, never more. 

Enter Loredano and Darbarigo. 

Lor. What 'a here ! 

Mar. Ah ! the devil come to insult the dead ! Avauni ! 
Incarnate Lucifer! 'tis holy ground. 
A martyr's ashes now lie there, which make it 
A shrine. Get ihee back to thy place of torment! 

Bar. Lady, we knew not of this sad event, 
But pass'd here merely on our path from council. 

Jtfor. Pass on. 

Lor. We sought the Doge. 

Jtfor. (pointing; to the Doge, who is still on the 
ground by his son's body.) He's busy, look. 

About the business you provided for him. 
Are ye content ? 

Bar. We will not interrupt 

A parent's sorrows. 

M'ir. No, ye only make them, 

Then leavo them. 

Doge, {rising.) Sirs, I am ready. 

Bar. No — not now. 

Lor. Yel't was important. 

Doge. Ift was so, I can 

Only repeat — I am ready. 

Bar. It shall not be 

Just now, though Venice totter'd o'er the deep 
Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 

Doge. I thank you. If the tidings which you bring 
Are evil, you may say them ; nothing further 
Can touch me more than him thou look'st on there. 
If they be good, say on ; you need not fear 
That they can comfort me. 

Bar. I would they could 

Doge. I spoke not to you, but to Loredano. 
20 



He understands me. 

Mar. Ah! I thought it would be so. 

Doge. What mean you ? 

Mar, Lo ! there is the blood beginning 

To flow through the dead lips of Foscari — 
The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 

[To Loredano* 
Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
How death itself bears witness to thy deeds] 

Doge. My child ! this is a phantasy of grief. 
Bear hence the body. [To his Attendants.] Signors, 

if it please you, 
Within an hour I'll hear you. 

[Exeunt Doge, Marina, and Attendants icith 
the body. 

[Manent Loredano and Darbarigo. 

Bar. He must not 

Be troubled now. 

Lor. He said himself that naught 

Could give him trouble farther. 

Bar. These are words i 

But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
Upon it barbarous. 

Lor. Sorrow preys upon 

Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
From its sad visions of the other world 
Than calling it at moments back to this. 
The busy have no time for tears. 

Bar. And therefore 

You would deprive this old man of all business ? 

Lor. The thing's decreed. TheGiunta and "the Ten" 
Have made it law — who shall oppose that law 1 

Bar. Humanity ! 

Lor. Because his son is dead ? 

Bar. And yet unburied. 

Lor. Had we known this when 

The act was passing, it might have suspended 
Its passage, but impedes it not — once past. 

Bar. I '11 not consent. 

Lor. You have consented to 

All that 's essential — leave the rest to me. 

Bar. Why press his abdication now ? 

Lor. The feelings 

Of private passion may not interrupt 
The public benefit ; and what the state 
Decides to-day must not give way before 
To-morrow for a natural accident. 

Bar. You have a son. 

Lor. I have — and had a. father 

Bar. Still so inexorable? 

Lor. Still. 

Bar. But let him 

Inter his son before we press upon him 
This edict. 

Lor. Let him call up into life 

My siw and uncle — 1 consent. Men may, 
Even aged men, be, or appear to be, 
Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
The victims are not equal : he has seen 
His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
My sires by violent and mysterious maladies. 
[ used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
Of the destructive art of healing, to 
Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
His sons, and he had four, are dead, without 
My dabbling in vile drugs. 

Bar. And art thou sur* 

He dealt in such? 

Lor. Most sure. 

Bar. And yet he seem* 

All openness. 

Lor. And so he seem'd not long 

Ago to Carmagnuola. 

Bar. The attainted 



306 



THE TWO FOSCARr. 



Act \. 



And foreign traitor? 

Lor. Even so : when Ac, 

After the very night in which " the Ten* 1 
(Join'd with the Doge) decided his destruction, 
Mt.-t the great Duke at daybreak with a jest, 
Demanding whether he should au^ur him 
" Tin.- good day or good night ?" bid Doge-ship answerd, 
"Thai he in truth had pase'd a night of vigil, 
In which (he added with a gracious smile) 
There often has been question aboul you.* 1 * 
'T was true ; the question was the death resolved 
OfCarmagnuola, eight months ere he died ; 
And tlie old Doge, who knew him doonVoTj smiled on him 
VViih deadly cozenage, eight long months beforehand 
Eight months of such hypocrisy as i* 
Learnt but io eighty years. Brave Carmagntiola 
Is dead ; so is young Foscari and his broihcn — 
1 never smiled on them. 

liar. Was Carmagnuola 

Your friend ? 

Lor. He was the safeguard of the city. 

In early life its foe, but, in his manhood, 
Its saviour first, then victim. 

Bar. Ah ! that seems 

The penalty of saving cities. He 
Whom we now set againsl not only saved 
Our own, but added others to her sway. 

Lor. The Romans (and we ape them] gave a crown 
To him who took a city : and they gave 
A crown to him who saved a citizen 

In I. ink- : the rewards are equal. Now, 
If we should measure forth the cities taken 
By the I >oge Foscari] w ith cit izens 
DestroyM hv him, or through him, 'In- a< i 
Were foarfully againsl him, although narrow'd 
Tn private havoc, such as between him 
And my d-.ad father. 

Bar. An- you then thus fix'd ? 

Lor. Why, what should change me? 

Bar. That v hich changes me : 

But you, I know, are marble to retain 
A f'-ud. Bur when all is accomplished, when 
The old man is deposed, hi^ name degra 
His sons .ill dead, his family depress'd, 
And you and yours triumphant] shall you sleep? 

7, or. More soundly. 

liar. That >s an error, and you '11 find it 

Ere you sleep with your fathers. 

Lor. They sleep not 

In their accelerated grave*, nor will 
Till Foscari fills his. Each niyht I see them 
Sialk frowning nun, 1 mv couch, and, pointing towards 
The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. 

Bar. Fancy's distemper&lure! There is no passion 
More spectral or fantastical than hale ; 
Not even its oppo-iie, love, so peoples air 

With phantoms, as tins madness of the heart. 
EnUr an Officer. 

Lor. Whore go you, sirrah ? 

Offi. By the ducal order 

To "forward the preparatory rites 
For the late Foscari's interment. 

Bar. Their 

Vault has been often open*d of late years. 

Lor. 'T will be full soon, and may be closed for ever. 

Offi. May I pass on? 

Lor. You may. 

liar. How bears the doge 

This last calamity ? 

Offi. With desperate firmness, 

In presence of another he says little, 
But I perceive his lips move now and then; 



*Aji historical Tact. 



And once or twice I heard him, from the adjoining 
Apartment, mutter forth the words — "Mv son!" 
Scarce audibly. I must proceed. 

[Exit Officer. 

Bar. This stroke 

Will move all Venice in his favour. 

Lor. Right! 

We must be speedy ; let us call together 
The delegate! appointed to convey 
The council's resolution. 

Bar. I protest 

Against it at this moment. 

/.i i . As you please — 

IM lake their voices on it De'ertheleSS, 
And see whose mosl ma) away them, yours or mine. 
[Exeunt Barbamgo nm/LoBLDASo 



ACT V. 

Scene L— The Doge's apartment. 
The Doge and . Utendants. 

Jitt. My lord, the deputation is in waiting ; 

Rut add, that if another hour would better 
Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 

Doge. To me all hours are like. Let them approach. 
[Exit Attendant, 

Jin Officer. Prince! I have done your bidding. 

Doge. What command ? 

Offi. A melancholy one — to call the attendance 
Of 

Doge. True — true — true: I crave your pardon. 
Begin to fail in apprehension, and 

Wax very old — old almost as my years. 
Til! now I fought them olf, but lliey begin 
To overtake me. 

Enter the Deputation, consisting of six of the 
Signonj, and the Chief of the Ten. 
Noble men, your pleasure ! 

Chief of the Ten. In the first place, the Council doth 
condole 
With the Doge on his late and private grief. 

Doge* No more — no more of that. 

Chief of the Ten. Will not the Duke 

Accept the homage of respect? 

Doge, I do 

Accept it as 't is given — proceed. 

Chi i "/the Ten. "The Ten," 

With a selected giunta from the senate 
Of twenty-five of the best born patricians, 
Having deliberated on the state 
Of the republic, and the o'erw helming cares 
Which, at this moment, doubly must oppress 
Your years, so long dwvoied to your country, 
Have judged it Fitting, with all roven 
Now to Rolii i 1 from your wisdom, (which 
Upon reflection must accord in this.) 

i 'nation of the ducal ring, 
Which you have worn bo long and venerably. 
And to prove that they are not ungrateful nor 
Cold to your years and services, thev add 
An appanage ol twenty hundred golden 
Ducats, to make retiremanl not less splendid 
Than should become a Bovereign'a retreat. 

Doge, Did I hear rightly ? 

Chief of the Ten. Need I say again? 

Doge. No. — Have you done ? 

Chief of the Ten. I have spokon. Twenty-four 
Hours are accorded you tn give an answer. 

Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 

Chief of the Ten. We 

Will now retire. 

Doge. Stay ! Four and twenty hours 

Will alter nothing which I have to say. 



Act V. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Chief of the Ten. Speak ! 

Dog*. When r twice before reiterated 

My wish lo abdicate, it was refused me ; 
And HOI alone refused, but y exacted 
An oath from me thai I would never more 
Renew this instance. I have sworn to die 
In full exertion ..fibe functions, which 
My country call'd me heic lo • v rcise, 
According to my lionour and my conscience — 
I cannot break my oath. 

Chief of the T, t. Reduce us not 

To the alternative of a decree, 
Instead of your compliance. 

Doge. Providence 

Prolongs my days to prove and chasten me ; 
But ye have no right to reproach my lemrth 
Of days, since every hour has been the country's. 
I am ready to lay down my life for her, 
As I have laiddjwn dearer things than life: 
But for my dignity— I hold it of 
The whole republic; when the general will 
Is manifest, then you shall all be answer'd. 

Chief of Tie Ten. We grieve for such an answer 
but it cannot 
Avail you aught. 

Dog< ■ I can submit lo all things, 

But nothing will advance ; no, not a moment. 
What you decree — decree. 

Chief oj the Ten. With this, then, must we 

Return to those who sent us? 

Doge. Vmi have heard me. 

Chief of the Ten. With all due reverence we retire 

[Exeunt the Deputation, i,-c. 
Enter an Attendant. 

•*"• My lord, 

The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 
Doge. My time is hers. 



307 



Might have repaid protection in llns moment, 
Cannot assist his father. 

Do g e - Nor should do so 

Against his country, had he a thousand lives 
Instead of that 

Mar. They tortured from him. This 

May be pure patriotism. I am a woman: 
To me my husband and mv children were 
Country and home. I loved Aim— how I loved him. 
I have seen him pass through such an ordeal as 
The old martyrs would have shrunk from : he is gone, 
And I, who would have given my blood for him 
Have naughl to give but tears ! But could I comuass 
I he reiribution of his wrongs 1— Well, well : ' 

I have sons, who shall be men. 

D "" e -. Your grief distracts you, 

^ . Vlar. I thought I could have borne it, when I sawhint 
Bovv'd down by such oppression : yes, I thouoht 
That I would ralher look upon his corse 
Than his prolong',! captivity : — I am puuish'd 
1 "i that thought now. Would I were in his grave! 
Doge. I must look on him once more. 
Mar. 

Doge. Is he — 
Mar. 



Come with me ! 
his bier. 



"g 



Enter Marina. 

Mar. My lord, if I intrude- 

Perhaps you fain \vould he alone 1 

Doge. Alone ! 

Alone, come all the world around me, I 
Am now and evermore. But we will bear it. 

Mar. We *ill ; anil for the sake of those who are, 

Endeavour Oh my husband! 

Doge . Give it way ; 

I cannot comfort thee. 

Mtr. He might have lived, 

So form'd lor gentle privacy of life, 
So loving, so beloved ; the native of 
Another land, and who so blest and blessing 
As my poor Foscari ? Nothing was wantin 
Unto his happiness and mine save not 
To be Venetian. 

Dige. Or a prince's son. 

.M ir. Yes ; all things which conduce to other men's 
Imperfect happiness or high ambition, 
By some - rang.- d.-sliny, lo htm proved deadly. 
The Coi airy and the people whom he loved 
The p ince of whom he was the elder born, 

And 

Doge. Soon may be a prince no longer. 
Mar. How ? 

Doge. They have taken my son from me, and now aim 
At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
Let them resume the gewgaws ! 

Mar. Oh the tyrants'. 

In such an hour too ! 

Doste. 'T is the fittest lime : 

An hour ago I should have felt ii. 

Mar. And 

Will you not now resent it ? — Oh for vengeance ! 
But he, who, had he been enough protected, 



Our bridal bed is no 

Doge. And he is in his shroud ! 

Mar. Come, come, old man. 

Exeunt the Doge and Marina'. 
Enter Barbarigo and Loredano. 

Bar. (to an Attendant.) Where is the Dooc? 

*ftl. This instant retired hence 

With the illustrious lady his son's widow. 

Lor. Where ? 

• Ut. To the chamber where the body lies 

Bar. Let us return, then. 

Lor. You forget, you cannot. 

We have the implicit order of the Giunta' 
To await their coming here, anil join them in 
Their oHice : ihey II be here soon afer us. 

Bar. And will they press their answer on the Do«e ? 

Lor. "I'was his own wish that all should be dona 
promptly. 
He answer'd quickly, and must so be answer'd; 
His dignity is look'd to, his eslate 
Cared for — what would he more ? 

Bar. Die in his robes : 

He could not have lived long : but I have done 
My besi to save his honours, and opposed 
This proposition to the last, though vainlv. 
Why would the general vote compel me hither? 

Lor. 'T was fit hai some one of such differenl thoughts 

From ours should he a w itness, lest false tongues 

Should whisper that a harsh majority 
Dreaded to have iis acts beheld by others. 

Bar. And not less, I most needs think, for the sake 
Of humbling me for my vain opposition. 
You are ingenious, Loredano, in 
Your modes of vengeance, nav, poetical, 
A verj Ovid in the an of haling; 
"r is thus (although a secondary object, 

Yet hat'- has mi seopio ivts) to vim 

I owe, by vvav of foil to the more zealous, 
This undesired association in 
Your Giunta's duties. 

Lor. How ! — my Giunta ! 

Bar. 
They speak your language, watch your nod 
Your plana* and do your work. Are they not yours ? 

Lor. Yoo talk unwarily. 'T were best they hear not 
This from you. 

Bar. Oh ! they 'II hear as much one day 

From louder Innaues than mine ; they have gone beyond 
Even their exorbitance of power : and when 
This happens in the most cuiilemn'd and abject 



Yours ! 
i approve 



308 



THE TWO FOSCART. 



Act V. 



Slates, stung humanity will rise to check it. 

Lor. You talk but idly. 

Bar. That remains for proof. 

Here come our colleagues. 

Enter the Deputation as before. 

Chief of the Ten. Is the Duke aware 

We seek his presence ? 

JUt. He shall be inform'd. 

[Exit Attendant. 

Bar. The Duke is with his son. 

Chief of the Ten. If it be so, 

We will remit him till the riles are over. 
Let us return. J T is limee nough to-morrow. 

Lor. {aside to Bar.) Now the rich man's lull-fire 
upon your tongue, 
Unquench'd, unquenchable! I 'II have it lorn 
From ltd vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
Nothing but sobs through blood, for this ! Sag*: signors . 
I pray ye be not hasty. [.}!<>udto the others. 

Bur. But be human 

Lor. See, the Duke comes ! 

Enter the Doge. 

Doge. I have obey'd your summons. 

Chief of the Ten. We come once more to urge our 
past request. 

Doge. And I to answer. 

Chief of the Ten. What? 

Doge. My only answer, 

You have heard it. 

Chief of the Ten. Hear ijou then the last decree, 
Definitive and absolute ! 

/) -, . To the point — 

T\> the point! I know of old the forms of office, 
And gentle preludes to strong acts— Go on ! 

Chit f of the Ten. You arc no longer Doge; you are 
released 
From your imperial oath as sovereign ; 
Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
Your services, the state allots the appanage 
Already mentioned in our former congress. 
Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
Under the penalty to see confiscated 
All your own private fortune. 

Doge. That last clause, 

I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 

Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke! 

Lor. Your answer, Francis Foscari! 

Doge. If I could have foreseen that my old age 
Was prejudicial to. the state, the chief 
Of the republic never would have shown 
Himself so far ungrateful, as to place 
His own high dignity before hi-- country; 
But this life having been so many years 
Not useless to that country, I would fain 
Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
But the decree being rendered, [ obey. 

Chief of the Ten. If you would have the three days 
named extended, 
We willingly will lenghten them to eight, 
As sign of our esteem. 

/Jng-f . Not eight hours, signor, 

Nor even eight minutes — There 's the ducal ring, 

[Taking off his ring and cap. 
And there the ducal diadem. And so 
The Adriatic *s free to wed another. 

Chief of the Ten. Y'et go not forth so quickly. 

/),m-, . I am old, sir, 

And even to move but slowly must begin 
To move betimes. Methinks I see among you 
A face I know not — Senator! your name, 
You, by your garb, Chief of the Forty ! 

Jtfem. Signor, 

X am the so j of Maro Meramo. 



Doge. Ah ! 

Your father was my friend. — but sons and fathers .' — 
What, ho ! my servants there ! 

.itt. My prince ! 

Doge. No prince — 

There are the princes of the prince ! [Pointing* to the 

Ten's deputation.] — Prepare 
To part from hence upon the instant. 

Chief of the Ten. Why 

So rashly 1 't will give scandal. 

Doge . Answer that ; 

[To the Ten. 
Il is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourseU 

[7*o the Servants 
There is one burden which I beg vou bear 
With care, although 't is past all father harm — 
But I will look to thai myself. 

Bar. He means 

The body of his son. 

Doge. And call Marina, 

My daughter ! 

Enter RUiu>.». 

Doge. Get thee ready we must mourn 

Elsewhere. 

Mar. And every where. 

Doge. True ; hut in freedom 

Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
Signors, you may depart : what would you more ? 
We are going : do you fear that we shall bear 
The palace with us ? Its old walls, ten limes 
As old as I am, and I 'in very old, 
Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
Could tell a talc ; but I invoke them not 
To fall upon you J else they would, as erst 
The pillars of '-temple on 

The Israelite and the Philistine's (bee. 
Such power I do believe there might exist 
In such a curse as mine, provoked by such 
As you; but I curse not. Adieu, good signors ! 
May the next duke be better than the present! 

Lor. The present duke is Paschal Malipiero* 

Doge. Not till I pass the threshold of these doors. 

Lor. Saint Mark's great hell is soon about to toll 
For his inauguration. 

Do?e. Earth and heaven ! 

Ye will reverberate this p^al ; and I 
Live to hear this ! — the first doge who e'er heard 
Such sound for his successor ! Happier he, 
My attainted predecessor, stern Faliero— 
This insult at the least was spared him. 

Lor. What 

Do you regret a traitor ? 

Doge. No— I merely 

Envy the dead. 

Chief of the Ten. My lord, if you indeed 
Are bent upon*this rash abandonment 
Of this stale's palace, at the least retire 
By the private Btaircase, which conducts your toward* 
The landing-place of the canal. 

Doge. No. I 

Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 
To sovereignty— tlie Giant's Stairs, on whose 
Broad eminence I was invested duke. 
Mv services have call'd me up those steps, 
The malice of my foes will drive me down them. 
There five and thirty years ago was I 
InstaJl'd, and traversed ihese same halls, from, which 
I never thought to be divorced except 
A corse — a corse, il might be, fighting for them — 
But not push'd hence by fellow citizens. 
But come ; my son and I will go together — 
He to his grave, and I to pray for mine. 

Chief of the Ten. What! thus in public? 

Doge. I was publicly 



ActV. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



309 



Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
Manna ! an thou willing ? 

Mar. Here 's my arm ! 

Doge. And here my staff: thus pmpp'd will I go forth. 

Chief of the Ten. It must not be— the people will 
perceive it. 

Doge. The people !— There 's no people, you well 
know it, 
Else you dan: not deal thus by them or me. 
There is a populace, perhaps, whose looks 
May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse 

you, 
Save with their hearts and eyes. 

Chief of the Ten. You speak in passion, 

Else — 

Doge. You have reason. I have spoken much 
More than my wont : it is a foible which 
Was not of mine, but more excuses you, 
Inasmuch as if shows that I approach 
A dotage which may justify this deed 
Of yours, although the law does not, nor will. 
Farewell, sirs ! 

Bar. You shall not depart without 

An escort fitting past and present rank. 
We will accompany, wiih due respect, 
The Doge unto his private palace. Say ! 
My hnthern, will we not? 

Different voices. Ay! — Ay! 

Doge. You shall not 

Stir— in my train, at least. I enter'd here 
As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
By the same portals, but as citizen. 
All these vain ceremonies are base insults, 
Which only ulcerate the heart the more, 
Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
Pump is fur princes — I am none .' — That 's false, 
I am, but only to these gates. — Ah ! 
Lor. Hark ! 

[The great bell of St. Mark's tolls. 
Bar. The bell! 

Chief of the Ten. St. Mark's, which tolls for the 
election 
Of Malipicro. 

Doge. Well I recognize 

The sound ! I heard it once, but once before 
And that is five and thirty years ago 
Even then I was not young. 

Bar. Sit down, my lord ! 

You tremble. 

Doge. T' is the knell of my poor boy ! 

My heart aches bitterly. 

Bar. I pray you sit. 

Doge. No ; my seat here has been a throne till now. 
Marina! let us go. 

Mar. Most readily. 

Doge,{tcalks a few steps, then stops.)l feel athirst — 
will no one bring me here 
A cup of water ? 

Bar. I 

Mar. And I 

Lor. And I ■ 

[ The Doge takes a goblet from the hand 
of Loredano. 

Doge. I take yours, Loredano, from the hand 
Most fit for such an hour as this. 

Lor. Why so ? 

Doge. 'T is said that our Venetian crystal has 
Such pure antipathy to poisons as 
To burst, if aught of venom touches it. 
You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 

Lor. Well, sir! 

Doo-e. . Then it is falsa, or you are true 

For my own part, I credit neither; *t is 
An idle legend. 

Mar. You talk wildly, and 



Had better now be seated, nor as yet 

Depart. Ah ! now you look as look'd my husband! 

Bar. He sinks! — support him!— quick — a chair — 
support him ! 

Doge. The bell tolls on! — let's hence — my brain's 
on fire ! 

Bar. I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 

Doge. No. 

A sovereign should die standing. My poor boy ! 
OIF with your arms ! — That belt ! 

[The Doge drops down and dies. 

Mar. My God ! My God ! 

Bar. (to Lor.) Behold! your work 's completed ! 

Chief of the Ten. Is ;here thtn 

No aid / Call in assistance ! 

Mt. 'T is all over. 

Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his obsequies 
Shall be such as befits his name and nation, 
His rank and his devotion to the duties 
Of the realm, while his age permitted him 
To do himself and them full justice. Brethren, 
Say, shall it not be so ? 

Bar. He has not had 

The misery to die a subject where 
He reign'd : then let his funeral rites be princely. 

Chief of the Ten. We are agreed, then ? 

.7//, except Lor. answer, Yes. 

Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be with him' 

Mar. Signors, your pardon : this is mockery. 
Juggle no more with that poor remnant, which, 
A moment since, while yel it had a soul, 
(A soul by whom you have increased your empire, 
And made your power as proud as was his glory,) 
And banish'd from his palace, and tore down 
From his high place, with such relentless coldness ; 
And now, when he can neither know these honours, 
Nor would accept them if he could, you, signors, 
Purpose, with an idle and superfluous pomp, 
To make a paseanl over what you trampled. 
A princelv funeral will be your reproach, 
And not his honour. 

Chief cfthe Ten. Lady, we revoke not 
Our purposes so readily. 

Mar. I know it, 

As far as touches torturing the living. 
I thought the dead had been beyond even you, 
Though (some, no doubt) consign'd to power which 

may 
Resemble that you exercise on earth. 
Leave him to me ; you would have done so for 
His dregs of life, which you have kindly shorten'dt 
It is my last of duties, and may prove 
A dreary comfort in my desolation. 
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, 
And the apparel of the grave. 

Chief of the Ten Do you 

Pretend still to this office ? 

Mar. I do, signor. 

Though his possessions have been all consumed 
In the state's service, I have still my dowry, 
Which shall be consecrated to his rites, 
And those of [She stops with agitation. 

Chief of the Ten. Best retain it for your children. 

Mar. Ay, they are fatherless, I thank you. 

Chief of the Ten. # We 

Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and follow'd 
Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 
As Doge, hut simply as a senator. 

Mar. I have heard of murderers, who have interred 
Their victims; but ne'er heard, until this hour, 
Of so much splendour in hypocrisy 
O'er those they slew. I've heard of widow's tears- 
Alas ! I have shed some — always thanks to you ! 
Il' ve heard of heirs in sables— you have loft do?* 






310 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



To the deceased, so you would act the part 

Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done! as one day 

I trust, Heaven's will be done too! 

Chief of the Ten. Know you, ladv, 

To whom ye speak, and perils of such speech ? 

Mar. I know the former belter than yourselves ; 
The latter— like yourselves ; and can face both. 
Wish you more funerals ? 

Bar. Heed not her rash words ; 

Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 

Chief of the Ten. We will not note them down. 



Bar. {turning to Lor. who is writing upon his tablets.) 
What an thou writing, 
With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets ? 
Lor. (pointing to the Voge's body.) That he has 

paid me !* 
Chief of the Ten. What debt did he owe you? 
Lor. A long and just one; Nature's debt and mine. 

[Curtain falls. 



' " L'ka pagnla." An historical fact. See the history o[ Venice, b» 
P. Dam, page sll, vol. a. 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Extraif de VHi&toire de la Rfyublique de Veni.se par 
P. Daru, de CAcadtmie Frangaise. torn. 11. 



Depuis trente ans, la republique n'avait pas depose! 
les armes. Elle avait acquis lea provinces de Brescia, 
de Bergame, de Creme, et la principauie de Ravenne. 

Mais ces guerrcs continuelies faisaient beaucoup de 
malheureux et de mecontents. Le doge Francois Fos- 
cari, a qui on ne pauvait pardonner u'en avoir ele le 
promoteur, manifesta une seconde fois, en 1442, et pro- 
bablement avec plus de sincerite que la premiere, .'in- 
tention d'abdiquer sa dignitc. Le conseil s'y refusa en- 
core. Ou avait exige de lui le serment de ne plus quit- 
ter le dogat, II eiait deja avance dans la vieiUesse, 
conservaul c-peiulant beaucoup de force de tete et de 
caractere, et juuissant de la sloire d'avoir vu la repub- 
lique etendie au loin les limites de ses domaines pen 
dant son administration. 

Au mil.eu de ces prosperites, de grands chagrins vin. 
rent mettre a l'epreuve la fermete de son Ame. 

Son fils, Jacques Foscari, fut accuse, en 1445, d'avoir 
recu des presents de quelques princes ou seigneurs 
etrangers, notamment, disait-on, du due de Milan, Phi- 
lippe Visconti. C'etait non seulement une bassesse, 
mais une infraction des lots positives de ia republique. 

Le conseil des dil traila cette affaire comme s'il so 
f-it agi d'un deMit commis par un particulier obscur. 
L'accuse fut amene devant ses juges, devant le doge, 
qui ne crut pis pouvoir s'abstenir de pr6sider le tribu- 
nal. LA, il fut interroge, applique a la question,* de- 
clare coup able, et il entendit, de la bouche de son pere, 
Parrel qui le condamnait a un bannissement perpe'tue],' 
et le reltJguait a Naples de Romanie, pour y finir ses 
jours. 

Embatque sur tine galere pour se rendre au lieu de 
son exil, il tomba malade a Trieste. Les sollicitations 
du doge obtinrent, non sans difficult, qu'on lui assignat 
une autre residence. Enfin, le conseil des dix lui per- 
mit de se retirer a Trevise, en lui imposant ['obligation 
d'y rester sous peine de mort, et de se presenter tous 
les jours devant le gouverneur. 

II y etait depuis cinq ans, lorsqu'un des chefs du con- 
seil des di\ afsassing. Les soupcona se portercnt sur 
lui : un de ses douir-stiques qu'on avait vu a Veuise fut 
arrets et subit la torture. Les bonrreauY ne pnrent 
lui arracher aiicun aveu. Ce terrible tribunal se fit 
amener le maitre, le soumit aux mfimes epreuves; il 



(lain. In veriia : ehinmmo il connlull.. 
e fd mesaer lo doge, l"u ■enieiiztaio. (Marin 



• R dstnijli In rrtrdo |>rr 
it i' dice, col In riunti, nd qi 
Sanulo, Vitade' Dueehi. P. Poici 

t K n tormentRta n« mil eonfewO cosa alenna, piirepnrve al rnnaigllo 
de'diecidi conlWrlo in vita alia Unneu. (Ibid.) Void lie texledu J.urt- 
merit: " Cum Jaxobui Poiearl per occaAionem percuationtt et moriia 
HermolnS Donnti Kill retentua el examinulua. et propter aigniflcationea, 
tetiificatfoDea, >;t Mrlpturai qua* hibtotur contra eum elan i| 
aum esse reum eriminta prndicll, aed propter incnntatloni* el i 
• iln r. perta aunt, de qulBua exlatit .iiilictin manifesta, videlur propter 
obaiinnlam men'-em mium, nun ease poaaiblc extrahere ab ipso ilium 
veritiilem, qua; clara eat per scrip, nras et per leattftcaUone*, quontam in 
fune aliquum nee wocem, nee gemitum, aed aoluin intra den tea roctl i|i«e 
vidctwr elauditurinfr-a aeloqui, etc. . . . Tnmen non est •tanilum in iaiia 
lermlnia, propter honorem itnfls nostri et pro mullis rea|ie<-tihna, pra-ier- 
tim q'.od resimen noalmmocciipalnrin hac re, et qui inlerdiciuraeai am- 
pllui.progrt.dere : cadil pars.qnod dictua JacohuaFoscari, proplarra qua} 
oabentur de Hlo t roittniur in confliilum in civiiute Canee,'' etc.— Notice 



resists X tous les tourmcnLs, ne cessant d'attester son 
innocence ;t mais on ne vit dans cette Constance que 
de P obstination ; de ce qu'il taisait le fail, on conclut quo 
ce fait existait ; on atlribua sa fermete a la magie, et on 
le r616gua a la Canee. De cette terre lointaine, le ban- 
ni, digno alors de quelque pitie, ne cessait d'ecrire a 
son pere, a ses amis ] pour obtemr quelque adoucisse- 
ment a sa deportation. N'obtenant rien, et eachant 
que la terreur qu'inspirait le conseil des dix ne lui per- 
metlait pes d'esperer de trouver dans Venise une seule 
voix qui s'elevat en sa faveur ; il fit une lettre pour lo 
nmiveau due de Milan, par lamielle, au nom des bona 
offices que Sforce avait recus du chef de la rcpublique 
il implorait son intervention en faveur d'un innocent, du 
fils du doge. 

Cette lettre, selon mielques historiens, fut confine it 
un man-hand, qui avail promis de la faire parvemr au 
due; mais qui, trop averti de ce qu'il avait a cramdro 
en se rendant 1'mtermediare d'une pareille correspon- 
dance, se I at a, en dt'-barquant ji Venise, de la r- i 
au chefdu tribunal. Une autre version, qui parait plus 
aflie, rapport e que la lettre fut surprise par un tspion 
attache au pas de l'exile\* 

Ce fut un nouveau debt dont on eut h punir Jacques 
Foscari. Reclamer la protection d'un prince etranger 
etait un crime, dans un sujet de la republique. Une 
galere par tit sur-le-champ pour I'amener dans les prisons 
de Venise. A son arrivee il fut Soumis a Perirapade.t 
C'etait une singuhere destinee, pour !e citoyer dune 
republique et pour le fils d'un prince, d'etre trois fois 
dans sa vie applique 5 a la question. Cette fois la torture 
erait d'autant plus odieuse, qu'elle n'avait point d'objel 
le fait qu'on avait a lui reprocher, e'tant incontestable. 

Quand on demanda a l'accuse', dans les intervalles que 
les bourreaux lui accordaient, pourquoi il avail ecrit la 
lettre qu'on lui produisait, il reponHit que c'etait pre cise'- 
ment parce qu'il ne doutait pas qu'elle ne tonibat enlre 
les mains du tribunal, que loute autre voie lui avait 
etc ferm£e pour faire parvenir ses reclamations, qu'il 
a'attendail bien qu'on le ferait amener a Venise ; mais 
qu'il avait tout risque - pour avoir la consolalion de voir 
sa femme, son pere, et sa mere, encore une fois. 

.Sur cette natve declaration, on conlirma sa sentence 
■ IVvil ; maia on I'aggrava, en y ajoutant qu'il serait retenu 
en prison pendant un an. Cette rigueur, dont on usait 
envers un malheureux, etait sans doute odieuse ; mais 
cette politique, qui defendait a tous les citoyens de faire 
interv.-jiir les etranuers dans les affaires intericures de 
la republique, &ait sage. Elle etait chez eux une max- 
ime de gouvernement e t une maxime inflexible. L'- 
historien Paul MorosiniJ a conte que l'empcreur Fre- 
deric III. pendant qu'il etait 1'hflte des Veniiiens, de- 
manda, comme une faveur paruculiere, Padmission d'un 



■urle procendi* Jncqnea Poacari, dana un Tolome, intituW Raccolta di 
memorie atorirlie e annedole, per formnr la Storia dell' eccellentiaaimo 
conaiglio dl X della aua prima initilniiniio aino a'^iornl oosiri.con la dl- 
frrae vnriaroni e riforme nelle farie epoebe aucceaae. (Arehivea de 
Ven inc.) 

* La notice cite"e d-dfMOl, qui rapporle lea acua de celtei procedure. 

t Ehbr iirimaper nap-re la fertta treBla aquaaai di conk. l&UtiQ' 
Sanulo, Vitr de'Oucbi. P. Fuacari.) 1-*mw 

II Uiitorla di Venetia, lib. 33. 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARf. 



311 



citoyen dans le grand conseil, et la grace d'un ancien 
gouverneur de Candle, gendre du doge, et banni pour 
sa mauvaise administration, sans pouvoir oblenir m 
I'une ni 1' autre. 

Cependant, on ne put refuser au condamne la per- 
mission de voir sa femme, ses enfants, ses parents, qu'il 
all. tii. quitter pour loujuurs, Celte derniere entrevue 
mSme fut accompagnee de cruaute, par la severe cir- 
r'UHpeciion, qui retenait les epanchements de la dou. 
leur paternelle et conjugate. Ce ne fut point dans I'm- 
lerieur de leur appartement, ce fut dans une des 
grandes salles du palais, qu'une femme, accompagnee de 
COS ijiKttre fils, vint faire les derniers adieux a son mari, 
qu'ini pere octogenaire et le dogaresse accablee d'mfir- 
miies, jouirent un moment de i;i Iriste consolation de 
meler ieurs larmes a celles de leur exiTe. 11 se jela a 
leurs genoux en leur tendant des mains disloquees par 
la torture, pour les supplier de solliciier quelque adou- 
cissement a la sentence qui venait d'etre prononcee 
contre lut Son pere eut le courage de Kii repondre: 
" Nun, mon fils, respectez votre arr£t, et obeissez sans 
murmure a la seigneurie."* A ces mots il se separa 
<t-' I'uifortune, qui fut sur-Ie-champ embarque pour 
C indie. 

L'antiquite vit avec autant d'horfeur vue d'admira- 
tion un pere condamnant ses fils evidemment coupables. 
Elle h£sita pour qualifier de vertu sublime ou de fero- 
ciie cet effort qui parait au-dessus de la nature hu- 
mame ;f mais ici, ou la premiere faute n'etait qu'une 
faiblesse, ou la seconde n'etait pas prouvee, ou la troi- 
sieme n'avait rien de criminel, comment concevoir la 
Constance d'un pere, qui voit tortjrer trois fois sons fils 
unique, qui l'entend condamner sans preuves, et qui 
n'eclate pas en plaintes; qui ne Pabonle que pour lui 
montrer un visage plus austere qu'aitendri, et qui, au 
mjrnent des'en separer pour jam. us, lui irnerdit Its mur- 
mures et jusqu'a I'esperance? Cnninvnt expliquer une 
si cruHle circonspection, si ce n'est en avouanl, a notre 
home, que la ivrannie peut obtenir de l'espece hu- 
maine les m£mes efforts que la vertu? La servitude 
aurait-elle son heroisme comme la liberte? 

Quelque temps apres ee jugement, ou decouvrit le 
veritable auteur de Passassinat, dnnt Jacques Foscari 
portait le peine; mais il n'etait plus temps de reparer 
cette atroce injustice, le malheureux etait mort dans 
sa prison. 

II me reste a raconfer la suite des malheurs du pere. 
L'histoire les attribtte a ['impatience qu'avaient ses en- 
nemia et sr-< rivaux de voir vtfquer sa place. Elle ac- 
cuse form-llement Jacques Loredan, fun des chefs du 
conseil des dix, de s'etre livre contre ce vieillard aux 
conseils d'une haine hereditaire, et qui depuis long 
tc-m;>s divisait leurs maisons.J 

Francois Foscari avait essaye de le faire cesser, en 
offrant sa fille a I'iltustre amiral Pierre Lor dan, pour 
un de ses fils. L'alliance avail ere rejete*e, et I'inimitie 
des deux families s'en etait accrue. Dans tons les con- 
seils, d ins toute- lea aff tires, le d »ge troiivait tonjours 
les Loredans pr£ts .1 combattre ses propositions ou ses 
int£r6ts. II lui echappa un jour de dire qu'il ne se 
croirait reellemenl prince, que lorsque Pierre Loredan 
aurait cesse de vivre. Cet amiral mourut quelque 
temps apres, d'une incommodite assez prompte qu'on 
ne ptit expliquer. II n'en fallut pas davantaei? aux mal- 
veil'ants pour insinuer que Francois Foscari, ayant de- 
sire cette mort, pouvait bien I'avoir hiitee. 



• Marin Sri,iulO, duns as chronicle, Vue .1.-' n.i^hi. Be .^l iri .arisen 
ovoir en riiitrir.ion d'une expression asse?, enenfii].!*; : ■' II Inge era Tee 
eblo in dvcnepita et4ecamintiTaeon uui nuueUa: R qonnda eli oridi 
parloali molM cniislaniemente die pnrea che n«ti IbsM sun fielinolo, licet 
fodsefietiuolnuiiico, e J.Acouo'liMe, meaier pnilre *i pri-eodic procuriaie 
per n)e. icdoeeM io torn! n uu mil. tl (tone duse : Jocpo, va e ob- 
be"li«ei » iiiellochc thoIc la terra, e n^n cercarpiu olirc." 

t Celafut un acte q«ie fan M agturolt ->v sntfi»j.i merit l<wer, ay iiki 
blitmer : c»r. on c'csloit line eicellenee <le tcj-1'i, ijtii lenH-iit alntl mn 
coeur imp.TMitile, on une violence de pa^iion qui le rtfidnit in*ensihle, 
dont it Inne' ne 1'HUtren'Ml chose petite, ain«i snruasBiuii I'ordinnire 
d nnn.uiie nature el tenant on de la (Urlnltd on de In bntl«llt4. Mais it 
rst |>l<is r.iiKmnuhl' que le |ne-inenl d-s liommei a'aceorde a au eloire, 
que I 1 fotbtaSM det )ngean* fasie dea croire >a mm. Mail pour lort 

3 rand il >e fill relirt, tnul le monde demeura inr la place, comme tran<y 
'hnrrenr i-t de frayeor, pur un lone tempi tans mot dire, pour avoir veu 
te qui avait H4 fait. (Plularqne. Valerina Pnhlicola.) 

J Je ania principalement danac* rtcit nne relation manuicrilede la d* 
poaiiion de Pran^oia Foacari, qni est dnna le volnmo iniilule Raccolta di 
meinoda atoricbee ennedote, per forraaj la Sloria dell' ecct Hem iaa 11110 
coosiglio di X. (Archive* d« Vciiise.) 



Ces bruits s'accrediterent encore lorsqu'on vit aussi 
penr subitement Marc Loredan, frere de Pierre, et cela 
dans le moment oil, en sa qualite d'avogador, il in- 
siruisait un pioces contre Andre Donato, gendre du 
doge, accuse de peculat. On ecrivit sur la lombe de 
1'amiral qu'il avait ete enleve a la patrie par le poison. 

II n'y avait aucune preuve, aucun indice contre Fran- 
cois Foscari, aucune raison m^me de le soupconner. 
Quand sa vie emigre n'aurait pas dementi une imputa- 
tion aussi odieuse, il savait que son rang ne lui promet- 
tait ni 1'impuniie ni m£me 1'indulgence. La mort tra- 
gique de I'un de ses predecesseurs Ten avertissait, et il 
n'avait que trop d'exemples domestiques du som que le 
conseil des dix prenait d'humilier le chef de la re- 
publiqiie. 

Cependant, Jacques Loredan, fils de Pierre, crovait 
ou feignait de crpire avoir a venger les partes de sa fa- 
mille.* Dans ses livres de comptes (car il faisait le 
commerce, comme a cette epoque presque tous les pa- 
Iriciens,) il avait inscrit de sa propre main le doge au 
nombre de ses debiteurs, pour la mort, v etait-il-dit, de 
mon peie et de mon oncle.")" De 1'autre cote du registre, 
il avait laisse une page en blanc, pour y fmre mention du 
recouvrement de cette detle, et en effet, apres la parte 
du do>;e ( il ecrivit sur son registre, il me Pa payee — fha 
pagata. 

Jacques Loredan fut elu membre du conseil des dix, 
en devint un des trois chefs, et se promit bien de pro- 
filer de cette occasion pour accomplir la vengeance 
qu'il mediiaii. 

Le doge en sortant de la terrible epreuve qu'il venait 
de subir, pendant le proces deson fils, s'etait retire au 
fond de son palais, incapable de se livrer aux affaires, 
consume de chagrins, accable de vieillesse, il ne se mon* 
trait plus en public, ni meme dans les conseils. Cette 
retraite, si facile a expliquer dans un vieillaid octoge- 
naire si malheureux, deplut aux decemvirs, qui voiuu- 
rcnt y voir un murmure conire leur arrets. 

Loredan commenca par se plaindre devant ses col- 
legues du tort que les infirmites du doge, son absence 
des conseils, apportaient a 1'expedition des affaires, il 
finit par hasarder et reussit a faire asreer la proposition 
de le deposer. Ce n'etait pas la premiere fois que Ve- 
nise avait pour prince un homme dans la caducite ; 
1'usage et les lois y avaient pourvu ; dans ces circon- 
stances le doge etait snpplee par le plus ancien du con- 
seil. Ici, ceia ne suffisait pas aux ennemis de Foscari. 
Pour donner plus de solennite a la deliberation, le con- 
seil des dix demanda une adjonction de. vingt-cinq se- 
nateurs; mais comme on n'en enoncait pas l'objet, et 
que le grand conseil etait loin de le soupfonner, il se 
trouva que Marc Foscari, frere du doge, leur ful don- 
ne pour I'un des adjoints. Au lieu de l'admettre e la 
deliberation, ou de reclamer contre ce choix, on enferma 
ce senateurdans une chambre separer'. et on lui fit 
jurer de ne jamais parler de cette exclusion nu'il eprou- 
vaif, en lui declarant qu'il y allait tie ^a vie; cc qui 
n : empc , cha pas qu'on n'inscrivit son nom au bas du de- 
cret comme s'll y eut pris part J 

Quand on en vint y la deliberation, Loredan la pro- 
voqua en ces termea :^ u Si I'litilitt'' pitblique doit impo- 
ser silence il tons les interets prii \.'-s, je ne doute pas 
que nous ne prenions aujourd'hui une mesure que la 
patrie reclame que nous lui devons. Les e'ais ne peu- 
vent se mamtemr dans un ordre de choses imrmiable; 
vous n'avez qu'a voir comoie le nfttre est change, el 
conibien il le s-Tait d'avantage s'il n'v avait nne autorite 
a*ssez ferme pour v pnrter remi^ile. J'ai honte de vous 
fain- retnarquer la ronfusion qui regne dans les ennseils, 
le desorlre des deliberatmns. IVnrombrement des af- 
l;iir.-s, et la le\rerete avec taquelle les plus imponantes 
sout decidees ; la licence de notre jeunesse, le peu 
d'a-^sidui'e des magistrals, l'introductinu de nouveautes 
dangerenses. Quel est IVffet de ces desordres ? de 
compromettre notre consideration. Quelle en est la 



• Haace tamen injuriitaqnanivia imn»inariair non l.nn ad nnlmnm revo- 
tavpral Jacohna (.suredanna defunctomm nepoa, qnam in ubecedarium 
vindiciam Opp-irlrina. (Mulnni V'a»ti Duciilei ) 

t Ihid, el I'Hiatoire Venitienne de Vianolo. 

J II fmil cependant remarquer que dan* la notice oil l'onrnfnntece fail, 
la deliberation eat rappnrl^e, que les vingl-cinq adjointa y aoal nommtfa 
et que le nom de Marc Foscari ne s'y Irouve paa. 

§ Cett£ harangue ie lit daiu la notice citde ci-dc.iuj. 



312 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



cause? l'absence d'un chef capable de moderer les uns, 
de diriger les autres, de donner I'exemplo a tous, et de 
mainienir la force des lois. 

" Oil est le temps oil nos decrets etaient aussitot ex- 
ecutes que rendus / Oil Francois Garrare se Lrouvail 

i uans Padoue, avatit de pouvoir elrc ■< 
mforme que nous volitions lui (aire la guerre ' ooiu 
avons vu tout le eonlraire dans la derniere guerre cen- 
tre le due de Milan. Malheureuse la republique qui 
est sans chef! 

"Je ne vous rappelle pas \->v.< os inconvriiienls ct 
leurs suites deplorables, pour vous aflhger, pour vous 
ertrayer, mats pour vous fane souvenir que vous fttes 
les maitres, les conservatcurs de eel t-rit toiide par vos 
peres, et de la liberty que nous devons a leurs travaiix, 
a leurs institutions. Ici, le inal indique le remede. 
Nous n'avons point de chefj il nous en faut un. Noire 
prince est notre outrage, nous avons Hone le droit de 
ju jer son merite quand il s'agit de Pclire, et son inca- 
pacity quand ellc se manifesto. ^ajouterai que Le peu- 
[de, encore bien qu'il n'ait pas le droit de prononcer BUI 
es actions de ses maitres, apprendra re changement 
avec transport. C'esl la providence, je n'en doute pas, 
qui lui inspire elle-mftote ces dispositions, pour vous 
averur que la republique reclame cette resolution, et 
que le sort de I'etat est en vos mains." 

Ce discours n'eprouva que dc limides contradictions; 
cependant, la deliberation dura huil jours, L'assemblee, 
ne se jugeant pas aussi sure de ''approbation univem He 
que I'orateur voulait le lui fairo croire, desirait que le 
dog"* rlonnat lui-meme sa demission. II avail -Irj.i 
propose deux fois, et on n'avail pas voulu ['accepter. 

Aucune loi ne portait que le prince fut revocable; il 
etait an contra ire a vie el les examples qu'on pouvail 
citer de plusietirs doges deposes, prouvaient que de 
idles revolutions avaient toujours cte lo resullat d'un 
mouveuieut populaire. 

Mais d'ailleurs, si le doge pouvait fitre de*pOSe\ 06 
n'etait pas assurement par un tribunal compose d'un 
petit norobre de membres, insritiie pour punir tea crimes, 
et nullement invesli du droit de revoquer ce que le corps 
souverain de 1'etait avail fait. 

Cependant, le tribunal arreta que lea six conseiUera 
de la seigneurie, c les chefs d'i conseil dea dix, ae 
transporteraient aupres du doge pour Im signifier, que 
I'excellentissime conseil avail jugt5 convenable qu'il 
abdiquat une dignite dont son ftge ne lui permcttail 
plus de remplir les fonctions. On lui donnait 1500 
ducats d'or pour son entretien el vmgt-quatre heures 
pour se decider.* 

Foscari rtSpondit sur-le-champ avec beaucoup de 
gravite, que deux fois il avail voulu se dttmettre de sa 
charge; qu'au lieu de le lui permettre, on avail axig) 
de lui le serment de ne plus reiterer cette demande 
que la providence avait prolonge* aes jours pour IV- 
pronver et pour TalHiger, que cependant on n'etait pas 
en droit do reprocher sa tongue vie a un homme qui 
avait employe quatre-vingt-quatre ans au service de la 
republique ; qu'il etait pret encore ii lui sacrihVr 3a vie j 
mii que, pour sa dignity il la tenait de la republique 
entiere, et qu'il se reservait de re pond re sur ce auieL 
quand la volonte generate se serait legalemenl mani- 
fest ee. 

Le lendemain, a l'heure indiquee, les conseillers el 
les chela des dix se presenterent. It ne voulul pas leur 
donner d'autre repouse. Le conseil s'assembla sur-lc- 
champ, lui envoya demander encore une (bis sa resolu- 
tion seance tenante, et. la repon^e ay. nil <•!.■ la menu-, 
on prononca que le doge eait releve de son serment et 
depose* de Be dignite, on lui assignait une pension d-- 
1500 ducats d'or, en lui enjoignani de sortir du palais 

dans hint jours, sous peine de voir tous ses biens con- 

fisqu6e.f 

Le lendemain, ce deeret fut porte" au doge, et ce fut 
Jacques Loredan qui eut la cruelle joie de le lui pre. 
senter. II repondit : "Si j'avais pu prevoir que ma 
vieillcsse fut prejudiciable a I'etat, le chef de la repub- 
lique ne se serait pas niontre asscz ingrat, pour pre 
ferer sa dignite a la patrie ; mais cette vie lui ayan 



ayant 



* Cc Deeret eat rapporlo (cxtuellemr-nt daot Is ootico . 
t Li djUcc rappurtL aussi tc dClcrut. 



ete utile pendant tant d'annees, je voulais lui en con- 
sacrer jusqu'au dernier moment. Le deeret est rendu, 
je m'y conibrmerai.'* Apres avoir parle ainsi, il se <lt : - 
p' nulla des marques de sa dignite, remit I'anneau ducal, 
qui fill brise en sa presence, et des le jour suivaiu il 
quitta ce palais, qu'il avail habits' pendant in-nte-cinq 
ins, accompagni de son frire, de sea parents^ et de sea 
aims. Ua secretaire, qui se trouva sur le perron, Pin- 
vita a descendre par un escalier derube', afin d'eviter la 
foule du peuple, qui s'etait rassembl^ dans les cours, 
mals il s'y refusa, disanl cpi'il voulait descendre par ou 
il etait monte ; et quand il fut au bas de l'escalier des 
BjeantS, il se rotourna, appuve sur la bequille, vers le 
palais en proferant ces paroles: " Mes services m*y 
avaient appclle, la malice de mes ennemis m'en fait 
sortir." 

La l : >iile qui s'ouvrait sur son passage, et qui avait 
peul-dtre desire sa niort, eiait emue de respect et d'al- 
tendrisseinenL* Rentrldana sa maison, il recommanda 
a sa famille d'oublier lea injures de ses ennemis, Per- 
BOnne dans les divers eiTps d>- I'etal ' n droit 

de s'eionner, qu'un prince mamovible eut e!e dipoacl 
sans qu'on lui reproi aal rien : que lVtat ei'it [>■ 
chef, a 1'insii du stinal el du corps aouverain lui-mftme, 
Le peuple s.nl laiasa echapper quelquea regrets : une 
proclamation du conseil ties dix prescrivit le silence le 
plus absolu sur cette affaire, sous peine de mort, 

Avant de donner un successeur a Francois I 
une nouvelle loi fut rendue, qui defendait au do^e 
d'ouvrir et de lire, autrement qu'en presence de ses 
conseillers, les depeehes des ambassadeurs de la repub- 
lique, el les lettrea des princes £trangers.f 

Les electeurs entrerent au conclave - i DOmmerent 
au dogat Paschal Malipier le SO Octobre, 1457. La 
cloche de Saint-Marc, qui annoncait a \ fni 
nouveau prince, vinl (rapper L'oreille de Francois Fos- 
cari ; cetlo fob sa fermete I'abandonna, il ^'prouva un 
tel Baisissement, qu^l mourut le lendemain.] 

La republique arreta qu'on lui rendrait les niemes 
honneurs funebres que s'il fut mort dans 1'e.xen nr de 
s.i dignity ; mats Lorsqu'on se presents pour enli 
reates, bs veuve, qui de son nom£tail Marina Nani,de% 
clara qu'elle ne le aouffrirail point ; qu'Qn ne devail pas 
trailer en pnnce apres sa mort celui qui vivanl on 
avait depouille de la couronne, et que, puisquHl avait 
consume ses biens au service de I'etat, cite saurait, 
consacrer sa dot a lui faire rendres les derniers hon- 
neurs. S On ne tint aucun compte de cette resistance, 
»-t ma!i;ie les protestations de 1'ainieiiiie dogareSSO, le 
corps fut enlevc, rcvetn des omemens ducaux, eX]WS4 
en public, et les obseques furelit celeh'er < ;t\ ec II 

pompe accoutumee. Le nouveau doge assist a au 
convoi ''u rode de senateur. 

La pitie qu'avail inspiree le malheur de ce rieillard, 
ne fut pas tout-h-fait sterile. Un an apres, on osa dire 
ijui' [»■ conseil lies dix avait outn-pusse BOS pOUVOirS, et 
il lui fut defendu par une loi du grand conseil de s'in- 
gerer a l'avenir de iuger le prince, a moins que ce no 
fut pour cause de fc!onie.|| 

Un acte d'autorit^ tel que la deposition d'un dogo 
inamovible dc sa nature, aurait pu exciter un ii 
im: mi general, ou au moina occasionner une division 
dans une republique autrement constitute que \ 
1\I;ik depuia troia ans, il existah dans ceHe-ci une ma- 
eistiature, ou pluiOt une autoriuS, devant laquelle tout 

devait se faire. 



Extrnit de VHittaire 'les IZejpiioniouaa Itnlicnnes du Mo* 
yen Ag*. Par J, C. L. Simonde de Si«mondi t torn. x. 

Le Doge de Venise, qui avait prevenu par ce trait^ 
une guerre non moins dangereuse t\w celle qu'il avail 
t»'imin6e presque en mCme tt nips par le trait£ tie Lodi 
etait alors parvenu a une extreme vieillessse. Francois 



• On lit d(in« In muice cc« pnpRI moU : " Sc foue atato b loro 
palerc vutgntiari lo nvrrtihero rntltolto." 

t HULdlT nnU,<li Paolo Monniiii, lib. 34. 

! lliit. .1; Plctro JuitiaUnt, lib. 8. 

4 Hiit. d'Egnallo, ttv. S. cap. 7. 

U Cc ddcret est du 35 Octobre, 1158. La notice le rapport*. 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCART. 



iia 



Foscari accupait cette premiere dignite! tie 1'etat d£s le 
15 Avr<l, 1423. Quoiqu'il fut deja age de plus de 
cinquante-'in ans a L'epoque de son election, il etait 
cependant le plus jeune des quarante-nn electeurs. II 
avail eu beaucoup de peine a parvenir au rang qu'il 
convoitaii, et son election avait ete conduite avec 
beauooup d'addresse. Pendant plusieurs jours de 
ecrutin scs amis les plus zeles s'etaient abstenus de 
lui donner leur suffrage, pour que les autres ne Ife con- 
pl lex&ssent pis comme uu concurrent redoubtable.* Le 
conseil des dix craignait son credit parmi la noblesse 
pauvre, parce qu'il avait cherche a se la rendre favor- 
able, tan lis quil etait procurateur de Saint-Marc, en 
faisanl employer plus de trente mille ducats a doter des 
jeunes filles tie bonne tnaison, ou a etablir de jeunes 
genrilshommes. On cra'ignoit encore sa nombreuse 
iamil!e, car alors il etait pere de quatre enfans, el 
marie de nouveau; entiu on redoutait son ambition el 
son mill pour la guerre. L'opinion que ses adversaires 
s'etaient formeeae lui fut verifier par les evenemens ; 
pendant irente-quatre ans que Foscari fut ii la tOte de 
la republique, efle ne cessa point de combat tre. Si les 
bostilites etatent suspendues durant qttelques mois. c'&ail 
pour recommencer bientdt avec plus de vigueur. Cc 
till l'epoque oil Venise etendit son empire sur Brescia, 
Bergamo, Ravenne, et Creme ; ou elle fonda sa du- 
m de Lombardie, et parut sans cesse sur le 
point d'asservir toute cede province. Profond, coura- 
eeut, mebranlable, Foscari communiqua aux conseils 
son propre caractere, ei ses talents lui firent obtenir plus 
aVinfluenee sur la republique que n'avaient exerce" la 
puipati de sej i urs, Mais si son ambition 

avait en pour but I'a^gTindissement de sa famille,-el!e 
fut crnellement trompee ; trois de ses fils monrurent 
dans les huit annees qui suivirent son election ; le 
quatrieme, Jacob, par lequel la maison Foscari s'est 
perpeiuee, fut victime de la jalousie du conseil des dix, 
et empoisonna par ses raatheurs les jours de son pere.f 
En efFet, le conseil des dix, redoublant de defiance 
envers le chef de 1'etat. lorsqn'il le voyoit plus fort par 
ses talens et sa popularity, veilloil sans cesse sur Fos- 
cari, pour e punir de son credit, et de sa gloire. Au 
rflois de Fevrier, 1445, Michel Bevilacqua, Florentin, 
exile a Venise, accusal en secret Jacques Foscari 
aupres des inquisiteurs d'etat, d'avoir recti de due Phi- 
lippe Visconti, des presens d'argent et de joyaux, par 
les mains des ^ens de sa maison. Telle etait 1'odieuse 
procedure adop'ee a Venise. que sur cette accusation 
secrete le fils du done du repescntant de la majeste* 
de la republique, fut mis a la torture. On lui airacha 
r i le Paveu, des charges portees contre lui : 

il fut relejuc pour le reste de ses jours a Napoli de 
Rom inie, av»'C obligation de se presenter chaque matin 
au commandant de la place. J Cependant, le vaisseau 
qui le portait ayant louche a Trieste, Jacob, grieve- 
menl 'unlade des suites de la torture, et plus encore de 
[■humiliation qu'il avalf rpronveV, dernanda en etace 
au conseil de- dil de n'&tre pas envoy£ plus loin, II 
obtint cette faveur, par une deliberation du 28 De- 
cerntwe, 1446: il fut mppele a Trevise : et il eut la 
liberte d'liabtter tout le Tre-isan indifleremment.5 

II vivait en paix a Trevise; et la fille de Leonard 
Cnntarini, qu'il avait epousee le 10 Fevrier, 1 441, etait 
venue le joindre dans son exil, lorsque le 5 Novembre, 
1450, Almiro Dnnato, chef du conseil des dix, fut as- 
B&fisifie). Les deux autres inquisiteurs d'etat, Triadano 
Gritii et Antouin Venieri, portercnt leur soupfons sur 
Jacob Foscari, parce-qn'un domestique a lui, nomme 
Olivier, avait file" vu ce Boir-la meme a Venise, et avait 
dr-s premiers donne* la nourelle de cet assass'mat. Oli- 
vier fut mis a la tortur-. mais il nia jnsqu'a la fin, avec 
un courage inebranlable, le crime dont on I'accusait, 
quoiqne ses juges eussf-nt la barbarie de lui faire don- 
ner jusqu'a qnatre-vingts tours d'estrapade. Cepen- 
dant, c~>mme Jacob Foscari avail 'I'' puissans motifs 
d'tnimitie contre le conseil des dix, qui I'avait condamne, 
et qui teuioii:nait de la haine au doge son pere, on 
?ssava de metire a son tour J/icob a la torture, et l'on 
srolongea contre lui ces aflVeux tourmens, sans reussir 



Maria Sanuto, Vite dV Duchi di V^neiia, p. 967. 
J Ibid. % Ibld.p, ll23. 

2 P 



T Ibid. p. 968. 



a en tirer aucune confession. Malgre sa delegation, 
le conseil des dix le condamna a etre transpor-e a la 
Canee, et accorda une recompense a son delatcur. 
Mais les horribles douleurs que Jacob Foscari avait 
eprouve"es avaient trouble sa raison, ses peisccuteurs, 
touches de ce dernier malheur, perniirenl qu'on le ra- 
menat a Venise le 26 Mai, 1451. II embrassa son 
pere, il puisa dans ses exhortations quelque courage et 
quelque calme, et il fut reconduit immediatemenl a la 
Canee.* Sur ces enlrefaites, Nicolas Erizzo, homme 
deja note pour un precedent crime, confessa, en mou- 
rant, que e'etait lui qui avait tue Aimoro Donatcf 

Le malheureux doge, Francois Foscari, avait dejtl 
cherche a plusieurs reprises, a abdiquer une dignite si 
funeste a lui-meme et a sa famille. II lui semblait que, 
redescendu au rang de simple citoyen, com me il n'in- 
spirerait plus de crainte ou de jalousie, on n'accablerait 
plus son fils par ces effroyables persecutions. Abattu 
par la mort de ses premiers enfans, il avait voulu, des 
le 26 Juin, 1433, deposer une dignite, durant 1'exercice 
de laquelle sa patrie avait ete tourmentee par la guerre, 
par la peste, et par des malheurs de lout genre. J II 
renouvela cette pioposition apres les jugemens rendus 
contre son fils ; mais le conseil des dix le retenait 
forcement sur le trone, comme il retenait son fils dans 
les fers. 

En vain Jacob Foscari, oblige de se presenter chaque 
jour au eovernewr de la Canee, reclamait contre 1 in- 
justice de sa derniere sentence, sur laquelle la con* 
fession d'Erizzo nc lassait plus de doutes. En vain il 
demandait grace au farouche conseil des dix; il ne 
pouvait obtenir aucune reponse. Le desir de revoir 
son pere el sa m£re, arrives tons deux au dernier terme 
de la vieillesse, le desir de revoir une patrie dont la 
cruaute ne meritait pas un si tendre amour, se chan- 
g£rent en lui en une vraie fureur. Ne pouvant re- 
tourner a Venise pour y vivre libre, il voulut du moins 
y aller chercher un supplice. II ecrivit au due de 
Milan a la fin de Mai, 1456, pour imptorer sa protec- 
tion anpres du senat : et sachant qu\me telle lettre 
s^roit consideree comme un crime, il I'exposa lui-m^me 
dans un lieu oii il etait stir qu'elle seroit saisie par les 
espions qui Tentouraient. En erTet, la lettre etant de» 
feree au conseil des dix, on l'envoya chercher aussitot, 
et il fut reconduit a Venise le 19 Juillet, 1456. § 

Jacob Foscari ne nia point sa lettre, il raconta en 
meme temps dans quel but il I'avait ecrile, et comment 
il I'avait fait tomber entre les mains de son delateur. 
Malgre ces aveux, Foscari fut rcmis a la torture, et on 
lui Jonna trente tours d'estrapade, pour voir s'il enn- 
firmerait ensuite ses depositions. Q.uand on le de- 
tacha de la corde, on le trouva dechire par ces hor- 
ribles secousses. Les juges permirent alors a son 
pere, a sa mere, a sa femme, et a ses fils, d'aller le voir 
dans sa prison. Le vieux Foscari, appnve sur un 
baton, ne se traina qu'avec peine, dans la chambre ou 
■.on tils unique etait panse de ses blessures. Ce fils 
demandait encore la gnice de mourir dans sa maison.— 
" Retourne h ton exil, mon fils, puisque ta patrie l'or- 
dnnne," lui dit le doge, "et soumets-toi a sa volont^." 
Mais en rentrant dans son palais, ce malheureux vieil- 
lard s'evanouit, epuise par la violence qu'il s'etail faite. 
Jacob devait encore passer une annee en prison a la 
Canee, avant- qu'on lui rendit la m£me liberte limite*e 
a laquelle il ^tait r£duit avant cet evenement; mais A 
peine fut il debarque sur cette terre d'exil, qu'il y mou- 
rut de douIeur.|| 

P< s-lors, et pendant quinze mois, le vieux doge, 
accable d'annees et chagrins, ne recouvra plus la force 
de son corps ou celle de son ame ; il n'assistait plus a 
aucun des conseils, et il ne pouvait plus remplir aucune 
des fonclions de sa dignite. II etait entre dans sa 
qnatre-vingt-sixi^me annee, et si le conseil des dix 
avait etc susceptible op quelque pitie\ il aurait attendu 
en silence la tin, sans dnute prochaine, d'une carrier* 
marquee par tant de g'oire et tant de malheurs. Mai« 
le chef du conseil des dix etait alors Jacques Loredano, 
fils de Marc, et neveu de Pierre, le grand amiral, qui 



* Marin Sfltiulo, Vite de' Duchi di Venezia, p. 1138.— M. AdI. B*. 
billico, PecnlU. L. VI- f. 187. 

t Marin Smmtu, p. 1139. J Hid. p. 1039- \ IbiU.p. 1IM. 

Ibid. p. 1168.— S«*»fiero l 8lor.VM>ei. P- UB. 



314 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARf. 



toute leur vie etc les ennemis acharnes du vieux doge. 
lis avaicut iransmis leur haine a leurs enfans, et cette 
vieiile rancune n'etait pas encore satisfaite.* A l'lusn- 
gation de Loredano, Jerome Barbango, inquisiteur 
detai, proposa au conseil des dix, au mois d'Ociobrc, 
1457, de soumcttre Foscari a une nouvelle lunniliation 



Ocean'' applied lo Venice. Tin- same phrase occurs 10 
the "Two Foscari." My publisher can vouch for mr 
thai lh< tragedy \\a-~ written ami sent lo England tomn 
time before I had seen Lady bforgar/a won, which 1 
only received on (he 16tli of August. 1 hasten, how 
ur, to notice the coincidence, and to yield ihe origi 



Des que ce magistral ne pouvait plus rernnlir sea fbnc* nality "I the phrase to her who firsl placed ii before the 



tions, Barbango demanda qu'on nominal un autre dog 
1,« conseil, qui avail refuse* par deux fois 1'abdicaiion 
de Foscari, parce que la constitution ne pouvait la per- 
mettre, hesita avant de se mettre en contradiction avec 
sea propres decrets. Les discussions dans Ic conseil 
et la junte se prolongerent p'-ndant tiuil jours, jusqiie 
fort avant dans le nuiL Cependant, on lii entrer dans 
L'assembleo Marco Foscari, procuratear 3e Saint-Marc, 
et frere du doge, pour qu'il fut lie par Le redoutabli 
serment du secret, et qu'il ne put anr:er I. •- n> i 
aes ennemis. Entin, le conseilse rendu aupres d 
et lui demanda d'abdiquer volontairemenl un 
qu'il ne pouvait plus exercer. "JPai jure," repondit le 
vieillard, " de remplir jusqu'a ma mort, selon.mon hon« 
neur et ma conscience, les functions auxauel 
patrie m'a appele. Je no puis me deiir moMnfime de 
raon serment; qu'un ordradeS conseils dispose de moi, 
je m'y soumettrai, mais je ne Ledevancerai pas." Alors 
une nouvelle deliberation du conseil delia Francois Fos- 
cari de son serment ducal, lui assura une pension de 
deux milk- ducats pour le resie de sa vie, et lui ordonna 
devacuer en trois jours le palais, et de deposer les or- 
nemens de sa dignue. l*e doge avant remarquel parmi 
les conseillers qui lui portC-rent cet ordre, un chef de la 
quarante qu'il ne connoissait pas, demanda Bon nom : 
" Je suis le fils de Marco Memtno," lui dit le conseiller. 
— " Ah ! ton pere etait mon ami," lui dit Ic vieux doge, 
en soupirant. II donna aussitOt des ordres pour qu'on 
transportat ses etfets dans une maison a lui ; et le 
lendemain 23 Octobre on le vit, se soutenat a peine, el 
appuve stir son vieux frere, redrsci-njere ces monies 
escauers sur lesquels, trente-quatre ans auparavant, 
on 1'avait vuinstalleavectant.de pompe, el traverser 
ces mftmes salles oil la republique avait recti Ber ser- 
mons. Le peuple entier parut indign£ de tant de 
durete exercee contre un vieillard qu'il respectait et 
qu'il aimait; mais le conseil des dix fit publier une de- 
fense de parler de cette revolution, sous peine d'etre 
IraJuit devant les inquisiteurs d'etat. Le 20 Octobre, 
Pasqual Matipieri, procurateur de Saint-Marc, fut elu 
pour successeur de Foscari; celui-ci n'rut pas ncun- 
Eooins ['humiliation de vivre snjet, la ou il avait re*gn6 
Kn entendant le son des cloches, qui sonnaient en 
actions de graces pour cette election, il mourul subite 
ment d'une hemorrhagic causae par une veine qui 
s'eclata dans sa poitrine.f 



" Le doge, blesse de trouver constammrnt un con- 
tradicteur et un censeur si amer dans son frere, lui dit 
un jour en plein conseil: "Messire Augustin, vous 
faile tout voire possible pour hater ma mort ; vous 
vous flattez de me succeder ; mais, si lea autres voua 
COnnaissent aussi bien que je vms c>innais, il.s n\uiront 
garde de vous 61ire. M La-dessus il se le leva, 6mu del 
colere, rentra dans son appartement, et mourul quel* 
qucs jours aprcs. Ce freire, contre le-lequel il sV'iait 
♦impute, fut pn'CiS'-ini-iii !e surers<eiir qtt'on lui donna. 

C'etait un merits don! on aimait a temr compte; sur- 

tout a un parent, de s'etre mis en opj>osii i> vee le chef 

de la republi.]ue."{ — Dant t Hutone de ]'■ ruse, vol. 
Ben. xi. p. 533. 



T:c Ladv Morgan's fearless and excellent work upon 
'Italy," I perceive the expression of "Home of the 



• VettorRandl Storia ci"il e VenfTimin, P. n. I,. VIII. p. ?1S— 71?. 

t Marin Snmi to, Vitede 1 Duchldi Venerin. p. \\U.— < bi wn Enni 

blnum,T. XXI. p. 892.— Chrietofororia Soldo Morla Bread 

XXI. p. Ml.— Nivagtaro, Swrio Venetians, XXI. p. 1120.— M. A. 

Sabellico. Drr« Ml L. Till. f. 201. 

J i hr Venrliniw npprar i»i )iiv« bad a pnrlicnlw turn for lironkina 
Hie heart* of their Dor« ; iho « I five us a.ioihtr instance of thr kiii'l in the 
IV>jre Mjtrco Barb&rigo ; ha wsa auccaeded br Ini brollicr A^nitlno 
SarbaMfo, «bou chief marii n above meatiooed. 



public. 1 am the more anxious to do this, as I am in 
lormed (tor I have seen but few of the specimens, and 
those accid< ntally) thai there have been lately brouj>hi 
againsl mechai ofpla iarism. 1 have also had an 
anonymous sort of threatening iniimation of The same 
kind, apparently with tin- intent of extorting money. 
To such rhari^s I li.iv- no answer to make. One of 
[hem is kidicroua enouglh I am reproached for having 
formed the description ofa BhipwrecR in verse fti 
narratives of many actual shipn i ecka in orost, sell i ting 
such materials as were mosl striking. Gibbon makes 
ii a merit m Tasso '* to have r.tpird ill-- minut-'st details 
Siege of Jerusalem (rom the Chronicles.' 1 In 
me ii in, iv be a demerit, I presume: lei it remain so. 
Whilst I have been occupied in defending Pope's cha- 
racter, the lowei orders of Grub-streel appear la bava 
been assailing mbu : thin is as il should be, both in 
them and in me, Oni laliena in the name 

less epistle alluded to is siill more laughable: it slates 

seriously that T " received five hundred pounds foi 
writing advertisements for Day and Martm's |>aieni 
blacking !*' Tins is the highest compliment to my 
literary powers which I ever received. It states also 
" that a person has been Irving to make arnuaintance 
with .Mr. Townsend, a gentleman of the law, who was 
with me on business iti Venice three years ago, for the 
purpose of obtaining any defamatory particulars of my 
life from this occasional visiter." Mr. Townsend is 
welcome to say what he knows. I mention these 
particulars rnerel) to show the world in general what 
the literary lower world contains, and their way of sol 
ling to work. Another chargi made, I am i old, in the 
''Literary Gazette" i^. thai 1 wrote the notes to 
u Queen Mab;" a work which I never saw till some 
time after lis publication, and which J recollect showing 
to i\lr. Sotheby as a poem of great power and imagi 
nation, I never wrote a line of the notes, noi 
saw them except in their published form. No one 
knows better than their real author, thai hrs opinions 
ami mine differ materially upon the metaphysical por 
(ion of that work ; though, in common with all who 
are no I blinded by baseness and bigotry. I highly ad 
mire the p "'try of thai and his other publications. 

Mr, Southey, too, in his pious preface to a poem 
whose blasphemy is as harmless as the sedition o! 
Wat Tyler, because it ia equally absurd with thai sin- 
cere production, calls upon the "legislature to look to 
it." as the toleration of such writings ted lo the French 
Revolution: not such writings as Wat Tyler, but as 
those of the "Satanic School." This is not true, and 
Mr. Southey knows it io be not iru--. Every French 
writer of any freedom was persecuted; Voliaire and 
Rousseau were exiles, Marmontel and Diderot were 

sent h> the Basilic, and a perpetual war was waged 

with the whole class bj the existing despotism. In the 
next place the French Revolution was n ■ ■■ 
by any writings whatsoever, bill must have occurred 
had no such writers over existed. It is the fashion to 
attribute everj thing to the French Revolution, and the 
French Revolution lo ever) thing bul us real cause. 
Thai cause is obvious— the govemmenl exacted too 
much, and the people could neither gnu nor hear more. 
Wilhoul tins, the Encyclopedists might have written 
their fingers olT without the occurrence of a single al- 
teraiion. And the Engtish Revolution — (the first, I 
mean)— what was it occasioned by? The pwitan$ 
irely as pious and moral as Wesley or his bio- 
grapher? Acts — acts on the pari of government, and 
not writings agatnsl them, have caused the past con 

VUlsions, and are tending to the future. 

I look upon such as inevitable, though no revolution- 
ist ; I wish to see the English constitution restored and 
not destroyed. Born an aristocrat, and naturally one 
by temper, with the greater part of my present property 
in th« funds, what have / to gain by a revolution* 



WERNER. 



313 



Perhaps, I have more lo lose in every way than Mr. 
Southey, with all his places and presents for panegy- 
rics and abuse into the bargain. But that a revolution 
is inevitable, I repeat. The government may exult 
over the repression of petty tumults ; these are but the 
receding waves repulsed and broken for a moment on 
the shore, while the great tide is still rolling on and 
gaining ground with every breaker, Mr. Southey ac- 
cuses us of attacking the religion of the country ; and 
is he abetting it by writing lues of Wesley? One 
mode of worship is merely destroyed by another. 
There never was, nor ever will be, a country without 
a religion. We shall be told of France again: but it 
was only Paris and a frantic party, which for a moment 
upheld their dogmatic nonsense of theophilantliropy 
Th_" church of England, if overthrown, will be swept 
away by the sectarians, and not by die skeptics, Peo- 
ple are too wise, loo- well-inform :u, too certain of their 
own immense importance in the realms of space, ever to 
submit to the impiety of doubt. There may be a few 
such diffident speculators, like water in the pale sun- 
beam of human reason, but they are very few : and 
their opini >u-, with »ut enthusiasm or appeal to the pas- 
sions, can never gain proselytes — unless, indeed, they 
are persecuted — tktU, to be sure, will increase any 
thing, 

Mr. S, with a cowardly ferocity, exults over, the an- 
ticipated " death-bed repentance" of the objects of his 
dislike; and indulges himself in a pleasant " Vision of 
Judgment, *' in prose as well as veise, full of impious 
impudence. What Mr. S.'s sensations or ours may 
be in the awful moment of leaving this state of exis- 
tence neither he nor we can preiend to decide. In 
comm m. I presume, with most men of any reflection, 
/ have not waited for a " death-bed" to repent of many 
of my actions, notwithstanding the "diabolical pride" 
which this pitiful renegado in his rancour would im- 
pute to those who scorn him. Whether upon the 
whole the good or evil of my deeds may preponderate 
is not for me to ascertain ; but, as my means and op- 



portunities have been greater, I shall limit my present 
defence to an assertion, (easily proved, if necessary,) 
that I, "in my degree," have done more real good in 
any one given year, since I was twenty, than Mr. 
Southey in the whole course of his shifting and turn- 
coat existence. There are several actions to which I 
can look back with an honest pride, not to be damped 
by the calumnies of a hireling. There are others to 
which I recur with sorrow and repentance; but the 
only act of my life of which Mr. Southey can have any 
real knowledge, as it was one which brought me in 
contact with a near connexion of his own, did no dis- 
honour to that connexion nor to me. 

I am not ignorant of Mr. South ey's calumnies on a 
different occasion, knowing them to be such, which ho 
scattered abroad on his return from Switzerland against 
me and others : they have done him no good in lhis 
world, and, if his creed be the right one, they will do 
less in the next. What his '' death-bed" may b^, it is 
not my province to predicate : let him settle it with his 
Maker, as I must do with mine. There is something 
at once ludicrous and blasphemous in this arrogant 
scribbler of all work sitting down >o deal damnation 
and destruction upon his fellow-creatures, with Wat 
Tyler, the Apotheosis of George the Third, and the 
Elegy on Martin the regicide, all shuffled together in 
his writing-desk. One of his consolations appears to 
be a Latin note from a work of a Mr. Landor, the 
author of " Gebir," whose friendship for Robert South- 
ey will, it seems, " be an honour to him when the ephe- 
meral disputes and ephemeral reputations of the day 
are forgotten." I for one neither envy him " the friend- 
ship," nor the glory in reversion which is to accrue 
from it, like Mr. i helusson's fortune in the third and 
fourth generation. This friendship will probably be as 
memorable as his own epics, which (as I quoted to 
him ten or twelve years ago in " English Bards") Por- 
son said "would be remembered when Homer and 
Virgil are forgotten, and not till then." For the presen' 
I leave him. 



WERNER 5 OR, THE INHERITANCE. 

A TRAGEDY. 



TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 

BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, 

THIS TRAGEDY IS DEDICATED. 



PREFACE. 

T*he following drama is laken entirely from the " Ger- 
man's Tide, Kruitzner^ published many years ago in 
Let's Canterbury Tales ; written (1 believe) by two sis- 
ters, of whom one furnished only this story and another, 
both of which are considered superior to the remainder of 
the collection. I have adopted the characters, plan, and 
even the language, of many parts of this story. Some of 
the characters are modified or altered, a few of the names 
changed, and one character (Ida of Stralenheim) added 
by myself: but in the rest the original is chiefly followed. 
When I was young (abiut fourteen, I think) I first read 
this tale, which made a deep impression upon me ; and 
may, indeed, be said to contain the germ of much that I 
have since written. I am not sure that it ever was very 
p >pu'.ar ; or, at any rate, its popularity has since been 
eclipsed by that of other great writers in the same de- 



partment. But I have generally found that those who ha» 
read it, agreed with me in their estimate of the singulai 
power of mind and conception which it developes. I 
should ;il o add conception, rather than execution ; foi 
the story might, perhaps, have been developed with great- 
er a<\\ antage. Among those whose opinions agreed with 
mine upon this story, I could mention some very high 
names; but it is not necessary, nor indeed of any use, 
for every one must judge according to his own feelings. 
I merely refer the reader to the original story, ihat he 
may see to what extent I have borrowed from it : and 
am not unwilling that he should find much greater plea- 
sure in perusing it than the drama which is founded 
upon i's contents. 

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 18 15, 
(the first I eve ra' tempted, except one at thirteen years old, 
called a Ulric and Ilvinaf' which L had sense enough to 
burn,) and had nearly completed an act, when 1 was inter- 



316 



WERNER. 



Act I. 



ruptcd by drcumsl i aces. This is somewhere among mv 
r~t -»■» io England ; but as it has not been found, I have 
• ,<entl«n the tirst, and added the subsequent acts. 

nw*. whole is neither imended,nor in any shape adapt- 
ed, for the stage. 

Feb. IS22. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN. 

Werner. 

Ulric. 

Stralemhkim. 

Idenstejn. 

Gabor. 

Fritz. 

WOMEN 



Henrick. 
Eric. 

AnsiiMM. 
Meister. 
Rooolpii. 

LUDWIG. 



josephine. 

Ida Stralbkheim, 

Scene — Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and partly ir 
Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 

Time— the Close of the Thirty Years' War. 



ACT I. 

Scene X.— The Halt of a decayed Palace near a 
small Town on the Northern Frontier of Silesia — 
the Night tempestuous, 

Werner and Josephine his wife. 
Jos. My love, be calmer ! 
Wer, I am calm. 

Jos. To me— 

Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried, 
And no one walks a chamber like to ours 
Wiih steps like thine when his heart is at rest. 
Wertrit a garden, I should deem thee happy, 
An I stepping with the bee from flower to (lower; 
But here ! 

Wer, >T is chill ; the tapestry lets through 
the wind to which it waves : my blood is frozen. 
Jos. Ah, no ! 

Wer. {smiling.) Why ! wouldst thou have it so ? 
Jos. I would 

Have it a healthful current. 

Wer. Let it flow 

Until 't is spilt or check 'd — how soon, I care not. 
Jns. And am I nothing in thy heart ? 
Wer. All— all. 

Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which must break 

mine ? 
Wer. {approaching her stoiohj.) But for thee I had 
been — no matter what, 
Bui much of good and evil; what I am, 
Thou knowest j what I might or should have been, 
Thou knowest not : but still I lave ih- e, nor 
Shall aught divide us. 

[WERNER walks on abruptly, and then ap- 
proaches JOS EPHINE. 

The siorm of the night, 
Perhaps, affects me ; I 'rn a thing offettlings. 
And have of late been sickly, as, atas ! 
Thon know'st by sufferings more than mine, mv love ! 
In watching me. 

Jos. To see thee well is much — 

To see thee happy 

Wer. Where hast thou seen such ? 

Let me be wretched with the rest! 

Jos, But think 

How many in this hour oftempest shiver 
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain, 
Whoso every drop bows them down nearer earth, 



Which hath no chamber for them save beneath 
Her surface. 

Wer, And that's not the worst: who cares 

For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom 
Thou nanicst — ay, the wind howls round them, and 
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones 
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of. 
Jos. And ait thou not now shelter'd from them all? 
Wer. Yes. And from these alone. 
J08, And that is something. 

Wer. True — to a peasant. 

Job, Should the nobly born 

Be thankless for that refuge which their habits 
' If early delicacy render more 
Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb 
Of fortune leaves them On the shoals of life? 

Wer, tl is not that, thou know'st it is not; wo 
Have borne all this, 1 Ml not sav patiently, 
Excepl in thee — but we have borne it. 
Jos. Well? 

Wer, Something beyond our outward sufferings 
(though 
These, were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now. 
When, but for this untoward sickness, which 
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means, 
And leaves us — no! this is beyond me ! — but 
For this I had been happy — thou been happy— 
The splendour of my rank sustained — my name — > 
My father's name— been still upheld; and, more 

Than those 

Jos. [abruptly.) My son — our son — our Ulric 
Been clasp'd a«ain in these long-empty arms, 
And all a mother's hunger satisfied. 
Twelve years ! he was but eight then : — beautiful 
He was, and beautiful ho must be now. 
My I'lric ! my adored ! 

Wer, I have been fiill oft 

The chase of Fortune ; now she hath o'crtaken 
Mv spirit where it cannot turn at bay,— 
Siek, poor, and lonely. 

Joi. Lonely ! my dear husband? 

Wer, Or worse — involving all I love, in this 
Far worse than solitude. Jllone, I had died, 
And all been over in a nameless grave. 

Jos. And I had not outlived thee; but pray take 
Comfort ! We have struggled long ; and they who strive 
With fortune win or wear\ her at last, 
Sb that they find the goal or cease to feel 
Further. Take conifbri, — we shall find our boy. 
Wer, We were in sight of him, of every thing 
Which could bring compensation for past sorrow, 
And to he baffled thus! 
./ t. We are not baffled. ' 

Wer, Arc we not pennyless .' 

JttS. We ne'er were wealthy. 

Wer. Bui I was born to wealth, and rank, and 
power ; 
Enjoy'd them, love them, and, alas ! ahused (hem. 
And fern tied them by my father's wrath, 
In mv o'er- fervent youth ; but for the abuse 
I mil* sufferings have atoned. My father's death 
I.efi the poth open, vet not without snares. 
This cold and creeping kinsman, whoso long 

Kepi his eve on me, as the snake upon 

The Fluttering bird, hath ere this lime outstept me, 
Become the master of my rights, and lord 
Of that" which lifts him up to princes io 
Dominion and domain. 

Jos. Who knows ? our sou 

May have return'd back to his grandsire, and 
Even now uphold thy rights for thee? 



Act!. 



WERNER. 



~- We T' .. 'T is hopeless. 

Since his strange disappearance from my father's, 

Entailing, as il were, my sins upon 

Himself, no tidings have reveal'd his course. 

I parted with him to his grandsire, on 

The promise that his anger would stop short 

Of the third generation ; but Heaven seems 

To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 

Upon my hoy his father's faults and follies. 

JOS. I must hope better still,— at least we have yet 
Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 

'! i r. We should have done, but for this fatal sick 
ness ; 
More fatal than a morlal malady, 
Because it lakes not life, but life's sole solace : 
Even now I feel my spirit girt about 

By the snares of this avaricious fiend ; 

How do f know he halh not track'd us here ? 

Jos. He does not know thy person ; and his spies, 
Who so long wa.ch'd thee, have been left at Hamburgh 
Our unexpected journey, and this change 
Of name, leaves all discovery far behind • 
None hold us here for aught save, what we seem 

Wer Save what we seem ! save what we are— sick 
beggars, 
Even to our very hopes.— Ha ! ha ! 

Jos. A l as , 

That bitter laugh! 

rm."^". , . 1Vho wou,d read '■> ""is form 

I he high soul of the son of a long line ? 

II ho, in Ihis garb, the heir of princely lands? 

Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
Of rank and ancestry 7 in this worn cheek 
And famine hollow'd brow, the lord of halls 
Which daily feast a thousand vassals ' 

Ponder d not thus upon these worldly things, 

My Werner ! when you deign'd to choose" for bride 

The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 

Wer. An exile's daughter with an outcast son 
Were a fit marriage; but I still had hopes 
To lift thee to the slate we both were born for.- 
Your father's house was noble, though decay'd • 
And worthy by its birth to match willi ours " ' 

Jos Your father did not think so, though ''t was noble : 
But had my birth been all my claim to match 
With thee. I should have doem'd it what it is. 

Wer. And what is that in thine eyes ? 

a J ° S A u w ,, A " whic " « 

Has done tn our behalf, — nothing 

'/""• , . How,— nothing ? 

Jos. Or worse; for it has been a canker in 
Thy heart from the beginning: but for Ihis, 
We had not felt our poverty but as 
Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully ; 
But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers, 
Thou mightst have earned thy bread, as thousands 

earn it ; 
Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce, 
Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes 

Wer ■.(ironically.) And been an Hanseatic burgher 1 

Excellent! 6 

Jos. Whate'er thou mightst have been, to me 0,ou 
art 
What no state high or low can ever change 
My heart's first choice ;-which chose thee, knowing 
neither 6 

Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride ; naught, save thy 

sorrows : 
While they last, let me comfort or divide them • 
When they end, let mine end with them, or thee' 

Wer. My better angel ! such I have ever found thee • 
This rashness, or this weakness of my temper, 
Neer raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 
Thou didst not mar my fortunes : jnv own nature 



317 



In youth was sucn as to unmake an empire, 
Had such been my inheritance ; but now, 
Chasten d, subdued, out-worn, and tau»ht to know 
Myself,— to lose this for our son and thee ' 
Trust me, when in my two-and-lwen,ielh spring 
My father barr'd me from my father's house ° 
I he last sole scion of a thousand sires, 
(For I was then the last,) it hurt me less 
Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother 
Excluded in their innocence from what 
My faults deserved— exclusion ; al.hough then 
My passions were all living serpents, and 
Twined like the gorgon's round me. 

[.i loud knocking is heara. 
■{"■ Hark ! 

If er. . . , . , 

r„. nn, • u ,. A knocking! 

Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour ? We have 
Few visiters. 

Wer. And poverty hath none, 

Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
Well, I am prepared. 

[Werner puts his hand into his bosom, as if to 
search for some weapon . 
,.? os - Oh ! do not look so. I 

n ill to the door. It cannoi be of import 
In this lone spot of wintry desolation :— 
The very desert saves man from mankind. 

[She goes to the door 
hnter Idevstein. 
Hen. A fair good evening to my Tairer hostess 

And worthy What's your name, my friend ' 

If er. . 

Not afraid to demand it ? ey ° U 

T , IJe "- I Not afraid? 

Egad ! I am afraid. You look as if 
I asked for something better than your name, 
By the face you put on it. 

Wet. Better, sir ! 

lien. Belter or worse, like matrimony: what 
Shall I say more ? You have been a guest this month 
Here in the prince's palace— (to be sure, 
His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts 

And rats these twelve years— but 't is still a palace) 

I say yon have been our lodger, and as yet 
We do nut know your name. 

V f ''• My name is Werner. 

Lien. A goodly name, a very worthy name 
As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board: 
I have a cousin in the lazaretto 
Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore 
The same. He is an officer of trust, 
Surgeon's assistant, (hoping lobe surgeon,) 
And has done miracles i' the way of business. ' 
Perhaps you are related to my relative ? 
Wer. To yours? 

J ' os - °h, yes ; we are, but distantly. 

Cannot you humour the old gossip till [.Jside to Wer. 
We learn his purpose ? 

!den - Well, I 'm glad of that ; 

I thought so all along, such natural yearnings 
Play'd round my heart :— blood is not water, cousin, 
And so let 's huve some wine, and drink unto 
Our better acquaintance : relatives should be 
Friends. 

Wer. You appear to have drank enough already; 
And if you had not, I 've no wine to offer, 
Else it were yours : but this you know, or should know : 
You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see 
That I would be alone ; but to your business ! 
What brings you here ? 
[ d f u Why, what should bring me here? 

Wer. I know not, though [ think that I could guest 
That which will send you hence. 
Jos. (aside.) Patience, dear Werner. 



318 



WERNER. 



Act I. 



Jden. You do n't know what has happened, then ? 

Jos. How should we ? 

Jden. The river has o'erflow'd. 

Jos. Ala* ! we have known 

That to our sorrow for these five days ; litice 
1 1 keeps us here. 

Idea. But what you do n't know is, 

That a great personage, who would fain cross 
Against the stream and three postilions 1 wishes, 
Is drown'd below the ford, with live post-horses, 
A monkey, and a mastitf, and a valet. 

Jos. Poor creatures ' are you sure ? 

fden. I es, of the monkey, 

And the valet, and the catile; bin as yet 
We know not if his excellency's dead 
Or no; your noblemen are hard lo drown, 
As it is fit that men in office should be ; 
But what is certain is. that he has swallow'd 
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants ; 
And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller, 
W i i, al their proper peril, snatch'd him from 
The whirling river, have Si nl on to crave 
A lodging, or a grave, according as 

It may turn out with the live or dead body. 

Jos. And where will you receive him? here, I hope, 
If we can be of service — say (he word. 

fden. More? no; but in the prince's own apartment, 
As fits a noble guest : — 't is damp, no doubt, 
Not having been inhabited these twelve years; 
But then he comes from a much damper place, 
So scarcely will catch cold in *t, if he be 
Stilt liable to cold — and if not, why 
He Ml be worse lodged to-morrow : nevertheless, 
I have order'd fire and all appliances 
To be got ready for the worst— that is, 
In case he should survive. 

Jos. Poor gentleman ! 

I hope ho will with all my heart. 

Wer. Intendant, 

Have you not Iearn'd his name? My Josephine, 

(. Iside to his wife. 
Retire: I'll sifi this fool. [.Ext! Josephine. 

fden. His name? oh Lord! 

Who knows if he hath now a name or no ? 
*T is time enough lo ask it when he's able 
To give an answer ; or if not, to put 
His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought 
Just now you chid me for demanding names ? 

Wer. True, true, I did so ; you say well and wisely. 

Enter Gabor. 

Gab. If I intrude, I crave 

fden. Oh, no intrusion ! 

This is the palace ; this a stranger like 
Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home : 
But where 's his excellency, and how (ares he ? 

Gab. Welly and wearily, but out of peril : 
He paused to change his garments in a collage, 
(Where I dotf'd mine for these, and came on hither,) 
And has almost recover'd from Ins drenching^ 
He will be here anon. 

fden. What ho, there ! bustle! 

Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peier, Conrad ! 
[Gives, directions todifferenX servants who enter. 

A nobleman sleeps here to night — see that 
All is in order in the damask chamber — 
Keep up the stove — I will mysclftotho cellar — 
And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger) 
Shall furnish firth the bed-apparel; for, 
To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this 
Within the palace precinctSj since his highness 
Left it some dozen years ago. And then 
His excellency will sup, doubtless ? 

Gab. Faith! 

X cannot tell : but I should think the pillow 



Would please him better than the table after 
His soaking in your river: but for feat 
Your %ian. Is should be thrown away, I mean 
To sup myself, and have a friend without 
Who will do honour to your good cheer with 
A traveller's appetite. 

fden. But are you sure 

His excellency But his name: what is it? 

Gait. I do not know. 

fdi n . And yet you saved his life. 

Gab. I help'd my friend lo do so. 

Hen. Well, that's strange, 

To save a man's life whom you do not know. 

Gab. Nut so ; for there are some I know so well, 
I scarce should give myself the trouble. 

fden. Pray, 

Good friend, and who may you be ? 

Gab. By my family 

Hungarian. 

fden. Which is call'd? 

Gab. It matters little. 

fden. {aside.) I think that at) the world are grown 
anonymous, 
Since no one cares to tell me what he *s call'd ! 
IVav, has Ins excellency a large suite? 

Gab. Sufficient. 

fden. How many ? 

Gab. I did not count them. 

We came up by mere accident, and just 
In time to >lrag him through his carriage window. 

Idcn. Well, what would I give to save a great man 
No doubt you 'II have a swinging sum as recompense 

Gab. Perhaps. 

\d> n . Now, how much do you reckon on ? 

Gab. I have not yet put up myself to sale : 
In the mean time, my best reward would be 
A glass of your Hockcheimer — a green glass, 
Wreath 'd with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, 
O'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage ; 
For which I promise you, in case you e'er 
Run hazard of being drown'd, (although I own 
It >■ hi-, of all deaths, the least likely for you,) 
I 'II pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend, 
And think, for every bumper I shall quail*, 
A wave the less mav roll above your head. 

fden. (aside.) I do *nt much like this fellow — close 
and dry 
He seems, two things which suit me not ; however, 
Wine he shall have ; if thai unlocks him not, 
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 

[Exit Idenstein. 

Gab. (to Werner.) This- master of the ceremonies is 
The intendant of the palace, I presume : 
*T is a fine building, but decay'd. 

Wer. The apartment 

Designed for him you rescued will be found 
hi fitter order for a sickly guest. 

Gab. I wonder then you occupied it not, 
poi vou seem delicate in health. 

Wer. (quickly.) Sir! 

Gab. Pray 

Excuse me : have I said aught to offend you ? 

Wl r. Nothing : but we are strangers to each other. 

Gab. And that's the reason I would have us less so: 
I thought our bustling guest without had said 
Vou were a chance and passing guest, the counterpart 
Of me and my companions. 

Wer. Very true. 

Gab. Then, as we never met before, and never, 
It may be, may again encounter, why, 
I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 
(At least to me) by asking you to share 
The fare of my companions and myself. 

Wer. Pray, pardon me \ my health 

Gab. Even as you please, 



Act I 



WERNER. 



I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
In bearing. 

Wer. I have also served, and can 
Kequile a soldier's greeting. 

T, ".*' . ,. I» what service? 

1 he Imperial ? 

Wer. OpdcUy, and then interrupting himself) I 
commanded — no— I mean 
I served ; but it is manv years a«o, 
When first Bohemia raised he, banner 'gainst 
I he Austrian. 

Gab. Well, that 's over now, and peace 

nas turn d some thousand gallant hearts adrift 
1 o live as they best may ; and, to say truth, 
feome take the shortest. 

Wtr - What is that? 

Gal). ,.-. . , 

mi I,., '» hate er 

They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 
Lusalia s woods are tenanted by bands 
Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
lheir maintenance; the Chatelains must keen 
rheir castle walls-beyond them 't is but doubtful 
I ravel Tor your rich count or full-blown baron 
My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
I've little left to lose now. 

,'! f" . And I— nothing. 

Gal,. That's harder still. You say you were a soldier 

Wer. I was. 

n G f' tJ t Xou look one s ""' Al1 soldiers are 

Ur should be comrades, even ihough enemies 

P"' s ; vo , rds "' h , en d '»™" must cross, our engines aim 
( VVhile levell'd) at each other's hearls; but when 
A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
The spark which lights the matchlock, we are brethren 
1 on are poor and sickly-I am not rich but healthy • 
I want ior nothing which I cannot want ; 
You seem devoid of this— wilt share it ? ' 

„_ (Gabor pulls out Ir , , v 

f u r t Wl "> 

1 old you I was a be<*oar ? 

Ga *- You yourself 

In saying yon were a soldier during peace-time. 

Wer. {looking at him with suspicion.) You know me 
not? 

ivr G "t' i t , , , l kno "' no man > no1 eve " 

Mysell : how should I then know one I ne'er 

Beheld I ill half an hour since? 

„ "~ er - , Sir, I thank you. 

lour offer s noole were it to a friend, 
And not unkind as to an unknown stranger, 
Though scarcely prudent ; but no less IAank you. 
I am a beggar in all save his trade ; 
And when I beg of any one it shall be 
Of him who was the first lo offer what 
Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. [ExUWeb. 
Gab. ^solus.) A goodly fellow by his looks, though 
worn, # ° 

As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure, 
\V hich tear life out of us before our time • 
I scarce know which most quickly ; but he seems 
I o have seen better days, as who has not 
Who has seen yesterday ?— But here approaches 
Our sage intendant, with the wine : however 
For the cup's sake I 'II bear the cupbearer. 

Enter Idf.nstein. 



319 



Hen. 'T's here! the supernaculum! twenty years 
Of age, if 't is a day. 
r Ga *- Which epoch makes 

Young women and old wine ; and 't is great pity, 
Of two such excellent things, increase of years,' 
Which still improves the one, should spoil the olher. 
Fill full — Here s to our hostess !— your fair wife ! 

Takes the glass 



Men. Fair !-Well, I trust your taste in wine is equa. 
To that you show for beauty ; but I pledge vou 
Nevenheless. 

Gab. Is not the lovely woman 

I met in the adjacent hall, who, with 
An air, and port, and eye, which would have better 
Beseem d this palace in its brightest days, 
(Though in a garb adapted lo its present 
Abandonment,) return'd my salulaiiun— 
Is not the same your spouse ? 

1,1 "■ I would she were: 

tSiit you re mistaken :— that 's the stranger's wife. 

Gub^ And by her aspect she might be a prince's: 
1 hough Mine hath touch'd her too, she still retains 
Much beauty, and more majesty. 
, Ide "- And that 

Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
At least in beauty: as for majesty, 
She has some „f its properties which might 
Be spared— but never mind ! 
-„ G " b - I do n't. But who 

May be llns stranger ? He too hath a bearing 
Above his outward fortunes. 

"'*"• There I differ. 

He s poor as Job, and not so patient ; but 
Who he may be, or what, or aught of him, 
Except his name, (and ihat I only learn 'd 
To-night,) I know not. 

G< ™- But how came he here ? 

Idt n. In a most miserable old calcche, 
About a month since, and immediately 
Feij sick, almost to deaih. He should have died 
Gab. Tender and true ! — but why ? 

J d ' n - .. . „ ' Why, what is life 

Wilhnut a living ? He has not a stiver. 

Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a person 
Of your apparent prudence should admit 
Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 

Wen. Thai 's Irue ; but pity, as you know, does make 
One's heart commit these follies; and besides, 
In v had some valuables left at ihat time, 
Which paid their way up to the present hour ; 
And so I thought ihey might as well be lodged 
Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them 
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. 
They served to air Ihem, at the least as long 
As they could pay for fire-wood. 

G'lb. Poor souls ! 

Hen. A 

Exceeding poor. 

Gob. And yet unused fn poverty, 

If I mi. take not. Whither were til y jjoina ? 
Iden. Oh! Heaven knows where, unless to heaven 
itself. 
Some days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
For Werner. 

Gab. Werner ! I have heard the name : 

Bill it may be a feign'd one. 

IdeiU Like enough ! 

Bur hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
As destiny, his excellency 's come. 
I must be al my post : will you nol join me, 
To help him from his carriage, and present 
Your humble duly at the door 7 

Gab. I dragg'd him 

From out ihat carriage when he would have givea 
His barony or county to repel 
The rushing river from his gurgling ihroat. 
He has yalet? now enough they stood aloof then, 
Shaking lheir dripping ears upon ihe shore, 
All roaring, " Help!'' but offering none ; and as 
For duly (as you call it) — I did mine then, 
Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him here 
lien, /cringe !— but I shall lose the opportunity— 



320 



WERNER. 



Act I. 



Plague take ii ! he Ml be here, and I not there ! 

[Exit Idenstein hastily. 
Re-enter Werner. 

Wer. {to himself.) I heard a noise of wheels and 
voices. How 
All sounds now jar me 

Still here I Is he not [Perceiving Gabor. 

A spy of my pursuer's ? His frank offer 
So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
The aspect of a secret enemy ; 
For friends are slow at such. 

Gab. Sir, you seem rapt ; 

And yet the time U not akin lo thought. 
These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron, 
Or count, (or whatsoe'er this h.i.f-drown'd noble 
May be,) for whom tins desolate village and 
Its lone inhabitants show more respect 
Than did the elements, is come. 

Idea, (without.) This way — 

This way, your excellency : — have a care, 
Thi- staircase is a little gloornv. Bud 
Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected 
So high a guest — Pray take my arm, my lord. 

Enter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants — 
partly /Us own, and partly retainers of the domain of 
ichich Idenstein is Intendant, 

Stral. I Ml rest me here a moment. 

Idea (to the servants.) Ho! a chair! 

Instantly, knaves ! [Stralenheim sits down. 

Wer. (aside.) 'T is he ! 

Stral. I *m better now. 

"Who are these strangers ? 



Iden. 



*T is twenty years since I beheld him with 
These eyes: and, though my agents still hare 
Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 
My own from his, not to alarm him into 
Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
At Hamburgh those who would have made assurance 
If this be he or no ? I thought, ere now, 
To have been lord of Sjio'iidorf, and parted 
In haste, though even the elements appear 
To fight against me, and this sudden flood 
May keep me prisoner here till- 

[lis pauses, and looks at Werner; then resumes* 
This man must 
Be watch'd. If it is he, he is so changed, 
His father, rising from his grave again, 
Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary : 
An error would spoil all. 

I><n. Your lordship seema 

Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on ? 

Stral. *T is past fatigue which gives my weigh'd-down 
spirit 
An outward shoxv of thought. I will to rest. 

Idea. The prince's chamber is prepared, with all 
The very furniture the prince used when 
Last here, in its full splendour. 

(,'ls'ide.) Somewhat taHer'd. 
And devilish damp, but fine enough by torchlight ; 
And that's enough for your right noble blood 
Of twenty uuartenngs upon a hatchment ; 
So let their bearer sleep 'neath something like one 
Now, as he one day will for ever lie. 

Stral, (rising and turning to Gabor.) Goodnight 
good people ! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
Will find me apter lo requite your service. 



One says he is no stranger. 

Wer. (aloud and hastily.) Who says that 1 

[They look at him with surprise, 

Iden. Why, no one spoke of you, or to you ! — but 
Here 's one his excellency may be pleased 
To recognise. [Pointing to Gabor. 

Gab. I seek not to disturb 

His noble memory. 

Stral. I apprehend 

This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
I owe my rescue. Is not that the other? 

[Painting to Werner. 
My stale when I was succotir'd must excuse 
My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 

Iden. He ! — no, my lord ! he rather warns for rescue 
Than can affVd it. 'T is a poor sick man, 
Travel-iired, and lately risen from a bed 
From whence he never dream'd to rise. 

Stral. Methought 

That there were two. 

Gab. There were, in company ; 

But, in the service ronder'd to your lordship, 
I nee is must say but one, and he is absent. 
The chittf part of whatever aid was render'd 
Was his : it was his fortune to be first. 
My will was not inferior, but his stiength 
And youth outstripp'd me ; therefore do not waste 
Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
Unto a nubler principal. 

Shal, Where is he? 

Jin Jitten. My lord, he tarried in the collage where 
Your excellency rested for an hour, 
And said he would be here to-morrow. 

Stral. Till 

That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks, ■ 
And then 

Gab. I seek no more, and scarce deserve 

So much. My comrade may speak for himself. 

Stral. (fixing his eyes upon Werner : then aside.) 
It cannot be ! and yet he must be look'd lo. 



Please you, my good lord, t In the meantime I crave your company 



A moment in my chamber. 

Gab. I attend you. 

Stral, (after a few steps, pauses, and catf jWernerJ 
Friend ! 

Wer. Sir! 

Id$n, Sir! Lord — oh Lord! Why do n't you say 
His lordshipi or his excellency ? Pray, 
My lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding* 
He hath not been accustom'd to admission 
To such a presence. 

Stral, (to Idenstein.) Peace, intendant. 

Iden, Oh! 

I am dumb. 
Stral. (to Werner.) Have you been long here* 

Wer, Long? 

Stral. 1 sought 

An answer, not an echo. 

Wer. Ton may seek 
Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
Those whom I know not. 

Stral. Indeed ! Ne'er the leas, 

You might reply with courtesy lo what 
Is ask'd in kindness. 

Wer. When I know it such, 

I will requite — that is reply — in unison. 

Stral. The intendant said, you had been detain'd b 
sickness — 

II 1 could aid you 1 — journeying the same way? 
Wer. (quickly.) I am not journeying the same way 
Stral, How know ye 

That, ere you know my route ? 

Wer. Because there is 

But one way that tho rich and poor must tread 
Together. You diverged from that dread path 
Some hours ago, and I some days : henceforth 
Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend 
All to one home. 

Stral. Your language is above 

Your station. 

Wer. (bitterly.) Is it 7 



Act I. 



WERNER. 



321 



Stral. Or, at least, beyond 

Your garb. 

Wer. 'T is well that it is not beneath it, 

As sometimes happens ro the better clad. 
But, in a word, what would you with me? 

Str a l. {startled.) I? 

IVtr. Yes — you ! You know me not, and question me, 
And wonder that I answer not — not knowing 
My inquisitor. Explain what you would have, 
And then I 'II satisfy yourself, or me. 

Stral. I knew not that you had reasons for reserve. 

Wer. Many have such: — Have you none? 

Stral, None which can 

Interest a mere stranger. 

Wer. Then forgive 

The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
He wishes to remain so to the man 
Who can have naught in common with him. 

Stral. Sir, 

1 will not balk your humour, though untoward: 
I only meant you service — but good nignt! 
Intendant, show the way ! (to Gabor.) Sir, you will 
with me ? 
[Exeunt Stralenheim and Attendants ; Idenstein 
and Gabor. 

Wer. (solus.) 'T is he ! I am taken in the toils. Before 
I quitted Hamburgh, Giulio, his late steward, 
Inform'd me that he had obtain d an order 
From Brandenbiirgh's elector, for the arrest 
Of Kruilzner (such the name I then bore) when 
I came upon the frontier ; the free city 
Alone preserved my freedom — till I left 
Its walls — fool that I was to quit them ! But 
I deem'd this humble garb, and route obscure, 
Had baffled the slow hounds in their pursuit. 
What's to be done ? He knows me not by person ; 
Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension, 
Have recognised Aim, after twenty years, 
We met so rarely and so coldly in 
Our youth. But those about him ! Now I can 
Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who 
No doubt is a mere tool and spy of Stralenheim's, 
To sound and to secure me. Without means ! 
Sick, poor — begirt too with the flooding rivers, 
Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
All the appliances which purchase modes 
Of overpowering peril with men's lives, — 
How can I hope? An hour ago melhought 
My state beyond despair; and now, 'tis such, 
The past seems paradise. Another day, 
And I 'm detected,— on the very eve 
Of honours, rights, and my inheritance, 
When a few drops of gold might save me still 
In favouring an escape. 

Enter Idenstein and Fritz, in conversation. 

Fritz. Immediately*. 

Iden. I tell yo t, * is impossible. 

Fritz. It must 

Be tried, however ; and if one express 
Fail, yon must send on others, till the answer 
Arrives from Frankfort, from the commandant. 

Iden. I will do what I can. 

Fritz. And recollect 

To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
Tenfold. 

Iden. The baron is retired to rest? 

Fritz. He hath thrown himself into an easy chair 
Beside the fire, and slumbers ; and has order'd 
He may not be disturbed until eleven, 
When he will take himself to bed. 

[den. Before 

An hour is past 111 do my best to serve him. 

Fritz. Remember! [Exit Fhitx. 

Iden, The devil take these great men ! they 

2Q. 



Think all things made for them. Now here must I 
Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
Their lives, despatch them o'er the river towards 
Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own experience 
Some hours ago might teach him fellow-feeling: 
But no, "it must," and there 's an end. How now * 
Are you there, Mynheer Werner? 

Wer. You have left 

Your noble guest right quickly. 

Iden- Yes— he's dozing, 

And seems to like that none should sleep besides. 
Here is a packet for the commandant 
Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses ; 
But I must not lose time: Good night! [Exit Idev. 

Wer. « To Frankfort !" 

So, so, it thickens ! Ay, " the commandant." 
This tallies well with all the prior steps 
Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks 
Between me and my father's .house. No doubt 
He writes for a detachment to convey me 
Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 

This 

[Werner looks around, and snatches up a kmfk 
lying on a table in a recess. 

Now I am master of myself at least. 
Hark, — footsteps ! How do I know that Stralenheim 
Will wait for even the show of that authority 
Which is to overshadow usurpation? 
That he suspects me's certain. I'm alone, 
He with a numerous train. I weak; he strong 
In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 
I nameless, or involving in my name 
Destruction, till I reach my own domain , 
He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
Than they could do elsewhere. Hark! nearer still! 
1 '11 to the secret passage, which communicates 
With the -— -No ! all is silent — 't was my fancy !-— 
Still as the breathless interval between 
The flash and thunder: — I must hush my soul 
Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire, 
To see if still be unexplored the passage 
I wot of: it will serve me as a den 
Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 

[Werner draws a pannel, and exit, closing rf 
after him. 

Enter Gabor and Josephine. 

Gab. Where is your husband? 

Jos. Here, I thought : I left him 

Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
Have many outlets, and he may be gone 
To accompany the intendant. 

Gab. Baron Stralenheim 

Put many questions to the intendant on 
The subject of your lord, and, to be plain, 
I have my doubts if he means well. 

Jos. Alas ! 

What can there be in common with the proud 
And wealthy baron and the unknown Werner ? 

Gab. That you know best. 

Jos. Or, if it were so, hpv* 

Come you to stir yourself in his behalf, 
Rather than that of him whose life you saved? 

Gab. I help'd to save him, as in peril ; but 
I did not pledge myself to serve him in 
Oppression. I know well these nobles, and 
Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
I have proved them ; and my spirit boils up whjMl 
I find them practising against the weak : — 
This is my only motive. 

Jos. It would be 

Not easy to persuade my contort of 
Your good intention*. 



322 



WERNER. 



An II. 



Gab. Is h so suspicious? 

Jos. He was not once ; but time and troubles have 
Made him what you beheld. 

Gab. I 'm sorry for it. 

Suspicion is a heavy armour, and 
With its own weight impedes more than protocts. 
Good night ! I trust to meet with him at daybreak. 

[Exit Gaeor. 

Re-enter Idenstein and same Peasants. Josephine 
rctins up tlie Hall. 
First Peasant. But if I'm drown'd? 
Iden. Why, you will be well paid for 't, 
And have risk'd more than drowning for as much, 
I doubt not. 

Second Peasant. But our wives and families? 
Iden. Cannot be worse off than they are, and may 
Be better. 

Third Peasant. I have neither, and w ill venture. 
Iden. That's right. A gallant carle, and fit to bo 
A soldier. I 'II promote you to tile ranks 
In the prince's body-guard— if you succeed; 
And you shall have besides in sparkling coin 
Two thalers. 

Third Peasant. No more ! 

laen. Out upon your avarice ! 

Can that low vice alloy so much ambition ? 
I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 
Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
liisk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler? 
When had you half the sum ? 

Third Peasant. Never— but ne'er 

The less I must have three. 

Iden. Have you forgot 

Whose vassal you were bom, knave ? 

Third Peasant. No— the prince's, 

And not the stranger's. 

Iden. Sirrah ! in the prince's 

Absence, I'm sovereign; and the baron is 
My intimate connexion :—" Cousin Idenstein 
(Quoth he) you'll order out a dozen villains." 
And so, you villains! troop— march— march, I say : 
And if a single dog's-e&r of this packet 
Be sprinkled by the Oder— look to it ! 
For every page of paper, shall a hide 
Of yours be stretch'd as parchment on a drum, 
Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
Refractory vassals, who can not effect 
Impossibilities — away, ye earth-worms ! 

[Exit, driving them end. 
Jos. (coming foru-ard.) I fain would shun these 
scenes, too oft repeated, 
Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims ; 
I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot, 
The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
The insolence of wealth in poverty 
O'er something poorer still— the pride of rank 
In servitude, o'er something mi]] more servile ■ 
And vice in misery affecting n 
A latter'd splendour. What a state of being ! 
In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land, 
Our nobles were but citizens and merchants, 
Like Cosmo. Wo had evils, but not such 
As these ; and our all-ripe and gushing valleys 
Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb 
Was in itself a meal, and every vino 
Rain'd, as it were, tho beverage which makes glad 
The heart of man; and the ne'er unfelt sun 
(But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving 
His warmth behind in memory of his beams) 
Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 
Oppressive than an emperor's jewell'd purple. 
But, here ! the despot* of the north appear 



To imitate the icc-wir.d of their clime, 

Searching the shivering vassal through his rags, 

To wring his soul— as the bleak elements 

His form. And 'tis to be among these sovereigns 

My husband pants ! and such his pride of birth— 

That tw enty years of usage, such as no 

Father born in a humble state could nerve 

His soul to persecute a son withal, 

Hath changed no atom of his early nature t 

But I, born nobly also, from my fa , 

Kindness was taught a different lesson. Father! 

' long-tried and now rewarded spirit 
Look down on us and our so long desired 
Dlric ! I love my son, as thou didst me ! 
What "s thai .' Thou, \\ enter ! can it be? and thus? 

Enter Werner, hastily with the knife in his hand, by th 
'armet, uihi'Ji he closes hurriedly after him. 
Wer. (not at Jirtt recognising her.) Discovert!! then 

I '11 stall (recognising her.) 

Ah ! Josephine, 
Why art thou not at rest ? 

Jos - What rest ? My God ! 

What doth this mean ? 

Wer. (shaunng a rouleau.) Here 's gold— gold, Jose- 
phine, 
Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 

Jos. And how obtaiu'd ?— that knif" ■! 
, lVer - T is bloodless— «*. 

Away— we must to our chamber. 

~ ns - But whence comest thou ? 

Wer. Ask not! but let us think whi re we shall go— 
This— this will make us way— (showing tlie gold.)— I U 
fit them now. 

Joe, I dare not think thee guilty of dishonour. 

Wer. Dishonour! 

J 08 - I have said it. 

,J Ver - , Lot us hence 

T is the last night, I trust, that we need pass here. 

Jos. And not the worst, I hope. 

,."'""' Hope ! I make sure. 

cut let us to our chamber. 

J° s - Yet one question— 

What hast thou donet 

Wer. {fiercely.) Left one thing undone, which 

Had mads all well; let me not think of it! 

Aw av ! 

Jos. Alas, that I should doubt of thee! [Eweuru 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the same Palace. 

Enter Idenstein and Others. 

Idt-n. Fine doings ' loings! honest doings! 

A baron pillaged in a prince's palai e ! 
Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard of. 

Fritz: It hardly could rats despoil^ 

The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 

Iden. Oh ! that 1 , e to see this day ! 

The honour of our city 's gone for ever. 

Fritz. Well, hut now to discover the delinquent 
The baron is determined not to lose 
This sum without a search. 

Uen - And so am I. 

Fritz. But whom do you suspect ? 

'f' . , . Suspect ! all people 

Without— within— above— below— Heaven help me! 
Fritz. Is there no other entrance to the chamber 1 
Iden. None whatsoever. 

V*"*' Are you sure of that ? 

Iden. Certain. I hove lived and served here since 
my birth, 



Act II. 



WERNER. 



323 



And if there were such, must have heard of such, 
Or seen it. 

Fritz. Then it must be some one who 
Had acoess to the antechamber. 

lien. Doubtless. 

Fritz. The mancall'd IVerner 'spoor! 

Iden. Poor as a miser, 

But lodged so far off, in the other wing, 
By which there 's no communication with 
The baron's chamber, that a can't be he. 
Besides, I bade him " good night" in the hall, 
Almost a mile off) and which only leads 
To his own apartment, about i!ie same time 
When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
Appears to have been committed. 

Fritz. There 's another, 

The stranger 

Iden. The Hungarian ? 

Fritz. He who help'd 

To fish the baron from the Oder. 

Iden. Not 

Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have been 
One of the suite .' 

Fritz. How? We, Sir! 

Iden. No — not you, 

But some of the inferior knaves. You say 
The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
The velvet chair — in his embroiderM night-gown; 
His toilet spread before him, and upon il 
A cabinej with letters, papers, and 
Several rouleaux of gold : of which one only 
Has disappear'd: — the door unboiled, with 
No difficult access to any. 

Fritz. Good sir, 

B<- ri"t so quick; the honour of the corps 
Which forms the baron's household 's uninipeach'd 
From steward to scullion, save in the fair way 
Of peculation ; such as in accompts, 
Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery, 
Where all men take their prey ; as also in 
Postage of letters, gathering of rents, 
Put-vvnig feasts, and understanding with 
The honest trades who furnish noble masters: 
But for your petty, picking, downright thievery, 
We scorn it' as we do board-wages. Then 
Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard 
Uh n< rk lor one rouleau, but have swoop'd all; 
Also the cabinet, if portable. 

I-h-n. There is some sense in that 

Fritz. No, sir, be sure 

T was none of our corps ; but some petty, trivial 
Picker and stealer, without art or genius. 
The only 'iuesiion is — Who else could have 
Access, save (he Hungarian and yourself.' 

Idea. You don't mean me? 

Fritz. No, sir ; I honour more 

Your talents 

Iden. And my principles, I hope. 

Fritz. Of course. But to the point: What 's to be 
done? 

Lien. Nothing — but there 's a good deal to be said. 
Wo '11 offer a reward; move heaven and earth, 
And the police, (though there 's none nearer than 
Frankfort;) post notices in manuscript, 
(For we 've no printer;) and set by my clerk 
i'.> read them, (for few can, save he and I.) 
We II send out villains to strip beggars, and 
Search empty pockets ; alsu, to arrest 
All gipaiea, and ill-clothed and sallow people. 
Prisoners we 'If have at least, if not the culprit ; 
And fir the barons gold — if 'tis not found, 
At least he shall have the full satisfaction 
Of melting twice its substance in the raising 
Th*> ghost of this rouleau. Here 's alchvmy 



For your lord's losses ! 

Fritz. He hath found a better. 

Iden. Where ? 

Fritz. In a most immense inheritance. 

The late Count SiegcndorfJ his distant kinsman, 
Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord 
Is on his way to take possession. 

Iden. Was there 

No heir? 

Fritz. Oh, yes ; but he has disappear'd 
Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the world. 
A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 
For the last twenty years ; for whom his sire 
Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore, 
If living, he must chew the husks still. But 
The baron would find means to silence him, 
Were he to reappear : he 's politic, 
And has much influence with a certain court. 

Iden. He 's fortunate. 

Fritz. 'T is true, there is a grandson. 

Whom the late count reclaimed from his son's hands. 
And educated as his heir; but then 
His birth is doubtful. 

Iden. How so ? 

Fritz. His sire mado 

A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage, 
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter: 
Noble, they say, too; but no match for such 
A house as Siegendorfs. The grandsire ill 
Could brook the alliance ; and could ne'er be brought 
To see the parents, though he took the son. 

Iden. If he 's a lad of mettle, he may yet 
Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may 
Puzzle your baron to unravel. , 

Fiitz. Why, 

For mettle, he has quite enough: they say, 
He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
And erandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 
The former, and deep as the latter; but 
The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
Some months ago. 

Iden. The devil he did ! 

Fritz. Why, yet 

It must have been at his suggestion, at 
An hour so critical as was the eve 
Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it 

Iden. Was there no cause assign'd? 

Fritz. Plenty, no doubt. 

And none perhaps the true one. Some averr'd 
It was to seek his parents; some because 
The old man held his spirit in so strictly, 
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him;) 
A third believed he wish'd to serve in war, 
But peace being made soon afler his departure, 
He might have since retum'd, were that the motive, 
A fourth set charitably have surmised, 
As there was something strange and mystic in him, 
That in the wild exuberance of his nature 
lie had join'd the black bands, who lay vaste Lusatia, 
The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 
Since the last years of war had dwindled into 
A kind of general condotliero system 
Of oandit warfare ; each troop with its chieQ 
And all against mankind. 

Iden. That cannot be 

A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 
To risk his life and honours with disbanded 
Soldiers and desperadoes ! 

Fritz. Heaven best knows ! 

But there are human natures so allied 
Tnto the savage love of enterprise, 
That they will seek tor peril as a pleasure. 
I 've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indiau, 
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
Were fed on milk and honey. After ail, 



324 



W EH NEK. 



AtT II. 



Your Wallensteip, your Tilly and Guslavus, 
Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar, 
Were but the same thing upon a grand Kale ; 
And now that they are gone, and peace proclaim'd, 
•j'hny who would follow the same pastime must 
Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 
The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape, 
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
Until this morning. 

Enter Stralenheim and Ulric. 

Btrd. Since you have refused 

All compensation, gi Ql r, save 

Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them, 
Making inu feel the worthleasnesa of words, 
And blush .it ray own barren gratitude, 
They seem so niggardly compared with what 
Your courteous courage did in my behalf-' 

Ulr. I pray you press the theme no further. 

Stral. But 

Can I not serve you ? You are young, and of 
That mould which throws out heroes ; fair in favour; 
Brave, I know, by my living now to say so; 
And doubtlessly, with such a form and heart, 
Would look into the fiery eyes of war, 
As ardently for glory as you dared 
An obscure death to save an unknown stranger 

In an as perilous, hut opposite element. 

You are made for the service : I have served ; 

Have rank by birth and soldiership, and friends, 

Who shall be yours. 'T is irue this pause of peace 

Favours such views at present scantily; 

But 'l will not last, men's spirits are too stirring ; 

And, after thirty years of conllict, peace 

Is but a petty war, as the tunes show us 

In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce. 

War will reclaim his own; and, in the meantime, 

You might obtain a post, which would ensure 

A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not 

To rise. I speak of Brandenburg, wherein 

I stand well with the elector; in Bohemia, 

Like you, I am a stranger, and we arc now 

Upon its frontier. 

Ulr. You perceive my garb 

Is Saxon, and of course ray service due 
To my own sovereign. If I must decluie 
Your offer, 'I is with the same feeling which 
Induced it. 

Stral. Why, this is mere usury ! 

I owe my life to you, and you refuse 
Tne acquittance of the interest of the debt, 
To heap more obligations on me, till 
bow beneath them. 

Ulr. You shall say so when 

I claim the payment. 

Stral. Well, sir, since you will not — 

You are nobly horn? 

Ulr. J have heard my kinsmen sav so. 

Stral. Your actions show it. Might I ask your name ? 

Ulr. Ulric. 

Stral. Your house's ' 

Ulr. When I 'm worthy of it, 

\ 'U answer you. 

Stral. (-mite.) Most probably an Austrian, 
"Whom these unsettled times forbid to bO&Sl 
Ilia lineage on these wild and dangerous frontiers, 
Whore the name of his country is abhorr'd. 

[Aloud tv Fritz and Idenstein. 
So, sirs! how have ye sped in your researches 7 

loan. Indifferent well, your excellency. 

Stral. Then 

I am to deem the plunderer is caught ? 

I ten, Humph! — not exactly. 

«SW Or at leant suspected ? 



Jdtn. Oh ! for that matter, very much suspected. 

Stral. Who may he Ot I 

/ Ei n Why, do n't you know, my lord ? 

Stral. How should I? I was fast asleep. 

Jdtn. And so 

Was I. and that's the cause I know no more 
Than dues your cxcell- im v. 

Stral. Dolt ! 

Idm. Why, if 

Tour lordship, being robb'd, don't recognise 

igue ; how should I, not being robb'd, identify 
The thji i among so many? In the crowd, 
May it pleas pour excellency, your thief looks 

like the rest, or rather better: 
T is only at the bar and in the dungeon 
That wise men know your felon by his features; 
Hut 1 'II engage, thai if seen there but once, 
vVhethe] hi I m Ebund criminal or no, 
shal be so, 

Stral. {to Fritz.) Prithee, Fritz, inform me 
What hath been done to trace the fellow ? 

/ Faith' 

My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 

Stnd. Besides the loss (which, I must own, affects 
me 
Just now materially) I needs would find 
The villain out of public motives; for 
So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
Through my attendants, and so many peopled 
And lighted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would soon 
Leave bare your borough, Sir Intendant ! 

/den. True; 

If there were aught to carry offj my lord. 

Ulr. What is all this? 

Stral. You join'd us but this morning) 

And have not heard that I was robb'd last night. 

l'!r. Some rumour of it rcach'd me as I pass'd 
The outer chambers of the palace, but 
[ know no further. 

Stral. It is a strange business; 

The intendant can inform you of the facts. 

Jdtn. Mosl willingly. You see 

Stral. {intputiint'i,.) Defer your tale, 

Till certain of the hearer's patience. 

II' n. Thai 

Can only be approved by proofs. You see— - 

Stral. (again interrupting Aim, and atldressing Ulric.) 
In short, I was asleep upon a chair, 
My cabinet before me, with some gold 
Upon it, (more than I much like to lose, 
i , in part onlj .) some ingenious person 

Contrived to glide through all my own attendants, 
Besides those of the place, and bore away 
A hundred jmlden ducats, which to find 
I would he fain, and there V an end. Perhaps 
You (as I still am rather faint) would add 

day's great obligation, this, 
Though Blighter, not yet slights to aid these men 
(Who -' ■ in bul lukewarm) in recovering it? 

JJbr. M si uiKni'lv, and without loss of time — 
[To LnxnsTEiiT.) I ome hither, mynheer! 

/ ' But so much haste bodes 

Right little speed, and— — 

Ulr. St. Hiding motionless 

N N. bo lei *s march: we 11 talk as we go on. 

Jden. But 

CTr. Show the spot, and then 1 11 answei you. 

J^ritx. I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 

S*rirf. Ho so, and take yon old ass with you. 

Fritz. Hence 

Ulr. Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle ! 

[Exit with Idenstein and FnrrsJ. 

Stral. (solus.) A stalwart, active, soldierJookinej 
Mnpfciig, 



Act II. 



WERNER. 



325 



Handsome as Hercules ere his first labour, 

And with a brow of thought beyond his years 

When in repose, till his eye kindles up 

In answering yours. I wish I could engage him: 

I have need of some such spirits near me now, 

For this inheritance is worth a struggle. 

And though I am not the man to yield without one, 

Neither are they who now rise up between me 

And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one ; 

But he hath play'd the truant in some hour 

Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to 

Champion his claims. That s well. The father, whom 

For years I Ve track'd, as does the blood-hound, never 

In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me 

To fault ; but here I have him, and that 's better. 

It must be he! All circumstance proclaims it; 

And careless voices, knowing not the cause 

Of my inquiries, still confirm it — Yes! 

The man, his bearing and the mystery 

Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, too, 

The intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 

Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect; 

Besides the antipathy with which we met, 

As snakes and lions shrink back from each other 

By secret instir^t that both must be foes 

Deadly, without being natural prey to either ; 

All — all — confirm it to my mind. However, 

We 11 grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours 

The order comes from Frankfort, if these waters 

Rise not the higher, (and the weather favours 

Their quick abatement,) and I 'II have him safe 

Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 

His real estate and name ; and there s no harm done, 

Should he prove other than I deem. This robbery 

(Save for the actual loss) is lucky also: 

He 's poor, and that 's suspicious — he 's unknown, 

And that 's defenceless. — True, we have no proofs 

Of guilt, but what hath he of innocence? 

Were he a man indifferent to my prospects, 

In other bearings, I should rather lay 

The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 

Hatb something which I like not ; and alone 

Of all around, except the intendant, and 

The prince's household and my own, had ingress 

Familiar to the chamber. 

Enter Gabor. 

Friend, how fare you ? 

Gab. As those who fare well everywhere, when they 
Have supp'd and slumber'd, no great matter how— 
And you, my lord ? 

Stral. Better in rest than purse : 

Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 

Gab. I heard 

Of your late loss; but 't is a trifle to 
One of your order. 

Stral. You would hardly think so, 

Were the loss yours. 

Gab. I never had so much 

(At once) in my whole life, and therefore am not 
Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
Your couriers are turn'd back — I have outstrip! them, 
In my return. 

fftral. You !— Why ? 

Gab. I went at daybreak, 

To watch for the abatement of the river, 
As being anxious to resume my journey. 
Your messengers were all check'd like myself; 
And, seeing the case hopeless, I await 
The current's pleasure. 

Stral. Would the dogs were id k! 

Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage ? 
I ordeHd this at all risks. 

Gab. Could you order 

The Oder to divide, as Moses did 



The Red Sea, (scarcely redder than the flood 
Of the swoIt stream,) and be obey'd, perhaps 
They might have ventured. 

Stral. I must see to it: 

The knaves ! the slaves ! — but they shall smart for this. 
[Exit Straleniiei*. 

Gab. (solus.) There goes my noble, feudal, self- 
wilfd baron ! 
Epitome: of what brave chivalry 
The preux chevaliers of the good cA times 
Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
His lands, (if he hath any,) and, still dearer, 
His sixteen quartering*, for as much fresh air 
As would have fill'd a bladder, while he lay 
Gurgling and foaming half wav through the window 
Of his o'erset and water-logg'd conveyance ; 
And now he storms at half a dozen wretches 
Because they love their lives too ! Yet, he 's right; 
'T is strange they should, when such as he may put them 
To hazard at his pleasure. Oh ! thou world ! 
Thou art indeed a melancholy jest \ [Exit Ga£OA. 

Scene II. — The Apartment of Werner, in the Palace. 
Enter Josephine and Ulric. 

Jos. Stand back, and let me look on thee again ! 
My Ulric ! — my beloved! — can it be — 
After twelve years? 

Ulr. My dearest mother ! 

Jos. Yes ! 

My dream is realized — how beautiful! — 
How more than all I sigh'd for! Heaven receive 
A mother's thanks ! — a mothers tears of joy ! 
This is indeed thy work ! — At such an hour, too, 
He comes not only as a son, but saviour. 

Ubr. If such a joy await me, it must double 
What I now feel, and lighten from my heart 
A part of the long debt of duty, not 
Of love (for that was ne'er withheld) — forgive mo ■> 
This long delay was not my fault. 

Jos. I know it, 

But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
If I e'er felt it, 't is so dazzled from 
My memory, by this oblivious transport! — 
My sou ! 

Enter Werner. 

HV. What have we here, more strangers? 

Jos* No ! 

Lo.,k upon him! What do you see? 

ll'er. A striphng, 

For the first time 

Ulr. (kneeling.) For twelve long years, my father 

Wet. Oh, God ! 

Jos. He faints ! 

ll'er. No — I am better now 

Ulric! (Embraces htm.) 

fir. Mv father, Sicgendorf ! 

XVer. (starting.) Hush ! boy — 

The walls mav hear that name ! 

Ulr. What then ? 

Wet. Why, tnen— 

But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
I must be known here but as Werner. Come ! 
Come to my arms again ! Why, thou look'st all 
I should have been, and was not. Josephine! 
Sure 't is no father's fondness dazzles me ; 
But had I seen that form amid ten thousand 
Youth of the choicest, my heart would have chosen 
This for my son ! 

Ulr. And yet you knew me not ! 

iVer. Alas! I have had that upon my soul 
Which makes me look on all men with an ey« 
That only knows the evil at first glance. 

Ulr. My memory served me far more fondly: I 
Have not forgotten aught ; and ofttimes in 



326 



WERNER. 



Act II. 



The proud and princely halls of— (['II not name them, 

As you say that i is perilous) — but i' the pomp 

Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back 

To the Bohcmi.ji mountains many a sunset, 

And wept to see another day go down 

Oer thee and me, with tli i between us. 

They shall not part us more. 

IVer. I know not that. 

Are you aware my father is no more ? 

Ulr. Oh heavens ! I left him in a green old age, 
And looking like the oak, worn, but still steady 
Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 
Fell fast around him. T"was scarce three months since. 

IVer. Why did you leave him ? 

Jos, (embracing Ulric.) Can you ask that quesliun? 
Is he not liere ? 

Wer, True ; he hath sought his parents, 

A.iul found them; but, oh! how, and in what state! 

Ulr. All shall be better'd. What we have to do 
Is to proceed, and to assert our rights, 
Or rather yours ; for I waive all, unless 
Your father lias disposed in such a sort 
Of his broad lands as to make mine the foremost, 
So that I must prefer my claim for form: 
But I trust better, and that all is yours. 

War. Have you not heard of Stralenheim? 

Ulr. I saved 

His life but yesterday: he's here. 

IVer. You saved 

The serpent who will sting us all ! 

Ulr. You speak 

Riddles: what is tins Stralenheim to us? 

IVer, Every thing. One who claims our father's 
lands : 
Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 

Ulr. I never heard his name till now. The count, 
Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who, 
If Ins own line should fail, might be remotely 
Involved in the succession; but his titles 
Were never named before me — and what then ? 
His right must yield to ours. 

IVer. Ay, if at Prague : 

But here he is all-powerful ; and has spread 
Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 
He hatii escaped them, is by fortune, not 
By favour. 

Ulr. Doth he personally know you 1 

IVer. No; but he guesses shrewdly at my person, 
As he betray'd last night; and I, perhaps, 
But owe my temporary liberty 
To his uncertainty. 

Ulr. I think you wrong him,' 

(Excuse me for the phrase ;) but Stralenheim 
Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so, 
He owes me something both for past and present. 
I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me. 
He hath been plunder'd loo, since he came hither: 
Is sick ; a stranger; and as such not now 
Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him: 
I have pledged myself to do so; and the business 
Which brought me here was chiefly thai : but I 
Have found, in searching for another's dross, 
My own whole treasure — you, my parents ! 

IVer. (agitatedly.) Who 

Taught you to mouth that name of a villain ?" 

Ubr. What 

More noble name belongs to common thieves ? 

IVer. Who taught you thus to brand an unknown 
being 
With an infernal stigma? 

Ulr. My own feelings 

Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 

IVer. Who taught you, long-sought and ill-found 
boy ! that 
h woof J bo safe for my own son to insult me * 



I'lr. I named a villain. What is there in common 
ich .1 being and my father? 

Wet. Every tiling 

Tim! ruffian is thy father-! 

Jos. x Oh, my son! 

him not — and yet !— (her voice falters.) 

Ulr. (starts, looks earnestly at Werner, and then 
toy* slowly) And you avow it? 

War. Ulric, before you dare despise your father, 
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 
Rash, new to life, and rcar'd in luxury's lap, 
Is il for you to measure passion's force, 
Or misery's temptation? Wail — (not long, 
Ii Cometh like the night, and quickly) — Wait ! — 

; I, like me, your hopes are blighted — till 
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin 
Famine and poverty your guests at table; 
Despair your bi dfellow — then rise, but not 
From sleep, and judge! should that day e'er arrive— 
Should you gee then the serpent, who hath coil'd 
Himself around all that is dear and noble 
Of you and yours, lit- slumbering iii your path, 
With but his folds between your steps and happiness, 
When He, who ivi ■ but to tear from you name, 
Lands, life Itself, lies at POUT merry, with 
Ch on e your conductor; midnight for your mantie 
The bare knife in your band, and earth asleep, 
Even to your deadliest foe; and he as 'twere 
Inviting death, by looking like it, while 
His death alone can save you: — Thank your God 1 
If then, like me, contcnl with petty plunder, 
You turn aside 1 did so. 

Ulr. But 

IVer. (abruptly.) Hear me! 

I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. 
I [1 1 m.' ■;.■!■ icii ma. Vou 

Deem yourself safe, as young and brave; but learn 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From sublilly. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
An instant — a mere motion — the least impulse- 
Had -su.pt him and all fears of mine from earth. 
He was within my power — my knife was raised — 
Withdrawn — and I'm in his: — are you not so? 
Who tells you that he knows you not? Who says 
He bath not lured you here to end you? or 
To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon? 

[He pause*. 

Ulr. Proceed — proceed! 

IVer. Me he hath ever known, 

And hunted through each change of time — name- 
fortune — 
And why not you ? Are you more versed in men ? 
He wound snares round rne; flung along my path 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth. I would have spurn 'd 
Even from my presence ; but, in spurning now, 
Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 

patient? Ulric! — Ulric!— there are crimes 
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
Which nature cannot master or forbear. 

Ulr, (looks first at him, ami then at Josephine.) 
My mother ! 

V\ er. Ay ! I thought so: you have now 

Only one parent. I have lost 
Father and son, and stand alone. 

Ulr. But stay ! 

[Werner rushes out of (he chamber 

Jos. (to Ulric.) Follow him not until this storm cf 
passion 
States. Think'st thou, that were it well for him, 
I had not followMV 

Ulr, I oboy jipu, mother. 



Act II. 



WERNER. 



327 



Although reluctantly. My first act shall not 
Be one of disobedience. 

Jos. Oh ! he is good ! 

Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust 
To me, who have borne so much with him, and for him, 
That this is but the surface of his soul, 
And that the depth is rich in better things. 

Ulr. These then are but my father's principles ? 
My mother thinks not with him? 

Jos. Nor doth he 

Think as he speaks. Alas! long years of grief 
Have made him sometimes thus. 

Ulr. Explain to me 

More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim, 
That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
I may prepare to face him, or at least 
To extricate you from your present perils. 
I pledge myself to accomplish this — but would 
I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 

Jos. Ay I 

Hailst thou but done so! 

Enter Gabor and Idenstein, with Attendants. 

Gab. (to Ulric.) I have sought you, comrade. 

So this is mv reward! 

Ulr. "What do you mean ? 

Gab. 'Stleath! have I lived to these years, and for 
this! 
(3Tt) Idenstein.) Butfor vour age and foil v, I would 

Idrn. Help ! 

Hands off! Touch an intendant! 

Gab. Do not think 

Til honour you so much as save your throat 
From the Ravenstone* by choking you myself. 

Iden. I thank you for the respite ; but there are 
Those who have greater need of it than I. 

Ulr. Unriddle this vile wrangling, or 

Gab. At once, then, 

The baron has been robb'd, and upon me 
This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
His kind suspicions — me ! whom he ne'er saw 
Till yester evening. 

Iden. Wouldst have me suspect 

My own acquaintances ? You have to learn 
That I keep better company. 

Gab. You shall 

Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men, 
The worms ! you hound of malice! 

[Gabor seites on him. 

Ulr. (interfering.) Nay, no violence: 

He's old, unarm'd — be temperate, Gabor ! 

Gab. (letting go Idenstein.) True: 

I am a fool to lose myself because 
Fools deem me knave : it is their homage. 

Ulr. (to Idenstein.) How 

Fare you? 

Iden. Help! 

Ulr. I have help'd you. 

IderL Kill him ! then 

I 'II say so. 

Gab, . I am calm — live on! 

Iden. That 's more 

Than you shall do, if there be judge or judgment 
In Germany. The baron shall decide! 

Gab. Does he abet you in your accusation ? 

Iden. Does he not ? 

Gab. Then next time let him go sink 

Ere I go hang for snatching him from drowning. 
But here he comes ! 

Enter Stralenheim. 
Gab. (goes up to him.) My noble lord, I'm here! 



• The Ravenstooe, " Raveniteiit," i§ the atone gibbet <rf Owmany, 
tod io colltd from th« reveoi perching on ii. 



Strol. Well, sir! 

Gab. Have you aught with me ? 

Strol. What should I 

Have with you ? 

Gub. You know best, if yesterday's 

Flood has not wash'd away your memory ; 
But that's a trifle. I stand here accused, 
In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
Intendant, of the pillage of your person 
Or chamber : — is the charge your own or his? 

Strol. I accuse no man. 

Gab. Then you acquit me, baron? 

Strol. I know not whom to accuse,, or to acquit, 
Or scarcely to suspect. 

Gab. But you at least 

Should know whom 7iot to suspect. I am insulted— 
Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
To you for remedy — teach them their duty ! 
To look for thieves at home were part of it, 
If duly taught; but, in one word, if 1 
Have an accuser, let it be a man 
Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
I am your equal. 

Strol. You ! 

Gab. Ay, sir ; and, for 

Aught that you know, superior ; but proceed— 
I do not ask for hints, and surmises, 
And circumstance, and proofs ; I know enough 
Of what I have done for you, and what you owe me, 
To have at least waited your payment rather 
Than paid myselfj had I been eager of 
Your gold. I also know that were I even 
The villain I am deem'd, the service render'd 
So recently would not permit you to 
Pursue me to the death, except through shame, 
Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank. 
But this is nothing : { demand of you 
Justice upon your unjust servants, and 
From your own lips a disavowal of 
All sanction of their insolence ;- thus much 
You owe to the unknown, who asks no more, 
And never thought to have ask'd so much. 

Strol. This ton* 

May be of innocence. 

Gab. 'Sdeath ! who dare doubt it, 

Except such villains as ne'er had it? 

Strol. You 

Are hot, sir. 

Gab. Must I turn an icicle 

Before the breath of menials, and their master? 

Strol. Ulric! you know this man; I found him in 
Your company. 

Gab. We found you in the Oder 

Would we had left you there ! 

Strol. I give you thanks, sir. 

Gab. I've eam'd (hem ; but might have eam'd more 
from others, 
Perchance, if T had left you to your fate. 

Strol. Ulric ! you know this man ? 

Gab. No more than you do, 

If he avouches not my honour. 

Ulr. I 

Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
Own brief connexion led me, honour. 

Strol. Then 

I 'm satisfied. 

Gab. {ironically.) Right easily, methinks. 
What is the spell in his asseveration 
More than in mine? 

Strol. I merely said that / 

Was satisfied — not that you are absolved. 

Gab. Again ! Am I accused or no ? 

Strol. Go to! 

You wax too insolent. If circumstance 
And general suspicion be against you, 



328 



WERNER. 



Act II. 



Is the fault mine ? Is \ not enough that I 
Decline all question of your guilt or innocence ? 

Gab. My lord, my lord, ihia is mere cozenage, 
A rile enuhrocation ; you well know 
Your doubts arc certainties to all around you — 
Your looks a voice— your frowns a sentence ; you 
Are practising your power on me — because 
You have it ; but beware ! you know not whom 
You strive to tread on. 

Stral. Threat'sl thou? 

Qah ' Not so much 

As you accuse. You bint the basest injury, 
And I retort it with an open warning. 
Stral. As you have said, 'tis true I owe you some- 
thing, 
For which you seem disposed to pay yourselt. 
Gab. Not with your gold. 

Stral. With bootless insolence. 

[To his Attendant and Idensteiw. 
You need not further to molest this man, 
But let him go his way. Olric, good morrow! 

[Exit Strai.enhkim, Iiiknstein, and Attendants. 

Gab. ( following.) I 'II after him and 

Ulr. (tiofpmghm.) »*» IfP; 

Gab. ^ Lo sha " 

Oppose me ? , 

Ulr. Your own reason, with a moments 

Thought. 

Gab. Must I bear this? 

Tf/j., Pshaw '. we all must bear 

The arrogance of something higher than 
Ourselves— the highest cannot temper Satan, 
Nor the lowest Ins vicegerents upon earth. 
I've seen you brave the elemenis, and bear 
Things which had nu.de this silkworm cast his skin — 
tad shrink you from a few sharp sneers and words? 

Gali. Must 1 bear to be deem'd a thief.' If 't were 
A bandit of the woods, 1 Could have borne it- 
There 's something daring in it ; — but to steal 
The moneys of a slumbering man ! — 

rj; r _ It seems, then, 

You are no( guilty ? 

Gab. Do I hear aright? 

You too ! 

Ulr. I merely ask'd a simple question. 

Gab. If the judge ask'd me, I would answer " No"— 
To you I answer 14m. (He draws.) 

Ulr. (drawing.) With all my heart ! 

Jos. Without there! Ho! help! help !— Oh God! 
here's murder! [Exit Josephine, shrieking. 

Gabor and Ulric Jight. Gabor is dimrmed just as 
Stralenheim, Josephine, Idenstein, $-e. re-enter. 

Jos. Oh ! glorious heaven ! He 's safe ! 

Stral. (to Josephine.) Who 's safe ? 

Jos. My- 



JOS. "V 

Ulr. (mlemtpUng In' u'Uh a stem look, and turning 
afterwards to Stralenheim.) Both ! 

Acre's no great harm done. 
Strut, What hath caused all Uiis .' 

Ulr. You, baron, I believe ; but as tlic effect 
Is harmless, let it not disturb you.— Gabor ! 
There is your sword; and when you bare it next, 
Let it not be agamst your fricmlt. 

[Ulric pronouncei the hat uvrds slmilt/ and empha- 
tically in a low voice to Gabor. 
Gab. l *«>* >' ou 

Less for my life than for your counsel. 

Stral. TheM 

Brawls must end here. 

Gab. (taking his sword.) They shall. Y ou have 
wrong'd me, Ulric, 
More with your unkind thoughts than sword: I would 
The last were in my Nisoin rather than 



The first in yours. I could have borne yon noble's 

Absurd insinuations — ignorance 

And dull suspicion are a part of his 

Intail will last him longer than his lands. — 

But 1 ma) in I""' y ' !— you have vanquish'd me. 

I was the fool of passion to conceive 

That I could cope with you, whom I ha^ seen 

Already proved by greater perils than 

Re if in this arm. We may meet by and by, 

—but in friendship. [Exk Gi.m%. 

Stral. I w '" brook 

! This outrage f illowing up his insults, 
Perhaps his guilt, has canccll'd all the little 
1 owed him heretofore for the so-vaunted 
Aid which he added to your abler succour. 
you arc not hurt? — 
f/; r Not even by a scratch. 

Stral. (re Idenstein.) Intcndant! take your measure* 
to secure 
Yon fellow: I revoke my former lenity. 
He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort 
The instant that the waters have abated. 

/(fen. Sccuro him ! He hath got his sword again— 
And seems to know the use on 't; 'tis his trade, 
Belike ;— I 'm a civilian. 

Stral. Fool ! are not 

Y'on score of vassals dogging at your heels 
Enough to seize a dozen such? Hence ! after him 
' T lr. Baron, I do beseech vou ! 
Stral. I must >» 

Obey'd. No words ! 

[,l m . Well, if it must be so— 

March, vassals ! I rn your leader, and will bring 
The rear up : I wise general never should 
Expose his precious life — on which all rests. 
I like that article of war. 

[Exit Idenstein and AitendcmU, 
Stral. Come hither, 

Ulric: what does that woman hern? Oh! now 
I recognise her, 'l is the stranger's wife 
Whom they name "Werner." 

jjlr 'T is his name. 

Stral. Indced ' 

Is not your husband visible, fair dame ? — 
Jos. Who seeks him? 

Stral. No one — for the present : but 

I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 
Alone. 

Ulr. I will retire with you. 
Jos. Not so: 

Y'ou are the latest stranger, and command 
All places here. . 

(Aside to Ulric as she goes out.) O Ulnc ! have a 

care — 
Remember what depends on a rash word . 

Ulr. (to Josephine.) _ . fear not I— 

[Exit Josephine 
Stral. Ulric, I think that I may trust you: 
You saved my life— and acts like these beget 
Unbounded confidence. 
Ulr. Sa y on - 

Stral. Mysterious 

And long-cngendcr'd circumstances (not 
To be now fully entcr'd on) have made 
This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 
Ulr. Who? Gabor, the Hungarian? 
Stral, No— this « Werner*— 

Wilh the false name and habit. 

£j; r How can this be 7 

He is the poorest of the poor— and yellow 
Sickness sits cavern'd in his hollow eye : 
The man is helpless. 

Stral. He is— t is no matter ; — 

But if he be the man I deem (and that 
I He u so, all around us here— and much 



Act III. 



WERNER. 



329 



That is not here — confirm my apprehension) 
He must be made secure ere twelve hours further. 
Ulr. And what have I to do with this ? 
Strat. I have sent 

To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend, 
(I have the authority to do so by 
An order of the house of Brandenburg,) 
For a fit escort — but this cursed flood 
Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 
Ulr. It is abating. 
Stral. That is well. 

Utr. But how 

Am I concern'd ? 

Stral. As one who did so much 

For me, you cannot be indifferent to 
That which is of more import to me than 
The life you rescued. — Keep your eye on him! 
The man avoids me, knows that I now know him. — 
Watch him ! — as you would watch the wild boar when 
He makes against you in the hunter's gap — 
Like him he must be spear'd. 

XJlr. Why so ? 

Stral. He stands 

Between me and a brave inheritance ! 
Oh ! could you see it ! But you shall. 

XJlr. I hope so. 

Stral. It is the richest of the rich Bohemia, 
Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
Have skimm'd it lightly : so that now, besides 
Its own exuberance, it bears double value 
Confronted with whole realms far and near 
Made deserts. 

ZJlr. You describe it faithfully. 

Stral. Ay — could you see it, you would say so — 
but, 
As I have said, you shall. 

Utr. I accept the omen. 

Stral. Then claim a recompense from it and me, 
Such as both may make worthy your acceptance 
And services to me and mine for ever. 

Ulr. And this sole, sick, and miserable wretch — 
This way-worn stranger — stands between you and 
This Paradise ? — (As Adam did between 
The devil and his)— [Aside.] 

Stral. He doth. 

Ulr, Hath he no right? 

Stral. Right! none. A disinherited prodigal, 
Who for these twenty years disgraced his lineage 
In all his acts — but chiefly by his marriage, 
And living amidst commerce-fetching burghers, 
And daboling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 
Ulr. He has a wife, then ? 
Stral. You 'd be sorry to 

Call such your mother. You have seen the woman 
He calls his wife. 

Ulr. Is she not so ? 

Stral. No more 

Then he 's your father : — an Italian girl, 
The daughter of a banished man, who lives 
On love and poverty with this same Werner. 
Ulr. They are childless, then ? 

Stral. There is or was a bastard, 

Whom the old man — the grandsire (as old age 
Is ever doling) took to warm his bosom, 
As it went chilly downward to the grave : 
But the imp stands not in my path— he has fled, 
No one knows whither ; and if he had not, 
His claims alone were too contemptible 

To stand. Why do you smile ? 

Ulr. -At your vain fears : 

A poor man almost in his grasp — a child 
Of doubtful birth — can startle a grandee ! 

Stral. AU 's to be fear'd, where all is to be gain'd. 
Ulr, True; and aught done to save or to obtain it. 
3R 



Stral. You have harp'd the very string next to ray 
heart. 
I may depend upon you? 

Utr. 'T were too late 

To doubt it. 

Stral. Let no foolish pity shake 

Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
Is pitiful) — ha is a wretch, as likely 
To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspected, 
Except that circumstance is less against him ; 
He being lodged far off, and in a chamber 
Without approach to mine: and, to say truth, 
I think too well of blood allied to mine, 
To deem he would descend to such an act: 
Besides lie was a soldier, and a brave one 
Once — though too rash. 

Ulr. And they, my lord, we kno* 

By our experience never plunder till 
They knock the brains out first — which makes them 

heirs, 
Not thieves. The dead, who feel naught, can low 

nothing, 

Nor e'er be robb'd : their spoils are a bequest- 
No more. 

Stral. Go to! you are a wag. But say 
I may be sure you'll keep an eye on this man, 
And let me know his slightest movement towards 
Concealment or escape ? 

Ulr. You may be sure 

You yourself could not watch him more than I 
Will be his sentinel. 

Stral. By this you make me 

Yours, and for ever. 

Ulr. Such is my intention. {Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — A hall in the same Palace, from whence th» 
secret Passage leads. 

Enter Werner and Gabor. 

Gab. Sir, I have told my tale : if it so please von 
To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
If not, I '11 try my fortune elsewhere. 

Wer. How 

Can I, so wretched, give to misery 
A shelter? — wanting such myself as much 
As e'er the hunted deer a covert 

Gab. Or 

The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinki 
You rather look like one would turn at bay, 
And rip the hunter's entrails. 

IVcr. Ah? 

Gab. I care not 

If it be so, being much disposed to do 
The same myself. But will you shelter me? 
I am oppress'd like you — and poor like you— 
Disffwced 

Wer. {abruptly.) Who told you that I was disgraced ? 

Gab. No one ; nor did I say you were so : with 
Your poverty my likeness ended ; but 
I said J was so — and would add, with truth, 
As undeservedly as you. 

Wer. Again ! 

As If 

Gab. Or any other honest man. 
What the devil would vou have? You do n\ believe me 
Guilty of this base theft? 

Wer. No, no — I cannot. 

Gab. Why dial's my heart of honour. 1 yon young 
gallant— 
Your miserly intendant and dense noble- 
All — all suspected me ; and why ? became 



330 



WERNER. 



Act III. 



I am the worst-clothed, and least named among them; 

Although, were Momus' lattice in our breasts, 

My soul might brook to open it more widely 

Than theirs: but thus it is — you poor and helpless— 

Both still more than myself. 

Wer. How know you that ? 

Gab. You're right: I ask for shelter at the hand 
Which I call helpless; if you now deny it, 
I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved 
The wholesome bitterness of lite, know well, 
By sympathy, that all the outspread gold 
Of the New World the Spaniard boasts about 
Could never tempt the man who knows its worth, 
Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance, 
Save in such guise (and there I grant its power, 
Because I feel it) as may leave no nightmare 
Upon his heart o' nights. 

Wer. What do you mean ? 

Gab. Just what I say ; I thought my speech was 
plain : 
You are no thief— nor I — and, as true men, 
Should aid each other. 

Wer, II is B damn'd world, sir. 

Gab, So is the nearest of the two next, as 
The priests say, (and no doubt they should know- 
best,) 
Therefore I 'II stick by this — as being loth 
To suffer martyrdom, at least with such 
An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 
It is but a nisht's lodging which I crave ; 
To-morrow 1 will try the waters, as 
The dove did, trusting that they have abated. 

Wer, Abated? Is there hope of that ? 

Gab. There was 

At noontide. « 

Wer. Then we may be safe. 

Gab. Are you 

In peril ? 

Wer. Poverty is ever so. 

Gal). That I know by long practice. Will you not 
Promise to make mine 

Wer. Your poverty ? 

Gab. No — you do n't look a leech for that disorder ; 
I meant my peril onlv : you 've a roofj 
And I have none ; I merely seek a covert. 

Wer. Rightly ; for how should such a wretch as I 
Have gold? 

Gab. Scarce honestly, to say the truth on 't, 

Although 1 almost wish you had the baron's. 

Wer. Dare you insinuate ? 

Gab. What ? 

/ J '""■ Are you aware 

To whom you speak? 

Gab. No ; and I am not used 

Greatly to care. [A noise heard without,) But hark! 
they come ! 

Wer. Who romc ? 

Gab. Tie intendant and his man-hounds after me: 
I'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go? 
But show me any place. I do assure you, 
If there he faith in man, I am most guiltless: 
Think if it were your own case ! 

Wer. {Aside.) Oh, just God! 

Thy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 

Gab. I see you Ve moved ; and it shows well in you : 
I may live to requite it. 

Wer. Are you not 

A spy ofStralenheim's? 

Gab. Not I ! and if 

I were, what is there to espy in yon? 
Although I recollect his frequent question 
About you and your spouse might lead to some 
Suspicion ; but you best know — what — and why. 
I am his deadliest foe. 



Wer. You? 

Gab. Afler such 

A treatment for the service which in part 
I render'd him, I am his enemy : 
If you are not his friend, vou will assist me. 

Wer. I will. 

Gab. But how ? 

Wer. (shou-i'tg the pannti.) There is a secret sprng: 
Remeiubur, I diso vi r'd il by chance, 
And used it but for safety. 

Gab. Open it, 

And I will use it for the same. 

Wer. I found it, 

As I have said: it leads through winding walls, 
(So thick as to hear paths within their ribs, 
Yet lose no jot of strength or Bt&teliness,) 
And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
I know < : you must not advance: 

Give me your word. 

Gab. It is unnecessary : 

nild I make my way in darkness through 
A Gothic labyrinth of unknown win 

Wer. Yes, but who knows to what place it mav 

/ know not — (mark you!) — but^vho knows it might not 

Lead even into the chamber of your foe? 

So strangely were contrived these galleries 

By our Teutonic fathers in old days, 

When man huili less against the elements 

Than his next neighbour. You must not advance 

Beyond the two 6rsl windings; if you do, 

(Albeit I never pa I Lhem,) 1 'II not answer 

For what you may be led to. 

Gab. But I will. 

A thousand thanks! 

IVer. You'll find the spring more obvious 

On the other side ; and, when you would return, 
It yields to the least touch. 

Gab. I '11 in — farewell ! 

[Gabor goes in by tiie secret panH. 

Wer. {solus.) What have I done? Alas! what had 
I done 

Before to make this fearful? Let it be 
Still some atonement that I save the man, 
Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own — 
They come! to seek elsewhere what is before them' 

Enter Idewstein and Others. 

Iden. Is he not here ' lie must have vantsh'd theft 
Through the dim got hie glass by pious aid 
Of pictured saints upon the red and yellow 
•Casements, through which the sunset streams like sun- 
rise 
On long pcarl-culour'd beards and crimson crosses, 
And gilded crosiers, and cross'd arms, and cowls, 
And helms, and twisted armour, and long swords, 
All the fantastic furniture <<f windows 
Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, whose 
Likeness and lame alike resf in some panes 
Of crystal, which i ach rattling wind proclaims 
As frail as any oilier life or glory. 
He's gone, however. 

Wer. Whom do you seek? 

Iden. A villain 

Wer. Why need you come so far, then? 

Iden. In the searcii 

Of him who robb'J the baron. 

Wer. Are you sure 

You have divined the man ? 

Iden. As sure as you 

Statu! there: but where 's he gone? 

Wer. Who? 

Iden. He we soughl 

Wer. You so* he is not here. 

Iden. And yet w« traced him 



Act III. 



WERNER. 



331 



Up to this hall. Are you accomplices? 
Or deal you in the black art ? 

Wer. I deal plainly, 

To many men the blackest. 

Jden. It may be 

I have a question or two for yourself 
Hereafter ; but we must continue now 
Our search for t'other. 

Wer. You had best begin 

Your inquisition now: I may not be 
So patient always. 

Idea. I should like to know, 

In good sooth, if you really are the man 
That Stralenheim 's in quest of. 

Wer, Insolent! 

Said you not that he was not here? 

Lhn. Yes, one; 

But (here 'a another whom he tracks more keenly, 
And soon, it may be, with authority 
Both paramount to his and mine. But, come ! 
Bustle, my boys! we are at fault. 

[E.vit Idenstein and Attendants 
Wer. In what 

A maze hath my dim destiny involved me ! 
And one base sin hath done me less ill than 
The leaving undone one far greater. Down, 
Thou busy devil, rising in my heart! 
Thou art too late ! I 'II naught to do with blood. 

Enter TJlhic. 

Ulr. I sought you, father. 

Wer. Is 't not dangerous ? 

Ulr. No ; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
Or any of the ties between us: more- 
He sends me here a spy upon your actions, 
Deeming me wholly his. 

Wer. I cannot think it: 

J T is but a snare he winds about us both, 
To swoop the sire and son at once. 

Ulr. I cannot 

Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at 
The doubts that rise like briers in our path, 
But must break ihrough them, as an unarm'd carle 
Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf rustling 
In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread. 
Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so: 
Well overfly or rend them. 

Wer. Show me how? 

Ulr. Can you not guess ? 

Wer. I cannot. 

Ulr. That is strange 

Came the thought ne'er into your mind last night? 

Wer. I understand you not. 
. Ulr. Then we shall never 

More understand each other. But to chango 
The topic 

IVer. You mean to pursue it, as 

*T is of our safely. 

Vlr. Right ; I stand corrected. 

I see the subject now more clearly, and 
Our general situation in its bearings. 
The waters are abating ; a few hours 
Will bung liis sumraon'd myrmidons from Frankfort, 
When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse, 
Ami I an outcast, bastardized by practice 
Of this same baron to make way for him. 

Wer, And now your remedy! I thought to escape 
By means of this accursed gold; but now 
I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 
Methiuks it wears upon its face my guilt 
For motto, not the mintage of the state ; 
And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 
With hissing snakes, which curl around my temples, 
And cry to all beholders, Lo ! a villain ! 



Ulr. You must not use it, at least now ; but take 
This ring. f//e gives Werner a jewel. 

IVer. A gem! It was my lather's! 
Ulr. And 

As such is now your own. With this you must 
Bribe the intendant far his old caliche 
And horses to pursue your route at sunrise, 
Together with my mother. 

IVer. And leave you, 

So lately found, in peril too? 

Ulr. Fear nothing ! 

The only fear were if we fled together, 
For that would make our ties beyond all doubt. 
The waters only lie in flood between 
This burgh and Frankfort ; so far 's in our favour 
The route on to Bohemia, though encumber'd, 
Is not impassable ; and when vou gain 
A few hours' start, the difficulties will be 
The same to your pursuers. Once beyond 
The frontier, and you 're safe. 

IVer. My noble boy ! 

Ulr. Hush! hush! no transports: we'll indulge in 
In Castle Siegendorf ! Display no gold: [thern 

Show Idenstein the gem, (I know the man, 
And have look'd through him :) it will answer thus 
A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold — 
JVo jewel: therefore it could not be his; 
And then the man who was possest of tlu's 
Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 
The baron's coin, when he could thus convert 
This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 
By his last night's slumber. Be not over timid 
In your address, nor yet too arrogant, 
And Idenstein will serve you. 

IVer. I will follow 

In all things your direction. 

Ulr. I would have 

Spared you the trouble ; but had I appear'd 
To take an interest in you, and still more 
By dabbling with a jewel in your favour, 
All had been known at once. 

IVer. My guardian angel! 

This overpays the past. But how wilt thou 
Fare in our absence ? 

Ulr. Stralenheim knows nothing 

Of me as aught of kindred with yourself. 
I will but wait a day or two with him 
To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father. 
Wer. To part no more ! 

Ulr. I know not that; but at 

The least we '11 meet again once more. 

Wer. My boy ! 

My friend ! my only child, and sole preserver! 
Oh, do not hate me! 

Ulr. Hate my father ! 

Wer. Ay, 

My father hated me. Why not my son ? 
Ulr. Your father knew you not as I do. 
Wer. Scorpiong 

Are in thy words! Thou know me? in this guise 
Thou canst not know rne, I am not myself; 
Yet (hate me not) I will be soon. 

Ulr. I'll wait! 

In the mean time be sure that all a son 
Can do for parents shall be done for mine. 
Wer. I see it, and I feel it ; yet I feel 
Further — that you despise me. 

Ulr. Wherefore should I 

Wer. Must I repeat my humiliation? 
Ulr. No! 

I have fathom'd it and you. But let us talk 
Of this no more. Or if it must be over, 
Not now. Your error has redoubled all 
The present difficulties of our house, 
At secret war with that Stralenheim: 



332 



WERNER. 



Act ill. 



All we havo now to think of is to baffle 
Him. I have shown one way. 

Wer. The only one, 

And I embrace it, as I did my son, 
Who show'd himself and fathers safety in 
One day. 

Ulr. You shaft bo safe ; let that suffice. 
Would Stralenheiin's appearance in Bohemia 
Disturb your rights or mine, if once wc were 
Admitted to our lands? 

Wer. Assuredly, 

Situate as m are now, although the first 
Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest, 
Especially the next in blood. 

Uh: ' Blood! 'tis 

A word of many meanings; in the veins 
And out of them, it is a different thing — 
And so it should be, when the same m blood 
(As 11 i. call<d) are aliens to each other, 
Like Theban brethren: when a part is bad, 
A few spill ounces purify the rest. 

ll'tr, i do not apprehend you. 

Ulr. That may be— 

And should, perhaps — and ret but get ye ready ; 

You and my mother must away to-night. 

Here comes the intendant : .sound him with die gem; 

'T will sink into his venal soul like lead 

into the deep, and bring up slime and mud, 

And ooze too, from the bottom, as the lead doth 

With its greased understratum; but no less 

Will serve to warn our vessels through these shoals. 

The freight is rich, so heave the line in time ! 

Farewell! I scarce have time, but yet your hand, 

My father ! 

\\'<r. Let me embrace thee! 

Ulr. We may be 

Observed: subdue your nature to the hour! 
Keep off from me as from your foe ! 

MV. Accursed 

Be he who is the stifling cause which smothers 
The best and sweetest feeling of our hearts; 
At such an hour too ! 

Ulr. Yes, curse — it will ease you! 

Here is the intendant. 

Enter Idenstein 

Master Idenstein, 
How fare you in your purpose ? Have you caught 
The rogue ? 

Jden. No, faith! 

Ulr. Well, there are plenty more; 

You may have better luck anoiher chase. 
Where is the baron ? 

Jden. Gone back to his chamber : 

And now I think on 't, asking after you 
With nobly-born impatience. 

Ulr. Your great men 

Must be answer'd on the instant, as the bound 
Ui the stung steed replies unto the spur: 
'J' is well they have horses, too; for if they had not, 
[ fear that men must draw their chariots, as 
They say kings did Sesostris. 

J'!> n. Who was he ? 

Ulr. An old Bohemian — an imperial gipsy. 

Idea, A gipsy or Bohemian, 'tis the same. 
For they pass by both names. And was he one ? 

Ulr. I Ve heard so; but I must tako leave. In- 
tendantj 
Your servant! — Werner, (to Werner slightly,) if that 

be your name, 
Yours. [Exit Ulric. 

Iden. A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man! 
And prettily behaved! Ho knows his station, 
You see, sir; how he gave to each his due 
iVecedcnce ! 



7JV. I perceived it, and applaud 

His just discernment and your own. 

/ , That 's well— 

That 's very well. You also know your place, too; 
And yet, 1 do n't know that I know your place. 

Jf'<'. (tfunotng the ring.) Would this assist your 
knowledge ? 

Jden. How!— What!— Ehl 

A jewel ! 

Wer. 'T is your own on one condition. 

Iden. Mine! — Name it! 

Wer, That hereafter you permit me 

At thrice its value to redeem ii : 'i is 
A family ring. 

Iden. A family !— yours ! — a g<--m ! 

I 'in breathless ! 

Wer, You must also furnish me 

An hour ere daybreak with all means to quit 
Thi- p| i. 

/ ■/■ ■>. But is it real ? Let me look on it : 

Diamond, by all that 's glorious ! 

Wer, Come, I 11 trust you 

You have guess'd, no doubt, that I was born abovo 
My present seeming. 

Iden. I can 't say I did, 

Though this looks like it: this is the true breeding 
Of gentle blood! 

Wer, I have important reasons 

For wishing to continue privily 
My journey hence. 

Iden. So then you are the man 

Whom Stralenheim 's in quest of? 

Wer. I am not ; 

But being taken for him might conduct 
To much embarrassment to me just now, 
And to the baron's sejf hereafter — 't is 
To spare both that I would avoid all bustle. 

lh ". Be you the man or no, 't is not my business; 
Besides, I never should obtain the half 
From this proud, niggardly noble, who would raise 
I country for some missing bits of coin, 
\ii.| ii- wt otter a precise reward — 
But this! — another look! 

Wer. Gaze on it freely , 

At day-dawn it is yours. 

Iden. Oh, thou sweet sparkler < 

Thou mure than stone of the philosopher! 
Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself! 
Thou bright eye of the Mine ! thou loadstar ol 
The soul! the true magnetic Pole to which 
AH hearts point duly north, like trembling needles! 
Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth ! which, sitting 
High on the monarch's diadem, attractest 
More worship than the majesty who sweats 
Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, like 
Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre ! 

thou be mine ? 1 am, methinks, already 
A little king, a lucky alchymist! — 
A wise magician, who has bound the devil 
Without ill fori) it i t his soul. But come, 
W i n 1 1 or what else ? 

Wer. Call me Werner still ; 

You may yet know me by a I- .flier title. 

Iden. I do believe in thee! thou art the spirit 
< if whom I long have dream'd in a low garb.— 
I )nt come] I II serve thee; thou shall be as free 
As air, despite the waters; let us hence: 
I 'II show thee I am honest — (uh, thou jewel!) 
Thou shalt be funush'd] Werner, with such means 
( M flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
Should overtake thee. — Let me gaze again! 
I have a foster-brother in the mart 
Of Hamburgh skill'd in precious stones. How many 
Carat* may it weigh ?— Come, Werner I will wing thee. 

13m* 



Acr HI. 



WERNER. 



333 



Scene II. — Stralenheim's Cliamber. 
Stralenheim and Fritz. 

Fritz. AU 's ready, ray good lord! 

Stral. I am not sleepy, 

And yet I must to bed ; I fain would say 
To rest, but something heavy on my spirit. 
Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slumber, 
Sit9 on me as a cloud along the sky, 
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet 
Descend in rum and end, but spreads itself 
"Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between man 
And man, an everlasting mist ; — I will 
Unto my pillow. 

Fritz. May you rest there well ! 

Strat. I feel, and fear, I shall. 

Fritz. And wherefore fear? 

Slral. I know not why, and therefore do fear more, 

Because an (indescribable but 'tis 

All folly. Were the locks (as I desired) 
Changed, to-day, of this chamber? for last night's 
Advpmure makes it needful. 

Fritz. Certainly, 

'According to your order, and beneath 
The inspection of myself and the young Saxon 
Who saved your life. I think they call him a Ulric." 

S'ral. You think ! you supercilious slave ! what right 
Ha\ e you to tax your memory, which should be 
Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name 
Of him who saved your master, as a litany 
Whuse daily repetition marks your duty. — 
Get hence! "You think," indeed! you who stood still 
Howling and drippling on the bank, whilst I 
Lay dying, and the stranger dash'd aside 
The i oaring torrent, and restored me to 
Thank him — and despise you. u You think .'" and scarce 
Can i -'collect his name ! I will not waste 
More words on you. Call me betimes. 

Fritz. Good night ! 

I trust to-morrow will restore your lordship 
To renovated strength and temper. 

[The scene closes. 

Scene III. — The secret Passage. 

Gab. (solus.) Four — 

Five — six hours have I counted, like the guard 
Of outposts on the nevor-merry clock: 
That hollow tongue of time, which, even when 
It sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment 
With every clang. 'T is a perpetual knell, 
Though for a marriage -feast it rings: each stroke 
Peals for a hope the less; the funeral note 
Of Love deep-buried without resurrection 
In the grave of Possession ; while the knoll 
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
To triple Time in the son's ear. 

I 'm cold — 
I 'm dark ; — I 've blown my fingers — number'd o'er 
And o'er my steps — and knock 'd my head against 
Some fifty buttresses — and roused the rats 
And bats in general insurrection, till 
Their cursed pattering feet and whirling wings 
Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 
A light! It is at distance, (if I can 
Measure in darkness distance :) but it blinks 
As through a crevice or a keyhole, in 
The inhibited direction: I must on, 
Nevertheless, from curiosity. 
A distant lamp-light is an incident 
tn such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead me 
To nothing that may tempt me ! Else — Heaven aid me 
To obtain or to escape it! Shining still! 
Were it tho star of Lucifer himself, 
Or he himself girt with ita beams, I could 



Contain no longer. Softly! mighty well ! 

That corner's turn'd — so — ah! no; — right! it draws 

Nearer. Here is a darksome angle — 50 

That's weather'd. — Let me pau.se. — Suppose it lead 

Into some greater danger than that which 

I have escaped— no matter, 't is a new one; 

And novel perils, like fresh mistresses, 

Wear more magnetic aspects: — I will on, 

And be it where it may — I have my dagger, 

Which may protect me at a pinch. — Burn still, 

Thou little light ! Thou art my ignis Jutuusi 

My stationary Will-o'the-wisp ! — So! so! 

He hears my invocation, and fails not. 



Scene IV. — A Garden. 

Enter Werner. 
I could not sleep — and now the hour 's at hand ; 
All's ready. Idenstein has kept his word; 
And station'd in the outskirts of the town, 
Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
To pale in heaven ; and for the last lime I 
Look on these horrible walls. Oh! never, neT>w 
Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor, 
But not dishonour 'd: and I leave them with 
A stain, — if not ffpon my name, yet in 
My heart ! — a never-dying canker-worm, 
Which all the coming splendour of the lands, 
And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf 
Can scarcly lull a moment. I must find 
Some means of restitution, which would ease 
My soul in part ; but how without discovery ?— 
It must be done, however; and I '11 pause 
Upon the method the first hour of safety. 
The madness of my misery led to tins 
Base infamy; repentance must retrieve it: 
I will have naught of Stralenheim's upon 
My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine; 
Lands, freedom, life, — and yet he sleeps ! as soundly, 
Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
Spread for his can ipy, o'er silken pillows, 

Such as when Hark! what noise is that? Again - 

The branches shake ; and some loose stones have fallen 
From yonder terrace. 

[Ulric leaps down from the terratm 
Ulric! ever welcome ! 
Thrice welcome now ! this filial 

Ulr. Stop! Beforo 

We approach, tell me 

Wer. Why look you so? 

Ulr. Do I 

Behold my father, or 

Wer. What ? 

Ulr. An assassin? 

Wer. Insane or insolent! 

Ulr. Reply, sir, as 

You prize your life, or mine ! 

Wer. To what must I 

Answer? 

Ulr. Are you or are you not the assassin 
Of Stralenheim? 

Wer. I never was as yet 

The murderer of any man. What mean you ? 

Ulr. Did not vou this night (as the night before) 
Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 

Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber ? and 

[Ulric pause*. 

Wer. Proceed. 

Ulr. Died he not by your hand ? 

Wer. Great God ' 

Ulr. You are innocent, then ! my father's innocent! 
Embrace me ! Yes, — your lone — your look — yes, yes — • 
Yet say 00. 






334 



WERNER. 



Act III. 



Wer. If I e'er, in heart or mind, 

Conceived deliberately such a thought, 
But rather strove to trample back to hell 
Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a moment through 
The irritation of my oppressed spirit — 
May heaven be shut for ever from my hopes 
As from mine eyes ! 

Ulr. But Stralenheim is dead. 

Wer. "T is horrible! 'tis hideous, as 't is hateful! — 
But what have I to do with this? 

Ulr. No bolt 

Is forced ; no violence can be detected, 
Save on his body. Part of his own hou 
Have been alarmVl ; but as the intendant U 
Absent, 1 took upon myself the care 
Of mustering the police. His chamber has, 
Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me, 
11' nature 

JVtr. Oli, my boy! what unknown woes 

Of dark fatality, like clouds, arc gathering 
Above our house ! 

Ulr. My father! I acquit you! 

But will the world do so ? will even the judge, 
If But you must away this instant. 

IVer. No ! 

I'll face it. Who shall dare suspect me? 

Ulr. Yet 

You had no guests — no visiters — no life 
Breathing around you, save my mother's ? 

Wer. All ! 

The Hungarian ! 

Ulr. He is gone ! he disappcar'd 

Ere sunset. 

IVer. No; I hid him in that very 
Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 

Ulr. Tticre I '11 find him. 

[Tr.Ric is going, 

ll'er. It is too late: he had left the palace ere 
I quitted it. I found the secret panel 
i ►pen, and the doors which lead from that hall 
Which masks it: I but thought he had snatrh'd the 

silent 
Ami favourable moment to escape 
The myrmidons of Idcnstein, who wero 
1 Joking him yester-even. 

Ulr. You reclosed 

The panel ? 

Wer. Yes ; and not without reproach 

(And inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
His sheltered asylum to the risk 
Of a discovery. 

Ulr. You are sure you closed it? 

Wer. Certain. 

Ulr. That's well ; but had been belter, if 
You ne'er had tnrn'd it to a den for [He i>">tsts. 

Wer. Thieves ! 

Thou wouldst say : I must bear it and deserve it ; 
But not 

Ulr. No, father; do not speak of this : 

This is no hour to think of petty crimes, 
But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 
Why would you shelter this man / 

Wer. Could I shun it? 

A man pursued by my chief foe; diagram 
For mv own crime ; a victim to my safety 
Imploring a few hours' concealment from 
The very wretch who was the cause he needed 
Such refuse. Had he been a wolf, I could not 
Have m such circumstances thrust him forth. 

Ulr. And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But 
It is too late to ponder thus : — you must 
Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
Trace the murderer, if 't is possible. 

Wer. But this my sudden flight will give the Moloch 



Suspicion; two new victims in the lieu 
Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
Who seems the culprit, and 

Ulr. Who seems? Who else 

Can be so? 

Wer. Not /, though just now you doubted— 
You, my son ! — doubted 

/ 7r. And do you doubt of him 

The fugitive ? 

M". Boy! since I fell into 

The abyss of crime, (though not of stirh crime,) 
I, having seen the innocent oppress'd for me, 
May doubt even of the guilty's guilt. Your heart 
Is free, and quick with viriimus wrath to accuse 
Appearances; and news a criminal 

In Innocence's shadow . it may he, 
I localise 'i i--^ dusky. 

Ulr. And if I do so, 
What will mankind, who know you not, or knew 
But to oppress 1 You must not stand the hazard. 
Away! — 1 II make all easy, rdensnan 
Will for Ins own s.ike and his jewel's hold 
His peace — he also is a partner in 
Your flight — moreover 

UV. Fly! and leave my name 

I.ink'd Willi the Hungarian's, or preferred as poorest, 
To bear the brand of bloodshed ? 

Ulr. Pshaw! leave anything 

Except our father's sovereignty and castles, 
For which you have so long panted and in vain! 
What name? You have no name, since that you bear 
Is feign'd. 

H*«r. Most true; but still I would not have it 
Engraved in crimson in men's memories, 
i hi this most obscure abode of men ■ 
Besides, the search 

Ulr. I will provide against 

Aught thai can touch you. No one knows yen here 
As heir of Siegcndorf : if Idcnstein 
Suspects, 'i is but suapirinn, and he is 
A fool : his folly shall have such employment, 
Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 
To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er 
Laws reach'd tins village) are all in abeyance 
With 'he late general war of thirty years, 
Or crush'd, or rising slowly from the dust, 
To which the march of armies trampled them. 
Stralenheim, although noble, is unhi 
Here, save as such — without lands, influence, 
Save what bath perish'd with him. Few prolong 
A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 
O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 
Is roused : such is not here the case ; he died 
Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave, 
Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon, 
Is all he 'II have, or wants. If / discover 
i i tassiOj 't will be well — if not, believe me 
Noii.' else; ilioih'li all tic full-fed train of menials 
May howl above his ashes (as 'hey did 
Around bun in Ins danger on the Oder) 
Will no more stir ;i finger now than then. 
Hence! hence! I oiusl not hear your answer. — Look. 
The stars are almost faded, and (he gray 
to grizzle the black hair of night 
i I not answer — Pardon me that I 
Am peremptory; 'i is your son that speaks, 
Your long-lost, late-found son. — Let's call my mother 
Softly and swiftly Btep, and leave the rest 
Tome: I'll answer for the even! ;is far 
As regards ynv, and that is the chief point, 
As my first duty, which shall be observed. 
We 'II meet in Caslle Siegcndorf — once more 
Our banners shall be glorious! Think of that 
Alont-, and leave all other thoughts to me, 
Whose youth may better battle with them. — Heoc* 






Act IV. 



WERNER. 



335 



And may your age be happy !— I will kiss 

My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be with you ! 

IVer. This counsel's safe — but is it honourable ? 

Ulr. To save a father is a child's chief honour. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I.— A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegenrlorf. 
near Prague. 

Enter Eric and Henrick, retainers of the Count. 

Erie. So better times are come at last; to these 
Old walls new masters and high wassail — both 
A long desideratum. 

Hen. Yes, for masters, 

ft might be unto those who long for novelty, 
Thou»h male by a new grave: but as for wassail, 
Methmks the old Count Siegendorf maintain'd 
His feudal hospitality as high 
As e'er another prince of the empire. 

Enc. "Why, 

F^r the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
Fared passing well; but as for merriment 
And sport, without which salt and sauces season 
The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
Even of the narrowest. 

Hen. The old count loved not 

The roar of revel; are you sure that this does? 

Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as he 's boun- 
teous. 
And we all love him 

Hen. His reign is as yet 

Hardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon, 
And Uie first year of sovereigns is bridal 
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
And moods of mind. 

Eric. Pray heaven he keep the present ! 

Then his brave son, Count Ulric — there's a knight! 
Pity the wars are o'er ! 

Hen. Why so ? 

Eric. Look on him! 

An I answer that yourself. 

Hen. He 's very youtliful, 

And s'ron? and beautiful a* a young ti?er. 
Eric. That 's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 
Hen. But 

Perhaps a true one. 

Eric. Pity, as I said, 

The wars are over: in the hall, who like 
Count Ulric fir a well-supported pride, 
Which awes, but yet offends not ? in the field, 
Who like him with his spear in hand, when, gnashing 
His lusks, and ripping up from right to left 
The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket ? 
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears 
A sword like him ? Whose plume nods knightlier ? 
Hen. No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if war 
Be long in coming, he is of that kind 
Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
Already done as much. 

Eric. What do you mean? 

Hen. You can't deny his train of followers 
(But few our native fellow vassals born 
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 

As (Pauses.) 

Enc. What ? 

Hen. The war (vou love so much) leaves living. 
Like other parents, she "spoils her worst children. 

Eric. Nonsense ! they are all brave iron-visaged 
fellows, 
Such as old Tilly loved. 

Hen. And who loved Tilly ? 

Ask that at Magdebcur^— or for that matter 



Wallenstein either; — they are gone to 

Eric. Rest ; 

But what beyond 't is not ours to pronounce. 

Sen. I wish they had left us something of their rest 
The country {nominally now at peace) 
[s overrun with — God knows who : they fly 
By night, and disappear with sunrise; but 
Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more, 
Than tlve most open warfare. 

Erice. But Count Ulric — 

What has all this to do with him ? 
Hen. With him! 

Be mi ;1 t prevent it. As you say he 's fond 

Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders? 
Eric. You 'd better ask himself? 
Hen. I would as soon 

Ask the lion why he laps not milk. 
Eric. And here he comes ! 

Hm. The devil! you 11 hold your tongue? 

Eric. Why do you turn so pale ? 
Hen. 5 T is nothing — but 

Be silent. 
Eric. I will upon what you have said. 
Hen. I assure you I meant nothing, — a mere sport 
Of words, no more ; besides, had it been otherwise, 
He is to espouse the gentle baroness 
Ida of Stralenheim, ihe4ate baron's heiress; 
And she no doubt will soften whatsoever 
Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 
Have given all natures, and most unto those 
Who were born in them, and bred up upon 
The keees of Homicide ; sprinkled, as it were, 
With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace 
On all that 1 have said! 

Enter Ulric and Rodolph. 

Good morrow, count 

Uir. Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is 
AH ready for the chase ? 

Erie. The dogs are order'd 

Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
To beat the bushes, and the day looks promising. 
Shall I call forth vour excellency's suite ? 
What courser will you please to mount ? 

Ulr. The (Sum, 

Wal stein. 

Eric. I fear he scarcely has recover'd 
The toils of Mondav : 't was a noble chase : 
You spear'd four with your own hand. 

Ulr. True, good Eric ; 

I had forgotten — let it be the gray, then, 
Old Ziska : be lias not been oul tj is fortnight, 

Eric. He shall be straight ca ,arison*d. How many 
Of your immediate retainers shall 
Escort you? 

Ulr, I leave that to Weilburgh, our 

Master of the horse. [Exit Eric. 

Rodolph ! 

R od. My lord ! 

Ulr. The news 

Is awkward from the — (Rodolph points to Henrick) 
How now, Henrick ? why 
Loiter you here ? 

Hen. For your commands, my lord. 

Ulr. G<* lo mv father, and present my duty, 
And learn if he would aught with m i before 
I mount. [Exit Henrick 

Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and 
'T is rumour'd that the column sent against them 
Is lo Be strcngthen'd. I must join them soon. 

Rod. Best wait fir further and more sure advice* 

Ulr. I mean it — and indeed it could not well 
Hava fallen out at a time more opposite 
To all my plana. 



336 



WERNER. 



At; IV. 



Rod. If will be difficult 

To excuse your absence to the count your father. 

Ulr. Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain 
In high Silesia will permit and cover 
Mv journey. In the m tan lime, when wo are 
Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men 
Whom Wolfle leads — keep the forest on your route: 

You know it well / 

Rod. As well as on that night 

When we 

Utr. We will not speak of that until 

We can repeat the same with like success: 
And when you have joinM, give Rosenberg 'his letter. 

[Gives a later. 
Add further, that I have sent tins slight addition 
To our force with you and Wullle, as herald of 
My coming, though I could hut spare them ill 
At this time, as my father lovea 
Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 
Until this marriage, and its feasts and fbolerieflj 
Are rung oul with its peal of nuptial nons d ■■ 

Rod. I thought you loved the lady Ida? 

Utr. Why, 

I do so — but it follows not. from that 
I would hind in my youth and glorious years, 
So brief and burning, with a lady's zone, 
Although 'twere that of Venus ; — but I love her, 
As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 

Rod. And constantly ? 

Ulr. I think so; for I love 

Naught else. — But I have not the time to pause 
Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 
We have to do ere long. Speed ! speed ! good Rodolph ! 

Rod. On my return, however, I shall fin I 
The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegcndorf ? 

llr. Perhaps — my father wishes it; and sooth 
'T is no had policy : this union with 
The last bud of the rival branch at once 
Unites the future and destroys the past. 

Roil, Adieu. 

Ulr. Yet bold — we had better keep together 

Until the chase begins; then draw thou off] 
And do as I have said. 

Rod. I will. But to 

Return — t was a most kind act in the count 
Your father to send up to Konigsberg 
For this fair orphan of the baron, and 
To hail her as his daughter. 

Ulr. Wondrous kind ! 

Especially as Httlc kindness till 
Then grew between them. 

Rod. The late baron died 

Of a fever, did he not? 

Ulr. How should I know ? 

Rod. I have heard it whisper'd there was something, 
strange 
About his death — and even the place of it 
Is scarcely known. 

Ulr. Some obscure village on 

The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 

Rod. II. 

Has left no testament — no farewell words ? 

Ulr. I am neither confessor nor notary, 
So cannot say. 

Rod. Ah! here 's the lady Ida. 

Enter Ida Stralexheim. 

Ulr. You are early, my sweet cousin! 

Ida. Not too early, 

Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
Why do you call me " cousin ? n 

Ulr. (smiling.) Are we not so? 

Ida. Yes, but I do not like tho name ; methinks 
R sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 



Our pedigree, and only weigh'd our blood. 

Utr. (starting-) Blood! 

Ida. Why does yours start from your cheeks? 

Ulr. Ay! doth it f 

Ida. It doth — but no ! it rushes bkc a forrcnt 
Even to your brow asam. 

Ulr. (recovering himself .) And if it fled, 
It only was because your presence sent it 
Back to my b'-art, which beats for you, sweet cousin J 

Ida. " Cousin" again. 

Ulr. Nay, then 1 11 call you sister. 

hla. I like that name still worse. — Would we had 
ne'er 
Been aught of kindred ! 

Ulr. (gloomily.) Would we never had 

Ida. Oh heavens ! and can you wish that ? 

Ulr. Dearest Ida \ 

Did I not echo your own wish ? 

Ida, Yea, Ulric, 

But then I wish'd it not with such a glance, 
And scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
Sister, or cousin, what you will, so that 
I still to you am something. 

Ulr. You shall be 

All— all 

Ida. And you to me are so already, 

But I can wait. 

(lr. Dear Ida! 

Ida. Call me Ida, 

Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's — 
Indeed I have none else left, since my poor father— 

[She pause*. 

Ulr. You have mine — you have me. 

Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wish 

My father could hut view my happiness, 
Which wants but this ! 

Utr, Indeed ! 

Ida. You would have loved him, 

He you; for the brave ever love each other: 
His manner was a little cold, his spirit 
Proud, (as is birth's prerogative;) but under 

This grave exterior Would you had known each 

other ! 
Had such as you been near him on his journey 
He had not died without a fnend to sooth 
His last and lonely moments. 

Ulr. Who says tiiat 

Ida. What? 

Ulr. That he died alone. 

Ida. The general rumour 

And disappearance of his servants, who 
Have na'er returned: that fever was most deadly 
Which swept them all away. 

Ulr. If they were near him 

He could not die neglected or al..n< ■. 

Ida. Alas! what is a menial to a death-bed, 
When the dun eye rolls vainly round for what 
[t loves ? — They sav he died of a fever. 

Ulr. Say ! 

It was so. 

Ida. I sometimes dream otherwise. 

I'lr. All dreams arc false. 

Ida. And yet I see him as 

I see you. 

Ulr. Where? 

Ida. In sleep — I see him lie 

Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
Beside him. 

Utr. But you do not see his face? 

Ida. (looking at him.) No! Oh, my God! do you? 

Ulr. Why do you ask ? 

Ida. Because you look as if you saw a murderer ! 

Ulr. (agitatedly.) Ida, this is mere childishness ; 
your weakness 
Infects me, to my shame ; but as all feelings 



Act IV. 



WERNER. 



337 



Of voars are common to me, it affects me. 
Prithee, sweet child, change 

Ida. Child, indeed ! I have 

Full fifteen summers ! [A bugle soujuU. 

Rod. Hark, my lord, the bugle ! 

Ida. (peevisfdu to Rodolph.) Why need you tell 
him that'? Can he not hear it 
Without your echo ? 

Rod. Pardon me, fair baroness! 

Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you earn it 
By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
Count Ulric from the chase to-day 

Rod. You will not, 

Lady, need aid of mine. 

Ulr. I must not now 

Forego it. 

Ida. But you shall ! 

Ulr. Shall! 

Ida. Yes, or be 

No true knight, — Come, dear Ulric ! yield to me 
In this, for this one day : the day looks heavy, 
And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 

Ulr. You jest. 

Ida. Indeed I do not : — ask of Rodolph. 

Rod. Truly, 

My lord, within this quarter of an hour 
You have changed more than e'er I saw you change 
In years. 

Ulr. 'T is nothing ; but if 't were, the air 
Would soon restore m^. I'm the true chameleon, 
And live but on the atmosphere ; your feasts 
In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not 
My spirit — I 'm a forester and breather 
Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love all 
The eagle loves. 

Ida. Except his prey, I hope. 

Ulr. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 
Will bring you six boars 1 heads for trophies home. 

Ida. And will you not stay, then ? You shall not go ! 
Come ! I will sing to you. 

Ulr. Ida, you scarcely 

Will make a soldier's wife. 

Ida. I do not wish 

To be so; for I trust these wars are over, 
And you will live in peace on your domains. 

Enter Werner as Count SiEGENDORr. 

Ulr. My father, I salute you, and it grieves me 
With such brief greeting. — You have heard our bugle; 
The vassals wait. 

Sieg. So let them. — You forget 

To-morrow is the appointed festival 
In Prague for peace restored. You are apt to follow , 
The chase with such an ardour as will scarce 
Permit you to return to-day, or if 
Return'd, too mucli fatigued to join to-morrow 
The nobles in our tnarshalfd ranks. 

Ulr. You, count, 

Will well supply the place of both — I am not 
A lover of these pageantries. 

Sieg. No, Ulric : 

It were not well that you alone of all 
Our young nobility 

Ida. And far the noblest 

In aspect and demeanour. 

Sieg. (to Ida.) True, dear child, 

Thoutfh somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel. — 
But, Ulric, recollect loo our position, 
So lately reinstated in our honours. 
Believe me, 't would be mark'd in any house, 
But most in ows t that one should be found wanting 
At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven 
"Which gave us back our own, in the same moment 
It spread its peace o'er alt, hath double claims 
On us for thanksgiving: first, for our country ; 
2S 



And next, that we are here to share its blessings. 

Ulr. (aside.) Devout, too! Well, sir, I ohey at once. 

(Then aloud to a Servant.) 

Ludwig, dismiss the train without ! [Exit Ludwio. 

Ida. And so 

You yield at once to him what I fur hours 
Might supplicate in vain. 

Sieg. (smiling.) You are not jealous 

Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel ! who 
Would sanction disobedience against all 
Except thyself? But fear not; thou shalt rule him 
Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 

Ida. But I should like to govern now. 

Sieg. You shall, 

Your harp } which by the way awaits you with 
The countess in her chamber. She complains 
That you are a sad. truant to your music: 
She attends you. 

Ida. Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen 

Ulric, you 'II come and hear me ? 

Ulr. By and by. 

Ida. Be sure I '11 sound it better than your bugles ; 
Then pray you be as punctual to its notes: 
I'll play you King Gustavus' march. 

Ulr. And why not 

Old Tilly's ? 

Ida. Not that monster's! I should think 

My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with music. 
Could aught of his sound on it: — but come quickly ; 
Your mother will be eager to receive you. [Exit Ida. 

Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone. 

Ulr. My time 's your vassal. — * 
(Aside to Rodolph.) Rodolph, hence ! and do 
As I directed: and by his best speed 
And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 

Rod. Count SiegendorfJ command you aught ? I am 
bound 
Upon a journey past the frontier. 

Sieg. (starts.) Ah!— 

Where? on what frontier? 

Rod. The Silesian, on 

My way — (Aside to Ulric.) — Where shall I say? 

Ulr. (aside to Rodolph.) To Hamburgh. 

(Aside to himself.) That 
Word will I think put a firm padlock on 
His further inquisition. 

Rod. Count, to Hamburgh. 

Sieg. (agitated.) Hamburgh! No, I have naught to 
do there, nor 1 
Am aught connected with that city. Then 
God speed you ! 

Rod. Fare ye well, Count Siegendorf ! 

[Exit Rodolph. 

Sieg. Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is 
One of those strange companions whom I fain 
Would reason with you on. 

Ulr. My lord, he is 

Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 
In Saxony. 

Sieg. I talk not of his birth, 
But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 

Ulr. So they will do of most men. Even the monarch 
Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or 
The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made 
Great and ungrateful. 

Sieg. If I must be plain, 

The world speaks more than lightly of this Rodolph : 
They say he is leagued with the "black bands" who still 
Ravage the frontier. 

Ulr. And will you believe 

The world ? 

Sieg. In this case — yes. 

Ulr. In any case. 

I thought you knew it better than to take 
An accusation for a sentence. 



33S 



"WERNER. 



Act IV. 



Sieg. Son ! 

I understand you: yon refer to- but 

My Destiny has so involved about mo 

Her spider web, that I can only flutter 

Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed, 

{line ; you have seen to what the passions led me : 

Twenty long years of misery and famine 

duencli'd them not — twenty thousand more, perchance, 

Hereafter (or even here in moments which 

Might date for years, did Anguish make the dial) 

May not obliterate or expiate 

The madness and dishonour of an instant. 

Ulric, be warn'd by a father ! — I was n«>t 

By mine, and you behold me ! 

Ulr. I behold 

The prosperous and beloved Sicgendorf, 
Lord of a prince's appanage, and honour 1 d 
By those he rules and those he ranks with. 

Sieg. Ah ! 

Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 
For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not ! 
All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me— 

But if my son's is cold ! 

XJlr. Who dare say that ? 

Sieg. None else but I, who see it — feel it — keener 
Than would your adversary, who dared say so, 
Your sabre in his heart ! But mine survives 
The wound. 

Ulr. You err. My nature is not given 

To outward fondling ; how should it be so, 
After twelve years' divorcement from my parents ? 

Sieg. And did not / too pass those twelve torn years 
In a like absence ? But 't is vain to urge you — 
Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance. 
Let's change the theme. I wish you to consider 
That these young violent nobles of high name, 
But dark deeds, (ay, the darkest, if all Rumour 
Reports be true,; with whom thou consortest, 

Will lead thee 

Ulr. {impatiently.) I '11 be led by no man. 
Sieg. Nor 

Be leader of such, I would hope : at once 
To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
And haughty spirit, 1 have thought it well 
That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida — more 
As thou appear'st to love her. 

Ulr. I have said 

I will obey your orders, were they to 
Unite with Hecate — can a son say more ? 

Sieg. He says too much in saying this. It is not 
The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood, 
Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coplly, 
Or act so carelessly, in that which is 
The bloom or blight of all men's happiness, 
(For Glory's pillow is but restless it' 
Love lay not down his cheek there :) some strong bias. 
Some master fiend is in thy service to 
Misrule the mortal who believes him slave, 
Anil makes his every thought subservient ; else 
Thou \lst say at once — " I love young Ida, and 
Will wed her ;" or, " I love her not, and all 
The powers of earth shall never make me." — So 
Would 1 have answer'd. 

Ulr. Sir, you wed for love. 

Sieg. I did, and it lias been my only refuge 
In many miseries. 

Ulr. Which miseries 

Had never been but for this love-match. 

Sieg. Still 

Against your age and nature! Who at twenty 
E'er answer'd thus till now ? 

Ulr. Did you not warn me 

Against your own example ? 

Sitg. Boyish sophist! 

In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida f 



Ulr. What matters it, if I am ready to 

■ii in espousing her ? 
Sieg. As far 

As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
She 'a young- — all beautiful — adores you— is 
Endowed with qualities to give happiness, 
Such as rounds common life into a dream 
Of something wlueh ynitr poets cannot paint, 
And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
For which Philosophy might barter Wisdom, 
And gii in happiness, deserves 

A little in return. I would not have her 

her heart for a man who has none to break ; 
Or writer on her stalk like ■ Mfl • 

i '■ l by the bird she thought a nightingale, 

ig to the Orient tale. She is 

Ulr. 'I of dead Stralenheiin, your (be: 

I '11 wed her, to to say truth, 

Just now I am not violently transported 
[n favour of such unions. 

Sieg. But she loves you. 

Ulr. And I love her, and therefore would think twice. 
Sieg. AJas ! Love never did so. 
Ulr. Then 't is timo 

He should begin, and take the bandage from 
His eyes, and look before he leaps: till now 
He hath ta'en a jump i 1 the dark. 

Sieg. But you consent 7 

Ulr. I did and do. 

Sieg. Then fix the day. 

Ulr. 'T is usual, 

\nl certes courteous, to leave that to the lady. 
Sieg. I will engage for her. 
I fir. So will not / 

For an tnd as what I ftx t 

i Run would sit unshaken, when she gives 
1 1- i .in- ■■. bi i ll iv< mine. 

Sieg. But 't is your office 

To woo. 

Ulr. Count, 't is a marriage of your making 
So be it of your wooing ; but to please you 
T will now pay my duty to my mother, 
With whom, you know, the lady Ida is. — 
What would you have ? You have forbid my stirring 
For manly sports beyond the castle walls, 
And I obey; you bid me turn a chamberer, 
To pick Up gloves, and fans, and knitting-needles, 
And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles, 
And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
The eyes offerninie, as though thoy were 
The stars receding early to our wish 
Upon the dawn of a world-w inning battle — 
What can a son or man do inure? [Knt Ulric. 

Sieg. {solus.) Too much!— 

Too much of duty and too little lov< ' 

He pays me in the < he ow« mi 

For such hath been mj wayward late, I could not 

Fulfil a pan utla duties by his side 

Till now; but love he owes me, tor my thoughts 

Ne'er left him, not mj eyes longM without tears 

To see my i!i ■ now I have found him! 

But how! — obedient, but with coldness ; duteous 

In my sif hi, but with carelessness; mysterious, 

Abstracted — distant — much given to long absence, 

And where — m n>- know — in league with the most riotous 

Of our young n. bles ; though, to do him justice, 

He never stoops down Lo their vulgar pleasures 

Tel there's some tie between them which 1 cannot 

Unravel* Thev look up to him— consult him — 

Throng round him as a leader : but with me 

He hath no confidence! Ah! can I hope it 

Aficr — what ! doth my fathers curse descend 

Even to my child? Or is the Hungarian near 

To shed more blood ? or — oh ! if it should be ! 

Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these wails 



Act IV. 



WERNER. 



339 



To wither hint and his — who, though they slew not, 
Unlatch'd the door of death for thee? 'T was not 
Our fault, nor is our sin: thou wert our foe, 
And vet I spared thee when my own destruction 
Slept with thee, to awake with thine awakening ! 
And only took — Accursed gold ! thou hest 
Like poison in my hands ; I dare not use thee, 
Nor part from thee ; thou earnest in such a guise, 
Mcthinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee, 
Thou vilianous gold ! and thy dead master's doom, 
Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
As if he were my brother ! I have ta'en 
His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
Who will be mine. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Alt. The abbot, if it please 

Your excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
Upon vou. [Exit Attendant. 

Eitter the Prior Albert. 

Prior. Peace be with these walls, and all 
Within them ! 

Sieg. Welcome, welcome, holy father ! 
And may thy prayer be heard! — all men have need 
Of such, and I 

Prior. Have the first claim to all 

The prayers of our community. Our convent, 
Erected by your ancestors, is still 
Protected by their cliildren. 

Sieg. Yes, good father ; 

Continue daily orisons for us 
In these dim days of heresies and blood, 
Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
Gone home. 

Prior. To the endless home of unbelievers, 

Where there is everlasting wail and wo, 
Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire 
Eternal, and the worm which dieth not! 
. Sieg. True, father : and to avert those pangs from one, 
Who, though of our most faultless holy church, 
Yet died without its last and dearest offices, 
Which smooth the soul through purgatorial pains, 
I have to offer humbly this donation 
In masses for his spirit. 

[Siegendorf offers the gold which lie had taken 
from Stralesueim. 

Prior. Count, if I 

Receive it, 'tis because I knpw too well 
Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
The largess shall be only dealt in alms, 
And every mass no less sung for the dead. 
Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours, 
YVluch has of old endowM it ; but from you 
And yours in all meet things 'tis fit we obey. 
For whom shall mass be said ? 

Sieg. (faltering.) For — for — the dead. 

Prior. His name ? 

Sieg. 'T is from a soul, and not a name, 

I would avert perdition. 

Prior. I meant not 

To pry into your secret. We will pray 
For one unknown, the same as for the proudest. 

Sieg. Secret! I have none; but, father, he who's 
gone 
Mi°ht have one ; or, in short, he did bequeath — 
No, not bequeath — But I bestow this sura 
For pious purposes. 

Prior. A proper deed 

In the behalf of our departed friends. 

Sieg . But he who 's gone was not my friend, but foe, 
The deadliest and die stanchest. 

Prior. Better still ! 

To employ our means to obtain heaven for the souls 



Of our dead enemies is worthy those 
Who can forgive them living. 

Sieg. But I did not 

Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last, 
As he did me. I do not love hira now, 
But 

Prior. Best of all ! for this is pure religion 
You fain would rescue him you hate from hell 
An evangelical compassion — with 
Your own gold too ! 

Sieg. Father, 'tis not my gold. 

Prior. Yv'hose then ? You said it was no legacy. 

Sieg. No matter whose — of this be sure, that ho 
Who own'd it never more will need it, save 
In that which it may purchase from your altars: 
'T is yours, or theirs. 

Prior. Is there no blood upon it? 

Sieg. No ; but there 's worse than blood— eternal 
shame ! 

Prior. Did he who own'd it die in his bed ? 

Sieg. Alas ! 

He did. 

Prior. Son ! you relapse into revenge, 
If you regret vour enemy's bloodless death. 

Sieg. His death was fathomlessly deep in blood. 

Prior. You said he died in his bed, not battle. 

Sieg. He 

Died, I scarce know — but — he was stabb'd i' the dark, 
And now you have it — perish'd on his pillow 
By a cut-throat ! — Ay ! — you may look upon me ! 
/ am not the man. I '11 meet your eye on that point 
As I can one day God's. 

Prior. Nor did he die, 

By means, or men, or instrument of yours ? 

Sieg No! by the God who sees and strikes \ 

Prior. Nor know you 

Who slew him ? 

Sieg. I could only guess at one. 

And he to me a stranger, unconnected, 
As unemploy'd. Except by one day's knowledge 
I never saw the man who was suspected. 

Prior. Then you are free from guilt. 

Sieg. (eagerly.) Oh! am I? — say! 

Prior. You have said so, and know best. 

Sieg. Father! I have spoken 

The truth, and naught but truth, if not the whole: 
Yet say I am not guilty ! for the blood 
Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it, 
Though, by the Power who abhorreth human blood. 
I did not ! — nay, once spared it, when I might 
And could — ay, perhaps, should, (if our self-safety 
Be e'er excusable in such defences 
Against the attack of over-potent foes :) 
But pray for him, for me, and all my house ; 
For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
I know not why, a like remorse is on me, 
As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me, 
Father! I have pray'd myself in vain. 

Prior. I will. 

Be comforted ! You arc innocent, and should 
Be calm as innocence. 

Sieg. But calmness is not 

Always the attribute of innocence. 
I feel it is not. 

Prior. But it will be so, 

When the mind gathers up its truth within it. 
Remember the great festival to-morrow, 
In uhi'li vou rank amidst our chiefest nobles, 
As well as vour brave son; and smooth your aspect; 
Nor in the general orison of thanks 
For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shed not rise 
A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty. 

[fifenul 



340 



WERNER. 



Act V. 



ACT V. 



Scene I. — A large and magnificent GoOiic HaU in the 
Cattle of Siegendort\ decorated with Trophies, Ban- 
Tiers, and Arms of tfutt JFa 

Enter Arniieim and Meister, Attendants of Count 

SlEGENDORF. 

Am. Be quick ! the count will soon return: the ladies 
Already are at the portal. Have you sent 
The messengers in March of him he seeks for? 

iV/ris. I have, in all directions, oyer Prague, 
As far as the man's dress and figure could 
By your description track him. The deyil take 
These revels and processions! AH the pleasure 
(If such there be) must fail tq the spectators. 
I in sure none dotii to us who make i tie show. 

Arn. Go to! my lady countess comes. 

Meis. I'd rather 

Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade, 
Than follow in the train of a great man 
in these dull pageantries, 

Arn. Begone! and rail 

Within. [Exeunt. 

Enter the Countess Josephine SrECENPonr and Ida 
Stralenheim. 

Jos, Well] Heaven be praised, the show is overl 
fli. How can you say so! never have I dreamt 
Of alight so beautiful. The flowers, the boughs, 
The banners, and the nobles, and the knights, 
The gem*, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces, 
The coursers, and the incense, and the sun 
Streaming through the stain'd windows, even the tombs, 
Whieh look'd so cairn, and the celestial hymns, 
Which seem'd as if they rather came from heaven 
Than mount d there. The bursting organ's peal 
Rolling on high like an harmonious thundi r; 
The while robes and the lifted eves; the world 
At peace! and all at peace with one another! 
Oh, my sweet mother ! [ Embracing Josephine. 

Jos. Mv beloved child! 

For "such, I trust, thou shall be shortly. 

Ida. Oh ! 

I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 

Job, It does, my love; and nevar may it throb 
With aught more bitter. 

ida. Never shall it do so! 

How should it ? What should make us grieve ? I hate 
To hear of sorrow: how can we be sad, 
Who love each other so entirely? You, 
The count, and Ulric, and your daughter Ida. 

Jos. Poor child! 

Id'i. Do you pity me ? 

Jos. No; I but envy, 

And that in sorrow, not in the world's senso 
Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
More general than another. 

Ida. I '11 not hear 

A word against a world which still contains 
You and my Ulric. Did you ever seo 

like him? How he tower'd among them all! 
How all eyes follow'd him! The flowers fell faster — 
Rain'd from each laitice at his feel, raethought, 
Than before all the rest ; ami where he trod 
I dare be SWOrn that they grow still, nor e'er 
Will wither. 

Jos. You will spoil him, little flatterer, 

If he should hear you. 

Wo. But lie never will. 

I dare not say so much to him — I fear him. 

Jos. Why so? ho loves you well. 

Ida. But I can never 

Shape my thoughts o/him into worthy fu him. 
JJesidos, he sometimes frightens mo 



Jos. How so? 

Ida. A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 
says no(hing< 

Jot. It is nothing : all men, 

Especially in these dark troublous times, 
Have much to thmk of 

Ida. But I cannot think 

Of aught save him. 

Jos. Yet there are other men, 

is goodly. There's, for instance, 
The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once withdrew 
His eyes from yours to-day. 

I'll. I did not see him, 

But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
When all knelt, and I wept : and yet me thought, 
Through my fast tears, though they were thick and 

warn)] 
I saw him smiling on me. 

Jos. I could not 

See aughl save heaven, to which my eyes were raised 
Together with the 

Ida. I thought too 

Of heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 

Jos. Come, 

Lei us retire; they will be here anon 
Expectant of the banquet. We will lay 
Aside these nodding plumes and dragging trains. 

Ida. And, above all, these Stiff and heavy jewels, 
Which make my head and heart ache, as both throb 
Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 
Dear mother, I am with you. [Exeunt 

Enter Count SxEGEB*DOIur,m > /v2Z dress,from the solemn 
nit'/j and Ludwic. 

Sk i r - Is be not found ? 

Lu<l. Strict search is making every where; and if 
The man be in Prague, be sure lie will be found. 

Sieg. Where's Ulric » 

Lxtd I ■' rode round the other way 

Wnh some young nobles; but he left them soon; 
And, if I err not, not a minute since 
I heard his excellency, with his train, 
Gallop 0*er the west drawbridge. 

Enter Ui.ric, splenduUy dressed. 

Sieg. (to I.rmviG.) See they cease not 

Their quest of him 1 have described. (Exit LuDWIO.) 

Oh, Ulric ! 
How have I long'd for thee ! 

Ub. Your wish is granted — 

Behold me! 

Sieg. I have seen the murderer. 

Ulr. Whom? Where? 

Sieg. The Hungarian, who slew Stralenheim 

I . You dream. 

Sit f, I live ! and as I live, I saw him— 

Heard him! he dared to utter even my name. 

I'lr. What name ? 

Sieg Werner! /'twu mine. 

I It. It must be sc 

No more: forget it. 

5 Never ! never ! all 

M . destinies tfere woven in that name: 
It will not be engraved upon my tomb, 
But it may lead me there. 

I To the point — the Hungarian? 

Sieg. Listen! — The church was throng'd; the hymn 
was raised ; 
*' Te Drum" pcal'd from nations, rather than 
From choirs, in one great cry of "God be praised" 
For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread years, 
Bach bloodier than the former: I arose, 
With all (he nobles, and BS I look'd down 
Along the lines of lifted faces, — from 
Our banner'd and escutcheon'd gallery, I 



Act V. 



WERNER. 



341 



Saw, like a flash of lightning, (for 1 saw 
A moment and no more,) what struck me sightless 
To all else — the Hungarian s face '. I grew 
Sick ; and when T recovered from the mist 
Which curl'd about my senses, and again 
Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving 
Was over, and we march'd back in procession. 
Ulr. Continue. 

Sieg. When we reach'd the Muldau's bridge, 

The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
Barks mann'd with revellers in their best garbs, 
Which shot along the glancing tide beJow, 
The decorated street, the long array, 
The clashing music, and the thundering 
Of far artil.erv, which seem'd to bid 
A long and loud farewell to its great doings, 
The standards o'er me, and the tramplings round, 
The roar of rushing thousands, — all — all could not 
Chase this man from my mind, although my senses 
No longer held him palpable. 

Ulr. You saw him 

No more, then ? 

Sieg. I look'd, as a dying soldier 

Looks at a draught of water, for this man ; 
But still I saw him not ; but in his stead — 
Ulr. What in his stead ? 

Sieg. My eye for ever fell 

Upon your dancing crest ; the loftiest, 
As on the loftiest and the loveliest head 
It rose the highest of the stream of plumes, 
Which overflow 'd the glittering streets of Prague. 
Ulr. What 's this to the Hungarian ? 
Sieg, m Much ; for I 

Had almost then forgot him in my son ; 
When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 
Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice, 
Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
Than the late cannon's volume, this word — " Werner . r 

Ulr. Uttered by 

Sieg. Him! I turn'd — and saw — and fell. 

Ulr. And wherefore ? Were you seen ? 
Sieg. The officious care 

Of those around me dragg'd me from the spot, 
Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause; 
You, too, were too remote in the procession 
(The old nobles being divided from their children) 
To aid me. 

Ulr. But I '11 aid you now. 

Sieg. In what? 

Ulr. In searching for this man, or When he's 

found, 
What shall we do with him? 

Sieg. I know not that. 

Ulr. Then wherefore seek ? 

Sieg. Because I cannot rest 

Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's, 
And ours, seem intertwisted ! nor can be 
UnravelTd, till 



Enter an Attendant. 

A stranger to wait on 

Who? 

He gave no name. 



Att. 
Your excellency. 
Sieg. 
Ap. 

Sieg. Admit him, ne'erlheless 

[The Attendant introduces Gabob, and afterwards 
ant. 

Ah! 
Gab. 'T is, then, Werner ! 

Sieg. {haughtily.) The same you knew, sir, by that 

name ; and you ! 
Gat. {looking round.) I recognize you both: father 
and son, 



It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours, 
Have lately been in search of me: I am here. 

Sieg. I have sought you, and have found you : yo» 
are charged 
(Your own heart may inform you why) with such 

A crime as [He pause* 

Gab. Give it utterance, and then 

1 11 meet the consequences. 

Sieg. You shall do so — 

Unless 

Gab. First, who accuses me? 

Sieg. AH things, 

If not all men: the universal rumour — 
My own presence on the spot — the place — the time— 
And every speck of circumstance unite 
To fix the blot on you. 

Gab. And on me only ? 

Pause ere you answer: is no other name, 
Save mine, stain'd in this business ? 

Sieg. Trifling villain ! 

Who pla/st with thine own guilt ! Of all that breatha 
Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody slandei 
But I will talk no further with a wretch', 
Further than justice asks. Answer at once, 
And without quibbling, to my charge. 

Gab. »T is false ! 

Si- _-. Who says so? 

Gab. I. 

Sieg. And how disprove it? 

Gab. 
The presence of the murderer. 

Sieg. Name him! 

Gab. Ho 

May have more names than one. Your lordship had m 
Once on a time. 

Sieg. If you mean mc, I dare 

Your utmost. 

Gab. You may do so, and in safety ; 

I know the assassin. 

Sieg. Where is he ? 

Gab. {pointing to Ulric.) Beside you! 

[Ulric rushes for ward to attack Gabor ; Sieueb 
dorf interposes, 
Sieg. Liar and fiend ! but you shall not be slain ; 
These walls are mine, and you are safe within them. 

[He turns to Ulric 
Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 
Witt do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 
I could not deem it earth-born : but be calm ; 
It will refute itself. But touch him not. 

[Ulric endeavours to compose himself. 

Gab. Look at him, count, and then hear me. 

Sieg. {Jirst to Gabor, and Oven looking at Ulric.) 

I hear the*. 
My God! you look 

I'lr. How? 

Sieg. 
When we met in the garden. 

Ulr. (composes himself.) 



B> 



As on that dread night 



It is nothing 
Gab. Count, you are bound to hear me. I cama 
hither 

Not seeking you, but sought. When I knelt down 

Amidst the people in the church, I dream'd not 

To find the beggar'd Werner in the seat 

Of senators and princes ; but you have call'd me, 

And we have met. 

Sieg. Go on, sir. 

Gab. Ere I do so, 

Allow me to inquire who profit* d 

By Stralenheim's death ? Was 't I — as poor as ever , 

And poorer by suspicion on my name ! 

The baron lost in that last outrage neither 

Jewels nor gold ; his life alone was sought, — 



342 



WERNER. 



Act V. 



A life which stood between the claims of others 
To honours and estates scarce less than pnncc-ly. 

Sieg. These hints, as vague as vain, attach do less 
To me than to my son. 

Gab. I can't help that. 

But let the consequence alight on him 
Who feels himself the guilty one among us. 
I speak to you, Count Siegendorf, because 
I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
But er-e I can proceed — dare you protect me 7 
Dare you command me ? 

[SiEGENDORF^r^ looks at the Hungarian, and then 
at Ui.Kir, who has unbuckled his saftre and is 
drawing lines witfi it on the floor — still in its 
sheath. 

Ulr. {looks at his father and says) Let the man go on ! 

Gab. I am unarnul, count — bid your son lay down 
[lis sabre. 

Ulr. {riffcrs it to him contemptuously.) Take it. 

Gab. No, sir, 'tis enough 

That we are botli unarnYd — I would not choose 
To wear a steel which may bo slain'd with more 
Blood than came there in battle. 

Ulr. (casts the sabre from him in contempt.) It — or 
some 
Such other weapon, in my hands — spared yours 
Once when disarm'd and at my mercy . 

Gab. True— 

I have not forgotten it: you spared me for 
Your own especial purpose — to sustain 
An ignominy not my own. 

Ulr. Proceed. 

The tale is doubtless worthy the relater. 
But is it of my father to hear further? 

[To SlEGENDORF. 

Sieg. (takes his son by the hand.) My son ! I know 
my own innocence, and doubt not 
Of yours — but I have promised this man patience ; 
Let him continue. 

Gab. I will not detain you 

Bv speaking of myself much ; I began 
Life early — and am wh;it the world has made. me. 
At Frankfort on the Oder, where I pass'd 
A winter in obscurity, it was 
Mv chance at several places of resort 
(Which I frequented sometimes, but not often) 
To hear related a strange circumstance 
In February last. A martial force, 
Sent by the state, had after strong resistance 
Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
Marauders from the hostile camp. — They proved, 
However, not to be so — but banditti, 
Whom either accident or enterprise 
Had carried from their usual haunt — the forests 
Which skirt Bohemia— even into Lusatia. 
Many among them were reported of 
High rank — and martial law slept for a time. 
At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers, 
And placed beneath the civil Jurisdiction 
Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate, 
I know no more. 

Sieg. And what is ibis to Ulric? 

Gab. Among them there was said to be one man 
Of wonderful endowments: — birth and fortune, 
Youth, strength, and beauty, almost superhuman, 
And courage as unrivall'd, were proclaim'd 
His by the public rumour ; and his sway 
Not only over his associates, but 
llis judges, was attributed to witchcraft. 
Such was bis influence: — I have no great faith 
In any magic save that of the mine— 
I therefore deem'd him wealthy. — But my soul 
Was roused with various feelings to seek out 
This prodigy, if only to behold him. 



Sieg. And did you so? 

Gab. You 11 hear. Chance favoured me 

A popular affray in the public square 
Drew crowds together — it was one of those 
Occasions where men's souls look out of them, 
And show them as they are— even in their faces. 
I be in m< ni my eye met hjs, I exclaim'd, 
" This is the man ? though he was then, as since, 
With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
I had not err'd, and watch'd him long and nearly 
I noted down bis form — his gesture — features, 
Stature, and bearing — and amidst them all, 
Midst every natural and acquired distinction, 
I could discern, methought, the assassin's eye 
And gladiators heart. 

Ulr. (smiling.) The tale sounds well. 

Gab. And may sound better. — He appear'd to me 
One of those beings to whom Fortune bends 
As she doth to the daring — and on whom 
The fates of others oft depend ; besides, 
An mdescribabl* sensation dn 
Near to this man, u if my point of fortune 
Was to be fix'd by him. — There I was wrong. 

Sieg. And may not be right now. 

Gab. I followed him, 

Solicited bis notice — and obtained it — 
Though not his friendship : — it was his intention 
To leave the city privately — we left it 
Together — and together we arrived 
In the poor town where Werner was conceal'd, 

And Stralenheim was succour'd Now we are on 

The verge — dare you hear further ? 

Sieg. * I must do so— 

Or I have heard too much. 

Gab. I saw in you 

A man above bis station — and if not 
So high, as now I find you, in my then 
Conceptions, 't was that 1 had rarely seen 
Men such as you appear'd in height of mind 
In the mosl high of worldly rank; you were 
Poor, even to all save rags: I would have shared 
My purse, though slender, with you — you refused it 

Sieg. Doth my refusal make a debt to you, 
That thus you urge it? 

Gab. Still you owe me something, 

Though not for that ; and I owed you my safety, 
At least my seeming safety, when the slaves 
Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds 
That /had robbM hint 

Sieg. I conceal'd you — I, 

Whom and whose house you arraign, reviving viper! 

Gab. I accuse no man — save in my defence. 
You, count, have made yourself accuser — judge : 
Your hall 's my court, your heart is my tribunal. 
Be just, and / '11 be merciful ! 

Sieg. You merciful 

You! Base calumniator! 

Gab. I. 'T will rest 

W'nli me at last to be so. You conceal'd me— 
In secret passages known to yourself 
You said, and to none else. At dead of night, 
Weary wiih watching in the dark, and dubious 
Of tracing back my way, I saw a glimmer, 
Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light: 
[ followed it, and reach'd a door — a secret 
Portal — which open'd to the chamber, where, 
With cautious hand and slow, having first undone 
As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
I look'd through and beheld a purple bed, 
And on it Stralenheim ! — 

Sieg. Asleep ! And yet 

You slew him ! — Wretch ! 

Gab. He was already slain, 

And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
Blood became ice. 



Aei V. 



WERNER. 



343 



Sieg. But he was all alone ! 

You saw none else ? You did not see the 

[He pauses from agitation 

Gab. No, 

i/e, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in 
The chamber. 

Sieg. (to Ulric) Then, my boy ! thou art guiltless 
still— 
Thou bad'st me say / was so once — Oh ! now 
Do thou as much ! 

Gab. Be patient ! I can not 

Recede now, though it shako the very walls 
Which frown above us. You remember,— or 
If not, your son does, — that the locks were changed 
Beneath his chief inspection on the morn 
Which led to this same night: how he had enter'd 
He best knows — but within an antechambtr, 
The door of which was half ajar, I saw 
A man who wash'd his bloody hands, and oft 
With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 
The bleeding body — but it moved no more. 

Sieg. Oh! God of fathers! 

Gab. I beheld his features 

As I see yours — but youre they were not, though 
Resembling them — behold them in Count Ulric's ! 
Distinct, as I beheld them, though the expression 
Is not now what it then was ;— but it was so 
When I first charged him with th.3 crime — so lately. 

Sieg. This is so 

Gab. (interrupting him.) Nay — but hear me to the 
end ! 
JVow you must do so. — I conceived myself 
Betray'd by you and him (for now I saw 
There was some tie between you) into this 
Pretended den of refuge, to become 
The victim of your guilt ; and my first thought 
Was vengeance : but though arm'd with a short poniard 
(Having left my sword without) I was no match 
For him at any time, as had been proved 
That morning — either in address or force. 
I turn'd, and fled — 1' the dark : chance rather than 
Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
And thence the chamber where you slept : if I 
Had found you waking, Heaven alone can tell 
What vengeance and suspicion might have prompted; 
But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 

Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such brief 
sleep, 
The stars had not gone down when I awoke. 
Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my father — 
And now my dream is out ! 

Gab. 'T is not my fault, 

If I have read it. — Well ! I fled and hid me — 
Chance led me here after so many moons — 
And show'd me Werner in Count Siegendorf! 
Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
Inhabited the palace of a sovereign! 
You sought me and have found me — now you know 
Mv secret, and may weigh its worth. 

Sieg. (after a pause.) Indeed ! 

Gab. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
Your meditation ? 

Sieg. Neither — I was weighing 

The value of your secret. 

Gab. You shall know it 

At once: — When you were poor, and I 3 though poor, 
Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
As might have envied mine, I ofFer'd you 
My purse — you would not share it : — I '11 be franker 
With you : you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 
The imperial powers — you understand me ? 

Sieg. Yes. — 

Gab. Not quite. You think me venal, and scarce 
true* 



'T is no less true, however, that my fortunes 

Have made me both at present. You shall aid rae: 

I would have aided you — and also have 

Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 

Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have said. 

Sieg. Dare you await the event of a few minutes 1 
Deliberati m 1 ' 

Gab. (casts his eyes on Ulhic, who is leaning against 
a pillar.) If I should do so? 

Sieg. I pledge my hfe fur your9. Withdraw into 
This tower. [Opens a turret door. 

Gab. (hesitatingly.) This is the second safe asylum 
You have ofFer'd me. 

Sieg. And was not the first so? 

Gab. I know not that even now— but will approve 
The second. I have still a farther shield. — 
I did not enter Prague alone; and should I 
Be put to rest with Slralenheim, there are 
Some tongues without will wag in my behalf. 
Be brief in your decision ! 

Sieg. I will be so. — 

My word is sacred and irrevocable 
Within these walls, but it extends no further 

Gab. I '11 take it for so much. 

Sieg. (points to Ulric's sabre still upon the ground.) 
Take also titat — 
I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
Distrustfully! 

Gab. (takes up the saltre.) I will ; and so provide 
To sell my life — not cheaply. 

[Gabor goes into the turret, which Siegendorf 
closes. 

Sieg. (advances to Ulric.) Now, Count Uiric ! 
For son I dare not call thee — What say'st thou ? 

Ulr. His tale is true. 

Sieg. True, monster ! 

Ulr. Most true, father ! 

And you did well to listen to it: what 
We know, we can provide against. He must 
Be silenced. 

Sieg. Ay, with half of my domains ; 

And with the oilier half, could he and thou 
Unsay this villany. 

Ulr. It is no time 

For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
His story 's true ; and he too must be silenced. 

Sieg. How so ? 

Ulr. As Stralenheim is. Are you so iuL 

As never to have hit on tins before ? 
When we met in the garden, what except 
Discovery in the act could make me know 
His death ? Or had the prince's household been 
Then surampn'dj would the cry fur the police 
Been left, to such a stranger ? Or should I 
Have loiter'd on the way ? Or could you, JVemer 
The object of the baron's hate and fears, 
Have fled, unless by many an hour before 
Suspicion woke ? I sought and fathom'd you, 
Doubting if you were false or feeble: I 
Perceived you were the latter ; and yet so 
Confiding have I found you, that I doubted 
At times your weakness. 

Sieg. , Parricide ! no less 

Than common stabber ! What deed of my life, 
Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fit 
For your accomplice ? 

Ulr. Father, do not raise 

The devil you cannot lay between us. This 
Is time for union and for action, not 
For family disputes. While you were tortured, 
Could / be calm ? Think you that I have heard 
This fellow's tale without some feeling ? — you 
Have taught me feeling for you and myself; 
For whom or what else did you ever leach it ? 

Sieg. Oh ! my dead father'* curse ! 't is working now. 



34-4 



WERNER. 



At i V. 



Ulr. Let it work on ! the grave will keep it down! 
Ashes arc feeble Foes : it is mare i ; 
To baffle such, than countermine a mole, 
Which winds its blind but living path l»ti<aih.you. 
Yet hear me still! — If you condemn me, yet 
Remember who hath taught me once too often 
To listen to him! ll'ho proclaim'd to me 
Thai there were crimes made venial bv the occasion ? 
That passion was our nature? that the goods 
Of Heaven waited on the goods of fortune ? 
ll'/t" show'd me his humanity secured 
Hv Ins nerves only? Who deprived nie of 
All power to vindicate myself and raj • 
In open day? By his disgrace which stamp'd 
(It might be) bastardy on me, and on 
Ini:, ■ If— a /dun's brand! The man who is 
At once both warm and weak invites to deeds 
IK' tongs to do, but dare not. h h Btn 
That I should act what you could think? We hare done 
"With right and wrong ; and now must only ponder 
Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim, 

life I saved from impulse, as, unfa 

I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew 

Known as our fue — but not from vengeance. He 

"Was a rock in our way which I cut through, 

As doth the bolt) because it stood between us 

And our true destination- — but not idly. 

As stranger I preserved turn, and he owed me 

His lift: when due, I hut resumed the debt. 

He, you, and I stood o'er a guJf wherein 

I have plunged our enemy. You kindled first 

The torch — you show'd the path ; now trace me that 

Of safely — or let me! 

Sicg. I have done with life ! 

Ulr. Let us have done with that which cankers 
life— 
Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 
Of Uiings which cannot be undone. We have 
No more to learn or hide : I know no fear, 
And have within these very walls men whom 
[Although you know them not) dare venture all things. 
You stand high with the state ; what passes hero 
Will nut excite her too great curiosity : 
K<ip your own secret, keep a steady eye, 
Stir not, and speak not; — leave the rest to me: 
We must have do third babblers thrust between us. 

[Exit Ulric 

Sicg. (solus.) An\ I awake ? are ihcso my father's 
halls ? 
And y 07i — my son? My son ! mine! who have ever 
Abhorrd both mystery and blood, and yet 
Am plunged into the deepest hell of both! 
T must be speedy, or more will be shed — 
The Hungarian's! — Ulric — he hash partisans j 
It seems: I might have guess'd as much. Oh fool ! 
Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key 
(As I too) of the opposite door which leads 
Into the turret. Now then! or once more 
To be the father of fresh crimes, I 
Than of the criminal! Ho! Gabor ! Gabor! 

[Exit into the turn ' door qfter liim. 

Scene U.—Tke Interior of the Turret. 

Gabor and Siecendorf. 

Gob. Who calls ? 

Sicg. 1 — Siegcndorf! Take these, and fly! 

Lose not a moment ! 

[Tears off a diamond star and oOicr jewels, and 
thrusts Oiem into Gabor's Hand, 

Gab. What am I to do 

With these ? 

Sieg. WhateVr you will: sell them, or hoard, 

And prosper; bvit delay not, or you are lost! 

Gab. You pledged your honour for my safety! 



Sit ■-■ Aha 

Must thus redeem it. Fly! I am not master, 
It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
Retainers — nay, even of these very walls, 
Or I would bid them fall and crush me! Fly! 

Or you will be slain by 

'. ' Is it even so ? 

Farewell, then ! Recollect, however, count, 
You sought this fatal interview! 

I did: 
Let it not be more fatal still! — Begnno! 
Gab. By the same path I enter'd ? 
Sicg. Yes ; that's safe still: 

Bui loiter not in Prague; — you do not know 
With whom you have to d< 

I know too well— 
And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire! 
Farewell! [Exit Gabor. 

Sieg. [solus and listening.) He hath clear'd the 
rcase. Ah ! I hear 
The door sound loud behind him! He is safe! 

Safe ! — Oh, my father's spirit ! — I am faint 

[He teant down upon a stone seat, near the wall 
of the tower, in a drooping posture. 

Enter Ulric, with others armed,and with weapon* drawn. 

I'lr. Despatch! — he's there! 

I.vd. The count, my lord! 

Ulr. ( Siecendorf.) You here, sir! 

Sieg. Yes: if you want another victim, strike! 

Ulr. {seeing Inm stnpt of hit jewels.) Where is tho 
ruffian who hath plundered you ' 
Vassals, despatch in search of him! You see 
'T was as 1 said — I he wretch hath stript my father 
Of jewels which might form a prince's heirloom ! 
Away! I'll follow you forthwith. 

■t all but Sieoendorf and Ulric 
What s this ? 
W ben is the villain ? 

Sit There are two t sir: which 

Are you in quest of? 

Ulr. Let us hear no more 

Of this: he must be found. You have not let him 
Escape ? 

Sit •:. He's gone. 

Ulr. With your connivance? 

Sieg. With 

My fullest, freest aid. 

Ulr. Then fare you well! 

[Ulric is going. 

Sieg. Stop ! I command — entreat — implore ! Oh, 
Ulric ! 
Will you then leave me? 

Ulr. What! remain to bo 

Denounced — dragg'd, it may be, in chains ; and all 
By voui inherent weakness, half-humanity, 
Selfish remorse, and temporising pity, 
Thai acrifices your w holi re© 
A wretch to profit by our ruin ! No, count, 
Henceforth you have no son ! 

Sit g\ I never had one; 

And would you ne'er had borne the useless name! 
Where will you go? I would not send you forth 
Without protection. 

Ulr. Leave that unto me. 

I am not alone ; nor merely the vain heir 
Of your domains ; a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
Swords, hearts, and hands, are mine. 

Sieg. Tho foresters ! 

Wiih whom the Hungarian found you first at Frankfort? 

Ulr. Yes — men — who arc worthy of the name ! GoleU 
Vi.ur -matnrs that they look well to Prague; 
Their feasl of peace was early fur the times; 
There are more spirits abroad than have been laid 
Willi W aliens te in ! 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



345 



Enter Josephine and Ida. 

Jos. What is 't we hear? My Siegendorf! 

Thank Heav'n, I see you safe! 

Sieg. Safe ! 

Ida. Yes, dear father ! 

Sieg*. No, no ; I have no children : never more 
Call me by that worst name of parent. 

Jos. What 

Means my good lord? 

Sieg. That you have given birth 

To a demon ! 

Ida. (taking Ulricas hand.) Who shall dare say this 
of Ulric? 

Sieg. Ida, beware ! there 's blood upon that hand ! 



Ida. (stooping to hiss it.) I 'd kiss it off, though it were 

mine ! 
Sieg. It is so ! 

Ulr. Away ! it is your father's ! [Exit Ulric. 

Ida. Oh, great God ! 

And I have loved this man! 

[Ida falls senseless — Josephine stands speechlcsi 
with, horror. 
Sieg. The wretch hath slain 

Them both! — My Josephine! we are now alone! 
Would we had ever been so! — All is over 
For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy grave ; 
Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
In mine! — The race of Siegendorf is past' 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



A DRAMA. 



[This production is founded partly on the story of a 
novel called The Three Brothers, published many years 
ago, from which M. G. Lewis' Wood Demon was also 
taken — and partly on the Faust of the great Goethe. 
The present publication contains the two first Parts only, 
and the opening chorus of the third. The rest may per- 
haps appear hereafter.] 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN. 
Stranger, afterwards Cesar. 
Arnold. 
Bourbon. 
Philibert. 
Cellini. 



WOMEN. 



Bertha. 

Olimpi a. 



Spirits, Soldiers, Citaens of Rome, Priests, Peasants &c. 



PART I. 

Scene I. — A Forest. 

Enter Arnold and his mother Bertha. 



I was born so, mother! 



Bert. Out, hunchback 

Am. 

Bert. Out, 

Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare ! Of seven sons 
The sole abortion ! 

Am. Would that I had been so, 

And never seen the light ! 

Bert. I would so too ! 

But as thou hast — hence, hence — and do thy best ! 
That back of thine may bear its burden ; 't is 
More high, if not so broad as that of others. 

Am. It bears its burden ; — but, my heart ! Will it 
Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother ? 
I love, or, at the least, I loved you : nothing 
Save you, in nature, can love aught like me. 
You nursed me — do not kill me ! 

Bert. *• Yes — I nursed thee, 

Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not 
2T 



If there would be another unlike thee, 

That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence^ 

And gather wood ! 

Am. I will : but when I bring it, 

Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 
So beautiful and lusty, and as free 
As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me : 
Our milk has been the same. 

Bert. As is the hedgehog's, 

Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam 
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds 
The nipple next day sore and udder dry. 
Call not thy brothers brethren! Call me not 
Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out 

[Exit Bertha. 

Am. {solus.) Oh mother ! She 's gone, and 1 

must do 
Her bidding; — wearily but willingly 
I would fulfil it, could I only hope 
A kind word in return. What shall I do? 

[Arnold begins to cut wood: in doing this he 
wounds one of his lutnds. 
My labour for the day is over now. 
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast ; 
For double curses will be my meed now 
At home. — What home? I have no home, no kin, 
No kind — not made like other creatures, or 
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed too 
Like them ? Oh that each drop which falls to earth 
Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have stung me ! 
Or that the devil, to whom they liken me, 
Would aid his likeness ! If I must partake 
His form, why not his power ? Is it because 
I have not his will too? For one kind word 
From her who bore me would still reconcile me 
Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
The wound. 

[Arnold goes to a spring, and stoops to wash hi 
hand: he starts back. 
They are right ; and Nature s mirror shows me 
What she hath made me. I will not look on it 
Again, and scarce dare think on 't. Hideous wretch 
That I am ! The very waters mock me with 
My horrid shadow — like a demon placed 
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
From drinking therein. [H$ } 



346 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



Part J. 



And shall I live on, 
A burden to the earth, myself and shame 
Cnto what broughl ma into life? Thou blood, 
Which flowest ^o freely from a scratch, let me 
Try if thou .wilt not in a fuller stream 
Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself 
On earth, to which I will restore at once 
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
Resolve back to her elements, and take 
The shape of any reptile save myself, 
And make a world for myriads of new worms! 
This knife! now let me prove if it will Si 
This witlier'd slip of nature's nightshade — my 
Vile form— from the creation, as it hath 
The green bough from the forest. 

[Arnold places the knife in tiie ground t with the 
point upwards. 

Now 't is set, 
And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance 
On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
Myself, and the sweet sun, which warm'd me, but 
In vain. The birds — how i- >\ ■ u . ;. th< \ 
So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
But let their merriest notes be Arnolds knell ; 
The fallen leaves my monument; the murmur 
Of the near fountain my sole elegy. 
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall! 

[As he rushes to throw himself upon the hirifc, hie 
eye in suddenly caught by the fountain^ which 
seems in motion. 
The fountain moves without a wind : but shall 
The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
No. Yet it moves again ! The waters stir, 
Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
And rocking power of the internal world. 
What 's here ? A mist! No more? — 

[A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands 
gazing upon it : it is disj)eUcd, and a tall black 
man comes towards him. 
Am. What would you ? Speak ! 

Spirit or man ? 

Stran. As man is both, why not 

Say both in one ? 

Am. Your form is man's- and yet 

You may be devil. 

Stran. So many men arc that 

Which is so called or thought, that you may add mo 
To which yon please, without much wrong to either. 
But come : you wish to kill yourself; — pursue 
Your purpose. 

Am. You have interrupted me. 

Stran. What is that resolution which can e'er 
Be interrupted? If I be the devil 
You deem, a single moment would have made you 
Mine, and for ever, by your suicide ; 
And yet my coming saves you. 

Am. I said not 

You were the demon, but that your approach 
Was like one. 

Stran. Unless you keep company 

With him (and you seem scarce used to such high 
Society) you can't tell how he approaches ; 
And for his aspect, look upon the fountain, 
And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
Look likest what the boors believe to be 
Their cloven-footed terror. 

Am. Do you — dare you 

To taunt me with my born deformity ? 

Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with this 
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty 
In action and endurance than thyself 



And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
With thee. Thy form is natural: 'twas only 

mistaken largess to bestow 
The gifts "Inch are ol others upon man. 

.dm. Give me the strength then of the buffalo's (bo* t 
When he spurns high the dust, beholding his 
Near enemy ; or let me have the long 
And patient swiftness of the desert-snip*, 
The helmfess dromedary; — and I 'II bear 
Thy fienjish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 

Stran. I will. 

Am. {with surprise.) Thou cans/? 

v Perhaps. Would you aught else? 

Am. Tln.u mockest me. 

Stran. Not I. Why should I mock 

What all are mocking / 1 hat 's poor sport, mc thinks. 
To talk to thee in human language (for 
Thou canst not yel speak mine) the forester 
limits not the wretched coney, but the boar a 
Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
To petty burghers, who leave once a year 
Their wails, to till their household caldrons with 
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee,— 
Now / can mock the mightiest. 

Am. Then waste not 

Thy tune on me: I seek thee not. 

Stran. Your thoughts 

Are not far from me. Do not send me back- 
1 am not so easily recalfd to do 
Good service. 

Am. What wilt thou do for me? 

Stran. Change 

Shapes with you, it' you will, since yours so irks you; 
Or form you to your wish in any -'■ 

Am. Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
Naught else would wittingly wear mine. 

Stran. 1 11 show thee 

The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee 
Thy choice. 

Am. On what condition ? 

Stran, There's a question.' 

An hour ago you would have given your soul 
To look like other men, and now you pause 
To wear the form of heroes. 

Am. No ; I will not. 

1 must not compromise my soul. 

Stran. What soul, 

Worth naming so, would dwells in such a carcass? 

Am. "1" is an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement 
In which it is mislodgcd. But name your compact; 
Must it be sign'd in blood ? 

Stran. Not in your own. 

Am. Whose blood then? 

Stran. \\ e will talk of that hereafter 

But I 'U be moderate with you, for I see 
Great things within you. You shall have no bond 
But your own will, no contract save your deeds. 
.Air you content .' 

Am. I take thee at Uiy word. 

Stran. Now then ! — 

/7Vic Stranger approaches the fountain^ snd turns to 
Arnold. 

A little of your blood. 

Am. For what? 

Stran. To mingle widi the magic of the waters, 
And make the charm effective. 

Am. (holding out his wouruUd arm.) Take it all. 

Stran. Not now. A few drops will suffice for this. 
[The Stranger takes some ^/"Arnold's blood in his 
hand, and casts it into t fie fountain. 

Stran. Shadows of beauty ! 
Shadows of power ! 
Risa to your duly— 
This u uw item*. 



Part I. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



347 



Walk lovely and pliant 

From the depth of this fountain, 
As the cloud-shapen giant 

Bestrides the Hartz mountain.* 
Come as ye were. 

That our eyes may behold 
The model in air 

Of the form I will mould, 
Bright as the Iris 

When ether is spann'd ; — 
Such hts desire is, [Pointing to Arnold. 

Such my command! 
Demons heroic- 
Demons who wore 
The form of the stoic 

Or sophist of yore — 
Or the shape of each victor, 

From Macedon's boy 
To each high Roman's picture, 

Who breath'd to destroy — 
Shadows of beauty! 

Shadows of power \ 
Up to your duty — 

This is the horn- '. 
[ Various Phantoms arise from the waters, and pass 
in succession before the Stranger and Arnold. 

Am. What do I see ? 

Stran. The black-eyed Roman, with 

The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er 
Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 
The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became 
His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 

Am. The phantom 's bald ; my quest is beauty. 

Could r 

Inherit but his fame with his defects ! 

Stran. His brow was girt with laurels more than 
hairs. 
You see his aspect — choose it, or reject. 
I can but promise you his form ; his fame 
Must be long sought and fought for. 

Am. I will fight too, 

But not as a mock Ca?sar. Let him pass ; 
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 

Stran. Then you are far more difficult to please 
Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother, 
Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
But be it so! Shadow, pass on ! 

[The phantom of JuUus C<zsar disappears. 

Am. And can it 

Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone, 
And left no footstep ? 

Stran. There you err. His substance 

Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 
More than enough to track his memory ; 
Bui for his shadow, 't is no more than yours, 
Except a little longer and less crooked 
T the sun. Behold another ! 

[A second phantom passes. 

Am. Who is he? 

Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest of 
Athenians. Look upon him well. 

Am. He is 

More lovely than the last. How beautiful ! 

Stran. Such was the curled son of Chinas; — wouldst 
thou 
Invest thee with his form? 

Am. Would that I had 

Been bom with it! But since I may choose further, 
I will look further. 

[The shade of Alcibiades disappears. 



• Thl* li & well-known German euperitilion— e gigantic (hadow pro- 
dactA by refleeuoo oq the Brocken. 



Stran. Lo! behold again! 

Am. What! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round- 
eyed satyr, 
With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect, 
The splay feet and low stature! I had hotter 
Remain that which I am. 

Stran. And yet he was 

The earth's perfection o( all mental beauty, 
And personification of all virtue. 
But you reject him ? 

Am. If his form could bring mo 

That which redeem'd it — no. 

Stran. I have no power 

To promise that ; but you may try, and find it 
Easier in such a form, or in your own. 

Am. No. I was not born for philosophy, 
Though I have that about me which has need on t. 
Let him fleet on. 

Stran. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker ! 

[ The shadow of Socrates disappears ; another rise*. 

Am. What's here? whose broad brow and whoso 
curly heard 
And manly aspect look like Hercules, 
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 
Leaning dejected on his club of conquest, 
As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
For whom he had fought. 

Stran. It was the man who lost 

The ancient world for love. 

Am. I cannot blame him, 

Since I have risk'd my soul because I find not 
That which fie exchang'd the earth for. 

Stran. Since so far 

You seem congenial, will you wear his features? 

Am. No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult, 
If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
Whence they float back before us. 

Stran. Hence, triumvir! 

Thy Cleopatra 's waiting. 

[The shade of Antony disappears: another rises. 

Am. Who is this ? 

Who truly looketh like a demigod, 
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature, 
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs, 
Which he wears as the sun his rays — a soi 3thing 
Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing 
Emanation of a thing more glorious still. 
Was he e'er human only ? 

Stran. Let the earth speak, 

If there be atoms of him lefr, or even 
Of the more solid gold that form'd his urn. 

Am. Who was this glory of mankind? 

Stran. The shame 

Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war — 
Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
Taker of cities. 

Am. Yet one shadow more. 

Stran. (addressing the shadow.) Get thee to Lamia'i 
lap! 
[The shade of Demetrius Poliocetes vanishes: 
another rises. 

I '11 fit you still, 
Fear not, my hunchback. If the shadows of 
That which existed please not your nice taste, 
I'll animate the ideal marble, till 
Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. 

Am. Content ! I will fix here. 

Stran. I must commend 

Your choice. The godlike son of the sea-goddess, 
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
Of rich Pactolus, roll'd o 'er sands of gold, 



348 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



Part I. 



SoftenM by intervening crystal, and 

Rippled like flowing waters by the wind, 

All vow'd to Sperchius as they were — behold them! 

And him — as lie stood by Polixcna, 

With sanotion'd and with soften'd love, before 

The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride, 

With some remorse within tor Hector slain 

And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion 

For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand 

Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 

He stood i' the temple! Look upon him as 

Greece looked her last upon her best, the instant 

Ere Pans 1 arrow flew. 

Am. I gaze upon him 

As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon 
Envelop mine. 

Stran. You have done well. The greatest 

Deformity should only barter with 
The extremest beauty, if the proverb 's true 
Of mortals, that extremes meet. 

Am. Come! Be quick ! 

I am impatient. 

Stran. As a youthful beauty 

Before her glass. You both see what is not, 
But dream it is what must be. 

Am. Must I wait? 

Stran. No ; that were a pity. But a word or two: 
His stature is twelve cubits; would you so far 
Outstep these times, and be a Titan'.' Or 
(To talk canonically) wax a son 
Of Anak ? 

Am. Why not? 

Stran. Glorious ambition! 

I love thee most in dwarfs ! A mortal of 
Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
His own Goliath down to a slight David: 
But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 
Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged, 
If such be thy desire ; and yet, by being 
A tittle less removed from present men 
In figure, thou canst sway them more ; for all 
Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 
A new-found mammoth ; and their cursed engines, 
Their culverins, and so forth, would find way 
Through our friend's armour there, with greater ease 
Than the adulterer's arrow through, his heel, 
Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 
In Styx. 

Am. Then let. it be as thou d tern's t best. 

Ktran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the tiling thou 
eeest, 
And strong as what it was, and— 

Arn. I ask not 

For valour, since deformity is daring. 
It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
By heart and soul, and make itself the equal — 
Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 
A spur in us ball movements, to become 
All that the others cannot, m such things 
As still are free to both, to compensate 
*'or Btopdame Natures avarice at first. 
They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of f triune, 

And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar) win mem. 

Stran. Well spoken! And thou doubtless wilt remain 
Form'd asBhou art. I may dismiss the mould 
Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase 
This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
Withoul ii ? 

Am. Had no power presented me 

The possibility of change, I would 
I [aw done the best which spirit may to make 
Its way, with ail deformity's dull, deadly, 
I 'i i ouraging weigh! upon me, like a mountain, 
In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders— 
An hateful and unsightly molehill to 



The eyes of happier man. I would have look'd 
On beauty in that sex which is the type 
Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh- 
Not of love, but despair ; nor sought io win, 
Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 
In turn, because of this vile crooked clog, 
Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne 
It all, had not my mother spurn'd me from her. 
The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 
Of shape ; — my dam beheld my shape was hopeless 
Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
I knew the passionate part of life, I had 
Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing 
Than what I am. But even thus, the lowest, 
Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what courage 
And perseverance could have done, perchance 
Had made me something — as it has made heroes 
Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw me 
Mast-r of my own life, and quick to quit it; 
And he who is bo is the inasjtei of 
Whatever dreads Iodic. 

Stran. Decide between 

What you have been, or will be. 

Am. I have done so. 

You have open'd brighter prospects to my eyes, 
And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
I might be fear'd, admired, respected, loved 
Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
Would be beloved. As thou showest me 
A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
Haste ! haste ! 

Stran, And what shall J wear ? 

Arn. Surely he 

Who can command all forms will choose the highest, 
Something superior even to that which was 
Pelidcs now before us. Perhaps his 
Who slew him, that of Paris: or — still higher — 
The poet's god, clothed in such limbs as are 
Themselves a poetry. 

Stran. Less will content me ; 

For I, too, love a change. 

Arn. Your aspect is 

Dusky, but not uncomely. 

Stran. If 1 chose, 

[ might be whiter; but I have a penchant 
For black — it is so honest, and besides 
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear : 
But 1 have worn it long enough of late, 
And now I 'II take your figure. 
Am. Mine! 

Stran. Yes. You 

Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha, 
Your mother's offspring. People have their tastes ; 
You have yours — I mine. 
Am. Despatch! despatch! 

Stran. Even SO. 

[ The Stranger takes some earth and moulds it along 
the turf, and then addresses the phantom of 
Achilles. 
Beautiful shadow 

Of Thetis's boy ! 
Who sleeps in the meadow 

Whose grass grows o'er Troy I 
From the red earth, like Adam,* 

Thy likeness I shape, 
As the being who made him, 

Whose actions 1 ape. 
Thou clay, be all glowing, 

Till the rose in his cheek 

Be as fair as, when blowing, 

It wears its first streak ! 



• Adam mtsm "r»d*ar<*, M from wbioh Uw ftnl mimi 



PiRT I. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



349 



Ye violets, I scatter, 

Now turn into eyes ! 
And thou sunshiny water, 
Of blood lake the guise! 
Let these hyacinth boughs 
Be his long flowing hair, 
And wave o'er his brows, 
As thou wavest in air ! 
Let his heart be this marble 

I (ear from the rock ! 
But his voice as the warble 

Of birds on yon oak ! 
Let his flesh be the purest 

Of mould, in which grew 
The lily-root surest, 

And drank the best dew ! 
Let his limbs be the lightest 

Which clay can compound, 
And his aspect the brightest 

On earth to be found ! 
Elements, near me, 

Be mingled and stirr'd, 
Know me, and hear me, 

And leap to my word! 
Sunbeams, awaken 

This earth's animation! 
T is done ! He hath taken 

His stand in creation ! 

[Arnold falls senseless; his soul passes into the 
shape of Achilles, which rises from the ground ; 
while the pliantom has disappeared, part by part, 
as the figure was formed from the earth. 

Arn. (in his new form.) I love, and I shall be 
oeloved ! Oh life ! 
At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirit ! 

Stran. Stop ! 

What shall become of your abandon'd garment, 
Your hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness, 
Which late you wore, or were ? 

Arn. Who cares ? Let wolves 

And vultures take it, if they will. 

Stran. And if 

They do, and are not scared by it, you '11 say 
It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
Abroad i' the fields. 

Arn. Let us but leave it there ; 

No matter what becomes on 't. 

Stran. That 's ungracious, 

If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, 
It hath sustain d your soul full many a day. 

Arn. Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 
Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be. 

Stran. But if I give another form, it must be 
By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
Who make men without women's aid have long 
Had patents for the same, and do not love 
Your interlopers. The devil may take men, 
Not make them, — though he reap the benefit 
Of the original workmanship: — and therefore 
Some one must be found to assume the shape 
You have quitted. 

Arn. Who would do so? 

Stran. That I know not, 

And therefore I must. 

Arn . You ! 

Stran. I said it ere 

You inhabited your present dome of beauly. 

Arn. True. I forget all things in the new joy 
Of this immortal change. 

Stran. In a few moments 

I will be as you were, and you shall see 
Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow. 

Am. I would be spared this. 

Stran. But it cannot be. 



What! shrink already, being what you are, 
From seeing what you were? 
Arn. Do as thou wilt. 

Stran. (to the late form of Arnold, extended on tht 
earth.) 

Clay! not dead, but soul-less! 

Though no man would choose thee. 
An immortal no less 

Deigns not to refuse thee. 
Clay thou art ; and unto spirit 
All clay is of equal merit. 
Fire ! without which naught can live ; 
Fire ! but in which naught can five, 
Save the fabled salamander, 
Or immortal souls, which wander, 
Praying what doth not forgive, 
Howling for a drop of water, 

Burning in a quenchless lot. 
Fire ! the only element 

Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm, 

Save the worm which dieth not, 
Can preserve a moment's form, 
But must with thyself be blent : 
Fire ! man's safeguard and his slaughter 
Fire! Creation's first-born daughter, 
And Destruction's threaten'd son, 
When heaven with the world hath done* 
Fire ! assist me to renew 
Life in what lies in my view 

Stiff and cold! 
His resurrection rests with me and you ! 
One little, marshy spark of flame — 
And he again shall seem the same; 
But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 
[An ignis-fatuus flits tlwough the wood, and rest* 
on the brow of the body. The Stranger di*. 
appears : the body rises. 
Arn. (in his new form.) Oh! horrible! 
Stran. (in Arnold's late shape.) What! tremblest 

thou? 
Arn. Not so— 

I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
Thou lately worest? 

Stran. To the world of shadows. 

But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou? 
Arn. Must thou be my companion? 
Stran. Wherefore not? 

Your betters keep worse company. 
Arn. My betters! 

Stran. Oh ! you wax proud, I see, of your new 
form : 
I 'm glad of that. Ungrateful too ! That 's well ; 
You improve apace: — two changes in an instant, 
And you are old in the world's ways already. 
But "bear with me: indeed you 'II find me useful 
Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 
Where shall we now be errant ? 

Arn. Where the world 

Ts thickest, that I may behold it in 
Its workings. 

Stran. That's to say, where there is wai 

And woman in activity. Let's see! 
Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world — 
Afric, with all its Moors. In very truth, 
There is small choice : the whole race are just m>w 
Tugging as usual at each other's hearts. 
Arn. I have heard great things of Rome. 
Stran. A goodly choico- 

And scarce a better to be found on earth, 
Since Sodom was. put out. The field is wide too 
For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion 
Of the old Vandals, are at play along 
The sunny shores of the world's garden. 

Arn. How 

Shall we proceed ? 



350 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



Part 1. 



Stran. Like gallants, on go 

What ho! my chargers! Never yet were better 
Since Phaeton was upset into the Po. 
Our pages too ! 

JCntcr two Pages with four coal-black horses. 

Am. A noble sight : 

Stran. And of 

A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
Or your Kochlini race of Araby, 
With these ! 

Am. The mighty steam, which volumes high 

From their proud nostrils, burns the very air : 
And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies, wheel 
Around their manes, as common insects swarm 
Round common steeds towards sunset. 

Stran. Mount, my lord : 

They and i are your servitors. 

Am. And these 

Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their names ? 
Stran. You shall baptize them. 
Am. What! in holy water? 

Stran. "Why nut ? The ■!< -i-j>t r sinner, better saint. 
Am. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be demons 
Stran. True ; tho devil 's always ugly ; and your 
beauty 
Is never diaboUcai. 

Am. Ill call him 

Who bears the golden horn, and wears such bright 
And blooming aspect, Huon ; for lie looks 
Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest, 
And never found till now. And for the other 
And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not, 
But looks as serious though serene as night, 
He shall be JUcmnon, from the Ethiop king 
Whose statue turns a harper once a day. 
And you ? 

Stran. I have ten thousand names, and twice 
As many attributes ; but us 1 wear 
A human shape, will take a human name. 

Am. More human than the shape (though it was 
mine once) 
I trust. 

Stran. Then call me Caesar. 
Am. Why, that name 

Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
By the world's lords. 

Stran. And therefore fittest for 

The devil in disguise — since so you deem me, 
Unless you call me pope instead. 

Am. Well, then, 

Ca;sar thou shalt be. For myself, my name 
Shall bo plain Arnold still. 

Cax. We'll add a title— 

•Count Arnold :" it hath no ungracious sound, 
An I will look well upon a billet-doux. 
Am. Or in an order for a battle-field. 
Cass, (sings.) To horse ! to horse! my coal-black stoed 
Paws the ground and snuffs the air.' 
There's not a foal of Arab's breed 

More knows whom ho must bear ; 
On the hill he will Dot tin-, 
Swifter as it w:i\es higher ; 
In the marsh he will not slacken, 
On the plain be overtaken ; 
In the wave he will not sink, 
Nor pause at the brook's side to drink ; 
In the race he will not pant, 
In the combat he'll not faint ; 
On tile stones he will not stumble, 
Time nor toil shall make him humble ; 
In the stall he will not stiffen, 
But be winged as a grimn, 
Only flying with his feet; 
And will not such a voyage be sweet? 



Merrily ! merrily! never unsound, 
Shall our bonny black horses skim over the ground ! 
From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly ! 
For we '11 leave them behind in the glance of an eye. 
[Tfuy mount their fiorses, and disappear. 

Scene II. — A Camp before the Walls of Rome. 
Arnold and C^sar. 

C<es. You are well entered now. 

Am. Ay ; but my path 

Has been o'er carcasses: mine eyes are full 
Of blood. 

Cas. Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why ' 
Thou art a conqueror ; the chosen knight 
And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
Late constable ofFrance: and now to be 
Lord of iht city which hath been earth's lord 
I'n'I'T its emperors, and— changing sex, 
Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire— 
Lady of the old world. 

Am. How old? What ! arc there 

JVciu worlds? 

Cos. To you. You'll find there are such shortly, 
By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold ; 
From one half of the world named a whole new one, 
Because you know no better than the dull 
And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. w 

Am. I'll trust them. 

C02S. Do ! They will deceive you sweetly, 

And that is better than the bitter truth. 

Am. Dog ! 

Cos. Man! 

Am. Devil ! 

Cos. Your obedient humble servant. 

Am. Say master rather. Thou hast lured me on, 
Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 

Cox. And where wouldst thou be ? 

Am. Oh, at peace— in peace ! 

Cos. And where is that which is so? From the star 
To the winding worm, all life is motion ; and 
In life commotion is the extrcmest point 
Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes 
A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 
The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its way, 
Living upon the death of other things, 
But still, like them, must live and die, the subject 
Of something which has made it live and die. 
You must obey what all obey, the rule 
OfhVd necessity: against her edict 
Rebellion prospers not. 

Am, And when it prospers 

Cos. 'T is no rebellion. 

Am. Will it prosper now? 

Cats. The Bourbon hath given orders for the assault, 
And by the dawn there will be work. 

Am. Alas' 

And shall the city yield ? I see the giant 
Abode of the true God, and his true saint, 
Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 
That sky whence Christ ascended from the cross, 
Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
Of joy, (as once of torture unto him, 
God and God's Son, man's sole and only refuge.) 

Cass. 'Tis there, and shall be. 

Am. What? 

Cos. The crucifix 

Above, and many altar shrines below. 
Also some culverins upon the walls, 
And harquebusses, and what not ; besides 
The men who are to kindle them to death 
Of other men. 

Am. And those scarce mortal arches. 

Pile above pile of everlasting wall, 



PiRT I. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



351 



The theatre where emperors and their subjects 


Cabala 


their best brick-work, wherewithal 


(Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon 


They build more — 


The battles of the monarchs of the wild 


Am. 


(interrupting him.) Oh, thou everlasting sneerer. 


And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 


Be silent! How the soldiers rough strain seems 


Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 


Soften'c 


by distance to a hymn-like cadence ! 


In the arena, (as right well they might, 


Listen ! 




When they had left no human foe unconquer'd ;) 


Cass. 


Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 


Made even the forest pay its tribute of 


Am. 


And demons howl. 


Life to their amphitheatre, as well 


CtBS. 


And man too. Let us listen 


As Dacia men to die the eternal death 


I love all music. 


For a sole instant's pastime, and "Pass on, 






To a new gladiator!" — Must it fall ? 




Song of the Soldiers within. 


CtBS. The city, or the amphitheatre? 




The black bands came over 


The church, or one, or all ? for you confound 




The Alps and their snow ; 


Both them and me. 




With Bourbon, the rover, 


Am. To-morrow sounds the assault 




They pass'd the broad Po. 


With the first cock-crow. 




We have beaten all foemen, 


C<bs. AVhich, if it end with 




We have captured a king, 


The evening's first nightingale, will be 




We have turn'd back on no men, 


Something new in the annals of great sieges ; 




And so let us sing! 


For men must have their prey after long toil. 




Here's the Bourbon for ever! 


Am. The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 




Though pennyless all, 


More beautifully, than he did on Rome 




We '11 have one more endeavour 


On the day Remus leapt her wall. 




At yonder old wall. 


C(bs. I saw him. 




With the Bourbon well gather 


Am. You ! 




At day-dawn before 


C(B$. Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 




The gates, and tosether 


Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape 




Or break or climb o'er 


And a worse name. I'm Caesar and a hunchback 




The wall : on the ladder 


Now. Well! the first of Caesars was a bald-head, 




As mounts each firm foot, 


And loved his laurels better as a wig 




Our shouts shall grow gladder, 


(So history says) than as a glory. Thus 




And death only be mute. 


The world runs on, but we '11 be merry still. 




With the Bourbon we '11 mount o'er 


I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 




The walls of old Rome, 


Slay his own twin, quick-born of the same womb, 




And who then shall count o'er 


Because he leapt a ditch, ('twas then no wall, 




The spoils of each dome ? 


Whate'er it now be ;) and Rome's earliest cement 




Up ! up with the lily ! 


Was brothers blood ; and if its native blood 




And down with the keys ! 


Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 




In old Rome, the seven-hilly, 


As e'er 't was yellow, it will never wear 




We'll revel at ease. 


The deep hue of the ocean and the earth, 




Her streets shall be gory, 


Which the great robber sons of fratricide 




Her Tiber all red, 


Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter 




And her temples so hoary 


For ages. 




Shall clang with our tread. 


Am. But what have these done, their far 




Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon ! 


Remote descendants, who have lived in peace, 




The Bourbon for aye ! 


The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 




Of our song bear the burden! 


Piety ? 




And fire, fire away ! 


Cess. And what had they done, whom the old 




With Spain for the vanguard, 


Romans o'erswept? — Hark! 




Our varied host comes ; 


Am. They are soldiers singing 




And next to the Spaniard 


A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 




Beat Germany's drums ; 


Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 




And Italy's lances 


Cms. And why should they not sing as well as swans? 




Are couch'd at their mother ; 


They are black ones, to be sure. 




But our leader from France is, 


Am. So, you are leam'd, 




Who warr'd with his brother. 


I see, too? 




Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 


C(es. In my grammar, certes. 1 




Sans country or home, 


Was educated for a monk of all times, 




We '11 follow the Bourbon, 


And once I was well versed in the forgotten 




To plunder old Rome. 


Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded — 






Could mane tneir hieroglyphics plainer than 


Cos. 


An indiflerent song 


Your alphabet. 


For those within the walls, methinks, to hear. 


Am. And wherefore do you not? 


Am. 


Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But hero 


CtBS. It answers better to resolve the alphabet 




comes 


Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman, 


The general with his chiefs and men of trust. 


And prophet, pontiff, doctor," alchymist, 


A goodly rebel ! 


Philosopher, and what not, they have built 
More Babels, without new dispersion, than 


Enter the Constable Bourbon, "atmsuis? $-c. &c. 


The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze, 


Phil. 


How now, noble prince, 


Who fail'd and fled each other. Why? why, marry, 


You are not cheerful ? 


Because no man could understand his neighbour. 


Bout 


6. Why should I be so? 


Thev are wiser now, and will not separate 


Phil. 


Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours, 


For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood, 


Most men would be so. 


Tnoir Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, their 


Bourb. If I were secure ! 



352 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



Past I. 



Were the walls of 



Phil. Doubt not our soldiers 
adamant, 
They 'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 

Botiro. That they will falter is my hast of fears. 
That they will he repulsed, with Bourbon for 
Their chief, and all their kindled Bpp 
To marshal them on — were those noary walls 
Mountains, ami those who guard them like tho gods 
Of the old fables, I would tnat my Titans;— 
Hut now — 

I'h'd. They are but men who war with mortals. 
Bourb. True : but those walls have girded in great 
And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth [ages, 
Ami present phantom of imperious Rome 
Is peopled with those warriors ; and methjnka 
They flit alonn the eternal cilv's rampart, 
And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands, 
And beckon me awav ! 

Pliil. So let them ! Wilt thou 

Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows .' 

Bourb. They do not menace me. I could have faced, 
Metbinks, a Sylla's menace ; hut they clasp 
Anil raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands, 
And with their thin aspen faces and fixed eyes 
Fascinate mine. Look there! 

PhiL I look upon 

A lofty battlement. 

Bourb. And there! 

Phil. Not even 

A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
Sheltered by the gray parapet from some 
, Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
Practice in the cool twilight. 

Bourb. Vou are blind. 

Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
Be so. 

Bourb. A thousand years have mann'd the walls 
With all their heroes, — the last Cato stands 
And tears his bowels, rather than svirvivo 
The liberty of that I would enslave. 
And the first Caisar with his triumphs flits 
From battlement to battlement 

PhiL Then conquer 

The walls for which he conquer'd, and be greater ! 
Bourb. True : so I will, or perish. 
Phil, You can not. 

In such an enterprise to die is rather 
The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 

[Count Arnold and Cjesar atlvance. 
Cas. And the mere men — do they too sweat beneath 
The noon of this same ever-scorching glory ? 

Bourb. Ah ! 

Welcome the bitter hunchback ! and his master, 
The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 
And generous as lovely. We shall find 
Work for you both ere morning. 

Cats. You will find, 

So please your highness, no less f >r yourself. 

Bourb. And if I do, (here will not be a labourer 
More forward, hunchback! 

Cos. Vou may well say so, 

For you have seen that hack — as general, 
Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 
Have never seen it. 

Bourb. That 'a a fair retort, 

For I provoked it : — but the Bourbon's breast 
Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
In danger's face as yours, were you the devil. 

Cas. And if I were, 1 might have saved myself 
The toil of coming here. 
Phil Why so? 

Cas. One half 

Of your brave bands of their own bold accord 
Will go to him, the other luilf bo sent, 
More swiftly, not less surely. 



/;..,. h. Arnold, your 

SUght crook'd friend 's as snake-like in his woids 
As his deed3. 

Cas. Your highness much mistakes me. 

The first snake was a flatterer — I am none ; 
And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 
Bourb. You aro brave, and that 's enough for mo , 
and quick 

i as sharp in action — and that 's more. 
I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
Comrade. 

Cas. They are but bad company, your highness, 
And worse even for their friends than foes, as b«mg 
More permanent acquaintance. 

p/„7 How now, fellow ! 

Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
Of a butfoon. 

Cas. You mean I speak the truth. 

1 11 lie it is as easy : then you '11 praise mo 

For calling you a hero. 

Bourb. I'lulibert! 

Let him alone ; he 's brave, and ever has 
Been first, with that swart face and mountain shoulder 
In field or storm, and patient in starvation ; 
And for his tongue, the camp is full of licence, 
And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
Is, to inv mind, far preferable to 
The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
Of a mere famish'd, sufien, grumbling slave, 
Whom nothing can convince save a full meal, 
And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis, 
With which he deems him rich. 

Cos. It would be well 

If the earth's princes askM no more. 

Biurb. Be silent ! 

Cas. Av, but not idle. Work yourself with words ! 
You have few to speak. 

Phil. What means the audacious prater T 

Cas. To prate, like other prophets. 
Bourb. Philibert ! 

Why "ill you vex him? Have we not enough 
To think on ? Arnold ! I will lead the attack 
To-mon-ow. 
Am. I have heard as much, my lord. 

Bourb. And you will follow ? 

Am. Since I must no1 lead, 

Bourb. 'T is necessary for the further daring 
Of our too needy army, that their chief 
Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder's 
First step. 

Cas. Upon its topmost, let us hope : 

So shall he have his full deserts. 

Bourb. The world's 

Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
Through every change the sevcn-bill'd city hath 
Kelam'd lor swav o'er nations, and the Ctesars 
But yielded to the Alarics, die Alarics 
Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest, 
Still the world's masters ! Civilized, barbarian, 
Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
Have been lbs ran -us of an empire. Well! 
"V was their turn — now 't is ours; and let us hope 
That we will fight as well, and rule much better. 

Cas. No doubt, the camp 's the school of civic 
rights. 
What would you make of Romo ? 
Bourb. That which it was. 

Cas. In Alaric's time? 
Bourb. No, slave ! in tho first Cjesar's, 

Whose name you bear like other curs 

Cas. And longs ! 

'T is a great name for bloodhounds. 

Bourb. There 's a demon 

In that fierce rattlesnaU thy tongue. Wilt never 
Be serious? 



Part II. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



353 



Cazs. On the eve of battle, no ; — 

That were not soldier-like. 'T is for the general 
To be more pensive : we adventurers 
Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we think? 
Our tutelar deity in a leader's shape, 
Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts.' 
If the knaves take to thinking, you will have 
To crack those walls alone. 

Bourb. You may sneer, since 

*T is lucky for you that you fight no worse for 't. 

Cozs. I thank you for the freedom ; 'tis die only 
Pay I have taken in your highness* service. 

Bourb. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourself. 
Look on those towers ; they hold my treasury : 
But, Philibert, we'll in to council. Arnold, 
We would request your presence. 

. 'Jm. Prince! my service 

Is yours, as in the field. 

Bourb. In both we prize it, 

And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak. 

Cccs. And mine ? 

Bourb. To follow glory with the Bourbon. 

Good night! 

Am* (foC.£SAR.) Prepare our armour for thi assault, 
And wait within my tent. 

[Exeunt Bourbon, Arnold, Philibert, «§-c. 

Cccs. {solus.) Within thy tent! 

Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my presence? 
Or that this crook'd coffer, which contain'd 
Thy principle of lifi', is aught to me 
Except a mask ? And these are men, forsooth ! 
Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards ! 
This is the consequence of giving matter 
The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance, 
And thinks chaotically, as it acts, 
Kver relapsing into its first elements. 
Well ! I must play with these poor puppets : 't is 
The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 
When I grow weary of it, I have business 
Among the stars, which these poor creatures deem 
Were made for them to look at. 'T were a jest now 
To bring one down among them, and set fire 
Unto their anthill : how the pismires then 
Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing 
From tearing down each other's nests, pipe forth 
One universal orison ! Ha! ha! [Exit Cccsar. 



PART II. . 

Scene I. — Before the walls of Rome. — The Assault: 
the army in motion, with ladders, to scale the walls, 
Bourbon, with a white scarf 'over ftis armour , foremost. 

Chorus of Spirits in the air, 

1. 

*T is the morn, but dim and dark. 
Whither flies the silent lark ? 
Whither shrinks the clouded sun? 
Is the day indeed begun ? 
Nature's eye is melancholy 
O'er the city high and holy : 
But without there is a din 
Should arouse the saints with-in, 
And revive the heroic ashes 
Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 
Oh ye seven hills! awaken, 
Ere your very base be shaken ! 

2. 

Hearken to the steady stamp! 
Mars is in their every tramp ! 
Not a step is out of tune, 
As the tides obey the moon ! 
2U 



On they march, though to self-slaughter, 

Regular as rolling water, 

Whose high waves o'ersweep the border 

Of huge moles, but keep their order t 

Breaking only rank by rank. 

Hearken to the armour's clank ! 

Look down o'er each frowning warrior, 

How he glares upon the barrier: 

Look on each step of each ladder, 

As the stripes that streak an adder. 



Look upon the bristling wall, 
Mann'd without an interval ! 
Round and round, and tier on tier, 
Cannon's black mouth, shining spe* 
Lit match, bell-mouth'd musquetoon, 
Gaping to be murderous soon. 
All the warlike gear of old, 
Mix'd with what we now behold, 
In this strife 'twixt old and new, 
Gather like a locusts' crew. 
Shade of Remus ! 't is a time ! 
Awful as thy brother's crime! 
Christians war against Christ's shrine 
Must its lot be like to thine? 



Near — and near — and nearer still, 

As the earthquake saps the bill, 

First with trembling, hollow motion, 

Like a scarce-awaken'd ocean, 

Then with stronger shock and louder 

Till the rocks are crush'd to powder, — 

Onward sweeps the rolling host • 

Heroes of the immortal boast! 

Mighty chiefs ! eternal shadows ! 

First flowers of the bloody meadows 

Which encompass Rome, the mother 

Of a people without brother! 

Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 

Plough the root up of your laurels? 

Ye who wept o'er Carthage burning, 

Weep not — strike ! for Rome is mourning '* 

5. 

Onward sweep the varied nations ! 
Famine long hath dealt their rations. 
To the wall, with hate and hunger, 
Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 
On they sweep. Oh! glorious city, 
Must thou be a theme for pity ? 
Fight, like your first sire, each Roman ! 
Alaric was a gentle foeman, 
Match'd with Bourbon's black banditti! 
Rouse thee, thou eternal city ; 
Rouse thee ! Rather give the torch 
With thy own hand to thy porch, 
Than behold such hosts pollute 
Your worst dwelling with their foot. 

6. 

Ah! behold yon bleeding spectre! 
IHon's children find no Hector ; 
Priam's offspring loved their brother ; 
Rome's sire forgot his mother, 
When he slew his gallant twin, 
With inexpiable sin. 
See the giant shadow stride 
0*er the ramparts high and wide ! 
When the first o'erleapt thy wall, 
Its foundation mourn'd thy fall. 



* Scipio, the tecond Africanui, it mid to ha»e repeated a Teraa o 
Homer, and wept over tbe burning of Carthage. Ho had better hA»e 
granted It a capitulation. 



354 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



Part II. 



Now, though lowering like a Babel, 
Who to stop his steps are able ? 
Stalking o'er ihy highest dome, 
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome! 



Now ihey reach thee in their anger : 
Fire and smoke and hellish clangour 
Are around ihee, thou world's wonder ! 
Death is in thy walls and under. 
Now the meeting steel first clashes, 
Downward then the ladder crashes, 
With its iron load all gleaming, 
Lying at its foot blaspheming ! 
Up again ! for every warrior 
Slain, another climbs the barrier, 
Thicker grows the strife : thy ditches 
Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
Rome ! although thy wall may perish, 
Such manure thy fields will cherish, 
Making gay the harrest-home ; 
But thy hearths, alas! oh, Rome ! — 
Yet In- Rome amid thine anguish, 
Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish '. 



Yet once more, ye old Penates ! 

Let not your quench'd hearths be Ate*s! 

Yet again, ye shadowy heroes, 

Yield not to these stranger Neros ! 

Though the son who slew his mother 

Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother : 

'T was the Roman curb'd the Roman; — 

Brennus was a baffled foeman. 

Yet again, ye saints and martyrs-, 

Rise! for yours are holier charters ! 

Mighty gods of temples falling, 

Yet in ruin still appalling ! 

Mightier founders of those altars, 

True and Christian, — strike the assaulters! 

Tiber ! Tiber ! let thy torrent 

Show even nature's self abhorrent. 

Let each breathing heart dilated 

Turn, as doth the lion baited ! 

Rome be crush'd to one wide tomb, 

But be still the Roman's Rome! 

Bourbon, Arnold, Cesar, arul others, arrirr at the 
foot of the wall. Arnold is aboiU to plant his ladder, 
Bourb. Hold, Arnold ! I am first. 
Am. Not so, my lord. 

Bourb. Hold, sir, I charge you ! Follow ! I am proud 
Of such a follower, but will brook no leader. 

[Bourbon plants his ladder, and begins to mount. 
Now, boys ! On ! on ! 

[A shot strikes him and Bourbon /a//s. 
Cazs. And off! 

Jim. Eternal powers ! 

The host will he appall'd, — but vengeance ! vengeance ! 
Bourb. 'T is nothing — lend me your hand. 
[Bourbon takes Arnold by tin hand and rises; 
but as he puts his foot on the step, falls again. 
Bourb. Arnold! I am sped. 

Conceal my fall— all will go well— conceal it ! 
Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon ; 
Let not the soldiers see it. 

Am. ^'° 11 must he 

Removed ; the aid of — 

Bourb. No, my gallant boy ; 

Death is upon me. But what is one life ? 
The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay, 
Till they are conquerors — then do as you may. 

Cces. Would not your highness choose to kiss the 
croae? 



We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword 
May serve instead : — it did the same for Bayard. 

Bourb. Thou bitter slave ! to Dame him at this time ! 
But I deserve it. 

Am. (In Cesar.) Villain, hold your peace! 
Cces. What, when a Christian dies? Shall I not 
offer 
A Christian " Vade in pace ?" 

Silence ! Oh ! 
Those eyes are glazing which o'erlook'd the world, 
And saw no equal. 

Bourb. Arnold, should'st thou see 

France But hark! hark ! the assault grows warmer- - 

Oh! 
For but an hour, a minute more of life 
To die within the wall ! Hence, Arnold, hence ! 
You lose time — ihey will conquer Rome without thee. 
. Ini. And without thee! 

Bourb. Not so ; I 'II lead them still 

In spirit. Cover Op my dust, and breathe not 
That I have ceased to breathe. Away ! and be 
V ictorious! 

Am. But I must not leave thee thus. 
Bourb. You must— farewell — Up! up! the world is 
winning. • [Bourbon dies. 

Cccs. {to Arnold.) Come, count, to business. 
Am. True. I Ml weep hereafter. 

[Arnold covers Bourbon's body with a mantle, 
and mounts the ladder, a ' 
The Bourbon ! Bourbon ! On, boys ! Rome is ours ! 
Cccs. Good night, lord constable ! thou wert a man. 
[Cesar follows Arnold; they reach the battle- 
ment ; Arnold and Cesar are shack down. 
Cms. A precious somerset! Isyourcountship injured? 
./,,,. No. [fie mounts the ladder. 

Cozs. A rare hlood-honnd, when his own is heated ' 
And 't is no boy's play. Now he strikes them down ! 
His hand is on the battlement — he grasps it 
As though it were an altar ; now his foot 

Is on it, and What have we here? — a Roman ? 

[A man falls 
The first bird of the covey ! be has fallen 
On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow? 
Wounded .Wan. A drop of water! 
Cces. Blood 's the only liquid 

Nearer than Tiber. 

Wounded Man. I have died for Rome. \Dies. 
Ccvs. And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 
Oh these immortal men ! and their great motives! 
But I must after my young charge. He is 
By this time i' the forum. Charge! charge! 

[Cesar mounts the ladder ; the scene closes. 

Scene \\.—The city.— Combats between the Be- 
rt and Besieged in the streets. Inhabitants 
flying in confusion. 

Enter Cesar. 
i ■ , . ] cannol find my hero ; he is mix'd 
With the heroic crowd that now pursue 
The fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 
Wont have we here? A cardinal or two 
That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
How the old red-shanks scamper ! Could they dofl 
Their hose as they have doff'd their hats, 't would be 
A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 
But let them fly ; the crimson kennels now 
Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 
Is of the self-same purple hue. 

Enter a party fighting— Arnold ot the head of the 
Besiegers. 

He cornea, 
Hand in hand with tbo mild twins. — Gore and glory 

i Holloa! hold, count! 



Part II. 



^ r „ , av ' * e - v ml,st not rally. 

Lies. I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden bridge 
Is lor a flying enemy. I gave thee 
A form of beauty, and an 
Exemption from some maladies of body 
Out not of mind, which is not mine to give. 
But though I gave the form of Thetis' son 
I dipt thee not in Sly* ; and 'gainst a foe 
I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 
More than Pelides' heel ; why then, be cautious, 
And know thyselfa mortal still. 

..." , " And who 

With aught of soid could combat if he were 
Invulnerable ? That were pretty sport. 
I hlnk'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar ? 

[Arnold rushes into the combat. 
«r u '■ P rec,ous sample of humanity! 
Well his blood 's up ; and ,f a Utile 's shed, 
I will serve to curb his fever. 

[Arnold engage) with aKoman.who retires 
towards a portico. 

r Anu Yield thee, slave ! 

1 promise quarter. 

K«m. That's soon said. 

t».\ , . , And done — 

My word is known. 

Rom. So shall be my deeds. 

r„, iJ/ U V' C 'T^" ge - CjEs ^c<"nes forward. 

tozs Why, Arnold! hold thine own: thou hast in 
hand 
A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor • 
Also a dealer in the sword and daooe'r 
Not so, my musqueteer ; 't was he"vho slew 
I he Bourbon from the wall. 

' 9rn - , . , Ay, did he so? 

lhen he hath carved his monument. 

Ro " u I yet 

May live to carve your betters. 

Cces Well said, my man of marble ! Benvenuto, 
i hou hast some practice in both ways ; and he 
Who slays Cellini will have work'd as hard 
As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks. 
[Arnold disarms and wounds Cellini, but slight- 
ly; the latter draws „ pistol, and fires; then 
retires, and disappears through the portico. 

nf C j S - "; ,w far f st lhou ? T1 ">" hast a taste, melhinks, 
Ul red Bellona s banquet. 

•41-n. (staggers.) 'T is a scratch. 

Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus 

Cons. Where is il ! 

-Irn. In the shoulder, not the sword arm— 

And thai s enough. I am thirst v : would I had 
A helm of water! 

Cats. That's a liquid now 

In requisition, but by no means ea-i.~r 
To come at. 

, m? 1 ; And m y lhir5! '""eases ;— but 

1 II find a way to quench it. 

ThySf? Orbequench'd 

i.l**7-" , ThC Ch " nce is even ; we W 'H ">row 
The dice thereon. But I lose time in prating . 
Fnthee be quick. [Cjesar bind, onthe sear/. 

.„, , And what dost thou so idly 

Why dost not strike? ' 

d flj' , • j Y ° Ur 0,d Phi'-^ophers 

Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
The Olympic games. When I behold a prize 
Worth wrestling for, I mav be found a Milo 
•irn. Ay, 'gainst the oak. 

T „ C °-*\ ., A forest, when it suits me. 

1 combat with a mass or not at all. 

Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine • 
Which isjust now to gaze, since all these labourers 
Will reap my harvest gratis. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



355 



Thou art still 



.7m. 
A fiend ! 

Cas. And thou — a man. 

.Irn. Why, such I fain would show me. 

CCCS. rp 

a .„ t i l . ■ l * rue— as men are. 

•am. And what is (hat ? 

C 'rr ., , . T hou feelest and thou see'st. 

l&Ol Arnold, joining in the combat which still 
continues between detached parties. The 
scene closes. 

SC nf E } 1L ^. Sl - P * e r's-The Interior of the 
Caurch-Tne Pope at the Altar- Priest}, Src 
crowding „, confusion, and Citizens Hying for 
refuge, pursued by Soldiery. 

Enter Cesar. 

A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, comrades ! seize 
upon those lamps ! 
Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine ! 
His rosary 's of gold ! 

Lutheran Soldier. Revenge! revenge! 

Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now 

Yonder stands Anti-Christ! 

Cats, (interposing.) How now, schismatic ! 

What would si thou ? 

Luth. Sol. In the holy name of Christ, 

Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 

Cits. Yea, a disciple that would make the founder 
OI your belief renounce it, could he see 
Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to plunder. 

Luth. Sol. I say he is the devil. 

, C< f'- , , , . H,lsh ! keep that secret, 

Lest he should recognise you for his own. 

Luth. Sol. Why would you save him ? I repeat he is 
The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 

Cozs. And that's the reason: would you make a 
quarrel 
With your best friends ? You had far best be quiet ; 
His hour is not yet come. 
Luth. Sol. That shall be seen ! 

[The Lutheran Soldier rushes fonrard ; a shot 
strikes him from one of the Pope's Guards 
and he falls at the foot of the Mar. 
Cces. (to the Lutheran.) I told you so. 
Luth. Sol. And will you not avenge me ? 

Cats. Not I! You know that "Vengeance is the 
Lord's." 
You see he loves no interlopers. 

Luth. Sol. (dying.) Oh! 

Had [ but slain him, I had gone on hi°h, 
Crown'd with eternal glory ! Heaven, forgive 
My feebleness of arm that reach'd him not, 
And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'T is 
A glorious triumph still ; proud Babylon 's 
No more ; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 

Andashes! i The Lutheran dies. 

tees. Yes, thine own amid the rest 

Well done, old Babel ! 

[The Guards defend themselves desperately 
while the Pontiff escapes,by a private passage', 
to the Vatican and the Castle of St. Angelo. 
Cces. Ha! right nobly battle-d! 3 

Now, priest! now, soldier! the two great professions, 
Together by the ears and hearts ! I have not seen 
A more comic pantomine since Titus 
Took Jewry. But the Romans had the best then 
Now they must take their turn. 

Soldiers. He hath escaped ! 

I* ollow! 

Another Sol. They have barr'd the narrow passage up 
And it is clogg'd with dead even to the door. " 

Cas. ,1am glad he hath escaped : ho may thank me 



356 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



Part If. 



In part. I would not have his bulls abolish'd — 

*T were worth one half our empire : his indulgences 

Demand some in return ; — no, no, he must not 

Fall ; — and besides, his now escape may furnish 

A future miracle, in future proof 

Of his infallibility. [To the Spanish Soldiery. 

Well, cut-throats! 
What do you pause for? If you make not haste, 
There will noi be a link of pious gold left. 
And you too, Catholics! Would ye return 
From such a pilgrimage without a relic ? 
The very Lutherans have more true devotion ; 
See how they strip the shrines ! 

Soldiers. By holy Peter ! 

Ho speaks the truth; the heretics will bear 
The best away. 

Cces. And that were shame ! Go to! 

Assist in their conversion. 

[The Soldiers disperse ; many quit the Cnurch, 
others enter* 

Cces. They are gone, 

And others come ; so flows the wave on wave 
Of what these creatures call eternity, 
Deeming themselves the breakers of the ocean, 
While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
That foam is their foundation. So another ! 

Enter Olimpi k. flying from the pursuit — Shi '.springs 
upon the Altar. 

Sol. She 's mine. 

Another Sol.{opposing //te/ormcr.)Youlie ( I track'd 
her first ; and, were she 
The Pope'sniece, I'll not yield her. [They fight. 

3d Sol. {advancing towards Olimpi*.) You may 
settle 
Your claims ; I Ml make mine good. 

Olimp. Infernal slave ! 

You touch me not alive. 

:',<! Sol- Alive or dead! 

Olimp. {embracing a massive crucifix.) Respect 

your God ! 
3d Sol. Yes, when he shines "in gold. 

Girl, you but grasp your dowry. 

[As he advances, Olimpia, with a strong and 
sudden effort, casts down the crucifix; it 
strikes the Soldier, who falls. 
Zd Sol. Oh, great God ! 

Olimp* All! now you recognise him. 
3d Sol. My brain 's crush'd ! 

Comrades, help, ho! All's darkness! [He dies. 

Other Soldiers, {coming up.) Slay her, although she 
had a thousand lives: 
She hath kill'dour comrade. 

Olimp. Welcome such a death ! 

You have no life to give, which the worst slave 
Would take. Great God ! through thy redeeming Son, 
And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, 
And thee ! 

Enter Arnold. 

Am. What do I see ? Accursed jackals ! 
Forbear ! 

Cces. {aside and laughing.) Ha! ha! here 's equity ! 

The dogs 
Have as much right as be. But to the issue! 

Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our comrade. 

Am. With what weapon? 

Sol. The cross, beneath which he is crush'd ; behold 
him 
Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she cast it 
Upon his head. 

Am. Even so ; there is a woman 

Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such, 
Ye would have honour *d her. But get ye hence, 



And thank" your meanness, other God you have none 
For your existence. Had you touch'd a hair 
Of those dishevell'd locks, 1 would have thinn'd 
y.mr ranks more than the enemy. Away! 
Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones the lion leaves, 
Bui not even these till he permits. 

A Sol. (murmcring.) The lion 

Might conquer for himself then. 

Am, [cuts him down.) Mutineer! 

Rebel in hell — you shall obey on earth ! 

[The Soldiers assault Arnold. 
Am. Come on! I *m glad 011*1! I will show you, 
slaves, 
How you should be commanded, and who led you 
First o'er the wall you were as shy to scale, 
Until I waved my banners from its height, 
As vou arc bold within it. 

[Arnold mows doicn the foremost; the rest 
throw down their amis. 
Soldiers. Mercy ! mercy ! 

.int. Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you who 
Led you o*er Rome's eternal battlements ? 

Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive 
A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
The conquest which you led to. 

Am. Get you hence! 

Hence to your quarters ! you will find them nVd 
In the Colonna palace. 

Olimp. {aside.) In my father's 

House! 
Am. {to the Soldiers.) Leave your arms ; ye have no 
furlher need 
Of such : the city 's render'd. And mark well 
Yuu keep your hands clean, or I Ml find a stream, 
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 

Soldiers, {deposing their arms and departing.) We 

obey! 
Am. {to Olimpia.) Lady, you are safe. 
Olimp. I should be so. 

Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
Death hath a thousand gates ; and on the marble, 
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd, 
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man! 

Am. I wish to merit his forgiveness, and 
Thine own, although I have not injured thee. 

Olimp. No ! thou hast enly sack'd my native land,- - 
No injury ! — and made my father's house 
A den of thieves ! No injury ! — this lemple — 
Slippery with Roman and with holy gore. 
No injury ! And now thou would*st preserve me, 
To be — but that shall never be ! 

[She raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her robe round 
her and prepares to dash herself down on the side 
of the Altar opposite to that where Arnold stands. 
jfrn. Hold! hold! 

I swear. 

Olimp. Spare thine already forfeit soul 
A perjury for which even hell would loathe thee. 

Arn. No, thou know'st me not; I am not 

Of ihese men, though— 

Olimp. I judge thee, by thy mates , 

It is for God to judge thee as thou art. 
I sec thee purple with the blood of Rome \ 
Take mine, 'tis all thou e'er shall have of me! 
And here, upon the marble of this temple, 
Where the baptismal font baptized me God's, 
I offer him a blood less holy 
But not less pure {pure as it left me then, 
A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 
The saints have sanctified ! 

[Olimpia waves herhandto Arnold with dijt- 
,!ni >i, and dashes herself on the pavement from 
the Mar. 



Past III. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



357 



Am. Eternal God ! 

I feel ihee now ! Help ! help! She 's gone. 

Cces. (approaches.) I am here. 

Am. Thou! but oh, save her! 
Cccs. {assisting him to raise Olimpia.) She hath 
done it well ! 
The leap was serious. 

.'7m. Oh ! she is lifeless ! 

Cces. If 

She be so, I have naught to do with that : ■ 

The resurrection is beyond me. 

Am. Slave ! 

Cces. Ay, slave or master, 't is all one : melhinks 
Good words, however, are as well at times. 

Am. Words ! — Canst thou aid her? 

Cces. I will try. A sprinkling 

Of that same holy water may be useful. 

[He brings some in his helmet jrom the font. 

Am. 'Tis rruVd with blood. 

Cces. There is no cleaner now 

In Rome. 

Mm. How pale! how beautiful ! how lifeless! 
Alive or dead, ihou essence of all beauty, 
I love but thee ! 

Cces. Even 60 Achilles loved 

Penthesilea : with his form it seems 
You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. 

Jim. She breathes ! But no, 't was nothing, or the last 
Faint flutter life disputes with death. 

CcES. She breathes. 

Am. Thou say'st it ? Then 't is truth. 

Cas. You do me right — 

The devil speaks truth much oftener than he 's deem'd : 
He hath an ignorant audience. 

Am,(without attending to him.)Yes ! her heart beats. 
Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
I ever wish'd to beat with mine should vibrate 
To an assassin's pulse. 

Cces. A sage reflection, 

But somewhat late i' ihe day. Where shall we bear 

her? 
I say she lives. 

Jim. And will she live ! 

Cces. As much 

As dust can. 

Jim. Then she is dead ! 

Cces. Bah! bah! You are so, 

And do not know it. She will come to life — 
Such as you think so, such as you now are ; 
But we must work by human means. 

Am We will 

Convey her unto the Colonna palace. 
Where I have pitch'd my banner. 

Cces. Come then ! raise her up ! 

Jim. Softly ! 

Cces. As softly as they bear the dead, 

Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 

Am. But doth she live indeed ? 

Ccbs. Nay, never fear ! 

But, if you rue it after, blame not me. 

Jirn. Let her but live ! 

Cces. The spirit of her life 

Is yet within her breast, and may revive. 
Count ! count! I am your servant in all things, 
And this is a new office ; — 't is not oft 
I am employ'd in such ; but you perceive 
How stanch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
On earth you have often only fiends for friends ; 
Now / desert not mine. Soft ! bear her hence, 
The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit ! 
I am almost enamour'd of her, as 
Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 

.flm. Thou! 

Cces. I ! But fear not. I *1I not be your rival 

Am. Rival! 



Cces. I could be one right formidable j 

But since I slew the seven husbands of 
Tobias' future bride, (and after all 
'T was suck'd out by some incense,) I have laid 
Aside intrigue : 't is rarely worth the trouble 
Of paining, or — what is more difficult — 
Getting rid of your prize again : for there 's 
The rub ! at least to mortals. 

Jim . Prithee, peace ! 

Softly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes open! 

Cces. Like stars, no dnubt; for that's a metaphor 
For Lucifer and Venus. 

Am. To the palace 

Colonna, as I lotd you ! 

Cces. Oh ! I know 

My way through Rome. 

Jim. Now onward, onward ! Gently. 

[Exeunt, bearing Olimpia, — The scene closes. 



PART III. 

Scene I. — A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded 
by a wild but smiling country. Chorus of Pea" 
sants singing before the Gates. 



1. 

The wars are over, 

The spring is come, 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
They are happy, we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice 

2. 

The spring is come ; the violet's gone, 

The first-born child of the early sun : 

With us she is but a winter's flower, 

The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 

And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 

To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 

3. 

And when the spring conies with her host 
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse 
Her heavenly odour aod virgin hues. 

i. 
Pluck the others, but still remember 
Their herald out of dim December — 
The morning star of all the flowers, 
The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours ; 
Nor, mid the roses, e'er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 

Enter Cesar. 

Cces. {singing.) The wars are all over, 

Our swords are all idle, 

The steed bitos the bridle, 
The casque's on the wall. 
There 's rest for the rover , 

But his armour is rusty, 

And the veteran grows crusty, 
As he yawns in the hall. 

He drinks — but what's drinking? 

A mere pause from thinking ! 
No bugle awakes him with life-and- death call. 



But the hound bayeth loudly, 
The boar 's in the wood, 

And the falcon longs proudly 
To spring from her hood : 



35S 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



Part I. 



On the wrist of the noble 

She sits like a crest, 
And the air is in (rouble 

With birds from their nest. 

Cas. Oh ! shadow of glory ! 
Dim imane of war ! 

But the chase hath n:> story, 
Her hero no star, 

Since Nimrod the founder 
Of empire and chase, 

Who made the wootis wonder 
And quake for their race. 

When ihe lion was young, 
In the pride of his might] 

Then 't was sport for the strong 
To embrace him in fight; 



To go forth, with a pine 

For a spear 'gainst the mammoth, 
Or strike through the ravine 

At the foaming behemoth ; 
While man was in stature 

As lowers in our time, 
The first-born of nature, 

And, like her, sublime ! 



Bui the wars are over, 
The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
They are happy, and wc rejoice; 
Let their hearts have an echo from every voice 

[Exeunt the Peasant ry t singing. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH 

A. MYSTERY, 

FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP. VI. 

" And II came to pass .... thai the sons of God saw the daughter! of men that iliey were fair; and they 
look them wives of all which they chose." 



' And woman wailingfur her demon lover." — Coleridgt. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

ANGELS. 
Samiasa. 

AZAZIEL. 

Raphael the Archangel. 

MEN. 
Noah and his Sons. 
Irad. 
Japhet. 

WOMEN. 

Anah. 
Aholibamah. 

Chorus of Spirits of ' Ote Earth. — Chorus of Mortals, 



PART I. 

Scene I. — A woody and mountainous district near 
Mount Ararat* — Time., midnight. 

Enter Anah and Aholibamah. 

Anah. Our father sleeps : it is the hour when they 
Who love us are accustom'd to descend 
Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat : — 
How my heart beats ! 

Jlho. Let us proceed upon 

Our invocation. 

Anah. But the stars are hidden. 

T tremble. 

Jlho. So do I, but not with fear 
Of aught save their delay. , 

Anah. My sister, though 



I love Aza^iel more than oh, too much ! 

What was F going to say ? my heart grows impious. 

Jlho. And where is the impiety ofloving 
Celestial natures ? 

Anah. But, Aholibamah, 

I love our God less since his angel loved me : 
This cannot be of good ; and though I know not 
That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
Which are not ominous of right. 

Jlho. Then wed thee 

Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 
There's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long; 
Marry, and bring forth dust! 

Au<ih. I should have loved 

Azazfel not less were he mortal ; yet 
I am glad he is not. I can not outlive him. 
And when I think that his immortal wings 
Will one day hover o*erthe sepulchre 
Of the poor child of clay which so adored him, 
As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
Less terrible ; but yet I pity him : 
His grief will be of ages, or at least 
Mine would be such for him, were I the seraph, 
And he the perishable. 

Alio. Rather say, 

That ho will single forth some other daughter 
Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 

Anah. And if it should be so, and she loved him, 
Better thus than that he should weep for me. 

Jlho. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 
All seraph as he is, I *d spurn him from me. 
But to our invocation ! 'Tis the hour. 

Anah. Seraph! 

From thy sphere ! 

Whatever star contain thy glory ; 

In the eternal depths of heaven 



Part I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



359 



Albeit thou walchest with " the seven"* 
Though through space infinite and hoary 
Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 
Yel hear ! 
Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear ! 
And though she nothing is to thee, 
Yet think that thou art all to her. 
Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
Such pangs decreed to aught save me,— 
The bitterness of tears. 
Eternity is in thy years, 
Unborn, undying beauiy in thine eyes ; 
With me thou canst not sympathize, 
Except in love, and there thou must 
Acknowledge that more loving dust 
Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 

The face of him who made thee great, 
As he hath made me of the least 
Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
Yet, Seraph dear ! 
Oh hear ! 
For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
That thou forge t'st in thine eternity 

Her whose heart death could not keep from o'er* 
flowing 
For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
Great is their love who love in sin and fear; 
And such, I feel, are waging in my heart 
A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear, 
For sorrow is our element; 
Delight 
An Eden kept afar from sight, 

Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
The hour is near 
Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite. — 
Appear ! Appear ! 
Seraph ! 
My own Azaziel ! be but her;*, 
And leave the stars to their own light. 
Aho. Samiasa ! 

Wheresoe'er 
Thou rulest in the upper air — 
Or warring with the spirits who may dare 

Dispute with him 
Who made all empires, empire; or recalling' 
Some wandering star, which shoots through the abyss, 
Whose tenants dying, while their woild is fulling. 
Share the dim destiny of clay in this ; 
Or joining with the inferior cherubim, 
Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
Samiasa ! 
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 

Many may worship thee, that will I not : 
If that thy spirit down to minemav move thee, 
Descend and share my lot ! 

Though I be form'd of clay, 

And thou of beams 
More bright than those of day 
On Edeu's streams, 
Thine immortality can not repay 

With love more warm than mine 
My love. There is a ray 

In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, 
I feel was lighted at thy God's ami thine. 
It may be hidden long: death and decay 

Our mother Eve bequeathed us — hut my heart 
Defies it : though this life must pass away, 
Is that a cause for thee and me to part ? 
Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel — 
I feel my immortality o'ersweep 



* The archangel* laid Le be leveu In number. 



All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal, 

Like the eternal thunders of the deep, 
Into my ears this truth — " thou liv'st for ever !" 
But if it be in joy 

I know not. nor would know ; 
That secret rests with the Almighty giver 

Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and wo. 
But thee and me h<* never can destroy ; 

Change us he may, but not o'erwhelm ; we are 

Ofas eternal essence and must war 

With him if he will war with us : with thee 
I can share all things, even immortal sorrow; 

For thou ha=t ventured to share life with me 

And shall J shrink from thine eternity ? 

No ! though the serpent's sting should pierce me 
thorough, 

And thou thyself wert like the serpent coil 

Around me still ! and I will smile 
And curse thee not; but hold 
Thee in as warm a fold 

As but descend ; and prove 

A mortal's love 
For an immortal. If the skies contain 
More joy than thou canst give and take, remain ! 

Anah. Sister ! sister ! I view them winging 
Their bright way through the parted night. 

Aho. The clouds from off their pinions flinging, 
As though they bore to-morrow's light. 

Anah. But if our father see the sight ! 

Aho. He would but deem it was the moon 
Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
An hour too soon. 

Anah. They come ! he comes ! — Azaziel ! 

Aho. Hasto 

To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
My spirit, while they hover there, 
To Samiasa's breast ! 

. Inah. Lo ! they have kindled all the west, 
Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 

On Ararat's late secret crest 
A mild and many-colour'd bow, 
The remnant of their flashing palh, 
Now shines ! and now, behold ! it hath 
Return'd to night, as rippling foam, 

Which the leviathan hath lash'd 
From his unfathomable home, 
When sporting on the face of the calm deep, 

Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep 

Aho. They have touch'd earth! Samiasa! 

Anah. My Azaziel ! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. — Enter Irad and Japhet 

had. Despond not : wherefore wilt thou wander thus 
To add thy silence to the silent night, 
And lift thy tearful eye unto the stars? 
They cannot aid thee. 

Japh. But they sooth me — now 

Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
Methinks a being that is beautiful 
Becometh more so as it looks on beauty, 
The eternal beauty of undying things. 
Oh, Anah ! 

Irad. But she loves thee not. 

Japh. Alas ! 

Irad. And proud Aholibamah spurns me also. 

Japh. I feel lor thee too. 

Irad. Let her keep her pride. 

Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn : 
It may be, time too will avenge it. 

Japh. Canst thou 

Find joy in such a thought ? 

Irad, Nor joy nor sorrow. 



360 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



Part I. 



h loved her well ; I would have loved her better, 
Had love been met with love : as *t is, I leave "her 
To brighter destinies, if so she deems them, 

Japh. What destinies? 

Irad. I have some cause to think 

She loves another. 

Japk. Anah ! 

Irad. No ; her sister. 

Japh. What other? 

Irad. That I know not ; but her air, 

If not her words, tells me she loves another. 

Japh. Ay, but not Anah: she but. loves her God. 

Irad. Whate'ershe loveth, so she loves thee not, 
What can it profit thee ? 

Japk, True, nothing ; but 

[ love. 

Irad. And so did I. 

Japk. And now thou lov'st not, 

Or thmk'st thou lov'st not, art ihou happier? 

Irad. Yes. 

Japh. I pity thee. 

// ad. Me ! why ? 

Japh. For being happy, 

Deprived of that which makes my misery. 

Irad. I take thy taunt as part of thy distemper, 
And would not feel as thou dost for more shekels 
Than all our father's herds would bring if weigh'd 
Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 
The yellow dust they lry to barter with us, 
As if such useless and discolour'd trash, 
The refuse of the earth, could be received 
For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 
Our flocks and wilderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 
Sigh to the stars as wolves howl to the moon— 
I must hack to my rest. 

Japh. And so would I 

If I could rest. 

Irad. Thou wilt not to our tents then ? 

Japh. No, Irad ; i will to the cavern, whoso 
Mouth they say opens from the internal world 
To let the inner spirits of the earth 
Forth when they walk its surface. 

Irad. Wherefore so ? 

What would'st thou there ? 

Japh. Sooth further my sad spirit 

With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot, 
And I am hopeless. 

Trad. But 't is dangerous ; 

Strange sounds and sights have peopled it with terrors. 
I must go with thee, 

Japh. Irad, no; believe me 

I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 

Irad. But evil things will he thy foe the more 
As not being of them : turn thy steps aside, 
Or let mine be with thine. 

Japh. . No, neither, Irad : 

I must proceed alone. 

Irad. Then peace be with thee ! 

[Exit Iu AD. 

Japh. (solus.) Peace ! I have sought it whero it 
should be found, 
j n love — with love, too, which perhaps deserved it; 
And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 
A weakness of the spirit— listless days, 
And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 
Have come*upon me. Peace! what peace? the calm 
Of desolation, and the stillness of 
The untrodden forest, only broken by 
The sweeping tempest through its groaning boughs ; 
Such is the sullen or the fitful state 
Of my mind overworn. The earth's grown wicked, 
And many signs and portents have proclaimed 
A change at hand, and an overwhelming doom 
To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah ! 
When the dread hour denounced shall open wide 



The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 

Have lain within this bosom, folded from 

Tho elements ; this bosom, which in vain 

Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more vainly, 

While thine Oh, God ! at least remit lo her 

Thy wrath ! for she is pure amid the failing; 

As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench, 

Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah ! 

How would I have adored ihee, but ihou wouldst not ; 

And still would I redeem thee — see thee live 

When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 

By rock or shallow, the leviathan, 

Lord of the short less sea and watery world, 

Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 

[Exit Japhet. 

Enter Noah and Sh em. 

Noah, Where is thy brother Japhet ? 

Shem. He went forth 

According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
He said ; but, as I fear, lo bend his steps 
Towards Anah's tents, round which ho hovers nightly 
Like a dove round and round its pillaged nest; 
Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
Which opens lo the heart of Ararat. 

Noah. What dolh he there? It is an evil spo* 
Upon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
Than even wicked men resort there : ho 
Still loves this daughter of a fated race, 
Although he could not wed her if she loved him, 
And ihaTshe doth not. Oh, the unhappy hearts 
Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
The destiny and evil of these days, 
And that the hour approacheth, should indulge; 
In such forbidden yearnings ! Lead the way ; 
He must be sought for ! 

Shttn, Go not forward, father « 

I will seek Japhet. 

Nnah. Do not fear for me : 

All evil things are powerless on tho man 
Selected by Jehovah — let us on. 

Skem. To the tents of the father of the sinters ? 

Noah. No ; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 

[Exeunt Noah and Shem. 

Scene III.— The Mountains.— A Cavern t and the 
Rocks of Caucasus. 

Japh. (solus.) Ye wilds, that look eternal ; and thou 
cave, 
Which seem'sl unfathomable ; and ye mountains, 
So varied and so terrible in beauty ; 
Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
And toppling trees that twine their roots with stone 
In perpendicular places, where the fool 
Of man would tremble, could he reach them— yes, 
Ye look etornal ! Yet, in a few days, 
Perh ipe even hours, ye will be changed, rent, hurl'd 
Bi fore the mass of waters; and yon cave, 
Which seems to lead into a lower world, 
Shall have its depth aearch'd by the sweeping wave. 
And dolphins gambol in the lion's dm ! 

And man Oh, men ! my fellow-beings ! Who 

Shall weep above your universal gravo, 

Save I ? Who shall be left to weep ? My kinsmen, 

Alas! what am I better lhan ye are, 

That I must live beyond ye? Where shall be? 

The pleasant places where I ihought of Anah 

While I had hope ? or the more savage haunts, 

Scarce less beloved, where I despair'd for her? 

And can it be !— Shall yon exulting peak, 

Whose glittering top is like a distant star, 

Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep 1 

No more to have the morning sun break forth, 

And scatter back the mists in floating folds 



Part I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



361 



From its tremendous brow ? no more to have 

Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, 

Leaving it with a crown of many hues? 

No more to he the beacon of the world 

For angels to alight on, as the spot 

Nearest the stars ? And can those words " no more" 

Be meant for thee, for all things, save for us, 

And the predestined creeping things reserved 

By my sire to Jehovah's bidding? May 

He preserve them, and I not have the power 

To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters from 

A doom which even some serpent, with his mate, 

Shall 'scape to save his kind to be prolong'd, 

To hiss and sting through some emerging world, 

Reeking and dank from out the slime, whose ooze 

Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this until 

The salt morass subside into a sphere 

Beneath the sun, and be the monument, 

The sole and undistinguished sepulchre, 

Of yet quick myriads of all life? How much 

Breath will be stitl'd at once ! All beauteous world ! 

So young, so mark'd out for destruction, I 

With a cleft heart look on thee day by day, 

And night by night, thy number'd days and nights. 

I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 

Whose love had made me love thee more ; but as 

A portion of thy dust, [ cannot think 

Upon thy coming doom without a fcelin<* 

Such as — Oh God ! and canst thou [He pauses. 

A rushing sound from the cavern is heard, andshouts 
of laughter — afterwards a Spirit passes. 

Japh, In the name 

Of the Most High, what art thou ? 

Spirit, (laughs.) Ha! Ha! Ha! 

Japh. Bv all that earth holds holiest, speak ! 
Spirit (laughs.) Ha ! Ha ! 

Japh. By the approaching deluge! by the earth 
Which will he strangled by the ocean ! by 
The deep which will lay open all her fountains ! 
The heaven which will convert her clouds to seas, 
And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes ! 
Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct, 
Yet Awful Thing of Shadows, speak to me ! 
Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh? 
Spirit. Why weep'st thou ? 

Japh. For earth and all her children. 
Spirit. Ha! Ha! Ha! 

[Spirit vanishes. 
Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures of a world, 
The coming desolation of an orb, 
On which the sun shall rise and warm no life ! 
How the earth sleeps ! and all that in it is 
Sleep too upon the very eve of death ! 
Why should they wake to meet it ? What is here, 
Which look like death in life, and speak like things 
Born ere this dying world ? They come like clouds ! 

[Various SpiHts pass from the cavern. 
Spirit. Rejoice ! 
The abhorred race 
Which could not keep in Eden their high place, 

But listen'd to the voice 
Of knowledge without power, 
Are nigh the hour 
Of death ! 
Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow, 

Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time 's sapping 
motion, 
Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-morrow ! 
Earth shall be ocean ! 
And no breath, 
Save of the winds, be on the unbounded wave ! 
Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot : 
Not even a rock from out the liquid grave 
Shall lift its point to save. 
2 V 



Or show the place where strong despair hath died, 
After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
For the expected ebb which cometh not; 
All shall be void, 
Destroy'd ! 
Another element shall be the lord 

Of life, and the abhorr'd 
Children of dust be quench'd ; and of each hue 
Of earth naught left but the unbroken blue; 
And of the variegated mountain 
Shall naught remain 
Unchanged, nor of the level plain ; 
Cedar and pine shall lift their lops in vain. 
All merged within the universal fountain, 
Man, earih,and fire, shall die, 
And sea and sky 
Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 
Upon the foam 
Who shall erect a home ? 
Japh. (coming f one ard.) My sire! 
Earth's seed shall not expire ; 
Only the evil shall be put away 

From day. 
A vaunt! ye exulting demons of the waste! 
Who howl your hideous joy 
When God destroys whom you dare not destroys 
Hence ! haste ! 
Back to your inner caves ! 
Until the waves 
Shall search you in your secret place, 
And drive your sullen race 
Forth, to be roll'd upon the tossing winds 
In restless wretchedness along all space ; 
Spirit. Son of the saved ! 

When thou and thine have braved 
The wide and warrni2 element ; 
When the great barrier of the deep is rent, 
Shall thou and thine be good or happv ! — No ! 
Thy new world and new race shall be of wo — 
Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
Less than the glorious giants, who 
Yet walk the world in pride, 
The Sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
Thine shall be nothing of the past, save tears. 
And art thou not ashamed 

Thus to survive, 
And eat, and drink, and wive ? 
With a base heart so far subdued and tamed, 
As even to hear this wide destruction named, 
Without such grief and courage, as should rathe 

Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave, 
Than seek a shelter with thy favour'd father, 
And build thy city o'er the drown'd earth's grave? 
Who would outlive their kind, 
Except the base and blind ? 
Mine 
Hatelh thine 
As of a different order in the sphere, 
But not our own. 
There is not one who hath not left a throne 

Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here 
Rather than see his mates endure alone. 

Go, wretch ! and give 
A life like thine to other wretches — live ! 
And when the annihilating waters roar 

Above what they have done, 
Envy the giant patriarchs then no more, 
And scorn thy sire as the surviving one ! 
Thyself for being his son! 

Chorus of Spirits issuing from the cavern* 
Rejoice ! 
No more the human voice 
Shall vex our joys in middle air 
With prayer; 



362 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



Part I. 



No more 
Shall they adore; 
And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 

The prayer-exacting Lord, 
To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
Is vice ; 
We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour'd 
Until one element shall do the work 

ufall in chaos ; until they, 
The creatures proud of their pour clay, 
Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall lurk 
In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
The deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 

Where even the brutes, in their despair. 
Shall cease to pray on man ami on each other, 

And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
Beside the lamb, as though he were his brother; 
Till all things shall be as they were, 
Silent and ui created, save the sky: 
While a brief truce 
I> made with Death, who shall forbear 
The little remnant of the past creation, 
To generate new nations for his use ; 

This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 

Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime, 
When the hot sun hath baked the reeking soil 
Into a world, shall give again to time 
New beings — years — diseases — sorrow — crime — 
With all companionship of hate and toil. 

Until 

Japh. (interrupting them.) The eternal will 

Shall design to expound this dream 
Of good and evil ; and redeem 

Unto himself all times, all things ; 
And, gaiherM under his almighty wings, 
Abolish hell! 
And to the expiated Earth 
Restore the beauty of her birth, 
Her Eden in an endless paradise, 
Where man no more can fall as once he fell, 
And even the very demons shall do well ! 
Spirits. And when shall take effect this woudrous 

spell ? 
Japh. When the Redeemer comelh ; first in pain, 

And then in glory. 
Spirits. Meantime still struggle in the mortal chain, 
Till earth wax hoary ; 
War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain, 

Until the clouds look gory 
With the blood reeking from each battle plain ; 
New times, new climes, new arts, new men ; but still 
The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill, 
Shall be among your race in different forms ; 
But the same moral storms 
Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
In a few hours the glorious giant's graves.* 

Chorus of Spirits. 

Brethren, rejoice ! 
Mortal, farewell' 
Hark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 

The winds, too, plume their piercing wings * 
The clouds have nearly fill'd (heir springs ; 
The fountains of tho great deep shall be broken, 

And heaven set wide her windows ; while mankind 
View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 
We hear the sound they cannot hr.ir, 
Tho mustering thunders of the threatening sphere 
Yet a few hours their coming is delay 'd ; 
Their flashing banners, folded still on high, 



Yet undisplay'd, 
Save to the Spirit's all-pervading eye. 

Howl! howl! oh Earth ! 
Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth : 
Tremble, ye mountains, soon to shrink below 

The ocean's overflow! 
The wave shall break upon your cliffs ; and shells, 

The hllle shells, of ocean's least things be 
Deposed where now the eagle's offspring dwells — 
How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea! 
And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
Unauwer'd, save by the encroaching swell; — 
While man shall long in vain for his broad wings, 

The wings which could not save : — 
Where could he rest them, while the whole space brings 
Naught to bis eye beyond the deep, his grave ? 
Brethren, rejoice! 
And loudly lift each superhuman voice — 
All die, 
Save the ■tight remnant ofSeth's seed — 

The seed of Seth, 
Exempt for future sorrow's sake from death. 
But of the sons of Cain 
None shall remain ; 
And all his goodly daughters 
Must lie beneath the desolating waters ; 
Or, floating upward, with their long hair laid 
Along the wave, the cruel Heaven upbraid, 
Which would not spare 
Beings even in death so fair. 
It is decreed, 
All die ! 
And to the universal human cry 
The universal silence shall succeed ! 
Fly, brethren, fly ! 
But still rejoice! 
We fell ! 
They fall ! 
So perish all 
These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from hell • 
[The Spirits disappear, soaring upwards. 
Japh. (solus.) God hath proclaim'd the destiny 0/ 
earth ; 
My father's ark of safety hath announced it; 
The very demons shriek it from their caves; 
Tho scroll* of Enoch prophesied it long 
In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
More to the mind than thunder to the ear : 
And yet men listened not, nor listen ; but 
Walk darkling to their doom ; which, though so nigh, 
Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief, 
Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty purpose, 
Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
No sign yet hangs its banner in the air; 
The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture ; 
The sun will rise upon the earth's last day 
As on the fourth day of creation, when 
God said unto him, "Shine !" and he broke forth 
Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
Unform'd forefather of mankind — but roused 
Before the human orison the earlier 
Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, 
Winch in the open firmament of heaven 
Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
Heaven first each day before the Adamites : 
Their matins now draw nigh — the east is kindling— 
And they will sing ! and day will break ! Both near, 
So near the awful close ! For these must drop 
Their outworn pinions on the deep ; and day, 
After the bright course of a few brief morrows,— 
Ay, day will rise ; but upon what ? — a chaos, 
Which was ere day; and which, renew'd, makes time 



»kJk And th V e ,? er * P5P U io ^"edayi, *"<! *ft« . mi»htj men, ■ The book of Enoch, prewr'fcd by th» Elhiopimi. U laid by then t* 
wbkn were f ou ra9Q of renown."— Gintiis. 1 be toitnor lo the flood. . ' 



Part I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



363 



Nothing ! for, without life, what are the hours ? 

No more to dust than is elerniiy 

Unto Jehovah, who created both. 

Without him, even eternity would be 

A void : without man, time, as made for man. 

Dies with man, and is swallow'd in that deep 

Which has no fountain ; as his race will be 

Devour'd by that which drowns his infant world. — 

What have we here? Shapes of both earth and air ? 

No— all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 

I cannot trace their features ; but their forms, 

How lovehly they move along the side 

Of the gray mountain, scattering its niisr ! 

And after the swart savage spirits, whose 

Infernal immortality pourM forth 

Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 

Welcome as Edt-n. It may be they come 

To tell me the reprieve of our voung world, 

For which I have so often prav'd — They come! 

Anah ! oh, God ! and with her 

Enter S ami as a, Azaziel, Anah, and Aholib amah. 

Anah. Japhet ! 

Sam. Lo ! 

A son of Adam : 

Aza. What doth the earthbom here, 

While all his race are slumbering? 

Japh, Angel ! what 

Dost thou on earth when thou shmild'st be on high ? 

Aza, Know'st thou not, or forget'st thou, that a part 
Of our great function is to guard thine earth ? 

Japh. But all good angels have forsaken earth, 
Which is condemn'd ; nay, even the evil fly 
The approaching chaos. Anah ! Anah ! my 
In vain, and long, and still to be beloved \ 
Why walk'st thou with this spirit, in those hours 
When no good spirit longer lights below? 

Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee ; yet, yet 
Forgive me— * — 

Japh. May the Heaven, which soon no more 

Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly tempted. 

A ho. Back to thy tents, insulting son of Noah ! 
We know thee not. 

Japfu The hour may come when thou 

May'st know me better ; and thy sister know 
Me still the same which I have ever been. 

Sam. Son of the patriarch, who hath ever been 
Upright before his God, whata'er thy gifis, 
And thy words seem of sorrow, mix*d with wrath, 
How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
Wrong? 

Japh. Wrong ! the greatest of all wrongs ; but ihou 
Say'st well, though she be dust, I did not, could not, 
Deserve her. Farewell, Anah! I have said 
That word so often ! but now say it, ne'er 
To be repeated. Angel! or whate'er 
Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
To save this beautiful — these beautiful 
Children of Cain? 

Aza. From what ? 

Japh. And is it so, 

That ye too know not? Angels! angels! ye 
Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now roust 
Partake his punishment ; or at the least 
My sorrow. 

Sam. Sorrow ! I ne'er thought till now 

To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 

Japh. And hath not the Most High expounded them? 
Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 

Aho. So bo it ! 

If they love as they are loved, they will not shrink 
More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
An immortality of agonies 
With Samiasa ! 



Anah. Sister ! sister ! speak not 

Thus. 

Aza. Fearest thou, my Anah ? 

Anah. Yes, for thee 

I would resign the greater remnant of 
This little life of mine, before one hour 
Of thine eternity should know a pang. 

Japh. It is for hint) then ! for the seraph thou 
Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 
Left thy God too ! for unions like to these, 
Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot 
Be happy or be hallow'd. Wc are sent 
Upon the earth to toil and die ; and they 
Are made to minister on high unto 
The Highest : hut if he can save thee, soon 
The hour will come in which celestial aid 
Alone can do so. 

Anah. Ah ! he speaks of death. 

Sam. Of death to us ! and those who are with us : 
But that the man seems full of sorrow, I 
Could smile. 

Japh. I grieve not for myself, nor fear 

I am safe, not fur my own deserts, but those 
Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
His power was greater of redemption ! or 
That by exchanging my own life for hers, 
Who could alone have made mine happy, she, 
The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
The seed of Seth ! 

Aho. And dost thou think that we, 

With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's, blood 
Warm in our veins, — strong Cain ! who was begot 

ten 
In Paradise, — would mingle with Seth's children? 
Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's dotage ? 
No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril! 
Our race hath alway dwelt apart from thine 
Prom the beginning, and shall do so ever. 

Japh. I did not speak to thee, Aholibamah! 
Too much of the forefather whom thou vauntest 
Has come down in that haughty blood which springs 
From him who shed the first, and that a brother's ! 
But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee mine, 
Albeit thou art not ; 't is a word I cannot 
Part with, although I must from thee. My Anah ! 
Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel 
Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
Survived in thee, so muck unlike thou art 
The rest of the stern Cainites, save in beauty, 
For all of them are fairest in their favour 

Aho. [interrupting him.) And wouldst thou have her 
like our father's foe 
Tn mind, in soul ? If / partook thy thought, 
And dream'd that aught of Abel was in her! — 
Get thee hence, son of Noah ; thou makest strife. 

Japh. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so! 

Aho. But 

He slew not Seth ; and what hast thou to do 
With other deeds between his God rtnd him? 

Japh. Thou speakest well: his God hath judged 
him, and 
T had not named his deed, but that thyself 
Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
From what he had done. 

.']},n. He was our father's father* 
The eldest bom of man, the strongest, bravest, 
And most enduring :— Shall I blush for him 
From whom we had our being? Look upon 
Our race ; behold their stature and their beauty, 
Their courage, strength, and length of days 

Japh. They are number*^ 

Aho. Be it so! but while yet their hours endure, 
I glory in my brethren and our fathers. 



364 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



Part I. 



Japk. My sire and race but glory in their God, 
Anah ! and thou ? 

Jinah. Wbate'er our God decrees, 

The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey, 
And will endeavour patiently to obey. 
But could I dare to pray in this dread hour 
Of universal vengeance, (if such should be,) 
It would nut be to live, alone exempt 
Of all my house. My sister ! oh, my sister ! 
What were the world, or other worlds, or all 
The brightest future, withou! the sweet past — 
Thy love — my father's — all the life, and all 
The things which sprang up with me, like the stars 
Making my dim existence radiant with 
Soft lights which were nut mine? Aholibamah! 
Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find it* 
I abhor death, because that thou musl die. 

,1/iu. What ! hath this dreamer, with his father's ark, 
The bugbear he hath buill 10 scare the world, 
Shaken my sister? Are we not the loved 
Of seraphs ? and if we were not, must we 
Cling to a son of Noah for our lives? 

Rather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 

The worst of dreams, the fantasies engender d 
By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
Shall shake these solid mountains, this firm earth, 
And bid those clouds and waters take a shape 
Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
Have seen them wear on their eternal way? 
"Who shall do this ? 

Japk. He whose one word produced them. 

./'<>. Who heard that word? 

Japk. The universe, which leap'd 

To life before it. Ah ! smilest thou still in scorn ? 
Turn to thy seraphs ; if they attest it not, 
They arc none. 

Sam. Abolihamah, own thy God ! 

J&ko. I have ever hail'd our Maker, Samiasa, 
As thine, and mine : a God of love, not sorrow. 

Japk. Alas! what else is love but sorrow ? Even 
He who made earth in love had SOOD to grieve 
Above its first and best inhabitants. 

Alio. 'T is said so. 

Japk, It is even so. 

Enter Xoaii tmd Shem. 

.\'.,<,U. Japhet! What 

Dost thou here with these children of the wicked? 
Dread'.st thou not to partake their coming doom. 

Japk. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
To save an earihborn being; and behold) 
These are not of the sinful, since they have 
The fellowship of angels. 

JVooA. These are they, then, 

Who leave the throne of God, to take them wives 
From out the race of Cain ; the sons of heaven, 
Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty ? 

Aza. Patriarch ! 

Thou hast said it. 

Noah. Wo, wo, wo to such communion ! 

Has not. God made a barrier betw.-.-M earth 
And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind ? 

Sam. Was not man made in high Jehovah's image? 
Did God not love what he had made? And what 
Do we hut imitate and emulate 
His love unto created love ? 

JVVoA. I am 

But man, and was not made to judge mankind, 
Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
Has deign'd to c mrimne with me, and reveal 
His judgments, I reply, that the descent 
Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
i'nio a perishable and perishing, 
Even ou the very cue of perishing, world, 
Cannot be good. 



Aza. What ! though it were to save? 

Noah. Not ye in all your glory cao redeem 
What he who made you glorious hath condemn'd. 
Were your immortal mission safety, 'twould 
Be general, not for two, though beautiful ; 
And beautiful they arc, but not less 
mn'd. 

Japk. Oh father! say it not. 

Nook, Son! son! 

If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
That they exist ; ihey soon shall cease to be, 
While Lhou shall be the sire of a new world, 
And better. 

Japh. Let me die with this, and them ! 

.V,,/A. Thou shouldst for such a thought, but shall 
Who can redeems thee. [not; he 

Sam. And why him and thee, 

Mori than what ho, thy son, prefers to both? 

.V ah. Ask him who made thee greater than myself 
And mine, but not less subject to his own 
Alroightiness, Audio! Ins mildest and 
Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 

Enter Raphael the Archangel. 
Rapk* Spirits ! 

Whose seat is near the throne, 
What do ye here? 
Is thus a seraph's duly to be shown, 
Now that the hour is near 
When earth must he alone? 
Return! 
Adore and burn 
In glorious homage with the elected " seven." 
Your place is heaven. 
Semi. Raphael! 

The first and fairest of the sons of God, 

How long hath this been law, 
Thai earth by angels musl be left untrod ? 

Earth ! which oft saw 
Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod ! 
The world he loved, and made 
For love ; and oft have we obey'd 
His frequent mission wiih delighted pinions: 

Adoring him in his least works display'd; 
Watching this youngest star of his dominions ; 
And, as the latest birth of his great word. 
Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
Whv is thy brow severe ? 
And wherefore speak'st lhou of destruction near* 
R.iph. Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
In their true place, with the angelic choin. 
Written in fire 
They would have seen 
Jehovah's late decree, 
And not inquired their Maker's breath of me ■ 
Hut ignorance must ever bo 
A part of sin ; 
And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow less 

As they wax proud within ; 
For Hlindruss is the first-born of Excess. 

When all good angels left the world, ye slaved, 
Stung with strange passions, and debased 

Bv mortal feelings for a mortal maid ; 
But ye arc patdou'd thus far, and replaced 
With your pure equals. Hence ! away ! away ! 
Or stay, 
And lose eternity by that delay ! 
Aza. And thou ! if earth be thus forbidden 
In the decree 
To us until this moment hidden, 
Dost thou not err as we 
In being here ? 
Raph. I came to call ye back to your fit sphere, 
In the great name and at the word of God. 
Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 



Part I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



365 



Thai which I came to do: till now we trod 
Together the eternal space ; together 

Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must die ! 
Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, 

And much which she inherits ; but oh ! why 
Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd, 
Without involving ever some vast void 
In the immortal ranks ? immortal still 

In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
Our brother Satan fell ; his burning will 
Rather than long worship dared endure ! 
But ye who still are pure ! 
Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest one, 

Think how he was undone! 
And think if tempting man can compensate 
For heaven desired too late ! 
Long have I warr'd, 
Long must I war 
With him who deem'd it hard 
To be created, and to acknowledge him 
Who midst the cherubim 
Made him as suns to a dependent star, 
Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 

I loved him — beautiful he was : oh heaven ! 
Save his who made, what beauty and what power 
Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 
In which he fell could ever be forgiven ! 
The wish is impious : but, oh ye ! 
Yet undestroy'd, be vvarn'd ! Eternity 

With him, or with his God, is in your choice : 
He hath not tempted you ; he cannot tempt 
The angels, from his further snares exempt: 

Eut man hath listen'd to his voice, 
And ye to woman's — beautiful she is, 
The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
The snake but vanquish'd dust ; but she will draw 
A second host from heaven, to break heaven's law. 
Yet, yet, oh fly ! 
Ye cannot die ; 
But they 
Shall pass away, 
While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky 

For perishable clay, 
Whose memory in your immortality 

Shall long outlast the sun which gave them day. 
Think how your essence differelh from theirs 
In all hut suffering! why partake 
The agony to which they must be heirs — 
Born to be plough'd with years, and sown with cares, 
And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil ? 
Even had their days been left to toil their path 
Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's wrath, 
Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoil. 

Aho. Let them fly ! 

I hear the voice which says that all must die 
Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs died; 
And that on high 
An ocean is prepared, 
While from below 
The dead shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 

Few shall be spared, 
It seems ; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
Sister! since it is so, 
And the eternal Lord 
In vain would be implored 
For the remission of one hour of wo, 
Let us resign even what we have adored, 
And meet the wave; as we would meet the sword, 

If not unmoved, yet undismay'd. 
And nailing less for us than those who shall 
Survive in mortal or immortal thrall, 

And, when the fatal waters are allay'd, 
Weep for the myriads who can weep no more. 
Fly, seraphs ! to your own eternal shore, 



Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
Our portion is to die, 
And yours to live for ever : 
But which is best, a dead eternity, 
Or living, is but known to the great Giver. 
Obey him, as we shall obey ,* 
I would not keep this life of mine in clay 
An hour beyond his will ; 
Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace, 
For all the mercy which Seth's race 
Find still. 
Fly! 
And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven, 
Think that my love still mounts with thee on high, 

Samiasa ! 
And if I look up with a tearless eye, 

'T is that an angel's bride disdains to weep. — 
Farewell ! Now rise, inexorable deep ! 
Anah. And must we die ? 

And must I lose thee too, 

Azaziel ? 
Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 

Thy prophecies were true! 
And yet thou wert so happy ton ! 
The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new, 
But yet depart! 
Ah ! why ? 
Yet let me not retain thee- fly ! 
My pangs can be but brief; but thine would be 
Eternal, if repulsed from heavt-n for me. 
Too much already hast thou deign'd 
To one of Adam's race ! 
Our doom is sorrow: not to us alone, 
But to the spirits who have notdisdain'd 
To love us, cometh anguish with disgrace. 
The first who taught us knowledge hath hpen hurl'd 
From his once archangelic throne 
Into some unknown world : 

And thou, Azaziel ! No — 
Thou shalt not suffer wo 
For me. Away ! nor weep ! 
Thuu canst not weep ; but yet 
Mayst suffer more, not weeping: then forget 
Her, whom the surges of the all-strangling deep 

Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly ! 
Being gone, 'twill be less difficult to die. 
Japk. Oh say not so! 

Father ! and thou, archangel, thou ! 
Surely celestial mercy lurks below 
That pure severe serenity of brow : 

Let them not meet this sea without a shore, 
Save in our ark, or let me be no more! 

Noah. Peace, child of passion, peace! 
If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 

Do God no wrong ! 
Live as he wills it — die, when he ordains, 
A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 

Cease, or be sorrowful in silence ; cease 
To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint 
Would'st thou have God commit a sin for thee? 
Such would it be 
To alter his intent 
For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man ! 
And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can. 
Japk. Ay, father ! but when they are gone, 
And we are all alone, 
Floating upon the azure desert, and 
The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 
And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 
Buried in its immeasurable breast, 
Who, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then command? 
Can we in desolation's peace have rest? 
Oh God ! be thou a God, and spare 
Yet while *t is time! 
Renew not Adam's fall : 



366 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



Part I. 



Mankind were then but twain, 
But they are numerous now as are the waves 

Anii the tremendous rain, 
Whose drops shall be less thick than would their graves, 
Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 
•VoaA. Silence, vain boy! each word of thine 's a crime 
Angel! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 

Raph. Seraphs ! these mortals speak in passion : Ye 
Who are, or should be, passionless and pure, 
May now return with me. 

Sam. It may not be; 

We have chosen, and will endure. 
Raph. Say'st thou ? 

>ha. He hath said it, and I say, Amen 

Raph. Again! 

Then from this hour, 
Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 
And aliens from your God, 
Farewel 1 ! 
Japh. Alas! where shall they dwell? 

Hark, hark! Deep sounds, and deeper still, 
Are howling from the mountain's bosom : 
There's not a breath of wind upon the hill, 

Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom: 
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 
Noah. Hark, hark! the sea-birds cry! 
In clouds ihey overspread the lurid sky, 
And hover round the mountain, where before 
Never a white wing, wetted by the wave, 

Yet dared to soar, 
Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave. 
Soon it shall be their only shore, 
And then, no more ! 
Japh. The sun ! the sun! 

He riseth, but his better light is gone ; 
And ;l black circle, bound 
His glaring disk around, 
Proclaims earth's last of summer days haih shone! 

The clouds return into the. hues of night, 
Save where their brazen-colour'd edges streak 
The verge where brighter morns were wont to break. 

Noah. And lo! yon Hash of light, 
The distant thunder's harbinger, appears, 

It cometh ! hence, away ! 
Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 
Hence to where our all-hallow'd ark uprears 
Its safe and reckless sides. 
Japh. Oh, father, stay! 
I>eave not my Anah to the swallowing tides! 

Noah. Must we not leave all life to such ? Begone! 
Japh. Not I. 

Noah. Then die 

With them! 
How daresl thou look on that prophetic skv, 
And seek to save what all things now condemn, 
In overwhelming unison 
With just Jehovah's wrath ! 
Japh. Can rage and justice join in the same path ? 
Noah. Blasphemer! darest thou murmur even DOW? 
Raph. Patriarch, he still a father! smooth thy brow : 
Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink ; 
Ho knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 

With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters ; 
But be, when passion passeth, good as thou, 
Nor perish like heaven's children with man's daugnters. 
Alio. The tempest cometh ; heaven and earth unite 
For the annihilation of all life. 
Unequal is the strife 
Between our strength and the Eternal Might ! 
Sam. But ours is with thee ; we will bear ye far 
To some untroubled star, 
Where thou and Anah shalt partake our lot : 

And if thou dost not weep for ihy lost earth, 
Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 

*$no,h. Oh! my dear father's tents, my place of birth, 



And mountains, land, and woods! when ye are not, 
Who shall dry up my tears? 

. tea. Thy spirit-lord. 

Feu ii"' I though we are shut from heaven, 
Yet much is ours, whence we can not be driven. 

Raph. Rebel ! thy words are wicked, as thy deeds 
Shall henceforth be hut weak : the flaming sword, 
Which chased the first-born out of Paradise, 
Still Hashes in the angelic hands. 

JHza. It cannot slay us: threaten dust with death, 
And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds. 
What are thy swords in our immortal eyes? 

Raph. The moment cometh to approve thy strength; 
And learn at length 
How vain to war with what thy God commands: 
Thy former force was in ihy faith. 

JZnter Mortals, flying for refuge. 
Chorus of Mortals. 

The heavens and earth are mingling — God ! oh God ! 

What have we done ? Yet spare ! 

Hark ! even the forest beasts howl forth their pray'r 1 

The dragon crawls from out his den, 

To herd, in terror, innocent with men ; 
And the birds scream their agony through air. 
Yet, yet, Jehovah! yet withdraw ihy rod 
Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair! 
Hear not man only but all nature plead ! 

Raph. Farewell, thou earth! ye wretched sons of clay 
I cannot, must not, aid you. 'T is decreed ! 

[Exit Raphael, 

Japh. Some clouds sweep on as vultures for iheir prey, 
While others, fiVd as rocks, await tho word 
At which their wrathful vials shall be pour'd. 
No azure more shall robe the firmament, 
Nor spangled stars be glorious : Death hath risen • 
In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
Hath wound itself around the dying air. 

,3x0. Come, Anah ! quit this chaos-founded prison, 
To which the elements again repair, 
To turn it into what it was : beneath 
The shelter of these wings thou shall be safe, 
As was the eagle's nestling once within 
Its mother's. — Let the coming chaos chafe 
With all its elements! Heed not their din! 
A brighter world than this, where thou shalt breathe 
Ethereal life, will we explore: 
These darken'd clouds are not tho only skies. 

[Azaziel and SamiasaJIij off, and disappear 
with Anah and Aholibamaii. 

Juph. They are gone! They have disappeared amid 
the roar 
Of the forsaken world ; and never more, 
Whether they live, or die with all earth's life 
Now near its last, can aught restore 
Anah unto these eyes. 

Chorus of Mortals. 
Oh son of Noah ! mercy on thy kind ! 
What ! wilt thou leave us all — all — all behind ? 
While safe amid the elemental strife, 
Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark ? 
./ Mother^ [offering her infant to Japhet.) Oh let 
this child embark ! 
I brought him forth in wo, 

But thought it j-iy 
To see him to my bosom clinging so. 
Why was he born ? 
What hath he done — 
My unwean'd son — 
To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn ? 
What is there in this milk of mine, that death 
Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 
My boy, 



Part I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



367 



And roll the waters o'er his placid breath ? 


Nor longer this weak voice before his throne 


Save him, ihou seed of Seth ! 


Be heard in supplicating tone, 


Or cursed be — with him who made 


Still blessed be the Lord, 


Thee and thy race, for which we are bet ray M ! 


For what is past, 


Japh. Peace ! 't is no hour for curses, but for prayer ! 


For that which is : 


Chorus of Mortals. 


For all are his, 
From first to last — 


For prayer ! ! ! 


Time— space — eternity — life — death — 


And where 


The vast known and immeasurable unknown. 


Shall prayer ascend, 


He made, and can unmake ; 


When the swoln clouds unto the mountains bend 


And shall /, for a little gasp of breath 


And burst, 


Blaspheme and groan ? 


And gushing oceans every barrier rend, 


No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith, 


Until the very deserts know no thirst .' 
Accurst 


Nor quiver, though the universe may quake. 


Be he who made thee and thy sire ! 


Chorus of Mortals. 


We deem our curses vain ; we must expire ; 


Where shall we fly? 


But as we know the worst, 


Not to the mountains high ; 


Why should our hymn be raised, our knees be bent 


For now their torrents rush, with double roar, 


Before the implacable Omnipotent, 


To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 


Since we must fall the same ? 


Already grasps each drowning hill, 


If he hath made earth, let it be his shame, 


Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 


To make a world for torture. — Lo! they come, 
The loathsome waters, in their rage ! 




Enter a Woman. 


And with their roar make wholesome nature dumb! 


Woman. Oh, save me, save! 


The forest's trees, (coeval with the hour 


Our valley is no more : 


When Paradise upsprung, 


My father and my father's tent, 


Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, 


My brethren and my brethren's herds, 


Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung,) 


The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent 


So massy, vast, yet green in their old age, 


And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds, 


Are overtopt, 


The little rivulet which freshen'd all 


Their summer blossoms by the surges loptj 


Our pastures green, 


Which rise, and rise, and rise. 


No more are to be seen. 


Vainly we look up to the lowering skies — 


When to the mountain cliff* I climb' d this morn, 


They meet the seas, 


I turn'd to bless the spot, 


And shut our God from our beseeching eyes 


And not a leaf appear'd about to fall i— 


Fly, son of Noah, fly ! and take thine ease 


And now they are not! — 


In thine allotted ocean-tent ; 


Why was I born ? 


And view, all floating o'er the element, 


Japh. To die ! in youth to die ; 


The corpses of the world of thy young days: 


And happier in that doom, 


Then to Jehovah raise 


Than lo behold the universal tomb 


Thy song of praise ! 


Which I 


A Mortal. Blessed are the dead 


Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain. 


Who die in the Lord ! 


Why, when all perish, why must I remain? 


And though the waters be o'er earth outspread, 


[The waters rise: Men fly in every direction 


Yet, as his word, 


many are overtaken by the waves; the 


Be the decree adored ! 


Chorus of Mortals disperses in search of 


He gave me life — he taketh but 


safetyiip the mountains: Japhet remains 


The breath which is his own : 


upon a rock, while the Jirk floats towards 


And hough these eyes should be for ever shut, 


him in the distance. 



the island; 



CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES. 



The foundation of the following story will be found 
partly in the account of ihe mutiny of the Bounty in 
ihe South Seas, (in 1789,) and partly in "Mariner's 
•Account of the Tonga Islands." 

CANTO I. 



The morning watch was come ; the vessel lay 
Her course, and gently made her liquid way ; 
The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow 
In furrows form'd bv thai majestic plough ; 
The waters wilh their world were all before 
Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore. 
The quiet night, no<v dappling, 'gan to wane, 
Dividing darkness from ihe liawnnij main ; 
The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, 
Swan high, as eager of the coming ray; 
The stars from broader beams began to creep, 
And lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 
The sail resumed its lately shadow'd while, 
And the wind fluiter'd with a freshening llight ; 
The purpling ocean owns the coming sun, 
But ere by break — a deed is to be done. 

II. 
The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 
Secure in those by whom the watch was kept : 
His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore, 
Of toils rewarded, and of danger's o'er *, 
His name was added to the glorious roll 
Of those who search the storm-surrounded Pole. 
The worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure, 
Ami why should not his slumber be secure ? 
Alas! his deck was trod bv unwilling feet. 
And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet; 
Young hearts, which languished for some sunny isle, 
"Where summer years and summer women smile; 
Men without country, who, too long estranged, 
Had (bund no native home, or found it changed, 
And, half uncivilized, prererr'd the cave 
Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave— 
The gushing fruits thai nature g ive tmtill'd ; 
The wood without a path but where they will'd ; 

The $eld o'er which promise is plenty pour'd 

Her horn ; die equal land withoul a lord ; 

The wish — which ages have not yet subdued 

In man — to have no mastei save his mooJ ; 

The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold, 

The glowing sun and produce all its gold ; 

The freedom which can call each grot a home ; 

The general garden, where all steps may roam, 

Where Nature owns a nation as her child, 

Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild ; 

Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know ; 

Their unexploring navy, the canoe ; 

Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase; 

Their strangest sight, an European face : — 

Such was the country which these strangers yearn'd 

To see again ; a sight they dearly earned. 



Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe^is at the gate! 

Awake! awake! Alas! it is loo late* 

Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 
Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear. 
Thy limbs are hound, the bayonet at thy breast; 
The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest ; 
Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command 
The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand ; 
That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 
Its desperate escape from duty's path, 
Glares round thee, in the scarce believing eyes 
Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice : 
For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage, 
Unless he drain the wine of passion — rage. 

IV, 

[n vain, not silenced by the eye of death, 

Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath :— 

They come not ; they are few, and, over-awed, 

Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud. 

In vain thou dost demand the cause : a curse 

Is all the answer, wilh the threat of worse. 

Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, 

Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid. 

The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast 

In hands as sieel'd to do the deadly rest. 

Thou darest them to the worst, exclaiming — "Fire! ' 

But they who pitied not could yet admire ; 

Some lurking remnant of their former awe 

Restrain'd them longer than their broken law ; 

They would not dip their souls at once in blood, 

But left thee to the mercies of the flood. 

v. 
( Hoist out the boat!" was now the leader's cry , 
And who dare answer " No!*' to Mutiny, 
In the first dawning of the drunken hour, 
The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power? 
The boat is lower'd with all the haste of hate, 
With ils slight plank between thee and thy fate 
Her only cargo such a scant supply 
A- promises the death their hands deny ; 
And just enough of water and of bread 
To keep, some days, the dying from the dead : 
Some cordage, canvass, sails, and lines, and twine, 
Hill treasures all to hermits of the brine, 
Were added after, to the earnest prayer 
Of those who saw no hope save sea and air ; 
And last, thai trembling vassal of the Pole — 
ling compass — Navigation's soul. 

VI. 

And now the self-elected chief finds time 
To stun the first sensation of his crime, 
And raise it in his followers — " Ho ! (he bowl • 
Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 
" Brandy for heroes !" Burke could onoe exclaim- 
No doubt a liquid path to epic fame ; 
And such the new-born heroes found it here, 
And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer 

Huzza! for Otaheite!" was the cry. 
How strange such shouts from sons of Mutiny 



Casto II. 



THE ISLAND. 



369 



The gentle island, and the genial soil, 

The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil, 

The courteous manners but from nature caught, 

The wealth unhoarded and the love unbought ; 

Could these have charms for rudest seaboys, driven 

Before the mast by every wind of heaven ? 

And now, even now prepared with other's woes 

To earn mild virtue's va'm desire, repose ? 

Alas ! such is our nature ! all but aim 

At the same end by pathways not the same, 

Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name, 

Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame, 

Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 

Than aught we know beyond our little day. 

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, 

Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din : 

Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, 

Man's conscience is the oracle of God. 

VII. 

The lanch is crowded with the faithful few 
Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew : 
But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 
Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck — 
And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eyes ; 
While others scoff'd his augur'd miseries 
Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail 
And the slight bark so laden and so frail. 
The tender nautilus, who steers his prow, 
The seaborn sailor of his shell canoe, 
The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea, 
Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free. 
He, when the lightning-wtng'd tornados sweep 
The surge, is safe — his port is in the deep— 
And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 
Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind. 

VIII. 

When all was now prepared, the vessel clear 
Which hail'd her master in the mutineer— 
A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
Show'd the vain pity which but irritates; 
Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye, 
And told, in signs, repentant sympathy ; 
Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, 
Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth. 
But soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn, 
Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. 
Then forward stepp'd the bold and froward boy 
His chief had cherish'd only to destroy, 
And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, 
Exclaim'd, " Depart at once '. delay is death !" 
Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all : 
In (hat last moment could a word recall 
Remorse for the black deed as yet half done, 
And what he hid from many show'd to one : 
When Bligh in stern reproach demanded where 
Was now his grateful sense of former care ? 
Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, 
And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher? 
His feverish lips thus hroke Lheir gloomy spell, 
'"Tisthat! 'tis that! I am in hell ! in' hull !" 
No more he said ; but urging to the bark 
His chief, commits him to his fragile ark 
These the sole accents from his tongue that fell, 
But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 

IX. 

The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 
The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from his cave ; 
As on the /Eolian harp, his fitful wings 
Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings 
Willi slow, despairing oar, the abaudon'd skint 
Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff, 
Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : 
That boat and ship shall never meet again ! 
!W 



But 't is not mine to tell their tale of grief, 
Their constant peril and their scant relief; 
Their days of danger, and lheir nights of pain ; 
Their manly courage even when deem'd in vain ; 
The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 
Known to his mother in the skeleton ; 
The ills that lessen'd still their little store, 
And starved even Hunger till he wrung no more ; 
The varying frowns and favours of the deep, 
That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep 
With crazy oar and shattered strength along 
The tide that yields reluctant to the strong 5 
The incessant fever of that arid thirst 
Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst 
Above their naked bones, and feels delight 
In the cold drenching of the stormy night, 
And from the outspread canvass gladlv wrings 
A drop to moisten life's all gasping springs; 
The savage foe escaped, to seek again 
More hospitable shelter from the main ; 
The ghastly spectres which were doom'd at last, 
To tell as true a tale of dangers past, 
As ever the dark annals of the deep 
Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep. 

x. 
We leave them to their fate, but not unknown 
Nor unredress'd. Revenge may have her own* 
Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, 
And injured navies urge their broken laws. 
Pursue we on his track the mutineer, 
Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear. 
Wide o'er the wave — away! away! away! 
Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay ; 
Once more the happy shores without a law 
Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw ; 
Nature, and nature's goddess — woman — woos 
To lands where, save their conscience, none accuse^ 
Where alt partake the earth without dispute, 
And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit ; + 
Where none contest the fields, the woods, the streams I ■ 
The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams, 
Inhabits or inhabited the shore, 
Till Europe taught them better than before; 
Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs. 
But left her vices also to their heirs. 
Away with this ! behold them as they were, 
Do good with Nature, or with Nature err. 
" Huzza! for Otaheite !" was the cry, 
As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 
The breeze springs up ; the lately 8apping sail 
Extends its arch before the growing gale ; 
[n swifter ripples stream aside the seas, 
Which her bold bow flings off with dashing ease 
Thus Argo ploush'd the Euxine's virgin foam ; 
But those she wafted still look back to home — 
These spurn their country with their rebel bark ( 
And fly her as the raven fled the ark ; 
And yet they seek to nestle with the dove, 
And tame their fiery spirits down to love. 



CANTO II. 



How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai,^ 
When summer's sun went down the coral bay ! 
Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, 
And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels said : 

•The now celebrated hread-frutt, to transplant which Captain Bligh 'g 
expedition was undertaken. 

t Tk. fini three sections are taken from an nctual snne of the Tonga 
(■landers, of which q prose translation is given in " Mariner's Account 
of the Tonga islands." Toobonai is not however one of them ; but 
was one of those where Christian and the mutineers took refuge. [ 
huTc altered aod added, but hare retained a* much it pouiblo of tit 
original. 



370 



THE ISLAND. 



Canto If. 



The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, 

Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo; 

We Ml cull the flowers that grow above the dead, 

For these most bloom where rests the wanrior's head ; 

And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 

The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, 

The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 

Shall sadly please us as we lean below ; 

Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 

Wrestle wuh rocky giants o'er the mam, 

Which spurn in columns back (he baffled spray. 

How beautiful are these! how happy they, 

Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives, 

Steal to look down where naught but ocean strives. 

Even he too loves at time the blue lagoon, 

And smoothes his rullled mane beneath the moon. 

II. 

Yes — from the sepulchre we Ml gather flowers, 

Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers, 

Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf", 

Then lay our limbs along the tender turf, 

And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, 

Anoint our bodies with tin- fragrant oil, 

And plait our garlands g^ther'd from the grave, 

And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave* 

But lo ! night comes, the Mooa woes us hark, 

The sound of mats arc heard along our track ; 

Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen 

In flashing mazes o'er the Marly'a green ; 

And we too will bo there; we too recall 

The memory bright with many a festival. 

Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes 

For the first lime were waded in < u 

Alas ! lor them the flower of mankind bleeds ; 

Alas ! for them our fields are rank with weeds : 

Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown, 

Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 

But be it so: — they taught "s how to « i 1 1 

The club and rain our arrows o'er the field : 

Now let them reap the harvest of their art ! 

But feast to-night ! lo-morrow we depart. 

Strike up the dance ! the cava bowl fill high ! 

Drain every drop ! — to-morrow we may die. 

In summer garments be our limbs array'd ; 

Around our waists the tappa's 1 white dfcplay'd 

Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like sprin 

And round our necks shall glance the hooni strings ; 

So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 

Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 

Hi. 
But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile ; 
Ah, pause ! nor yet put out the social smile. 
To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, 
But to-night — to-night is for the heart. 
Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo, 
Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 
How lovely are your forms] how every sense 
Bows to yourbeauiies, soften'd, but int< 
Like to the flowers on EvTataloco's Bteep, 
Which fling their fragrance far athwarl the deep!— 
We too will see Licoo ; but — oh ! my heart !— 
What do I say ? — to-morrow we depart ! 

iv. 
Thus rose a song — the harmony of times 
Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 
True, they had vices — such are nature's growth — 
But only the barbarian's — we have both : 
The sordor of civilization, nu\M 
With all the savage which man's fall hath fix'd. 
Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign, 
The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain ? 
Who such would seo may from his lattice view 
The Old World more degraded than the New,. 



Now new no more, save where Columbia rears 
nits, born by Freedom to her spheres, 
Were C himbot azo, over air, earth, wave, 
Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 

v. 
Such was this ditty of tradition's days, 
Which I" the dead a lingering fame conveys 
whi re iiiM as yet hath left no sign 
Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine ; 
Which leav.s n „ record to the skeptic eye, 
But yields roung tory all to harmony , 
A boy Ad i ilh '^e centaur's lyre 

In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire. 
For one long-cheri h'd ballad's simple stave, 
Rung from the rock, or mingled with the wave, 
Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, 
Or gathering mountain echoes as they glider, 
Rath greatei power o'er.each true heart and ear, 
Then all the columns ' rear; 

Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 
For B igi s labours or the student's dream ; 

i, when history's volumes are a toil,— 
The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil. 

:i this rod.; rhyme — rhyme is of the rude— 
But such inspired the Norseman's solitude, 
Who came nndcnnqucrM ; such, wherever rise 
Lands where n ■ f.>--s destroy or civilize, 
Exist : and what can our accomplish'd art 
Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart ? 

VI. 

And sweetly now those untaught melodies 
Broke the luxui ious itence of the skies, 
The sweet siesta of a summer day, 
The tropin afternoon of Toohonai, 
When 6Tei IS bloom, and air was balm. 

And the first breath began to stir the palm, 
The first yet voic< less wind to urge the wave 
All gently to refresh the thirsty cave, 

thi it ess with the stranger boy, 
Who taught her passion's desolatntg joy, 

Too powerful over every heart, but most 

O'er those who know not how it may be lost, 
O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire, 
Like martys revel in their funeral pyre, 
With such devotion to their ecstasy, 
That life knows no such rapture as to die ; 
And die they Jo ; for earthly life has naught 
Match'd with that hurst of nature, even in thought, 
And all our dreams of better life above 
But close in one eternal giish of love. 

VII. 

There sat the g< ntle savage of the wild, 

In growth a woman, though in years a child, 

As childhood dates within our colder clime, 

Where naught is ri'.' ave crime \ 

The infant of an infant world, as pure 

From nature — lovely, warm, and premature; 

Duskv like night, but night with all her stars ; 

Or cavern sparkling with its native spars ; 

With eyes dial were a i,nio U ;io,- ami a spell, 

\ form like Aphrodite's in her shell, 

With all her loves around heron the deep, 

Voluptuous as iho first approach of sleep ; 

Yet full of life — for through her tropic cheek 

The blush would make.iis way, and all but speak; 

The sun-born blood suffused her neek and threw 

O'er her clear nutbrown skin a lucid hue, 

Like coral reddening through the darkenM wave, 

\\ hi. h draws ihe diver to the crimson cave. 

Such was this daughter of the southern seas, 

Herself a billow in her energies, 

To bear the bark of others' happiness, 

Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less ; 



Canto II. 



THE ISLAND. 



371 



Her wild and warm yet failhfui bosom knew 

No joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er drew 

Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whose 

Sad proof reduces all things from their hues: 

She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not, 

Or what she knew was soon — ton soon — forgot: 

Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pass 

O'er lakes, to ruffle, not destroy, their glass, 

Whose depths unsearchM, and fountains from the hill, 

Restore their surface, in itself so still, 

Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave, 

Root up the spring, and trample on the wave, 

And crush the living waters to a mass. 

The amphibious desert of the dank morass ! 

And must their fate be hers ? The eternal change 

But grasps humanity "ith quicker range; 

And they who fall but fail as worlds will fall, 

To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 

viir. 
And who is he ? the blue-eyed northern child 
Of isles inure known to man, but scarce less wild ; 
The fair-hair'd offspring of the Hi brides, ■ 
Where roars the Pentland with its whirling seas; 
RockM in his cradle by the roaring wind, 
The tempest-born in body and in mind, 
His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam, 
Had from that moment deem VI the deep his home, 
The giant comrade of his pensive muods, 
The sharer of his craggy solitudes, 
The only Mentor of his youih, where'er 
His bark was borne ; the sport of wave and air ; 
A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance, 
Nursed by the legends nf his land's romance ; 
Eager to hope, but not less firm in bear, 
Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 
Placed jn the Arab's clime, lie would have been 
As bold a rover as the sands have s een, 
And braved their ihirst with as enduring lip 
As Ishmael, wafted on his desert-ship ;* 
Fix'd upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique ; 
On HellaS 1 mountains a rebellious Greek ; 
Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane; 
Bred to a throne, perhaps unlit to reign. • 

For the same soul that rends its path to swav, 
If rear'd to such, can find no further prey 
Beyond itselij and must retrace its way, 1 ] 
Plunging for pleasure into pain : the same 
Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame, 
A humblerstate and discipline of heart 
Had furm'd his glorious namesake's counterpart ;J 
But grant his vices, grant them all his own, 
How small their theatre without a throne ! 



Thou smilest; — these comparisons seem high 
To tho-ewho scan all things with dazzled eve ; 
Link'd with the unknown name of one whose doom 
Has naught to do with glory or with Rome, 
With Chili, Hellas, or with Araby ; — 
Thou smilest ? — Smile ; 't is better thus than sigh ; 
Yet such he might have been ; he was a man, 
A soaring spirit, ever in ihe van, 
A patriot hero or despotic chief, 
To form a nation's clory or its grief, 



• The "ihlpof Id- desert" is the Oriental figure fur the camel 
dromrd.iry : and they deserve lite metaphor well, the former for his 
endurance, the latter for his swiftness. 

f " Lncullai, when frugality ec-oJd charaii 
Had roasted lutnipo in ihe Sabine farm." — Pope. 

\ The Boniul N'ero, who made the unequalled march which deceived 
Hannibal, and defeated Asdruhni; therehy accomplishing an achieve- 
ment almost unrivalled in military annals. The first [ntelligeu 
return, to Hannibal, was Oil- ilehtof Aadrubal'a head thrown Into bit 
camp. When Hannibal saw tin*, lie exclaimed with a sigh, that " Rome 
would now be the mistress of the world." And yet to this victory of 
Nero'a it might be owing that his imperial namesake reigned at all. But 
the infamy of the one has eclipsed the glory of the Other, When the name 
of " Nero" ii heard, who Hunk* of the consul?— But inch are human 
IhlnCf. 



Born under auspices which make us more 

Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 

But these are visions ; say, what was he here ? 

A blooming boy, a truant mutineer. 

The fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 

The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 



By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the waters,— 

Neuha, the sunflower of the island daughters, 

Highborn, (a birth at which the herald smiles, 

Without a scutcheon for these secret isles,) 

Of a long race, the valiant and ihe free, 

The naked knights of savage chivalry, 

Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore; 

Ami thine — I 've seen — Achilles', do no more. 

She, when the thunder-bearing strangers came, 

In vast canoes, begirt with bobs of flame, 

Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than the palm, 

Seem'd rooted in the deep amid its calm ; 

But when the winds awaken'd, shot forth wings 

Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, 

And sway'd the waves, like cities of the sea, 

Making the very billows look less free ; — 

She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, 

Shot through the surf, like reindeer through the snow 

Swift-gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge, 

Light as a nereid in her ocean sledge, 

And gazed and wonder'd at the giant hulk, 

Which heaved from wave to wave its trampling bulk : 

The anchor dropp'd ; it lay along the deep, 

Like a huge lion in the sun asleep, 

While round it swarm'd the proas' flitting chain, 

Like summer bees that hum around his mane. 

XL 

The white man landed ! — need the rest be told ? 

The New Woild stretch*d its dusk hand to the Old; 

Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 

Of wonder warm'd to better sympathy. 

Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires, 

And kinder still their daughter's gentler fires. 

Their union grew : ihe children of the storm 

Found beauty link'd with many a dusky form; 

While these in turn admired the paler glow, 

Which seem'd so white in dunes that knew no snow 

The chace, the race, the liberty to roam, 

The soil where every cottage show'd a home; 

The sea-spread net, the iighiiy-launch'd canoe, 

Which stemm'd the studded archipelago, 

O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles ; 

The healthy slumber, carn'd by sportive toils; 

The palm, the loftiest dryad of the woods, 

Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods, 

While eagles scarce build higher than the crest 

Which shadows o'er the vineyard in her breast \ 

The cava feast, ihe yam, the cocoa's root. 

Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit; 

The bread-tree, which, without ihe ploughshare, yields 

The unreap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields, 

And bakes its unadulterated loaves 

Wiihout a furnace in unpurchased groves, 

And flings off famine from its fertile breast, 

A price!- s~ market for the gathering guest; — 

These, with the luxuries of seas and woods. 

The airy joys of social solitude, 

Tamed each rude wanderer to the svmpaihies 

Of tho.se who were mure happv, if less wise, 

Did nmre than Europe's discipline had done, 

And civilized civilization's son ! 



Of these, and there was many a willing pair, 
Neuha and Tortpiil were not the least fair ; 
Both children of the isles, though distant far ; 
Born both beneath a sea-presiding star ; 



372 



THE ISLAND. 



Canto II. 



Both nourish'd amid nature's native scenes, 

Loved to ihe last, whatever intervenes 

Between us and our childhood's sympathy, 

Which si ill reverts to what first caught the eye. 

II. who first met the High ing blue 

Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue, 

J I til in each crag a friend's familiar face, 

And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 

Long have T roam'd through lands which are not mine, 

Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, 

Revered Parnassus, and bene] 1 I 

Jove's [da and Olympus crown the deep: 

Bui 't was not all long ages lore, nor all 

Their nature held ra • in their thrilling thral 

The infant rapture still survived the boy, 

And Loch-na-gar with [da look'd o'er Troy,* 

Mix'd Celtic memories with thi I nount, 

An I Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. 

Forgive me, Homer's universal shah- ! 

Forgive me, Phoebus !■ that my fancy stray'd ; 

The north and nature taught me to adore 

Yuur scenes sublime, from those beloved before. 

XIII. 

The love which maketh all things fond and fair, 

The youth which nrike ■ ••■ v rainbow of tlie air, 

The dangers past, that make even man enjoy 

The pause in which he ceases to destroy, 

The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 

Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel, 

United the half savage and the whole, 

The mail an 1 hoy, in one absorhlu-j soul. 

No more the thundering memory of the fight 

Wrapp'd his w'ean'd bosom in its dark delight; 

No more the rksom" restlessness of rest 

Disturb'd him like the eagle in net n< st, 

Whose whette 1 beak and far-pervading eye 

Daris for a victim over all the sky ; 

His hearl was tamed to that voluptuous stale, 

At once Elysian and effeminate, 

Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn ; — 

Tl wither when for a ugh I save blood ihey burn ; 

Yet when their ash.es in their nook are laid, 
I Villi r i .t the myrtle leave a- sweet a -hade ? 
Had Caesar known In it Cleopatra's kiss, 

Rome had been free, tl ror\ i had not been his. 

And what have Caesar's deeds anil Cesar's fame 
Done for the earth? We feel them in our shame: 

T II ""TV sanction of his glory R'ains 

The rust which tyrants cherish on our chain?. 
Though Glory, N dure, Reason, Freedom, bid 
lion. e, | millions do what single Rmtus did — 
Sweep these m°re mock-birds of the despot's son" 
From the tall bough where they have perch'd so long,— 
Still are we hawk'd at bv such mousing owls, 
And take for falcons iho^e ignoble fowls, 
When but a word of freedom would dispel 
These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 

xtv. 
Rapt in the Ion 1 for telfulnca - of life, 

Neuha, the South Sea (jir!, was all a wife, 

With no distracting world to call her off 

'■' lov ; with no ■ in-: v to ■ mil' 

At the new transient flame ; no babbling crowd 
Of coxcombry in admiration loud-, 
Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 

Her duty, and her glory, ami her joy : 



• When Tery yiin 1 ;, about i»ii*hl yeari of aee, nfier nn nttaclc of the 
teai l fe«i al I ■■■ leen, I vrui i cal adrica into tb« 

fligh inda, Here ( jiaM.'il .. ■<•. iml from this 

pen >■! I ■' itc ro ■ '■ il imtalnou ■ i m ■ l rtr forgei the 

elite i, afav u ■ ' ■ trdi in England, of tin onl] thing Itudloni 
Han, <■*■•■- minUior*, of a mounlntn, In the Walrira Hilli. After I 

erlurrird In r I,..['i'ii!i:iiii, I llttd tO W«lch I !i--ti. .■ v.- t \ | 1 ■ r n ,, - .n , B t «unlrt, 

tcauitot Igh ; but 

t wo thai; :nl> thirUen y«nr* jfjgo, ao.it it w«i in the hotido/a. 



With faith and feelings naked as her form, 
She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm, 

[ing its hues with bright variety, 
But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
1 1 ■ ■'> r its arch may swell, its colours move, 
The cloud -compelling harbinger of love. 
xv. 

Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore, 
Tie \ pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er ; 
Nor long the hours — ihey never passed o'er lime, 
Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime, 

leala the daily pittance of our span, 
And points and mocks with iron laugh at man. 
Whal deem'd they of the future or the past? 

lit, like a tyrant, held them fast: 
Their hourglass was the sea-sand, ami the tide 

Like her sn th billow, saw their moments glide 

Their clock the sun, in his unbounded tow'r ; 
They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour ; 
The nightingale, their only vesper-bell, 
Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell ;* 
The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep 
As iu the north he mellows o'er the deep, 
But fiery, and fierce, as if he tefl 
The world for ever, earth of light bereft, 
Plunged with red forehead down along the wave 
As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
Then rose they, looking first along the skies, 
And then for light into each other's eyes, 
Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun, 
And asking if indeed the day were done. 



And let not this seem strange ; the devotee 

Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy ; 

Around him days and worlds are heedless driven, 

His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 

Is love less potent? No — his path is trod, 

Alike uplifted gloriously to God; 

Or link'd to all we know of heaven below, 

The other belter self, whose joy or wo 

Is more than ours ; the all-absorbing flame 

Whirh, kindled by another, grows the same, 

Wrapt in one blazo; the pure, yet funeral pile, 

Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile. 

How ofien we forget all time, when lone, 

Admiring Nature's universal throne, 

Her woods, her wihls, her waters, the intense 

Reply others to our intelligence ! 

Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the waves 

With- mt a spirit ? Are the dropping caves 

Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 

No, no; — they woo and clasp us to their spheres, 

Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 

Its hour, and meage our soul in the great shore. 

Strip off this fond and false identity ! — 

Who thinks of self, when gazing on the sky? 

Aihi who, though e.'izmg hover, evei thought 

lii (he young moments ere the heart is taught 

lesson, of man's baseness or his own ? 
All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 

XVII. 

Neuha arose, and Torquil : twilight's hou»- 
("ante sal and softly to their rocky bower, 
Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 
Echoed their dim light to the mustering stars. 
Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm, 
Sough) out their eottage, built beneath the palm ; 
Now smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
Lovely as Love — the spirit ! — when serene. 



• The now writ-knuwti «torr of the lor« of the nightingale and i 
need not be mora than alluded 10, l*m£ aufficianily fanulUr to lb* i 
i tern *• to tbe enter a reader. 



Canto II. 



THE ISLAND. 



373 



The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell, 
Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the shell,* 
As, far divided from his parent deep, 
The seaborn infant cries, and will not sleep, 
Raising his liltle plaint in vain, to rave 
For the broad bosom of his nursing wave: 
The woods dioop'd darkly, as inclined to rest, 
The tropic bird wheel'd rock-ward to his nest, 
And l lie blue sky spread round them like a lake 
Of peace, where Piety her thirst might slake. 

XVIH. 

But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice ! 
No! such as would have been a lover's choice, 
In such an hour, to break the air so si ill ; 
No dying night-breeze, harping o'er ihe hill, 
Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree, 
Those best and earliest lyres of harmony, 
With Echo for tluir chorus ; nor the alarm 
Of the loud war-kvhoop to dispel the charm ; 
Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl, 
Exhaling all his solitary soul, 
The dim though large-eyed winged anchorite, 
Who peals his dreary pa;an o'er the night ; — 
But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 
As ever started through a sea-bird's bill; 
And thena pause, and then a hoarse "Hillo! 
Torquil ! mv boy ! what cheer ? Ho ! brother, ho !" 
*Who hails?" cried Torquil, following with his eye 
The sound. " Here's one," was all the brief reply. 

XJX. 

But here the herald of the seif-same mouth 

Came breathing o'er the aromatic south, 

Not like a " bed of violets" on the gale, 

But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale, 

Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown 

Its gentle odours over either zone, 

And pufFd where'er winds rise or waters roll, 

Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, 

Opposed its vapour as the lightning flash'd, 

And reek'd, mid mountain billows unabash'd, 

To JEolus a constant sacrifice, 

Through every change of all the varying skies. 

And what was he who bore it? — I may err, 

But deem him sailor or philosopher.! 

Sublime tobacco ! which from east to west 

Cheers the tar's labour or the Turkman's rest ; 

Which on the Moslem's Ottoman divides 

His hours, and rivals opium and his hrides ; 

Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, 

Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand ; 

Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, 

When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe ; 

Like other charmers, wooing the caress 

More dazzingly when daring in full dress: 

Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 

Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar ! 

xx. 

Through the approaching darkness of the wood 
A human figure broke the solitude, 
Fantastically, it may be, array'd, 
A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 
Such as appears to rise out from the deep' 
When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep, 



* If Die render will apply to his ear the sen-shell on his chimney piece, 
be will be aware of what is alluded lo. If the text should appear ob- 
scure, lie will find in " Uchir," the same idea belter exprexed in two 
line*. — Thu poem I never rend, but huve heard the lines ouoted by a 
more recondite reader— who seems lo be of a different opinion from the 
editor of the Quarterly Review, who qualified il. In his answer lo the 
Critical Reviewer of his Juvenal, as Irish of die worst and most insane 
description. It is to Mr. Land-jr, the author of " "JeMr," to qualified, 
and of some Latin poems, which vie with M.iriird or Catdlui In ob- 
scenity, and the immaculate Mr. Souibi-y addrcises hi) declamation 
against imjuii ity ! 

t Hobbes, the falher of Locke's and other philosophy, was an invete- 
rate smoker, — tvm to pipes beyond compultL.un. 



And the rough saturnalia of the tar 
Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd car ;+ 
And pleased ihe god of ocean sees his name 
Revive once more, though but in mimic game 
Of his true sons, who riot in the bretze 
Undreamt of in his native Cyclades. 
Still the old god delights, fom out the main, 
To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign. 
Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim, 
His constant pipe, which never yet burn'd dim, 
His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait, 
Like his dear vessel, spoke Ids former state ; 
But then a sort of kerchief round his head, 
Not over-tightiy hound, nor nicely spread ; 
And stead of trowsers (ah ! too early torn ! 
For even the mildest woods will have their thorni 
A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
Now served for inexpressibles anil hat ; 
His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face, 
Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth, 
Which two world's bless for civilizing both ; 
The musket swung behind his shoulders broad 
And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode, 
But brawny as the boar's ; and hung beneath, 
His cutlass dioop'd, unconscious of a sheath. 
Or lost or worn away ; his pistols were 
Link'd lohis belt, a matrimonial pair — 
(Let not this metaphor appear a scofF, 
Though one miss'd fire, the other would go off, 
These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 
As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust, 
Completed his accoutrements, as Night 
Survey'd him in his garb heteroclite. 



" What cheer, Ben Bunting?" cried (when in full view 
Our new acquaintance) Torquil, "Aught of new?" 
" Ey, ey*!" quoth Ben, " not new, but news enow; 
A strange sail in the offing." — " Sail ! and how ' 
What ! could you make her out ? It cannot be 
I 've seen no rag of canvass on ihe sea.'* 
" Belike," said Ben, " you might not from the bay, 
But from die bluff- head, where . watch'd to-day, 

I saw her in the doldrums ; for the wind 

Was light and baffling."— " When the sun declined 

Where lay she? had she anchor'd" — " No, but still 

She bore down on us, till the wind grew still." 

'• Her Hag '?'" — L I had no glass; but fore and aft, 

Egad ! she seeme 1 a wicked looking craft." 

" Arm'd ?" — (i I expect so ; — sent on the look-out : 

'T is time, belike, to put our helm about." 

" About ? — Whato'er may have us now in chase, 

We'll make no running fight, for that were base, 

We will die at our quarters, like true men." 

II Ey, ey ! for that 't all the same to Ben." 

(( Does Christian know this ?" — " Ay ; he has piped all 

hands 
To quarters. Tin y are furbishing the stands 
Of itrms ; and we have got some guns to bear, 
And scaled them. You are wanted." — " That 'shut fair; 
And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
My Neuha ! ah! and must my fate pursue 
Not me alone, but one so sweet and true? 
But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neuha ! now 
Unman me not ; the hour will not allow 
A tear ; I am thine whatever intervenes ! M 
" Right," quoth Ben, " that will do for the marines. "f 



* This rough hut Jovial ceremony, used in crossing the line, hei heen so 
often and so well described, that it need not be more than alluded to. 

t' Thai Will do for tha marines. Viut the •mlors won't relieve It, M !■ 
on old saying ; and one e> the few fragments of former Jenlouaiea whisk. 
still survive (in Jest only) hciwaen theae gallinl services. 



374 



THE ISLAND. 



Cahto nr. 



CANTO III. 

i. 

The fight was o'er; the flashing through the gloom, 

Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb, 

Had ceased ; and sulphurv vapours upward driven 

Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven : 

The raiding roar which rung in every volley 

Had left the echoes (o their melancholy ; 

No more they shriek'd their horror, boom for boom; 

The strife was done, the vanquished had their doom ; 

The mutineers were crush'd, dispersed, or la'en. 

Or liv'd to deem the happiest were tho slain. 

Few, i \ i leaped, and these were hunted o'er 

The isle they loved beyond their native shore. 

No further home was theirs, it seem'd, on earth] 

Once, renegades to that which gave them birth ; 

Track'd like wild beasts, like them they sought the wild, 

As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; 

But vainly wolves and lions seek their 'l> n, 

And s»Iil more vainly men escape from men. 

ii. 
Beneat* a rock whose jutting base protrudes 
Far over oec an hi his h\:rer>i uto.H.--, 
When scaling his enormous crag the wave 
Ts hurl'd down headlong, like the foremost brave, 
And falls back on the foaming crowd behind, 
Which fight beneath the banners of the wind, 
But now at rest, a little remnant drew 
Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few 
Bui still their weapons in their hands, and still 
With something of the pride of former will, 
As men not all unused to meditate, 
And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 
Their present, lot was what tlu-v had fore 
And dared as what was likely to have bean ; 
Vet still tlie lingering hope, which deciu'd (heir lot 
Not pardon'd, but unsought for or forgot, 
Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves 
Might still be miss'd amid the world of waves, 
Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what th* rf sr j 
And felt, the vengeance of their country's law. 
Their sea-green isle, their cuilt-woa paradise. 
No more could shield their virtue or their vice : 
]'h n better feelings, if such were, were Lhrown 
Back on themselves, — their sins remain'd alone. 
Proscribed even in their second country, they 
Were lost; in vain the world before them lay ; 
AH outlets seem'd secured. Their new alhos 
Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice ; 
But what avail'd the club and spear, and arm 
Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm, 
The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd 
The warrior ere his strength could be emploVd ? 
Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave 
No less of human bravery than the brave •* 
Their own scant numbers acted all the few 
Against the many oft will dare and do; 
But though the choice seems native to die froe, 
Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylae, 
Till now, when she has f »rged her broken c'tain 
Back to a sword, and dies and lives again ! 

III. 
Beside the jutting rock the few appcar'd, 
Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd ; 
Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn, 
But still the hunter's blood was on their horn, 
A little stream came tumbling from the height, 
And straggling into ocean as it might, 



• Archidamns, king of Sparta, and son of AgcJllatu, when he iaw a 
machine invented lor the caaliiig of glories and darla, eicUinrd that It 
was th« " grare of valour." The «ame alary »*» bflU lotd of some 
kmgiits on the first application of gunpowder ; l>ul ihe original anec- 
dote i* In Plutarch 



Its bounding chrystal frolick'd in the ray, 
And gush'd from cliff to crag with saltless spray ; 
Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure 
And fresh as innocence, and more secure 
Its silver torrent gliltor'd o'er the deep, 

!.-, chamois 1 eye o'erlooks the steep, 
While far below the vast and sullen swell 
Of ocean's alpine azure rose and fell. 
To this young spring they rush'd, — all feelings first 
Absorbed ID passion's and in nature's thirst, — 
1 frank as they do who drink their last, and threw 
Their amis aside to revel in its dew ; 
CooI'd tin ir scorch'd throats, and wash'd the gory stains 
From wounds whose only bandage might be chains ; 
Then, when their draught was quench'd, look'd sadly 

round, 
As wondering how so many still w?re found 
Alive and fetterless : — bui silent all, 
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
On him f»r language which Ins lips denied, 
As though their voices with their cause had died. 



Stern, and aloof a little fiom the rest, 
Stood Christian, with his arms acrosr hi? chest. 
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue onct spread 
Along his i heelc was livid now as lead ; 
His hght-bn wn locks, so graceful in their flow, 
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. 
Still as a statue, with his lips cornprest 
To stifle even the breath within his breast, 
Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute,. 
He stood ; and, save a alight Deal of his foot, 
Which deepen'd now and then the sandy dint 
Beneath his heel, his form seem'd tuniM to flint. 
Some paces fu-iher forquil lean'd his head 
Against a b'.nk. and spoke not, but he bled,— 
Not mortally- -his worst wound was within : 
His brow v as pale, his blue eyes sunken in, 
And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow han, 
Sjow d that his faintness came not from despair, 
B-.t nature's ebb. Beside him was another, 
Roueh as a bear, but willing as a brother, — 
Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe, 
And bind his wound — then calmly lit his pipe, 
A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 
A beacon which had clieer'd ten thousand nights. 
The fourth and last of this deserted group 
Walk'd up and down — at times would stand, then stooD 
To pick a pebble up — then let it drop- 
Then hurry as in haste — then quickly stop- 
Then cast his eyes on his companions — then 
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again— 
And then his former movements would redouble, 
With something between carelessness and trouble. 
This is a long description, but applies 
To scarce five minutes pass'd before the eyes, 
But yet what minutes ! Moments like to these 
Rend men's lives into immortalities. 



At length Jack Skyscrapc, a mercurial man, 

Who flutter'd over all things like a fan, 

More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 

And die at once than wrestle with despair, 

Eiclaim'd "G — d damn!" — those syllables intense, 

Nucleus of England's native eloquence, 

As the Turk's*' Allah !" or the Roman's more 

Pagan " Proh Jupiter!" was wont of yore 

To give their first impresssions such a vent, 

By way of echo to embarrassment. 

Jack was embarrass'd,— never hero more, 

And as he knew not what to say, he swore: 

Nor swore in vain ; the long congenial sound 

Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound 



Casto IV. 



THE ISLAND. 



375 



He drew it from his mouth, and look'd full wise, 
But merely added to the oath his eyes ; 
Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete, 
A peroration I need not repeat. 

VI. 

But Christian, of a higher order, stood 
Like an extinct volcano in his mood; 
Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 
Of passion reeking from his clouded face; 
Till lifting up again his sombre eve, 
It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly by. 
''And is it thus" he cried, (i unhappy boy ! 
And thee, too, thee — my madness must destroy !" 
He said, and sirode lo where young Torquil stood, 
Yet dabbled with his latelv flowing blood ; 
Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, 
And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 
Inquired into his state; and when he heard 
The wound was slighter than he deem'd or fearM, 
A moment's brightness pass'd along his brow, 
As much as such a moment would allow. 
11 5*88," he excUim'd, " we are taken in the toil, 
But not a coward or a common spoil ; 
Dearly they have bought us— dearly still mav buy, — 
And I must fall ; but have you strength to fly ? 
T would be Borne comfort still, could you survive ; 
Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 
Oh ! for a sole canoe ! though but a shell, 
To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell ! 
For me, my lot is what I sought ; to be, 
In life or death, the fearless and the free." 

VII. 

Even as he spoke, around the promontory, 
Which nodded o'er the billows high and hoarv, 
A dark speck dotted ocean : on it flew 
Like to ihe shadow of a roused sea-mew; 
Onward it came — and, lo ! a second fullow'd — 
Now seen — now hid — where ocean's vale was huUWd 
AnJ near, and nearer, till their dusky crew 
Presented well-known aspects to the view, 
Till on the surf their skimming paddles play, 
Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray ; — 
Now perching on the waves high curl, and now 
Dash'd downward in the ihundering foam below, 
Which flings its broad and boiling sheet on sheet, 
And slings its high flakes, shiverM into sleet : 
But floating still through surf and swell, drew nigh 
The barks, like small birds through a lowering sky. 
Their art g< em*d natun — such the skill to sw. ep 
The wave of these born playmates of the deep. 

VIII. 

And who the first that, springing on the strand, 
Leap'd like a nereid from her shell to land, 
With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
Shining with love, and hope, and constancy ' 
Neuha— the fond, the faithful, the adored — 
Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour M ; 
And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer clasp'd, 
As if to be assured 'twas him she graspM ; 
ShudderM to see his yet warm wound, and then, 
To find it trivial, smiled an! wept again. 
She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despair. 
Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could blight 
That full-blown moment in its all delight : 
Joy trickled in her tears, joy fiUM the sob 
That rock'd her heart till almost heard to throb; 
And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
Of nature's child in nature's ecstacy. 

IX. 

The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting 

Were not unmoved : who are, when hearts are greeting ? 

Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy 

With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 

Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays 

In hopeless visions of our better days, 



When all 's gone— to the rainbow's latest ray. 
" And but fur me !" he said, and turn'd away, 
Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den 
A lion looks upon his cubs again ; 
And then relapsed into his sullen guise, 
As heedless of his further destinies. 

x. 
But brief their time for good or evil thought ; 
The billows round the promontory brought 
The splaih of hostile oars. — Alas! who made 
That sound a dread ? All round them seem'd array'd 
Against them, save the bride of Toubonai : 
She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay 
Of the arm'd boats, which hurried to complete 
The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 
Beckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 
Embark'd their guests, and launch'd their light canoes. 
In one placed Christian and his comrades twain ; 
But she and Torquil must not part again. 
She fix'd him in her own. — Away ! away ! 
They clear the breakers, dart along the bay 
And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
The sea bird's nest and seal's surf-hollow'd lair, 
They skim the blue tops of the billows; fast 
They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased. 
They gain upon them — now they lose again,— 
Again make way and menace o'er the main ; 
And now the two canoes in chaSe divide, 
And follow different courses o'er the tide, 
To baffle the pursuit.— Away ! away! 
As life is on each paddle's flight to-day, 
And more than life or lives to Neuha: Love 
Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove — 
And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
Yet, yet a moment ! — Fly, thou light ark, fly » 



CANTO IV. 

i. 

White as a white sail on a dusky sea, 
When half the horizon 's clouded and half free, 
Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky. 
\s hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
Her anchor parts; but still her snowy sail 
Attracts our eye amid the rudest gale : 
Though every wave she climbs divides us more 
The heart still follows from the loneliest shore. 

ii. 
Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 
A black rork rears its bosom o'er the spray, 
Th.' haunt of birds, a desert to mankind. 
Where the rough seal reposes from ihe wind, 
And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern dun, 
Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun : 
There shrilly lo the passing oar is heard 
The startled echo of the ocean bird, 
Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood, 
The feather'd fishers of the solitude. 
A narrow segment of the yellow sand 
On one side forms the outline of a strand ; 
Here the young turtle, crawling fiom his shell, 
Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell ; 
Chipp'd by the beam, a nursling of the day. 
But. hatch'd f <r ocean by the fostering ray ; 
The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 
Gave mariners a shelter and despair ; 
A spot to make the saved regret the deck 
Which late went down, and envy the lost wreck. 
Such was the stern asylum Neuha chose 
To shield her lover from his following fues ; 
But all its secret was not told ; she knew 
In this a treasure hidden from the view. 

in. 
Ere the canoes divided, near the spot, 
The men that inann'd what held her Torquil's kv, 



376 



THE ISLANU. 



Canto IV. 



But her command removed, to strengthen more 

The skiff which wafted Christian from 'lie shore. 

This he would have opposed ; but with a smile 

She pointed calmly to the craggy isle, 

And bade him "spei 1 and prosper." She would take 

The rest upon herself for Torquil's sike. 

They parted with this added aid : afar 

The proa darted like a shooting star, 

And gain'd on the pursuers, who now 

K i ;lil on the rock which she and Torquil near'd. 

They pull'd ; her arm, though delicate, was free 

And fir ji i as ever grappled w ith thi 

An 1 yielded scare '■ i I , manlier strength. 

The prow now almost lay within its length 

Of the crag's sleep, inexorable face, 

With naught but soundless waters (<>r i's base ; 

Within a hundred boats 1 length was the foe, 

And now what refuge but their frail canoe ? 

This Torquil ask'd with half upbraiding eye, 

Which said — •• Has Neuha brought me here to die ? 

Is this a place of. safely, or a grave, 

And you huge rock the tombstone of the wave?" 

IV. 

They rested on their paddles, and uprose 

Neuha, and pointing to the approaching foes, 

Cried, "Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow!" 

Then plunge;! at once into the ocean's hollow. 

There was no time to pause — [he foes were near — 

Chains in his eyes, and menace in his ear; 

V\ ith vigour they pull'd on, and as they came, 

Ilail'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 

Headlong he leap! — to him the swimmer's skill 

Was native, and now all his hope from ill : 

But how, or where ? He dived, and rose no more ; 

The boat's crew look'd amazed oVr sea ami shore. 

There was no landing on that precipice, 

Steep, harsh, and slippery as a bera of ice. 

They watch'd awhile to see him float again, 

But not a trace rebubblcd from the mam : 

The wave roll'd on, no ripple on its face, 

Since their first plunge recall'd a single trace; 

The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam, 

That whiten'd o'er what seern'd their latest home, 

White as a sepulchre above the pair 

Who left no marble (mournful a-; an heir) 

The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide 

Was all thai told of Torquil and his bride; 

And but for this alone the whole might seem 

The vanished phantom of a seaman's dream. 

They paused and searched in vain, then pull'd away; 

Even superstition now forbade their slav. 

Some sai I he ha I no! plung'd into the wave, 

Bui vanis'i'd like a corpse-light from agravi . 

Others, that something supernatural 

I rlared in his figure, more than mortal tall ; 

While all agreed that in his cheek and eye 

There was a dead hue of ett-rnity. 

Still as their oars receded from the crag, 

Round every weed a moment would they la*, 

Expectant of some token of their prey ; 

But no — he had melted from them like the spray. 

v. 
And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep, 
Following the nereid? Had (hey erased to weep 
Fur ever '? or, received in coral caves. 
Wrung life and pity from the softening waves 
Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell, 
Ant sound with mermen the fantastic shell? 
Did Ncuha with the mermaids comb her hair 
Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air ? 
Or bad they perished, and in silence slept 
Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt? 

VI. 

Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 
Follow'd: her track beneath her native soa 



Was as a native's of the element, 

So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 

Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 

Which struck and flash'd like an amphibious steel 

Closely, and scarctdy less expert to trace 

The depths where divers hold their pearl in chase, 

Torquil, the nursling of the northern leas. 

Pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease. 

Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 

The way— then upward soar'd — and as she spread 

Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks, 

Laugh'd, and the sound was answer'd by the rocks 

They had gain'd a central realm of earth again, 

But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 

Around she pointed to a spacious cave, 

Whose only portal was the keyless wave,* 

(A hollow archway by the sun unseen, 

*a\i- through the billows' glassy veil of green. 

In some transparent ocean holiday, 

When all the finny people arc at play,) 

Wiped with ber hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, 

And clapp'd ber hands with joy at his surprise ; 

Led him to where the rock appear'd to jut, 

And form a something like a Triton *s hut ; 

For all was darkness for a space, till day 

Through clefts above lei in a sober'd ray ; 

As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 

The dusty monuments from light recoil] 

Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 

The vault drew half her shadow from the scene. 

VII. 

Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 
A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo ; 

A plan'tun-Ieaf o'er all, the more to keep 

Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 

This mantle kepi it dry ; then from a nook 

Of the same plantain-leaf a flint she took, 

A few shrunk wiiher'd twigs, and from the blade 

Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus array'd 

The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high, 

And showM a self born Goihic canopy ■ 

The arch uprear'd by nature's architect, 

The architrave some earthquake might erect; 

The buttress from some mountain's bosom huri'd, 

When the Poles crash'd, and water was the world 

Or harden'd from some earth-abuding fire 

While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral pyre; 

The fretted pinnacle, the ai^le, the nave,f 

Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from her cave. 

There, with a little tinge of phantasy, 

Fantastic faces mop'd and mow'd on high, 

And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 

The • \ e upon its seeming crucifix. 

Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 

And built herself a chapel of the seas. 

VIII, 

And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand, 
And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
And led him into each recess, and show'd 
The secret places of their new abode. 
Nor these alone, for all had beeO pn 
Before, to sooth the lover's lot she shared : 
The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
And sandal oil to fence against the dew ; 
For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
Born of tho fruit ; for board the plantain spread 



Of ilii* cave (which is no fiction) the nnpin.il will be found In tl.e 
ninth chapter of " Mariner's tccouitt of the Tonga Islands." I hsv« 
tahM tbl i">ctii-al liberty to ir.msi'latit it to Toobonal, the last island 
aii and hii cororaJo. 
t Tbli may seem too minute for the teller* I outline fin Marlner'a 
Account) from which it is ukeii. But few men hnvc travelled without 
teeing something of the kiod— on land, thnt is. Without adverting to 
KUorn, In Mimgo Park's last Journal (if my memory do not err, tor there 
lire tight ye«i-i suice I roid the book) he mentions htving met with a 
rock or mountain so exactly renemhllng a Gothic cathedral, that only 
nuuuK inspection could convince him that it was a voik of nalurt. 



Casto IV. 



THE ISLAND. 



377 



With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore 
A banquet in the flesh it coverM o'er ; 
The gourd with watT recent from ihe rill, 
The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
A pine-torch pile to keep undying light, 
And she herself, as beautiful as night, 
To fling her shadowy spirit o'ct the scene, 
And make their subterranean world serene. 
She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 
And formM a refuge of the rocky den 
For Torqt til's safely from his countrymen. 
Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe, 
Laden with alt the golden fruits that grew ; 
Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
Wih all could cheer or deck their sparry bower ; 
And now she spread her little store with smiles, 
The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 

is. 
She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, prtss'd 
Her shelter'd love to her impassion'd breast ; 
And suited to her soft caresses, told 
An olden tale of love, — for love is old, 
Old as eternity, but not outworn 
With each new being born or to be born :* 
How a young chief a thousand moons ago, 

is for turtle in the depths below, 
Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey, 
Into the cave whicli round and o'er them lay, 
How in some desperate fued of afier time 
He shelter'd there a daughter of the climo, 
A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe, 
Saved by his tribe but for a captive's wo ; 
How, when the storm of war was still'd, he led 
His island clan to where the waters spread 
Their deep-green shadow o'er the rocky door 
Then dived — it seem'd as if to rise no more : 
His wondering mates, amazed within their bark, 
Or deem'd him mad, or prev to the blue shark ", 
Row'd down in sorrow the sea-girded rock, 
Then paused upon their paddles from the shock ; 
When, fresh and springing from the deep, they sa e 
A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe ; 
And their companion, glorious by her side, 
Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride.; 
And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore 
With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore ; 
How they had gladly lived and calmly died,— 
And why not also Toiquil and his bride ? 
Nut mine to tell the rapturous caress 
Which fbllow'd wildly in that wild rece=>. 
This tale; enough that all within that cave 
\\ a vv-, though buried sirongas in the grave 
Where Abelard, through twenty years of death, 
When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 
Their nuptial vault, his arms outstreich'd, and press'd 
The kindling' ashes to his kindled breast. | 
The waves without san» round their couch, their roai- 
A* much unheeded as if life were o'er; 
Within, their hearts made all their harmony, 
broken murmur and more broken sigh. 
s. 
And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 
Which left them exiles of the hollow rock, 
Where were they? O'er the sea for life they plied, 
To seek from Heaven the shelter men denied. 
Another course had been their choice — but where? 
The wave which bore them still their foes would bear 
Who, disappointed of their former chase, 
In search ofChrist'ian now renew'd their race. 



• The reader will recollect the epigram of the Greek anthology, or ita 
translatiou into most of the modern languages :— 
"Whoe'er thou art, thy master see, 
He wae, or is, or is to he .*' 
t The tradition U iiUi bed to the story of Eloiaa, that when her body 
wu lowered ioto the grave of Abelard, (who bod been buried twenty 
re*rt,) he opened hi* arms w receive ber. 

2X 



Eager with anger, their strong arms made way 
Like vultures baffled of their previous prey. 
They gatn'd upon them, all whose safety lay 
In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay : 
No further chance or choice remain'd ; and rigrt . 
For the first further rock which met their sighl 
They sfeer'd, to take their latest view ofla..d, 
And yield as victims, or die sword in ha-id; 
DismissM the natives and their shal'op, who 
Would still have batt'ed for lha'. jcar.iy crew; 
But Christian bade them seek th'.ir shore agaifc, 
Nor add a sacrifice vnicf. were in vain ; 
For what were script: bo^ and savage spear 
Against the cms which must be wielded here ? 

XI. 

Thev .ani^-d on a wild but narrow scene, 
Where, lev but Nature's footsteps yet had been ; 
T rcpiirej their arms, and with that gloomy eye, 
S.err ami sustain'd, of man's extremity, 
,' W'jen hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 
Vo cheer resistance against death or chains,— 
They stood, the three, as the three hundred stood 
Who dyed Thermopylae with holy blood. 
But, Ah! how different! 't is the cause makes al 1 , 
Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 
O'er them no fame, eternal and intense, 
Blazed through the clouds of death and beckon'd hctart 
No grateful country, smiling through her tears, 
Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 
No nation's eyes would on their tomb be bent, 
No heroes envy them their monument ; 
However boldly their warm blood was spilt, 
Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. 
And this they knew and felt, at least the one, 
The leader of the band he had undone ; 
Who, born perchance for better things, had set 
His life upon a cast which ljnger'd yet : 
But now the die was to be thrown, and all 
The chances were in favour of his fall : 
And such a fall ! But still he faced the shock, 
Obdurate as a portion of the rock 
Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, 
Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 



The boat drew nigh, well arm'd, and firm the crew 

To act whatever duty bade them do; 

Careless of danger, as the onward wind 

Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind. 

And yet perhaps they rather wish'd to go 

Against a nation's than a native foe, 

And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 

Briton no more, had once been Britain's still. 

They hail'd nim to surrender — no reply ; 

Their arms were poised, and glitter'd in the sky. 

They hail d again — no answer ; yet once more 

They offer 'd quarter louder than before. 

The echoes oulv, from the rocks rebound, 

Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 

Then flash'd the flint, and blazed the volleying flame, 

And the smoke rose between them and their aim, 

While the rork rattled with the bullets' knell, 

Which peal'd in vain, and flattened as they fell; 

Then flew the only answer to be given 

By those who had lost all hope in earth or heaven. 

After the first fierce peal, as they pullM nigher, 

They heard the voice of Christian shout, "Now fire!'* 

And ere the word upon the echo died, 

Two (ell ; the rest assail'd the rock's rough side, 

And, furious at the madness of their foes, 

Disdian'd all further efforts, save to close. 

But steep the crag, and all without a path, 

Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath ; 

While, placed 'mid clefts the least accessible, 

Which Christian's eye was train'd to mark full well, 



378 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND 



The three maintain'd a strife which must not yield, 
In spots where eagles might have chosen to build. 
Their every shot told ; «hile the assailant fell, 
Dash'd on the shingles like the limpet shell ; 
But still enough survived, and mounted still, 
Scattering their numbers here and there, until 
Surrounded and commanded, though Dot nioh 

Enough lor seizure, near enoiie! lie, 

The desperate trio held aloof their fate 

But by a thread, like sharks who have gorged the bail ■ 

Vet to the very last they battled well, 

And not a groan inform'd their foes who fell. 

Christian died last— twice wounded ; and once more 

Mercy was offer' d when they saw I, is gore; 

Too late for life, but not loo late to die, 

With, though a hostile hand, to close his eye. 

A limb was broken, and he droop VI along 

The crag, as doth a falcon reft of voting. 

The sound revived him, or appear'd to wake 

Some passion which a weakly gesture spake : 

He beckou'd to the foremost, who drew nigh, 

But, as they near'd, he rear'd Ins wen;.,,,, high— 

His last ball had bei n aim'd, bul from his breast 

He tore the topmost button from his veil* 

Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, Bred, and smiled 

As his foe fell ; then, like ,, serpent, coil'd 

His wounded, weary form, to where the steep 

Look'd desperate as himself along the deep ; 

Cast one glance back, and clenchVI his hand, and shook 

His last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook; 

Then plunged : the rock below received like glass 

His body crush'd into one gory mass, 

With scarce a shred to tell of human fi .rm, 

Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm ; 

A fair-hair'd scalp, hesmear'd with blood and weeds, 

Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds 

Some splinters of his weapons, (lo the last, 

As long as hand could hold, he held them fast,) 

Yet glitter'd, but at distance— hurl'd an a; 

Torn-, beneath the dew an, I ((ashing spray. 

The rest was nothing— save a life mispent, 

And soul— luit who shall answer where it went ? 

'T is ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and they 

Who doom to hell, themselves are on the way, 

Unless these bullies of eternal pains 

Are pardun'd their bad hearts for their worse brains 



Cawto IV. 



Survivors of theskirmish on the isle ; 
But die Inst rock left no surviving spl.il. 

13 they where they fell, aii.l weltering, 
W !"'■ o'er them flapp'd die sea-birds' dewy wing 
Now wheeling nearer from the neighbouring surge 
And screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge. 
Bui calm and careless heaved the wave below. 
Eternal with unsympathetic flow ; 
Kar o'er its fare the dolphins sported on, 
And sprung the ftying fish against the sun, 
Till its due, I wing relapsed from its brief height, 
o ealher moisture for another flight. 

XIV. 

'T was morn ; and Neuha, who by dawn of day 

s """ 5 thly forth to catch the "rising ray, 

And watch if anght approach'.! the amphibious lair 

N here lay her lover, saw a sail in air: 

H flapp'd, it lill'd, and to the "rowing ga le 

Benl its b oad arch : her breath began to fail 

With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high, 

W hue yet a doubl sprung where its course might lie. 

But no I 11 came not ; last and far away 

Theshadi I as il cleared the bay. 

She gazed and flung the sea-foam from her eyes, 

lo watch as lor a rainbow in the skies. 

On the horizon n rged I he di I int deck,' 

Dismiss'd, dwindled to a very speck 

I Then vanish'd. All n as ocean, all was joy ' 
Down plunged she through the cave to rouse her boy, 
I'M all she had seen, and all she hoped, and aU 
That happy love could augur or recall ; 
Spring forth again, with Torouil followino freo 
His bounding nereid over the broad 

■'■ ■"" ' I 'hi roi k, to wht i 1 shallow cleft 

Hlcl '"•• ' Teuha there had left 

Drifting along the tide, without an oar, 
£' ""' '"' '" mgers chased them from the shore; 
Hut when these I inifih'd, she pursued her prow, 
Kegain'd, and urged to where they found it nowi 

di In in lovi and j 13 1 mbark, 
Than now was wafted in that slender ark. 



.Mil. 

The deed was over ! All were gone or ta'eti, 
The fugitive, the captive or the slain. 
Chain'd on the deck, where once, a gallant crew, 
They stood with honour, were the wretched few 



•InTbitautl'i nccounl of Pr.-.kric the Second of Pr,.i,i» there ii « 

oTo'Srr/'i 

': 

—[I quoin from uiofne, 



u»i, j or mi 1 . . . !,, ,,,, j, 

denied— See Thlbaull . v\ 



it own shore rises on the view, 
No more polluted wilh a hostile hue ; 

No sullen slop lay bristling o'er the foam, 

A floatit. ■ dung, on e— all was hope and home! 

A thousand proas darted o'er the bay, 

With sounding shells, and heralded their way; 

The chiefs came down, around the people pour'd, 

And welcome Turquil as a son restored ; 

The women ihrongM, embracing and embraced 

By Neuha, asking where they had been chased, 

•'.I? The tale was told ; and then 
One acclamation rent the sky again; 
Andfroi that hour a new- tradition | 
Their Banctu u-y the name of " Neuha's Cave." 
\ hundred fires, far flickering from the height, 
Blazed o'er Ihi 
Thi feast in honour of the guest, return'd 

T " Uf, » Ce '"' ll ' msly cjlll'd: 

v '"■ hi succi 1 ! . d by such happy day 
As only the yet infant world displays. 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



EXTRACT FROM THE VOYAGE OF CAPTAIN BLIOH. 

On the 27th of December ,t blew a s, 
wind from the eastward, 111 the course of which we sul 
fered greatly. One sea broke away the spa: 
and spars out of tl„ tarboard mainchsins: another 
broke into the ship and stove all the boats. Si vet tl 

casks of beer that had been las I leek broke loose 

and were wash.,! overboard; and it was not without 
great risk and difficulty that wo were able to secure the 
Doits from being washed away entirely. A groat quan. 



tity of our bread was also damaged and rendered use- 
less. I.,,- the sea had stove in our stern, and filled the 

cabin with water. 

On the 5th of January, 1788, we saw the island of 
aboul twelve leagues distant; and neil day 
Deing Sunday, came to an anchor in the road of Santa' 
Cruz. There we took in the necessary supplies and. 
having finished our business, sailed on the 10th. ' 

I 11 IW divided Iho people into three watches and 
gave the charge of the third watch to Mr. Fletcher 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



379 



Christian, one of the mater. I have always considered 
this a desirable regulation when circumstances will ad- 
mit of it ; and I am persuaded that unbroken rest no! 
only contributes much, towards the health of the ship's 
company, but « ni!»l ■ : Mi in mire readily to exert them- 
selves in cases of sudden emergency. 

As I wished to proceed to Otaheite without stopping, 
I red 1 1 cod the allowance of bread to two-thirds, and 
cau I the water fur drinking to be filtered through 
drip-stones, bought at Teneriffe for that purpose. I 
now acquainted the ship's company of the object of the 
ml gave assurances of certain promotion to 
every one wh oe endeavours should merit it. 

On Tuesday the 26th of February, being in south 
latitude 29° Si?, and 14° 44'wesl longitude, we bent new 
sails, an I n i<l>- other necessary pn-paraiions (or en 
countering the weather that was to be expected in i 
high latitude. Our distance from the coast of Brazil 
was about one hundred leagues. 

On the forenoon of Sunday the 2d of March, after 
seeing that every person was cl san, divine service was 
performed, according to my usual custom on this day. 
I gave to Mr Fletcher Christian, whom I had before 
directed to take charge of the third watch, a written 
order to act a-; lieutenant. 

The change ol temperature soon began to be sensi- 
bly felt, and that the people rntghl nol suffer from their 
own negligence, I supplied them with thicker clothing, 
as better suited to the climate. A great number of 
whales of an immense size, with two ipout-holes on 
the back of the head, were seen on the lldi. 

On a complaint made to me by the master, I found 
it necessary to punish Matthew Q itntal, one of the 
seamen, with two dozen of lashes, for insolence and 
mutinous behaviour, which was the first time that there 
was any occasion for punishment on board. 

W<- were olFCape St. Diego, the eastern part of the 
Terra del Fuego, and, the wind being unfavourable, I 
thought it more adviseable to go round to the eastward 
of State n-land than to attempt passing through S'raits 
le Maire. We passed New Year's Harbour and I Jape 
St. John, an 1 oa Monday the SI st were in latitude 60° 
1' south. But the wind became variable, and we had 

bad weather. 

Storms, attended with a great s*a, prevailed until the 
12th of April. The ship began to leak, and required 
ig every hour, which was rj » m ire han we had 
reason to expect from such a continuance of gales of 
wind and high seas, I'he deck? also became sol aky, 
that it was necessary to allot the greal cabin, of which 
1 made little use except in fine ■■■• ■ a h ■. , to those p tople 
who had nol berths to hang their hammocks in, and by 
between decks was less crowded. 

Wiih all this bad w : at her, we had the additional 
. i m i i '. a' the en I of everv day, thai we 
were losing ground ; fir, notw ithstand'mg our utmosf 
is, and keeping on n I'ageous tracks, 

■ ittl« betterthan drift before the wind. On Tues- 
day the 22d of April, we hail eigbt down on the sick 
list, and the rosl of the people, though in goo I health, 
were greatly fatigued; but I saw, with much concern, 
thai it was impossible to mike a pa lage this way to 
the Society Islands, for we had now been thirty days 
in a tempe ituo is ocean. Thus the season was too far 
a !■ ■ i " 1 for us to expect bettei w lather to enable us 
to double Cape Horn ; and, from these and other con- 
siderations, I ordered the holm to be pu a-weather, 
an I b it away for the Cape of Go -.111 ipe, to the great 
very one on board 

\\ ■ ■ iMi ■ | i in anchor on Friday the 531 of May in 
Simon's bay, al th \ { ' i > aft-ei n tolerable run. Tlie 
ship required complete caulking, for she had bi i 
leaky, ih:it we w tre oblige I to pump hourly in our pas- 
sage from Cape Horn. The sails and rigging also re- 
quired repair ; and on examining the provisions, a con- 
siderably quantity was found damaged. 

Having remained thifty-eighl days in this place, and 
my people having received all the advantage thai could 
be derived from refreshments ofeve-ykina that could 
be met with, we sailed on the 1st of July 

A gale of wind blew on the 20'h, with a high sea : it 
increased after noon with such violence, that the ship 
was driven almost forecastle under before we could get 



the sails clewed up. The lower yards were lowered, 
and the topgallant-masts got down upon deck, which 
relieved her much. We lay to all night, and in the 
morning bore away under a reefed foresail. The sea 
still running high, in the afternoon it became very unsafe 
to stand on: we therefore lay to all night, without any 
accident, excepting that a man at the steerage was 
thrown over the wheel and much bruised. Towards 
noon the violence of the storm abated, and we again 
bore away under the reefed foresail. 

In a few days we passed the island of St. Paul, where 
there is good fresh water, as I was informed by a Dutch 
captain, and also a hot coring, which boils fish as com- 
pletely as if done by a fire. Approaching to Van Die- 
man's land, we had much bad weather, with snow and 
hail ; but nothing was seen to indicate our vicinity on 
the 13rh of August, except a seal, which appeared at 
the distance of twenty leagues from it. We anchored 
in Adventure Bay on Wednesday the 20th. 

In our passage thither from the Cape of Good Hope, 
the winds were chiefly from the westward, with very 
boisterous wea'her. The approach of strong southerly 
winds is announced by many birds of the albatross or 
peterel tribe ; and the abatement of the gale, or a shift 
of wind to the northward, by their keeping away. The 
thermometer also varies five or six degrees in its height 
when a change of these winds maybe expected. 

In the land surrounding Adventure Bay are many 
forest trees one hundred and fifty feet high: we saw 
one which measured above thirty-three feet in girth. 
We observed several eagles, some beautiful blue-plu- 
maged herons, and paroquets in great variety. 

The natives not appearing, we went in search of 
them towards Cape Frederic Henry. Soon after, 
coming to a grapnel close to the shore, for it was im- 
possible to land, we heard their voices, like the cackling 
of geese, and twenty persons came out of the woods. 
We threw trinkets ashore tied up in parcels, which they 
would not open until I made an appearance of leaving 
them : they then did so, and, taking the articles out, put 
them on their heads. On first coming in sight they 
made a prodigious clattering in their speech, and held 
their arms over their heads. They spoke so quick, 'hat 
t was impossible to catch one single word they uttered. 
Their colour is of a dull black ; their skin scarified ahout 
the breast and shoulders. One was distinguished by his 
body being coloured with red ochre, but all the others 
were painted black, with a kind of soot, so thickly laid 
over their faces and shoulders, that it was difficult U> 
ascertain what they wen- like. 

On Thursday, the 4th of September, we sailed out 
of Adventure Bav, steering first towards east-soudi 
eas», and then to the northward of east, when, on the 
9th, we canv in sight of a cluster of small rocky islands, 
which I named Bounty Isles. Soon afterwards we fra 
quently observed the sea, in the night-time, to be co 
vered by luminous spots, caused by amazing quantities 
of small blubbers, or Medusae, which emit a light like 
a candle from the strings or filaments extend- 
ing from them, while the rest of the body continues per- 
fecdv-daik. 
We discovered the island of Otabeite on the 25thj 
nt, before casting anchor next morning in Matavai 
Bay, such numbers of canoes had come off, that, after 
the natives ascertained we were friend?, they came on 
board, and crowded the deck so much, that in ten mi- 
nutes I could scarce find my own people. The whole 
distance which the ship had run, in direct and contrary 
courses, from the time of leaving England until reach- 
in j Otabeite, was twenty-seven thousand and eighty- 
six miles, which, on an average, was one hundred and 
eiyht miles each twenty-four hours. 

Here we lost our siirgi on on the 9th of December. 
Of late he had scarcely ever slim d out of the cabin, 

thoueh not apprehended to be in a dangerous state. 
Nevertheless, appearing worse than usual m the even- 
ing, he was removed where he could dbtain more air, 
but without any benefit, for he died in an hour after 
wards. This unfortunate man drank very hard, and 
was so averse to exercise, thai he would never be pre- 
vailed on to take half a dozen turns on deck at a 
time during all the course of the voyage. He was bu- 
ried on shore. 



380 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



On Monday the 5th of January, the smalt cutter was their tittle fingers; and several of the men, besides 

missed, of which I was immediately apprised. Tin bad parted with the middle finger of the right 
ship's company being mustered: we round three men 

absent, who had earned it off They had tak< n with 'J ho chiefs went off with me to dinner, and we ear- 



th mi eighl si and of arms and ammunition ; but wiih re- 
gard to their plan, every one on board emed ■ bi 
quite ign irant. 1 therefore weal on shore, and en- 
gaged all the chiefs to assisl in n tvering both the 
boat and the deserters. Accordingly, the former was 
brought back in the i i fire of the 

nativ&s: but tin.- men were not taken until nearly three 
weeks afterwards. Learning the place where they 
were, in a different quarter of the island of I ' 
wenl thither in the cutter, thinking there would be no 

difficulty in securing Ihem wiuVthe i bc< 
the natives. However, they heard ofm rii ii u 
when I was near a house in which they w 
ime out without their fire-arms, and delivered them* 
up. Some of the chiefs had form 
bound these deserters; bul had been prevailed on, by 
fair promises of returning peaceably to the ship, te 
release them. But finding an opportunity again to 
get possession of their arms, they set the na 
defiance. 

The object of thi ig now completed, all 

th ■ brea l-fruit plan'-, to the nui 
and fifteen, were got onboard on Tuesday the Slsl oi 
March. Jit-siJ.'s ih.-;.', w had enMeeird many othei 
plants, some of them bearing the finest fruits in the 
world; and valuable, ling brilliant dyes, and 

f>r various prop* rties be li les. At sunset of the 4lh of 
April, we made sail from Otaheite, bidding farewell to 
an island where for twenty-three weeks we had been 
treated with thee tost affection and i egard, and which 

e 'ii 1 h • inc in propori i m to out tayi Thai we 

were n >l insensible to their kindne . th ■ succeeding 
circum ii hi-.-- ■ tin! :iently prw ed ; for to iht friendly 
and endearing h 'lavn-nr of these people maybe ns- 
eribed the motives inciting an even! thai affected the 

ruin of our exped which there was everj reason to 

would have been attended with the m oi favour- 
abb issuo. 

Next morning we got sight of tlie island Eluaheine; 
and a double e in, - soon coming alongside, containing 
ten natives, [ saw among them a young man, who re- 
eollecte I me, and called me by niv name, I had been 
i ■ ■ in the year 17S0, with Captain Cook, in the Reso- 
lution. A tew davs after sailing from this island, the 

weather I ame squally, and a thick body of black 

collected in the east. A water-spoul was in a 
short time seen at no great distance from us, which ap- 
peared to great advantage From the darkness of the 
Clouds behind it. As nearly as I could judge, (he up- 
p *r p irl was about two feet in diameter, and the lower 

about eight inches. Scarcely had I made th -il. . 

"'hen I obs srved thai it was rapidly advancin • towards 
the W i n ne liat ily altered oui com . and took 

in all the nails except the foresail; soon aftei which it 
pas id within ten yards of the s torn, with a rustling 
noi e, bul without our feeling the least effect from it 
being sonear. It seemed to he travelling at the rate 
of ah ail ten miles an hour, in the direction of the wind. 

;imI ' djsp"! I in a quarter of an hour al ei ■ 

IK - I' '- im to i . >, whal injur} we should have 

■ ■ | hi l it passed dire uVi r u Masts, T una- 
ivo be i carried i i Io not ap- 

■ 
ship. 

Passing several islands on the way-, w< anchor* f al 

Annaui . >ka on the 23 I of April ; an I an old tame man 

Tepa, whom I had known here in 1 7 "/ 7 . and im- 

mediatelj reco i im on I al mc w th others, 

from diffsrenl islands in the vicinity. They were de- 
sirous to see the *hip, an 1 on bein ■ n b iw, where 
the bread-fruit plants were arranged, they testified 
great s trpri :, \ few ofl . | ■■,,• we nl 

mm ■ h ire to procure s mne in their place. 

The natives exhibited numerous mirks of the pecu- 
liar mo irning which they express nn lisin;: their rela- 
tives; such as bloody temples, theii heeds being de- 
privi 1 of must of their hair; and what was worse, al- 
most th ■ whole of them had lost some of their fin rer . 
Several fine boys, not above six years old, had lost "both 



I on a brisk trade for yams: we also got plaiutains 
ami bread-fruit. But the yams were in great abun- 
dance, and very fine and larg< i I th m 

irty-five pounds. Bailing canoes cam-, 
of which contained not less than ninety passei 
Such a number of mem gradually arrived (rom differ- 
ent islands, that it was impossible io get any thing 
done, the multitude became so great, and there was no 
chief of sufficient authority to command the whole. I 
therefore ordei ring party, then employed, to 

come "ii board Sui 26th of ApriL 

We kept neat the island of Kotoo all the afternoon 

of Vlonday, in hopes th lI mi i anoes would come off 

- ii bul hi this ■•■■■ were disappointed. The 

wind being northerly, we steered to the westward in 

the evi nine to pass south ofTofoa; and I gavedirec^ ■ 

lions for this course to be continued during the night. 

Th, in , first watch, tin- gunner the middle 

and Mr. Christian the morning watch. This 

I a (he night 

Hithei s of u n 

interrupt* and had been attended • i 

cumstances equally pleasing and satisfactory. But a 
very different seem- was now to be disclosed; a con- 

opiracy had 1 n formed, which was to render all our 

past labour productive only of misery and distress ; and 
tt had been concerted with so much secrecy and cir- 
cumspection, that no one circumstance escaped to be- 
trai the impi ndinj i a 

On the night of Monday, the wab h was sel as I have 
described. Just before sunrise on Tuesday morning, 
while I was yet asleep, Mr. Christian, with the master 
:: i it i ii' r's mat'-, and Thomas Burkitt, seaman, 
came into mv cabin, and seizing me, tied my hands 
with a cord behind my bach, threatening me with in- 
atant death if I spoke oi made thi lea l noise, T never- 
i)i- less called out as loud ai I could, in hopes of assis- 
but the officers noi of their party were already 
secured by sentini Is at their doors. At my own cabin 
door were three men, besides the four within: all ex- 
ep i irislian had muskets and bayonets ; lie had only 
a cuthsss. I was dragged oul "I bed, and forced on 
deck ui my shirt, suffering great pain in the mean time 
from the lightness with which my hands were tied. On 
demanding ■ he reason of such violence, the only an- 
swer was alms..- for noi holding my tongue* The mas 
ier, the gunner, surgeon, master's mate, and Nelson the 
gardener, were kepi confined below, and the fore batch- 
way wasguaided by sentinels. The boatswain u 
penter, and also the clerk, were allowed to come on deck, 

where ih.'V saw me stand iu«; abaft llie mi// en -mast, 

n ui, in j hands tied bi bit d my back, under a guard, with 
I Ihristian al tin u head. The boatswain was then or- 
dered i" hoisl out the launch, accompanied by a threat, 
d he did not do it instantly, to take care or bim- 



ELF, 

The boat befog hoisted out, Mr. Hayward and Mr. 
Hallet, two of the midshipmen, and Mr. Samuel, the 
clerk, were ordered into it. I demanded the intention 
of giving this order, and endeavoured to persuade the 
noi to persist m such acts of violence; 
bul il was '" ii" effect; for the constant answer was. 
" Hold y* ar. or you are dead this moment. 

The master had by this time s< nt, requesting that he 

■ me on deck, which wis permitted ; but he was 

dered back again to his cabin. My exertions 

io turn the lide of affairs were continued ; when Chris. 

tian, changing the cutlass he held (or a bayonet, and 

in- bj the cord about mv hands with a strong 

gripe, threatened me with m tthifl would 

not be quiel ; and, the villains around me had their 

pieces cocked, and bayonets Rxetf. 

Certain individual- were railed on to get into the 
boat, and were hurried over the ship's side; whence I 

c iluded that along with them I was to be set adrift. 

Another effort to bring about a change produced no- 
thing but menaces of having mv brains blown out. 

The boatswain and those seamen who were to be 
put into tlie boat were allowed to collect twine, canvass, 






APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



lines, sails, cordage, an eight-and-twenty-gallon casl, 
of water; and Mr. Samuel got 150 pounds of bread, 
™ a sma " quantity ot rum and nine ; also a quadrant 
and compass, but he was prohibited, on pain of deaih 
to touch any map or astronomical book, and any instru- 
Blent, or any ot my surveys and drawings 

I he mutineers having thus forced those of the sea- 
men ,vl„,m they wished to get rid of into the boat 
Christian directed a dram to be served to each of his 
crew. I then unhappily saw that nothing could be done 
to recover the ship. The officers were next called on 
deck, and forced oyer the ship's side into the boat, while 
I was kept apart from every one abaft the mizen-mast 
i.r.st.an, armed with a bayonet, held the cord fastening 
my hands and the guard around me stood with their 
pieces cocked ; but on my daring the ungrateful wretches 
to hre, they uncocked them. Isaac Marl,,., one of them 
1 saw had on inclination to assist me; and as he fed 
ma with shaddock my lips being quite parched, we e*. 
plained each othe, a sentiments Bv looks. But this was 
Observed, and he was removed. He then got into the 
b>=t, attempting to leave the ship; however, he was 

I','. • ■;"'•; '" "■?'•"■. S°n>e others were also kept con! 

trary to their inclination. F 

It appeared to me that Christian was some time in 

doubt whether he should keep the carpenter or h 

mates. At length he determined on the latter and the 

carpenter was ordered into the boat. Ho was per- 

mitted, though not without opposition, to take his tool- 

Mr Samuel secured my journals and commission, 
""ksome important ship papers: this ho d.d with *rca 
resolution. fcough strictly watched. He attempted to 
save the timeleeper, and a box with my surveys 
drawings, and remarks for fifteen years past, which 
Were very numerous, when he was hurried away with- 
^ Damn your eyes, you are well off to get what you 

Much altercation took place among the mutinous 
crew during the transaction of this whole affair. Some 
swore, I'll be damned if he does not find his way home 
I he gets any thing with him," meaning me ; and when 
the carpenter s chest was carrying away, "Damn my 
eyes, he w,U have a vessel guilt in a month;" while 
others ridiculed the helpless situation of the boat which 
was very deep in the water, and had so little room fir 
those who were in her. As for Christian, he seemed 
M if meditating destruction on himself and every one 

I asked for arms, but the mutineers laughed at me 
and said I was well ac uiainted with the people among ' 
whom I was going: four cullassess, however were 
thrown into the boat after we were veered astern 

I he officers and men being in .he boat they onlv 

ClV/i"--. ' * r ".'■'■ I"' ""'""!' .";"' "■""-a'-arm'.in.or.nlu 

tan, who then said, ".Come, Captain Bligh your 

oficejs and m n are now in the boat, and you must go 

vo , wnl , ' I, :'"',' r "'"' n '" '," " v,k " ''"' ' ea »< resistance, 
you will instantly be pul to leath ;•' and without further 
ceremony .wa, forced over the side byatribe of armed 

ruffians, where they untied my hands. Bei ,, the 

boat, we were veere I astei n by a rop ,. ,\ few pieces 
oi pork were thrown to us, abo the (our cutlasses The 
armourer an I carpenter then called out to nw to re- 
member ft,. ,v, had no hand in the taSJSta. 
,?;',,""-"" IP' » time to make sport fo, 

11 , " urn. 't.'iiii" wi'e f !•■■! an ,,ri,,i , i 

ndicule we were at length cast adrS?i„ the £ , 

, ''-"" ' '' '" >v " r " """> '"■ in the boat -the 

,, "- i, " r ' » "n| <>m botanist, gunner, boa swain 

"n»ntor,ma ter, Snd quartermasters ma to, two quar 

ermasters, the s;„.-,„ ,,ker, two cooks, my clerk the 
batcher, and a boy. There remained on board FlXher 
(.i.r.srru. the master's mate ; Peter Haywood, Edward 
lo.ing, Ueorgo Stewart, midshipmen; the master-at- 
arms, gunners mate, boatswain's mate, gardener ar- 
mourer, carpenter's male, carpenters crew, and fourteen 
seamen, being altogether the most able m.-n of the 
ships company. 

Having little or no wind, we rowed pretty fast to- 
wards the island of Tofoa, which bore northeast about 
ten leagues distant. The ship while in sight steered 



381 

west-riorthwcit; but this I considered only as a feint 
or when we were sent away, « Huzza fi/o allege "'• 
was frequently heard among the mutineers. - 

Christian, the duel or theft, was of a resDectah . 
family in the north of England. This », f 
voyage he had made with me. No v,, ",,, L h 
roughness with winch I was trcateo' hc"o?anc1 
■' I;- kindnesses produced some remorse m him 
X 1 ' hey were forc.ng me out the ship,] asked Z 
whelhei this was a proper return for the many instances 
he had experienced of my friendship ? He appeared 
disturbed atthe question, and answere I wit 'much 
emotion, ' That-Captau, Bhgh-that is the ,12-1 
am in hell-I am in hell !» His abilities to take Car™ 
of the third watch, as I had so divided the ship's com! 
panv, were filllj equal to the task 

Haywood was also of a respectable family in the 
north of England and a young man of abilities; as well 
as Christian i hese two had been objects of mv par- 
ticular regard and attention, and I had taken great 'pains 
to instruct them, having entertained hopes that, as pro 
tessional men, they would have become a credit to their 
country. Young was well recommended, and Stewart 
of creditable parents in the Orkneys, at which place, on 
he return of the Resolution from the Sooth Seas in 
1780, we received so many civilities, that in conside- 
ration of these alone I should gladly have taken him 

u-," 1 "■ r , ?!!' '"' l,aJ a ' Wa - VS born " a good character. 
When I had time to reflect, an inward satisfaction 
prevented the depression of my spirits Yet a few 
hours before my situation had been peculiarly flat- 
taring j I bad a ship in the most perfect order, stored 
with every necessary, both for health and service - the 
object of the voyage was attained, and two-thirds of it 
now completed. The remaining part had every pros, 
pect of success. J r 

It will naturally be asked, what could be the cause 
of such a revolt? In answer, I can only conjecture 
that the mutineers had flattered themselves with the 
hope ofa happier life among the Otaheilans than they 
could possibly enjoy in England, which, joined to some 
emale connexions, most probably occasioned the whole 
transaction. 

The women of Otahcite are handsome, mild and 
cheerful in manners and conversation, possessed of 
great sensibility, and have sufficient delicacy to make 
them be admired and beloved. The chiefs were so 



-..__ — .„,^„. A 11C cmi-is were so 

much attached to our , le, that they rather encou, 

raged their lay among them than otherwise, and even 
made them promises of large possessions Under 
these and many other concomitant circumstances, it 
ought b irdly to be the subject of surprise that a set of 
sailors, most of them void of connexions, should be led 
away where they had the power of fixing themselves 
i the mids of plenty, in one of the finest islands in 
the world, where there was n0 necessity to labour and 
■here the allurements of dissipation are beyond' an, 
conception that can be formeil of it. The utmost how 
ever, that a commander could have expected was de 
serttons, such as have already happened more or less 
in the South Seas, and n .1 an act of open mutiny 

But the secrecy of this mutiny surpasses belief. 
1 hirteen ol the party who were now with me bad 
always heed forward anions; the seamen, yet neither 
they, n ir the messmates of Christian, Stewart Hay. 

" '■ :,,li ■*"""-• "ad ever observed any circumstance 

to excite suspicion ol what was plotting, and it is not 
wondeiful if I fell a sacrifice to it, my mind being en- 
tin [y free from suspicion. Perhaps, had mariners been 
on board, a sentinel at my cabin door might have pre- 
vented it; fir I constantly slept with the door open 
that the officer or the watch might have access to me 
on all occasions. It' the mutiny had been occasioned 
by any grievances, either real or imaginary I must 
have discovered symptoms of discontent, which wouid 

™ r v * P"! n my guard: but it was far otherwise; 

With Christian, in particular, I was on the most friendly 
terms ; that very day he was engaged to have dined 
with me ; and the preceding night he excused himself 
from supping with me on pretence of indisposition for 
which I felt concerned, having no suspicions of his 
honour or integrity. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS 

A 

SERIES OF POEMS, 

ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 



&W' in) lit U«'V tttvU ll'ITt Tl VlUtl. 

* • r r HOMER, ILIAD, i. '. 

•Hi », Milled at be «mc for «»ol of *2'rfJJ'" 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 

KNIC.HI Of THE GARTER, ETC. ETC. 
THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEU1 IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS OBLIOED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, 

THE AUTHOR. 



Lord Byron first appeared as an author in Novem- 
ber 1806 when he printed a collection of poems for .lis- 
trib'ution among his friends. The first copy of this volume, 
which is a thin quarto, was presented to Mr. Beecher, 
who immediately perceived, on looking over ns pages, 
that some of the contents wore by no means of a descrip- 
tion to reflect credit on their author j and at his friendly 
suggestion the whole impression, with the exception of 
ltoo°or, at the most, three copies, was committed to the 
Hames. After the destruction of this volume, Lord By- 
ron directed the collection to be reprinted, with the omis- 
sion of the objectionable poems. This edition, which 
was confined to a hundred copies, and, like its predeces- 
sor, designed for private circulation, was proceeded in 
so quickiv, that at the end of about six weeks, January, 
1807, it was ready for delivery. The trolume was enti- 
tled " Poems on Various Occasions," and was printed 
at Newark by S. and J. Ridge; the author's name was 
not given. The dedication was, " To those friends at 
whose request they were printed, for whose amusement 
or approbation they were solely intended, these trifles 
are respectfully dedicated by the author." Immediately 
folluwing the dedication was this notice :— " The only 
apology necessary^to be adduced in cxtenualion of any 
errors in the following collection is, that the author has 
not yet completed his nineteenth year. December 23, 
1806." The approbation which this volume received 
from the friends lo whom it was submitted induced Lord 
Byron to come more immediately before the public ; and 
in the latter end ofMay, 1807, this collection, with con- 
siderable alterations, the omission of some i ms, and 

the addition "f others, was reprinted and published, un- 
der the ml.- "!' •■ Hours of Idleness, a Series of Poems, 
original and translated, by George Gordon, Lord Byron, 
a Minor." This volume was also primed at Newark. 
In the four editions of this work, which rapidly succeed- 
ed each other, many variations are found : several cor- 
rections wore made ; several pieces wen silently with- 
drawn, and replaced by others ; ami after the first edition 
a dedication to Lord Carlisle was prefixed. In the pre- 
sent publication, all those poems from the ■ Private Vo- 
lume," and the early editions of " Hours of Idleness," 
which were suppressed by the author, are reprinted, and 
all the variations of the different impressions are noticed. 



PREFACE.* 
In submitting to the public eye the following collection 
1 have not only lo combat the difficulties that writers of 
verse generally encounter, but may incur the charge of 
presumption for obtruding myself on the world, when, 
without doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully em- 
ployed. These productions are the fruits of the lighter 
hours of a young man who has lately completed his 
nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of 
a boyish omul, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. 
Some few were written during the disadvantages of ill- 
ness and depression of spirits ; under ihe former influ- 
ence, "Childish Recollections," in particular, 
w.-te composed. This consideration, though it cannot 
., fl i, ii„ voice of Praise, may at least arrest the arm of 
Censure. A considerable portion of these poems has 
been privately primed, at the request and for the perusal 
of my friends. I am sensible that the partial and fre- 
quently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the 
criterion by which poetical genius is to be estimated, yet, 
" lo do sreally," we must » dare greatly ;" and I have 
hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this 
volume. " I have passed the Rubicon," and must stand 
or fall by the " cast of the die." In the latter event, I 
shall submit without a murmur ; for, though not without 
solicitude for the fete of these effusions, my expectations 
are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may 
have "dared much and done little; for, in the words „l 
Cowper, " ii is one thing to write what may please our 
friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a httlo 
biassed in our favour, and another to write what may 
please every body ; because they who have no connexion, 
or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault 
if they can." To the truth of this, however, I do not 
wholly subscribe: on the contrary, I feel convinced that 
thi ge trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their 
merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed ; their 
numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that 
favour which has been denied toothers of maturer years, 
decided character, and far greater ability. I liave not 
aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied 
any particular model for imitation : some translations are 
given, of win, h many are paraphrastic. In the original 
pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with au- 



• Thu w«. the only mono .l»en in Hie prints vtjoM i » -"• reUto- 
td will, Hit olher two ill lilt tint edil.o.i of Hour, ol Idlcueo, nod onul- 
tcd tu the iccond. 



Primed In Iht tril edition of Hour, of IdleneM ; omltud In U» 
•econd. 



HOURS OP IDLENESS. 



383 



thors whose works I have been accustomed to read ; but 
thave not been guilty ofintenlional plagiarism. To pro- 
duce any thing entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhvme, 
would be a Herculean task, as every subject ha? already 
"been treated lo its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is 
not my primary vocation ; to divert the dull moments of 
indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged 
me " to this sin :" little can be expected from so unpro- 
mising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all 
I shall derive from these productions ; and I shall never 
attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single addi- 
tional spri; from groves where I am, at besr,an intruder. 
Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a care- 
less mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have 
not, of late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so 
elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the 
list with genuine bards, who have enjoyed both these 
advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a 
few not less profit, from their productions ; while I shall 
r rpiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without 
the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share 
of the former, I leave to others " Virilm volitare per ora." 
I look to the few who will ht'ar with patience " dulce est 
re in IncjC" — To the former worthies I resign, 
with ml repiimg, the hope of immortality, and content 
myself with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking 
" a T n tng the mob of gentlemen who write;" — my read- 
ers must determine whether I dare say '* with case," or 
the honour of a posthumous page in " The Catalogue 
of Rival and Noble Authors," a work to which the 
peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many- 
names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity, are 
thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily over- 
shadows several voluminous productions of their illustri- 
ous bearers. 

With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first 
and last attempt. To the diciates of young ambition 
may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally 
absurd. To a few of my own a^e the contents may 
afford amusement: I trust they will, at least, be found 
harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation 
ami pursuits hereafter, that I should everobtrude myself 
a seco'id time on the public ; nor even in the very doubt- 
ful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to 
commit a future trespass of the same nature. The opi- 
nion of Z)r. Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of 
mine,* t( That when a man of rank appeared in the 
character of an author, his merit should be handsomely 
acknowledged." can have little weight with verbal, and 
still less with periodical censors ; but wete it otherwise, 
1 should be loath to avail myself of the privilege, and 
would rather incur the bilterest censure ofanonymouscri- 
ticisn) than triumph in honours granted solely to a title. 



xMISCELLANEOUS PIECES 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 

" Why no*T thou build the hall, son of the winced 
day*? Thou looked from thy tower to-day: yet 

A FEW YEARS, AND THE BLAsT OF THE DE3ERT COMES, 
IT HOWLS IN THY EMPTY COURT. — 0s8 Ofl | 

1 

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds 
whistle ; 

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone toderav ; 
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 

Have choked up the rose which latebloom'd in the way. 



* The Earl of Carlisle, whose works hare long receded the meed of 
public applause, lo which, by their intrinsic worth, the/ were well enti< 
tied. 

t The motto was added in the first edition of Hours 6f Idleness. 



Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle 

Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 
The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, 

Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 
3. 
No more doth old Robert, with harp- stringing numbers, 

Raise a flame in the breast for ihe war-laurell'd wreath ; 
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan* slumbers, 

Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 

. - 4. 
Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy ; 

For the safely oLEd Ward and England they fell : 
Mv fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; 

How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell. 
5. 
On Marston,| with Rupert, J 'gainst traitor^ contending, 

Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field ; 
For the rights of a monarch their country defending, 

Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. 

6. 

Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, departing 

From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
Abroad, oral home, your remembrance imparting 

New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 
7. 
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 

'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret j 
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, 

The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 
8. 
That fame, and that memorv, still will he cherish, 

He vows 'hat he ne'er will disgrace your renown » 
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 

When decav'd, may he rn ingle his dust with your own. 

1803. 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE, 
AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL.II 



i prxleritos referat si Jupiter nnnos. 

Virgil, jKneid, lib. 8, 560. 



1. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 

Embitters the present, compared with the past; 
Where science first dawned on ihe powers of reflection. 

And friendships were form'd too romantic to last; 
o 
Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance 

Of comrades in friendship and mischief allied ; 
How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance, 

Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied I 
3. 
Again I revisit the hills where we sported, 

The streams where we swam, and the fields where we 
fought ; 
The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted, 

To pour o'er ihe precepts by pedagogues taught. 
4. 
Again I bHiold where for hours I have ponder'd, 

As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay ; 
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd, 

To catoh the last gleam of the sun's selling ray. 



* Horistan Caslte, in Derbyshire, an ancient *eat of the Byron family. 

t The battle of Maraton Moor, where the alherenls of Charles, I. 
were defeated. 

J Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. He after- 
wards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II. 

I! This poen> was printed in the private volume, and in the first edition 
of Hours of Idleness, where tho molto from Virgil was added. It wu 
afterwards omitted. 



384 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



6. 
1 once more view the room with spectators surrounded, 

Where, as Zan«a, I irod on Alunzo overthrown ; 
While to swell my young pride such applauses re- 
sounded, 
1 fancied that Mossop* himself was outshone: 

6. 
Or, as Lear, I poured forth the deep imprecation, 

By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived ; 
Till) Bred by loud plaudits and self adulation, 
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived* 
7. 
Ye dream 1 ; of my boyhood, how much I regret you! 

Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast 1 ) ; 
Though sad and deserted) I ne*er c in fbrgel you ; 
Your pleasures may still bo 
8. 
To [da I full oft may remembrance restore mOj 

While fate shall the shades of the future unroll ! 
Since darkness o'er* ire me, 

More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 
9. 
Bui if, through the course of the years which await me, 

Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall ..-late me, 
" Oh! such were the days which my infancy kne*w." 

1806. 



TO D||. 
1. 
In thee I fondly hoped to clasp 

A friend, whpm death alone could sever; 
Till envy, with malignant iirasp, / 

Dciach'u thee from my breast lor ever, 

2. 
True she has forced thee from my breast, 

Yet in my heart ihoil keep's) ihy seal ; 
There, there thine linages still musl restj 
Until thai heart shall cease to beat. 
3. 
An I. when the grave restores her dead, 

When lit'-.- again to dirsl is given, 
On thy dear breasi I '11 lay my head — 
Without thoe, where would be my heaven? 

February, 1803. 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND**. 
"'AcTffo jro(i> ftiu i\afurt$ r>l ^uoiatv fdtoc." 

L/iertiui. 

Oh, Friend! fur ever loved, (or ever dearjf, 
What fruitless in - li m- bathed tliy honour'd bier! 
What sighs re-echo'.i to thy parting breath, 
Whilsl thou wasi struggling in the pangs of death 1 
Could tears retard ihe tyrant in bis course ; 
Could sighs avert bis dart fl relentless force, 



* MotMp, fccolempomry ofOarr his performance of 

■ 
f " You i' memory twaUM through ihii ag in 

Dolumfl. 

I " I thought ihii poor brain, ft»er'd own I adueae, 

■ i ■ ■ <u,\\ ; 

Rut the drop! wh idnete, 

. Convince nt < 

" Sweet scenes of mr childhood t 

1 1 ■•■•■ loo| dead, 

In torrents <.<•■■ tears -if mv warm 
The hut and ili< I mi I 

Pi halt volume. 
i; Printed In 'he private volume only. 

" Thaw lines were printed in the private rolunw, the title being 
i ...ii in a beloved rri*nd." The mono wits fcdded In the first 
idktoo of Hour* of Idleness. 

tt " Ob, Boy! for ever loved, forever dour."— Private volume. 



Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; 
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, 
■ trade's honour, and thy friend's delight. 
* if yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 
Here will thou read, recorded on my heart, 
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
No marble. maiks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
Bui living statutes there are seen lo weep ; 

tee bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
What il re lament bis failing line, 

A father's sorrows cannot equul mine! 
Though none like tin ■<■ Ins dying hour will cheer, 
Tel other offspring Boothe bis anguish here : 
But who with me shall hold thy former place? 
Thine image what new friendship can efface? 
Ah none ! — a father's tears will cease lo flow, 
Time will assuage an infant brother's, woe; 
To all) save one, is consolation known, 
While soltiarv friendship sighs atone. 

1803. 



A FRAGMENT. 
When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice; 
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, 
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side; 
Oh may my shade behold no sculptured urns 
To mark the spol where earth to earth returns ! 
yNo lengthened scroll i i umber'd stone, 

My epitaph shall be my name alone: 
If that wnli honour fail to crown my clav, 
< >h may no other fame my deeds repay ! 
That, only that, shall single out the spot; 
| By thai rememberMj or with that forgot. 

1803. 



TO EDDLESTON||. 

1. 

Let Folly smile, to view the names 
Of thee and me in friendship twined ; 

Ye! Virtue will have greater claims 
To love, than rank with vice combined] 

2. 

And though unequal is thy fate, 
Since title deck'd my higher birth! 

Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 

Thine is the pride of modest worth. 

3. 

Our souls at least congenial meet, 
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; 

Our intercourse is DOl 
Since worth of rank supplies the place. 

November, 1802. 



* " Though low thy lot. since in a cotlnge bom, 
■ 

To me f.«r dean ■ ■ »■. luve 

Than ull thr ).>y» wealth. Lone, ntnl friends could prOTe l 
; i 

i»ii i , rgtvel 

■.-,.., i doont) 

Content I n the* In thy turf-clad tomb ; 

Whei e ihii frail i bm rest, 

1 'II mnke my lust cold pillow on thy hreast ; 
Thai lire uii where oft In life i 'ft laid my head, 
Will ret receive me moult! lead; 

Thli life rttrifD'd irllhont '><»: parting atgh) 
i i irth we'll lie I 

a 10 mortals given, 
TogjOllier mis our dual, and hope tor heaven." 

Such WLta the conclusion in the private volume, 

t " No lengthen d scroll of virtue Sod renown." 

iff volume, amtjirut edition of Honre of fdlenete, 
I " B> that rtoember'd, or fore'er forgot.* 1 — Private volume. 

II Only printed In the private volume. 










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HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



385 



REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF .1. M. B 
PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY 
OF HIS MISTRESS*. 
1. 
Why, Pigot, complain 
Of this damsel's disdain, 
Why thus in despair do you fret ? 
For months you may iry, 
Yet. believe me, a sigh 
Will never obtain a coquette. 
2. 
Would you teach her to love ? 
For a time seem lo rove ; 
At first she may frown in a pet ; 
But leave her awhile, 
She shortly will smile, 
And then you may kiss your coquette. 

3. 

For such are the airs 

Of these fanciful fairs, 
They think all our homage a debt ; 

Yet a partial neglect 

Soon takes an effect, 
And humbles the proudest coquette. 
4 

Dissemble your pain, 

And lengthen your chain, 
And seem her hauteur to regret , 

If again you shall sigh 

She no more will deny 
Thai yours is the rosy coquette. 
5. 

If still, from false pride, 

Your pangs sl*e deride, 
This whimsical virgin forget; 

Some other admire, 

Who will melt with your fire, 
And laugh at the little coquette. 
6. 

For me, I adore 

Some twenty or more, 
And love them most dearly ; but yet, 

Though my heart Ihey enthral, 

I'd abandon them all, 
Did they act like your blooming coquette 

7. 
No longer repine, 
Adopt this design, 
And break through her slight-woven net ; 
Away with despair, 
No longer forbear, 
To fly from the captious coquette. 
8. 
Then quit her, my friend ! 
Your bosom defend, 
Ere quite with her snares you're beset: 
Lest your deep-wounded heart, 
When incensed by the smart, 
Should lead you to curse the coquette. 

October 27tA, 1806. 



TO THE SIGHING STREPHONf. 
1. 

Your pardon, my friend, 

If my rhymes did offend, 
Your pardon, a thousand limes o'er 

From friendship I strove 

Your pangs to remove, 
But I swear I will do so no more. 



Since your beautiful maid 

Your flame has .repaid, 
No more I your folly regret; 

She's now the most divine, 

And I bow at the shrine 
Of this quickly reformed coquette. 
3. 

Yet, still, I must own, 

I should never have known 
From your verses, what else she deserved ; 

Your pain seem'd so great, 
I pitied your fate, 
As your fair was so devilish reserved. 
4. 

Since the balm breathing kiss 

Of this magical miss 
Can such wonderful transports produce; 

Since the il world you forget, 

When your lips once have met," 
My counsel will get but abuse. 

5. 

You say, when " I rove, 

I know nothing of love ;" 
'T is true, I am given to range : 

If I rightly remember, 

I've loved a good number, 
Y'et there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 
6. 

I will not advance, 

By the rules of romance, 
To humour a whimsical fair ; 

Though a smile may delight, 

Yet a frown won't arTright, 
Or drive me to dreadful despair. 
7. 

While my blood is thus warm 

I ne'er shall reform, 
To mix in the Piatonists' school • 

Of this I am sure, 

Was my passion so pure, 
Thy mistress would think mc a fool. 
8. 

And if I should shun 

Every woman for one, 
Whose image must fill my whole breast— 

Whom I must prefer, 

And sigh but for her — 
What an insult 'twould be to the rest! 
9. 

Now, Strephon, good bye ; 

I cannot deny 
Your passion appears most absurd; 

Such love as you plead^ 

Is pure love indeed,^||P 
For it only consists in the word. 



•Printed in Ibe private volume only. 
t Thcte aUoiai were ouly primed in the pHmle relume. 

2Y 



THE TEAR. 

" laehrymarum font, tenero aacrot 
Ducenliumorlus ax uoimo ; quater 
Felix !"m Jmo qui acftteatan 
Piciore le, pia Nymph*, aensit." — Gray* 

1. 

When Friendship or Love 

Our sympathies move, 
When Truth in a glance should appear, 

The lips may beguile 

With a dimple or smile, 
But the test of affection's a Tear. 
2. 

Too oft is a smile 

But the hypocrite's wile, 



■ Tun mono waa interttd lu ibe firtt ediucn of Hour* of Idlcnw. 



3S6 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



To mask detestation or fear; 

Give me the soft sigh, 

"Whilst the soul-telling eye 
Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear. 
3. 

Mild Charity's glow, 

To us mortals below, 
Shows the soul from barbarity cleai , 

Compassion will melt 

Where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 
4. 

The man doom'd to sail 

With the blast of the gale, 
Through billows Atlantic to steer, 

As he bends o'er the wave 

Which may soon be his grave, 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 
5. 

The soldier braves death 

For a fanciful wreath, 
In Glory's romantic career; 

But he raises the foe 

When in battle laid low, 
And bathes every wound with a Tear. 

6. 

If with high-bounding pride 

He return to his bride, 
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, 

All his toils are repaid 

When, embracing the maid, 
From her eyelid he kisses thy Tear. 
7. 

Sweet scene of my youth ! 

Seat of Friendship and Truth, 
Where love chased each fast- Meeting year, 

Loth to leave thee, I mourned, 

For a last look I turn'd, 
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 
8. 

Though my vows I can pour 

To my Mary no more, 
My Mary to Love once so dear, 

In the shade of her bower 

I remember the hour 
She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 
9. 

By another possest, 

May she live ever blest ! 
Her name still my heart must revere : 

With a sigh I resign 

What I once thought was mine, 
And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 

kLio. 

Ye friends of my heart, 

Ere from you I depart. 
This hope to my breast is most near : 

If again we shall meet 

In this rural retreat, 
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 
11. 

When my soul wings her flight 

To the regions of night, 
* And my corse shall recline on its bier, 

As ye pass by the tomb 

Where my ashes consume, 
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear. 
12. 

May no marble bestow 

The splendour of woe 



Which the children of vanity rear : 

No fiction of fame 

Shall blazon my name, 
All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 

October 2G, 1806. 



TO MISS PIGOT* 

1. 

Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 

Who to woman deny the soul's future existence ; 
Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect, 
And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance, 
o 
Had their prophet pnssess'd half an atom of sense, 

He ne'er would have women from paradise driven, 
Instead of his bouris, a flimsy pre', i 

With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 
3. 
Yet still to increase your calamities i 

Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, 
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!— 
Wuh souls you'd dispense ; but this last, who could 
bear it * 

4. 
His religion to please neither party is made ; 

On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives the most uncivil , 
Still I can't contradict] what so ofi has been said, 

" Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil." 

LINES WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN 
ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GEN- 
TLEMAN. BY J. J. ROUSSEAU. FOUN- 
DED ON FACTS t-" 

" Away, away, your flattering arts 
May now betray some simpler hearts ; 
And you will smile at their believing 
And they shall weep at your deceiving,** 

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO 

MISS . 

Dear simple girl, those flattering arts, 

From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts 

Exist but in imagination, — 

Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; 

For he who views that witching grace, 

That perfect form, that lovely face, 

With eyes admiring, oh ! believe me, 

He never wishes to deceive thee : 

Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, 

Thou'lt there descry that elegance 

Which from our sex demands such praises, 

But envy in the other raises : 

Then he who tells thee of I hy beauty, 

Believe me, only does his duty : 
Ah ! fly not from the candid roalfa ; 
It is not flattery, — 'tis truth. 

July, 1 804. 



' " And tnj body shall ileep on iti bier."— Privaii solum*. 



THE CORNELIAN J. 
1. 
No specious splendour of this stone 
Endears it to my memory ever ; 
With lustre only once it shone, 
And blushes modest as the giver. 
2. 
Some, who can sneer at friendship's to s, 
Have for my weakness oft reprov d me; 



• Pound only in the private volume. 
f Only (irirtled in tfinpnvnte nulumc 
1 To young EdJJ«sloaMTtui poem (■ oaly found in the private Tolumt* 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



387 



Yet still the simple gift I prize, — 
For I am sure the giver loved mo. 

3. 

He offered it with downcast look, 

As fearful that I might refuse it ; 
I told him when the gift I took, 

Mj only fear should be to lose it. 
4. 
This pledge attentively I view'd, 

And sparkling as 1 held it near, 
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, 

And ever since I've loved a tear. 

5. 

Still, to adorn his humble youth, 

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield ; 
But he who seeks the flowers of truth, 

Must quit the garden for the field. 
6. 
*T is not the plant uprear'd in sloth, 

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume ; 
The flowers which yield the most of both 

In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 

7. 

Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 

For once forgetting to be blind, 
His would have been an ample share, 

If weil-proportion'd to his mind. 
8. 
But had the goddess clearly seen, 

His form had fix'd her fickle breast ; 
Her countless hoards would his have been, 

And none remaiii'd to give the rest. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,* 
COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY 
DEAR TO HIMf. 

1. 

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, 
Not e'eu a zephyr, wanders through the grove, 

Whilst I return to view mv Margaret's tomb, 
And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 

2. 

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, 
That clay where once such animation beam'd ; 

The King of Terrors seized her as his prey, 
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. 

3. 

l)h ! could that King of Terrors pity feel, 
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! 

Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, 
Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 

4. 
But wherefore weep ? her matchless spirit soars 

Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day ; 
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 

Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 
5. 
And shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign, 

And, madly, godlike providence accuse? 
Ah ! no, fir fly from me attempts so vain, 

I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 



• Mii» Parker. 

t To Ihtse ltanzas, whii-h are from the prirnte vnlume, the following 
pule was nitnehed : " The author claims tl 1 tlie reader 

m'TP for ibii piece than, per hap», any other in the collection ; hut at it 
whi written ul nn enrller period than the res' (h irtl composed at the nee 
of fourteen.) .ind hi* first essay, he preferred aohmllling il l 
p.- nee of tin frwodi u> iu present stale, to making cither addition or 
Utetniloa.* 



Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, 
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face ; 

Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, 
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 



TO EMMA*. 

1. 

Since now ihe hour is come at last, 

When you must quit your anxious lover < 
Since now our dream of bliss is past, 

One pang, my girl, and all is over. 
2. 
Alas! that pang will be severe, 

Which bids us part to meet no more, 
Which tears me far from one so dear, 

Departing for a distant shore. 
3. 
Well : we have pass'd some happy hours, 

And joy will mingle with our tears; 
When thinking on these ancient towers, 

The shelter of our infant years ; 
4. 
Where from the gothic casement's height, 

We view'd the lake, the park, the dale, 
And still, though tears obstruct our sight, 

We lingering look a last farewell. 

5. 
O'er fields through which we used to run, 

And spend the hours in childish play ; 
O'er shades where, when our race was done, 

Reposing on my breast you lay ; 
6. 
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, 

Forgot to scare the hov'ring flies, 
Tl et envied every fly the kiss 

It dared to give your slumbering eyes: 
7. 
See stiJl the little painted bark, 

In which I row'd you o'er the lake , 
See there, high waving o'er the park, 

The elm I clamber'd for your sake. 
8. 
These times are past — our joys are gone, 

You leave me, leave this happy vale; 
These scenes I must retrace alone ; 

Without thee what will they avail ? 
9. 
Who can conceive, who has not proved, 

The anguish of a last embrace? 
When, torn from all you fondly loved, 

You bid a long adieu to peace. 
10. 
This is the deepest of our woes, 

For this these tears our cheeks bedew ; 
This is of love the final close, 

Oh, God, the fondest, last adieu ! 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE. 

DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OP 
11 THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A PTIVATT 
THEATRE. 

Since the refinement of this polish'd age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, 
Which siamp'd disgrace on all an author writ 



* This poem is Inserted from the private volume*. 



388 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, 
Nor dare 10 call the blush from Beauty's cheek ; 
Oh ! let the modest Muse some pHv claim, 
An I meet indulgence, though she find not fame. 
Si ill, not for her alone we wish respect, 
Others appear more conscious of defect : 
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold] 
In all the arts of scenic action old ; 
No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, 
No Sidddns draw the sympathetic tear; 
To-night you throng to witness the debut 
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 
Here, then, our almost nnfied ;ed w tngs we try ; 
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly : 
Failing in this our first attempt to soar, 
Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 

N»t our [i mr trembler only fear betrays, 

Who hopes, yet almost drea Is, to meet your praise ; 

But all our dramatis persons wait 

In fond suspense this crisis of our* fate. 

No venal views our progress can retard, 

Your generous plaudits are our sole reward r, 

For these, each Hero all his power displays. 

Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 

Surely ihe last wili some protection find ; 

None to the sol Br S -\ Can prove unkind : 

Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield, 

The sternest Censorf to the fair must jield. 

Yet. should our feeble efforts naught avail, 

Should, after all, our best endeavours fail, 

Still let some mercy in your bosoms live, 

And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive* 



"K<>r «hom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 
Willi' ft ientls an'l foes alike his talents own; 
Fox Bhall in Britain's future annals shine, 
Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign ; 
Which Envy, wearing CandorVi sacred mask, 
For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, 

THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEAR- 
ED ix a mohninc; paper!. 
" Oca nation's foes lament on Fox's death, 
But bless the hour when Pirr resign'd his breath : 
These feelings wide, let sen*e and truth undue, 
We give the palm where Justice points its due." 

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT 
THE FOLLOWING REPLT ||. 

Oh, factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth 
"Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth. 
What though our " nation's roes'* lament the fat?, 
With generous feeling, of the good and great, 
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame? 
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power, 
Though ill success obscured his dying hour 

Pitv her dewy wings before him spread. 

For noble spirts " war not with the dead: 1 ' 

His friend--, in tear*, a I isl sad requiem gave, 

As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 

He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath (he tvi 

Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting stale : 

When lo ! a Hercules in Fca eppear'd, 

Who for a time the ruin'd fabric n 

He, too, is falTn, who Britain'- loss supplied, 

With him our fast-reviving hopes have died; 

Not one gre:it people only raise his urn. 

All Europe's far-exlend'-d re-ions mourn. 

" These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 

To give (he palm where Justice points its due ;" 

Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail, 

Or round our statesman wind her gloomv veil. 

Pox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, 

"Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep ; 



* Our. In the private volume, their. 
I Ctntnr In the titivate volume, critic. 
X " In thf Mnrning Post."— Private colum*. 
II '• For itui-rcioti in the .Morning Chronicle," wnt litre added in the 
privule volume. 



TO M. S. G.* 
1. 
Whewe'er I view those lips of ihine, 

Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 
Yet I fnreg » thai bliss divine, 
Alas! it were unhallowM bliss. 
2. 
WheneV-r I dream of that pure breast, 
How could I dwell upon its snows? 
Yel is the daring wish represt, 
For that, — would banish its repose. 
3. 
A glance from thy soul-searching eye 

Can rai-e with hope, depress with fear ; 
y. i 1 conceal my love, and why ' 
I would not force a painful tear. 
4. 
I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 

Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; 
And shall I plead my passion now, 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ? 
5. 
No! for thou never canst be mine, 

United by the priest's decree j 
By any ties but those divine. 

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 
6. 
Then let the secret fire consume, 

Let it consume, ihou shall not know; 
Willi joy I court a certain doom, 
Rather than spread its guilty glow. 
7. 
I. will not ease my tortured heart, 

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine, 
Rather than such a sting impart, 

Each thought presumptuous I resign. 
8. 
Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 

More than I here shall dare to tell ; 
Tltv innocence and mine to save, — 
I bid thee now a last farewell, 
9. 
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair 
And hope no more thy soft embrace, 
Which to obtain my soul would dare, 
AH, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 
10. 
At least from guill shalt thou be free, 

No matron shall thy shame reprint , 
Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
No martyr shall thou be to love. 



TO CAROLINE*. 

1. 
Think'st thou [ saw thy beauteous eyes, 

Suffused in tears, implore to stay ; 
And h. ard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, 
Which said far more than words can say "* 
2. 
Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, 
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ; 



" Only pruitetl in the private volume, 
f Pi i iii. a only in the private volume. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



389 



Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 

ThrobbM with deep sorrow as thine own. 

3. 

But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, 

When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, 
The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 

Were lost in those which fell from thine. 
4. 
Thou couId*st not' feel niy burning cheek, 

Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame, 
And as thy tongue essay d to speak, 

In sighs alone it breathed my name. 
5. 
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, 

In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 
Remembrance only can remain, — 

But that will make us weep the more. 
6. 
Again, thou best beloved, adieu ! 

Ah ! if thou canst o'ercome regret, 
Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 

Our only hope is to forget ! 



TO CAROLINE*. 
I. 

When I hear you express an affection so warm, 
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, 

And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. 
2. 
Yet still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring, 

That love, like the leafj must fall into the sear, 
That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, 
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear ; 
3. 
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining 

Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze, 
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 
4. 
'Tis this, my beloved, which speads gloom o'er my 
features, 
Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree 
Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures, 
In the death which one day will deprive you of me, 

5. 
istake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, 
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; 
He worships each look with such faithful devotion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 
6. 
But as death, my beloved, soon or late shallo'ertake us, 
And our breasts which alive with such sympathy glow, 
Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, 
When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low : 
7. 
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, 
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow ; 
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, 
And quaff" the contents as our nectar below. 

1805. 



TO CAROLINES 
I. 

Oh ! when shall the grave hide for ever mv sorrow ? 

Oh, when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay ? 
The present is hell, and the coming to morrow 

But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. 



• Inserted from tne privnte volume. 

t Tbia poem also is reprinted from ihe private volume. 



From my eye flows no tear, from my lips fall no curses, 
I blast not the fiends who have hurled me from bliss ; 
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 
3. 
Was my eve, 'slead of tears, with red fury flakes 
bright' ning, 
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream 
could assuage, 
On our fv.es should my glance lanch in vengeance its 
lightning, 
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 
4. 
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 

Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight, 
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, 
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 
5. 
Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, 
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer ; 
Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation, 
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 
6. 
Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me 

Since in life, love, and friendship for ever are fled ? 
If again in the mansion ofdealh I embrace thee, 
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. 

1805. 



STANZAS TO A LADY. 

WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS. 
I. 

This votive pledge of fond esteem, 

Perhaps, dear girl! fur me thou'lt prize , 

It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 
A theme we never can despise. 

2. 

Who blames it but the envious fool. 

The old and disappointed maid? 
Or pupil of the prudish school, 

In single sorrow doom'd to fade ? 
3. 
Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read, 

For thou wilt ne'er be one of those j 
To thee in vain I shall not plead 

In piry for the poet's woes. 
4. 
He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 

His was no fainl, fictitious flame : 
Like his, may love be thy reward, 

But not thy hapless fate the same. 



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE*. 

t( 'A BapfitTos ie \op6a7s 
'Epojra fiovvov fl^et." 

Anacreon 

1. 

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance ! 

^Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! 
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, 

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. 
2. 
Ye rhymeis, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, 

Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove. 
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, 

Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love ! 



* These slantas were printed in the private volume, and m the f *»1 
edition of Hours of Idleness, but omitltrd iu (he second, 
t " Those tiiaiiM of fane v Mormh* ha« wove.— Private zolum$ t 
J ■' Marian, the Goddess of Foil/." 



390 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 

Or the Nine be disposed from v rove, 

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, 

And try the effect of the first kiss of love. 
4. 
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art, 

Though prudes may condemn mo, and bigots reprove, 
I court the effusions thai spring from the hear) 

Which throbs with delight lo the first kiss of love. 
5. 
Y >ni shepherds, your flocks*, th' i 

Perhaps may amuse, y.-t they never can move : 
Arcadia displays hut a region of creams ; 

What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? 
6. 
Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his birlhf, 

From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove ; 
Some portion of paradise still is fin earth, 

And Eden revives in the fust kisq of love. 
7. 
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past— 

For years fleet away with the wings of the dove — 
The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 

Our sweetest memorial the first kiss oflove, 



TO MARY. 

I. 

Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire, 

With bright but mild affection shine, 
Though they might kindle less desire, 

Love, more than mortal, would be thine, 
o 
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 

Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, 
We must admire, but still despair; 

That fatal glance forbids esteem. 
3. 
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, 

So much perfection in thee shone, 
She ftar'd that, too divine for earth, 

The skies might claim thoe for their own : 

4. 

Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 
Lest angels might dispute the prize, 

She bade a secret lightning lurk 
Within those once celestial eyes. 

5. 

These might the boldest sylph appal, 
When gleaming with meiidian blaze , 

Thy beauty must enrapture all, 

But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? 
6. 

*Tis said that Berenice's hair 

In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; 
But they would ne'er permit thee there, 
Thou wouldst so far outshine the Bev.en, 
7. 
For did those eyes as planets roll, 

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear : 
E'en suns, which systems now control, 

Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. 

1806. 



TO WOMAN. 
Woman ! experience might have told me 
That all must love thee who behold thee; 



Surely experience might have taught 

Thy firmest promises are noueht ; 

But placed in all thy charms before me, 

All I foiget hut to adore th 

Oh, Memory ! thou choicest blessing 

Whenjoin'd with hope, when still possessing, 

But how much cursed by every lover 

When hope is lied and passion's over. 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, 

How prompt are striplings to believe her! 

How throbs the pulse when first we view 

The eye thai rolls in glossy blue, 

Or sparkles Mack, or mildly throws 

A beam from under hazel brows! 

How quick we credil every oath, 

And hear her plight the willing troth! 

Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, 

\\ hen, I" ' -In i hanges in a day. 

This record will for evtr stand, 

" Woman, thy vows are traced in sand*.' 1 



TO M. S. G. 
1. 

When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive, 

Extend not your anger to sleep; 
For in visions alone your affection can live, — 

1 rise] and it leaves me to weep. 
2. 
Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast, 

Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, 

What rapiure celestial is mine ! 
3. 
They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, 

Mortality's emblem is given : 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 

If this be a foretaste of heaven. 
4. 
Ah ! frown not sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, 

Nor deem rne too happy in this; 
If 1 sin in my dream, I atone for it now, 

Thus duoin'd but lo gaze upon bliss. 
5. 
Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, 

Oh! think not my penance deficient! 
When dreams of your presence my slumber beguile, 

To awake will be torture sufficient. 



• " Yn'ir shepherd*, your pipes/' c— -' 

r*'Ohl eejiie tu affirm thai man, from hit birlh," 4c— Private 
.volume. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKERf. 
Sweet girl! though only once we met, 
That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
And though we ne'er may meet again, 
Remembrance will thy form retain. 
I would not say, u I love,'* but still 
rises struggle with my will : 
In vain to drive thee front my breast, 
My thoughts are more and more represt ; 
In vain I cheek the rising sighs, 
Another to the last replies : 
Perhaps this is not love, but yeU 
Our meeting 1 can ne'er forget. 

What though we never silence broke, 

Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, 

And tells a tale it never feels : 

I lecett the guilty lips impart, 

And hush the mandates of the heart; 



" The Inst line 1« almost * litem! IranBlsliftn frnm a Spanish proTerb, 
lied m llic private volume, ond ibe first edi- 
tion of Hours of Idleness, but subsequently omitted by ths author. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



391 



But soul's interpreters, die eyes, 
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 
As thus our glances oft conversed, 
And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, 
No spirit, from within, reproved us, 
Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 
Though what they utter'd I repress, 
Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess ; 
For as on thee my memory ponders, 
Perchance to me thine also wanders. 
This for myself, at least, I Ml say, 
Thy form appears through ni^ht, through day: 
■ Awake, with it my fancy teems ; 
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams 
The vision charms the hours away, 

And bids me curse Aurora's ray 

For breaking slumbers of delight 

Which make me wish for endless night. 

Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate, 

Shall joy or woe my steps await, 

Tempted by love, by stoims beset, 

Thine image I can ne'er forget. 

Alas! atjain no more we meet, 
No more our former looks repeat ; 
Then let me breathe this parting prayer, 
The dictate of my bosom's care : 
" May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker, 
That anguish never can o'ertake her ; 
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker! 
Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 
To be, by dearest ties, related, 
For her each hour new joys discover, 
And lose the husband in the lover! 
May that fair bosom never know 
What 'tis toifeel the restless woe 
Which stings the soul, with vain regret, 
Of him who never can forget !" 



SONG*. 
1. 

When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath 

And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Mprven ofsnowf 
To gaze on the torrent that thunder^ beneath, 

Or the mist of the tempest that galher'd belowt, 
Untutor'd by science, a strajiger to fear, 

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, 
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; 

Need I say, mv sweet Marv, 'tuas centred in you ? 
2. 
Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, — 

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? 
But still I perceive an emotion the same 

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-eover'd wild : 
One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
And few w.jre my wants, for my wishes were bless'd ; 

And pure were my thoughts, lor my soul was with you 
3. 
1 arose with the dawn ; with mv dog as my guide 

From mountain to nyjunt.uu I bounded alon» ; 
I breasted|| the billow of Dee's'* rushing tide, 

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: 



* To M^ry Duff. First published to the second edition of Hours of 
IdleoeM. 

ren, a lofty mountain In Aberdeenshire ; " Gorm.il of anow," is 
an BipnasiMl frequently 10 Be found hi Oasian. 

• ' ii; i '* who have h«n accustom- 
ed in the mountain* ; It is by do means uncommon on ait-iming the lop 
of Ben-e-*u Ben-y-bourd, tic. to perceive between 'lie tummit and ihe 
Ttd>y, clouds pouring down rum, , iv accompanied by 
liP'l J, while tilt spectator liurally looks down upon the morm, per- 
fectly wcure from its effects. 

c. Breasting tba lofty utrKe.—8Anlnm§art. 

'■ The Pee n a beautiful river, wblcfa rise* oca.r Mar Lodge, and 
(alia into the sea at New Aberdeen . 



At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, 

No dreams save of Mary were spread to my view ; 
And warm lo Lhe -lues my devotions arose, 

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you, 
4. 
1 left my bleak home, and my visions are gone ; 

The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more ; 
As the last of my race, I must wither alone, 

And delight but in days 1 have witness'd before : 
Ah ! splendour has raised, but embittered, my lot ; 

More dear were lhe scenes which my infancy knew ; 
Though my hopes may have Tail'd, yet they are not 
forgot ; 

Though cold is my heart, stil! it lingers with you. 
5. 
When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen* ; 
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 

I think on those eyes that endear'd the rude scene : 
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold. 

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
I think of the long-flowing ringlets of gold, 

The locks that were sacred to beauty and you. 
6. 
Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more 

Shall rise to my sight in iheir mantles of snow : 
But while these soar above me unchanged as before, 

Will Mary be there to receive me? ah, no! 
Adieu, then, yc hills, where my childhood was bred ! 

Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
No home in the fores' shall shelter my head, 

Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine but with you? 



TO f. 

1. 

Oh ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other ; 

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true: 
The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 

Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 
2. 
But friendship can vary her gentle dominion, 

The attachment of years in a moment expires ; 
Like love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, 

But glows not, like love, with unquenchable fires. 
3. 
Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together, 

And blest were the scenes of our youth I allow 
In the spring of cur life, how serene is the weather, 

But winter's tude tempests are gathering now. 
4. 
No more with affection shail memory blending 

The wonted delights of our childhood retrace : 
When pride steels the boi om, the heart is unbending, 

And what would be justice appears a disgrace. 
5. 
However, dear S , for I still must esteem you — 

The few whom I love I can never upbraid — 
The chance which has lost may in future redeem you, 

Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 
6. 
I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, 

With me no corroding resentment shall live : 
My bosom is calm'd by lhe simple reflection, 

That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive. 
7. 
You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, 

If danger demanded, were wholly your own ; 
Y<>u knew me unaltur'd by years or by distance, 

Devoted to love and friendship alone. 

* Colbleen it n mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not faj 
from the nuns of Dr- I 
t This jioein was Iii»t published in the Hours of Idleness, 



392 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



8. 
Von knew— — but away with the vain retrospection ! 

The bond of affection no longer endures; 
Too lale ynu may droop o'er the fond recollection, 

And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. 
9. 
For the present, we part — I will hope not for ever, 

For time and repel will restore you at last; 
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour, 

I ask no atonement but days like the past. 



TO MARY, 

ON RECEIVING HLH PICTURE. 
1. 

This faint resemblance of thy charms, 

Though strong as mortal art could give, 
My constant heart of fear disarms, 

Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 
2. % 
Hero I can trace the locks of gold 

Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould, 

The lips which made me Beauty's slave. 

3. 

Here I can trace — ah, no ! that eye 

Whose azure floats in liquid fire, 
Must all the painter's art defy, 

And bid him from the task retire. 
4. 
Here I behold its beauteous hue, 

Hut where's the beam so sweetly straying* 
Which gave a lustre to its blue, 

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing? 
5. 
Sweet copy ! far more dear to me, 

Lifeless, unfeeling as thod art, 
Than all the living forms could be, 

Save her who placed thee next my heart. 

6. 

She placed it, sad, with needless fear, 

Lest time might shake my wavering soul, 
Unconscious that her image there 

Held every sense in fast control. 
7. 
Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer 

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise ; 
In life's last conflict 'twill appear, 

And meet my fond expiring gaze. 



TO LESBlAf. 
1. 
Lesbia! since far from you I've ranged, 
Our souls with fand affection glow not 
You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 
I *d tell why, — but yet 1 know not. 
2. 
Your polish'd brow no cares have crost ; 
And, Lesbia! we are not much older, 
Since trembling first my heart I lost, 
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 
3. 
Sivirrn was then our utmost ago, 

Two years have lingering past away, love ! 
And now new thoughts our minds engage, 
At least [ feel disposed to stray, love ! 



• Bui where 1 ! the beam <if »oft dttire * 
Which Rive a in«tre to III I 

Love, only love could e'er inspire. 

Private tolume. 
1 Only printed in tin; private volumo. 



1 T is I that am alone to blame, 

I, that am guilty of love's treason ; 

Since your sweet breast is still the same, 
Caprice must he my only reason. 

5. 
I do not, love ! suspect your truth, 

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not , 
Warm was the passion of my youth, 

One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 

6. 
No, no, my flame was not pretended, 
For, oh! I loved you most sincerely ; 

And — though our dream at last has ended ■ 

My bosom still i -'' ms you dearly. 
7. 
No moru we meet in yonder bow. 

■•■ has made me prone to roving i 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 
Have found monotony in loving. 
8. 
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 

New beauties still are daily bright'ning, 
Your eye for conquest beams prepared, 
The forge of love's resistless lightning. 

9. 

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, 
Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 

More constant they may prove, indeed ; 
Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can bo, love ! 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY*. 

A* the author wi« dlachtrglnehtaplatot* In a ginUn, two ladle* (Mating 
near itf i| a jr ibem, 

to one of whom the following alamo* were addressed .lie ueiiraornmg. 

I. 

Doubtless, sweet girl, the hissing lead, 

Wailing destruction o'er thy charms, 
And hunlingf o'er ihy lovely head, 

Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms. 
2. 
Surely some envious demon's force, 

VexM to behold such beauty hero, 
ImpelPd the bullet's viewless course, 

Diverted from its first career. 
3. 
Yes, in that nearly fatal hour 

The ball obcy'd some hell-born guide ; 
But Heaven, with interposing pot 

In pity tum'd the death aside. 
4. 
Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 

Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; 
Which I, th' unco isoof feat 

Extracted (rom its glistening cell 

5. 
Say, what dire penance can atone 

For such an outrage done to thee? 
Arraigned before thy beauty's throne, 

What punishment wilt thou decree? 
6. 
Might I perform the judge's part, 

The sentence 1 should scarce deplore j 
It only would restore a heart 

Which but belong'd to thee before. 



• Theae itaniM arc only found in the private volume. 
1 Tbu word ii uied by Gray, in hli poem to the Fatal Slaten:— 
' Iron aleet of arrowy shower 
Hurtle* through ihc il.trkun'd air." 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



393 



The least atonement I can make 

Is to become no longer free ; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 

Thou shall be all in all to me. 

8. 
But thou, perhaps, mayst now reject 

Such expiation of my guilt : 
Come then, some other mode elect ; 

Let it be death, or what thou will, 
9. 
Choose then, relentless! and I swear 

Nought sh*ll thy dread decree prevent ; 
Yet hold — one little word forbear ! 

Let it be aught but banishment. 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEU*. 

( * Act i\ att fie ^euyct.'' 

vinacreon. 

1. 

The roses «if love glad the garden of lift*. 

Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, 
Till Time cr^ps the leaves with unmerciful knife, 

Or prunes them for ever in love's last adieu ! 

2. 

In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart, 

In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 
The chance of an hour may command us to part, 
Or death disunite us in love's last adieu! 
3. 
Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen 
breast, 
Will whisper, '* Our meeting we yet may renew :" 
With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt, 
Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 
4. 
Oh ! mark you yon pair : in the sunshine of youth, 
Love twined round their childhood his flowers as they 
grew ; 
Thpv flourish awhile in the season of truth, 
Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu ! 
5. 
Sweel lady ! why thus doth a tear steal i!s way 

Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue ? 
Yet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey, 

Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 

6. 

Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind? 

From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
There, raving, he howls his complaint lo the wind ; 

The mountains reverberate love's last adieu ! 
7. 
Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 

Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew ; 
Despair now inflames" the dark tide of his veins ; 

He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 
8. 
How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel ! 

His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, 
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, 

And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu ! 

9. 

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast ; 

No more with love's former devotion we sue : 
H»* spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast ; 

The shroud of affection is love's last adieu ! 



* Tim poem »u omitted lo ihe leeond edition of Uaun of Idleafii, 

2Z 



10. 

In this life of probation for rapture divine, 

Ablrea*' declares that some penance is due; 
From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine 

The atonement is ample in love's last adieu! 
II. 
Who kneels to (he god on his altar of light 

Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew : 
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight ; 

His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu ! 



DAM.ETAS. 

In law an infantf, and in years a boy, 

In mind a slave to every vicious joy; 

From everv sense of shame and virtue wean d, 

In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 

Versed in hypocrisy while yet a child ; 

Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild; 

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool ; 

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school ; 

Da mm as ran through all the maze of sin, 

And found the goal when others just begin : 

Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, 

And bid him drain dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 

But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain. 

And what was once his bliss appears his bane. 



TO MARION. 
Marion ! why that pensive brow ? 
What disgust to life hast thou ? 
Change that discontented air : 
Frowns become not one so fair. 
'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, 
Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 
He in dimpling smiles appears, 
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, 
Or bends the languid eyelid down, 
But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 
Then resume thy former fire, 
Some will love, and all admire; 
While that icy aspect chills us, 
Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 
Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 
Smile at least, or seem to smile. 
Eyes like thine were never meant 
To hide their orbs in dark restraint 
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, 
Still in truant beams they play. 
Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 
She blushes, curt'sies, frowns, — in short, she 
Dreads least the subject should transport me; 
And flying off in search of reason, 
Brings prudence back in proper season. 
All I shall therefore say (whale'er 
I think, is neither here nor there,) 
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing, 
Were form'd for belter things than sneering 
Of soothing compliments divested, 
Advice at least's disinterested ; 
Such is my artless song to thee, 
From all the flow of flattery free ; 
Counsel like mine is as a brother's, 
My heart is given to some others ; 
That is to say, nnskill'd to cozen, 
It shares itself among a dozen. 
Marion, adieu ! oh! pr'ythee slight not 
This warning, though it may delight not; 



* The GoddeiM of Justice. 

t In law ererr ixnon b to lofttit who hu not »Unio*d Ou ■(• of 
twcat/-etu. 



394 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



And, lest my precepts be displeasing 
To those who think remonstrance teasing, 
At once I'll tell thee our opinion 
Concerning woman's soft dominion : 
Howe'er we gaze with admiration 
On eye3 of blue or lips carnation, 
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
Howe'er those beauties may distract us, 
Still fickle, we are prone to rove, 
These cannot fix our souls to love : 
It is not too severe a stricture 
To say they form a pretty picture ; 
But wouldst thou see the secret chain, 
Which binds us in your humble train, 
To hail you queens of all creation. 
Know, in a word, 'tis Animation, 



OSCAR OF ALVA.* 



1. 
How sweetly shines, through azure skies, 

The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore; 
Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, 

And hear the din of arms no more, 
2. 
But often has yon rolling moon 

On Alva's casques of silver play'd ; 
And view'd at midnight's silent noon, 

Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd: 
3. 
And on the crimson rocks beneath, 

Which scroll o'er ocean's sullen flow, 
Pale in the sc&tter'd r inks of death, 

She saw the grasping warrior low ; 
4. 
While* many an eye which ne'er again 

Could markf the rising orb of day, 
Turn'd feebly from the gory plain, 

Beheld in death her fading ray. 
5. 
Once to those eyes the lamp of Lovr, 

They blest her dear propitious light ; 
But now she glimmer'd from above, 

A sad, funereal torch of night. 
6. 
Faded is Alva's noble rac<% 

And gray her towers are seen afar ; 
No more her heroes urge the chase, 

Or roll the crimson tide of war. 
7. 
But who was last of Alva's clan ? 

Wiiy grows the moss on Alva's stone ? 
Her towers resound no steps of man, 

They echo to the gale alone. 
8. 
And when that gnle is fierce and high, 

A sound is heard in yonder bill ; 
It rises hoarsely through the sky, 

And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall, 
9. 
Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, 

It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 
But there no more his banners rise, 

No more his plumes of sable wave. 



• Thu poem wa* publlthad for the first time In Hour* of Idlcne*). 
" Th«i eattilrophe of thii lute w.is (unseated by the »t»ry of " Jerony- 
mo and Lorenio,' 1 in lh<* firet volume of the " Armenian, or Ghoit- 
n>-*r " It alto bean tome reie-rablanco lo a icene in the third act of 
" Macbeth." 

• Whilt. Fint edition, w*«n. 
t Aftr*. Ftm edition, of«ir> . 



10. 
Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, 

When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; 
The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn, 
11. 
They feast upon the mountain deer, 
- The pibroch raised its piercing note 
To gladden more their highland cheer, 
The strains in martial numbers float : 
IS, 
And they who heard the war-notes uild. 

Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 
Should play before the hero's child 

While he should lead the tarian train. 
13. 
Another year Uquirkly past, 

And Angus hails another son; 
His natal day is like the last, 
Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 
14. 
Taught by their sire to bend the bow, 

On Alva's dusky hills of wind, 
The boys in childhood chased the roe, 
And left their hounds in speed behind, 
15. 
But ere their years of youth are o'er, 
They mingle in the ranks of war ; 
They lightly wheel the bright claymore, 
And send the whistling arrow for, 
16. 
Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, 

Wildly it streamM along the gale ; 
But Allan's locks were bright and fair, 
And pensive stem'd his cheek, and pale. 
17. 
But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, 

His dark eye shone through beams of truth 
Allan had early learn'd control, 

And smooth his words had been from youth, 
18. 
Both, both were brave ; the Saxnn spear 
Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel; 
And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, 
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel; 
19. 
While Allan's ssul belied his form, 

Unworthy with such charms to dwell : 
Keen as the lightning of the storiu, 
On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 
20. 
From high Southannou's distant tower 

Arrived a young and noble dame ; 
With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came ; 
21. 
And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 

And Angus on his Oscar smiled; 
It soothed the father's feudal pride 
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 
M. 
Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 
Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
In joyous strains the voices float, 
And still the choral peal prolong. 
23. 
See how the heroes* blood-red plumes 

Assembled wave in Alva's hall ; 
Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 
Attending on their chieftain's oalL 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



395 



24. 


38. 




It is not war their aid demands, 


For still some latent hope survived 




The pibroch plays ihe song of peace ; 


That Oscar might once more appear; 




To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, 


His hope now droop'd and now revived, 




Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 


Till Time had told a tedious year. 
39 
Days roll'd along, the orb of light 




25. 
But where is Oscar ? sure 'tis late : 




Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 


Again had run his destined race ; 




While thronging guests and ladies wait, 


No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, 




Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 


And sorrow left a fainter trace. 




26. 


40. 




At length young Allan joinM the bride : 


For youthful Allan still remain'd, 




14 Why comes not Oscar ?" Angus said ; 


And now his father's only joy : 




" Is not he here ?" the youth replied ; 


And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, 




11 With me he roved not o'er the glade. 
27. 
** Perchance, forgetful of the day, 


For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 
41. 
She thought ihat Oscar low was laid, 






'Tis his to chase the bounding roe ; 


And Allan's face was wondrous fair : 




Or ocean's waves prolong his slav ; 


If Oscar lived, some other maid 




Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 


Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. 




28. 


42. 




a Oh, no !" the anguish'd sire rejoinM, 


And Angus said, if one year more 




" Nor chase, nor wave, my hoy delay ; 


In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 




Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 


His fondest scruples should be o'er, 




Wuuld aught to her impede his way? 


And he would name their nuptial day. 




29 


43. 




"Oh! search, ye chiefs ! oh' search around ! 


Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last 




Allan, with these through Alva fly ; 


Arrived the dearly destined morn; 




Till Oscar, till my son is found, 


The year of anxious trembling past, 




Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 


What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn ! 




30. 


44. 




All is confusion — through the vale 


Hark lo the pibroch's pleasing note ! 




The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 


Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 




It rises on the murm'ring gale, 


In joyous strains the voices float, 




Till night expands her dusky wings; 


And still the coral peal prolong. 




31. 


45. 




It breaks the stillness of the night, 


Again the clan, in festive crowd, 




But echoes through her shades in vain : 


Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; 




It sounds through morning's misty light, 


The songs of mirth re-echo loud, 




But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 


And all their former joy recall. 




32. 


46. 




Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 


But who is he, whose daiken'd brow 




For Oscar search'd each mountain cave ; 


Glooms in the midst of general mirth? 
Before his eyes far fiercer glow 




Then hope is lost; in boundless grief, 




His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. 
33. 
" Oscar ! my son ! — thou God of Heav'n 


The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 




47. 
Dark is the robe which wraps his form, 




Restore the prop of sinking age ! 


And tall his plume of gory red; 




Or if that hope no more is given, 


His voice is like the rising storm, 




Yield his assassin to my rage. 


But light and trackless is his tread. 




34. 


48. 




u Yes, on some desert rocky shore 


'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, 




My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie; 


The bridegroom's health is deeply quatf'd ; 
Wilh shouts the vaulted roofs resound, 




Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more, 




With him his frantic sire may die! 


And all combine to hail the draught. 




35. 


49. 




" Yet he may live, — away, despair! 


Sudden the stranger-chief arose, 




Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 


And all the clamorous crowd are hush*d ; 




T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear ! 


And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 




God ! my impious prayer forgive! 


And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 




36. 


50. 




" What, if he live fur me no more, 


11 Old man !" he cried, " this pledge is done ; 




I sink forgotten in the dust, 


Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me; 




The hope of Alva's age is o'er : 


It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 




Alas ! can pangs like these be just?" 


Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 




37. 


51. 




Thus did the hapless parent mourn, 


M While all around is mirth and joy, 




Till Time, who soothes severest woe, 


To bless thy Allan's happy lot, 




Had bade serenity return, 


Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy ? 




And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 


Say, why should Oscar be forgot?" 





396 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



52. 
11 Alas !" the hapless sire replied, 

The big tear starling as he spoke, 
" When Oscar left my hall, or died, 

This aged heart was almost broke. 
53. 
" Thrice has the earth revolved her course 

Since Oscar's form has blessM my sight ; 
And Allan is my last resource, 

Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 
5-4. 
" 'Tis well," replied the stranger stern. 

And fiercely Hash'd his rolling eye ; 
"Thy Oscar's fate 1 fain would learn ; 

Perhaps the hero did not die. 
55. 
" Perchance, if those whom he most loved, 

Would call, thy Oscar might return; 
Perchance the chief has only roved ; 

For him thy Beltane* yet may burn. 

56. 

" Fill high the bowl the table round, 

We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 

With wine let every cup be crown'd ; 
Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 

57. 
" With all my soul," old Angus said, 

And iill'd his goblet to the brim ; 
M Here's to my boy ! alive or dead, 

I ne'er shall find a son like him." 

58. 
" Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; 

But why does Allan trembling stand? 
Come, drink remembrance of the dead, 

And raise thy cup with firmer hand.*' 
59. 
The crimson glow of Allan's face 

Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 
The drops of death each other chuse 

Adown in agonizing dew. 
60. 
Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 

And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 

On his with deadly tuiy placed. 

61. 

M And is it thus a brother hails 

A brother's fond remembrance here ? 

If thus affection's strength prevails, 
What might we not expect from fear?'* 

82. 

Housed by the sneer, lie raised the bowl, 

II Would Oscar now could share our mirth ! 
Internal fear appal I'd his soul ; 

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth, 

63. 
" Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice J 1 * 

Loud shreaks a darkly gleaming form; 
"A murderer's voice!" the roof replies, 

And deeply swells the bursting storm. 

64. 

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, 
The stranger's gone, — amidst the crew 

A form was seen in tartan green, 
And tall the shade terrific grew. 



' Beltane Tree, a Highland feiU'al on the fini of May, held near fin 
lighted for tha occuIud. 



65. 

His waist was bound with a broad bell round, 

His plume of sable stream'd on high ; 
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, 

And hVd was the glare of his glassy eye. 
66. 
And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 

( in Angus beridin« Imv the ki.ee; 
And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground, 

Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 
67. 
The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, 

The thunders through the welkin ring, 
And the gleaming form, througth the mist of the storm 

Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 
68. 
Cold was the feast, the revel ceased. 

Who lies upon the stony floor? 
Oblivion presv'd old Angus 1 breast*, 

At length his life-puts* throbs once more. 
69. 
" Away, a%vny ! let the leech essay 

To pour the light on Allan's eyes;'* 
His sand is done, — his race is run ; 

Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 
70. 
But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 

His locks are lifted by the gale; 
And Allan's barbed arrow lay 

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 
71. 
And whence the dreadful stranger came, 

Or who, no mortal wight can lell ; 
But no one doubts the form of flame, 

For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 
72. 
Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 

Exulting demons wmg'd his dart; 
While Envy waved her burning brand, 

And pour'd her venom round his heart. 
73. 
Swift is ihe shaft of Allan's bow : 

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side ? 
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, 

The dart has drunk his vital tide. 
74. 
And Mora's eye could Allan move, 

She bade his wounded pride rebel; 
Alas! that eyes which beamed with love 

Should urge the soul to deeds of hell! 
75. 
Lo! secst thou tint a lonely tomb 

Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 
It glimmers through the twilight gloom; 

Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 
76. 
Far, distant far, the noble grave 

Which held his clan's great ashes stood; 
And o'er his corse no banners wave, 

For they were slaiu'd with kindred blood. 
77. 
What minstrel gray, what hoary bard, 

Shall Allan's deeds mi harp-strings raise? 
The song is glory's chief reward. 

But who can strike a murderer's praise? 
78. 
Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, 

No minstrel dare the theme awake; 
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, 

His harp in shuddering chords would break. 



• Old AD«ui pra«'d tha t arth with hia farta*.— Fir$t Edition. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



79. 



397 



No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse 
Shall sound his glories high in air : 

A dying father's biiier curse, 

A brother's death groan echoes there. 



TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. 

ii« £JZ?TE£ ^.h~^' ch ' k "' ""•'■" 5- **&■ 

I e from H.tron. Tlr,v »■, ', " ;. "'" ,rl , '"" e l"""'°" ! •» myde- 

■'• liigll rank, »l„, i,„uJen ' »r "drewed to ■young .choolMlow 

end m , level ..wiheline. 

^ i„u" n* r * l>er ',"'' 1 """" 1 """not 

them, for <„.£„, UmT.XY^b? S^' ' h " re u ° w l"""' st « d 

Dorse,. whose cari , Bps wi(h mine 
imploring every path of Ida's olade ' 

M hom still affection (aught me" to defend 
And made me less a tyrant than a friend • 
I hough the harsh custom of our youthful band 
Bad. thee obey and gave M to command* ; 
Thee on whose head a few short years will shower 
The gifts of nches and the pride of power • 
£ en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
Renown d In k , „„, fc .^^ ^ ^ 

^ et Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
I o shun fair science, or evade control ; 

The?,. 5T. f ' U |. 0rSt ' fearr "' '" dis P™° 

The titled h]ld| whflse future breat| / 

View ducal errors with indulgent eves 
And w,„k at faults they tremble to chastise. 
W hen youthful parasites, who bend the knee 

To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee _ 
And even m simple boyhood's opening dawn 
WhT„ S r S T f°"" d '° fla ' ,er and '° f»™.~ 

O^one bvTirtt T "' ha : P " mp a '° ne sl '™ ld »«« 
un one by birth predestined to be great • 

That books were only meant for drudging fools, 

That gallant spirits scorn the common rules " 

Believe them no.,-,hey point the path to shame 

And seek ,o blast the honours of thy name. 

Turn to the few ,n Idi's early thion'., 

W hose souls disdain not to condemn the wron-r • 

Or ,f, arm d s , lhe comrades of thv youth 

None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth 

Ask thine own heart ; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear • 

For «.e« I know that virtue lingers there 
Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, 

But now new scenes invite me far away • 7 ' 

Yes I have mark'd within that generous mind 

A soul ,f well matured, to bless mankind. 

Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild 

Whom indiscretion hail'd her favourite child • 

i hough every error stamps me for her own 

And dooms my fall, r fain would fall alone • 

I hough my proud heart no precept now can tame 

I love the virtues which I cannot claim 

ris not enough, with other sons of power 

To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour ; 

To swell sorne peerage page in feeble pride, 

With long-drawn names ,hat grace no page beside ■ 

Then share U1 „, „„,,, crmv( , s (he commo;; »e«de, 

In life just gazed at, in' the grave forcot • 

While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead 

Except the dull, cold stone that hides thy head 



The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, 
rhat well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, 
Where lords unhonour'd, in the tomb may find 
One S p 0t , , , eave a worthless name behind. 
There sleep unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 

That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, 
A. race with old armorial lists o'erspread 
In records destined never to be read 
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 
bxalted more among the good and wise, 
A glorious and a long career pursue, 
As first in rank, the first in talent too': 
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun ; 
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 

Turn to the annals of a former day, 
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display 
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth, 
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama fortht. 
Another view, not less renown'd for wit ; 
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit ■ 
Bod in the field, and favour'd by the Nine • 
r n every splendid part nrdain'd to shine • ' 
Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering'thron*, 
1 he pride of princes, and the boast of sonof 
Sud) were thy fathers ; thus preserve their name: 
Psot heir to titles only, bin to fame 
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, 
tome, this little scene of jovs and woes; 
Kach knell of Time now warns me to resign 
shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were 

mine : 
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
And gild their pinions as the moments flew 
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away 
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day'- 
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell • 
I Alas ! they love not long who love so well. 
To these adieu ! nor let me lin»e- o'er - 
Scenes hail'd as exiles hail then- native shore, 
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep, 
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 

Uorset, farewell ! I will not ask one part 
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
The co m i„g morrow from iby youthful mind 
VV ill sweep my name, nor leave a trace behiud. 
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year 
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere, 
since the same senate, nay, the same debate 
.May one day claim our suffrage for lhe state 
We hence may meet, and pass each other bv 
» ith faint regard, or cold and distant eye 
B or me, in future, neiiher friend nor foe 
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe, 
With thee no more again I hope to trace 
The recollection of our earlv race ; 
No more, as once, in sociai hours rejoice 
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice. 
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought 
It these— but let me cease the lengthen'd strain— 
Oh ! if ihese wishes are not breathed in vain, 
1 he guardian seraph who directs thy fate 
Will leave thee glorious as he found thee great 



' Seethe same line In Lara, stan7« 11. 

s^SffttSirtsssK^n "he aw "**%"" ~2Ei i srs ihe r, *«° m " iiih < d , 

• m> ,,.u ! ofprot, a ii,,„,v,r yP ,„p t rt/„ or " n r i , h L ? T h r c , l ' , *: e "- from fh„rie.ll.„,d hef , „ !?"">!" """' * 

Mrudo period they command ,„ tor? |"« ?2L .'""," ■ <"" '«" • S«ll»nlry i„ ,be era fighl wiliT.he tCihTlMS 'V i"" 1 *".? ""*' 



TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 



ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN 
DYING. 

Animula! vagula, blandula, 
Hospes, comesqtiOj corporis, 
Quae nunc abibis in loca .' 
Palliduta, rigtda, nutluta, 
Nee, ut Boles, dabia jocos. 

TRANSLATION. 

Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, 
Friend and associate ol" (Ins day ! 

To what unknown region borno, 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight 
No more with wonted humour gay, 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

AD LESBIAM. 

Equal to Jove that youth must be — 

Greater than Jove he seems to me — 

Who, free from jealousy's alarms, 

Securely views thy matchless charms. 

That cheek, which ever dimpling glows, 

That mouth, from whence such music flows, 

To him, alike, are always known, 

Reserved for him, and him alone. 

Ali ! Lesbia ! though 't is death to me, 

I cannot choose but look on thee ; 

But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 

I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die; 

Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, 

Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres, 

My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, 

My limbs deny their slight support, 

Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, 

With deadly languor droops my head, 

My ears with tingling echoes ring, 

And life itself is on the wing; 

My eyes refuse the cheering light, 

Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : 

Such pangs niy nature sinks beneath, 

And feels a temporary death. 



TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON 
VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. 

BV DOMITH'S MARSfS. 

He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, 
And he who struck the softer lyre of love, 

By Death's* unequal hand alike controll'd, 
Fit comrades in Elysian regions inuvo ! 



IMITATION OF TIBULLUSf. 

" Sulpicia ad Ccriiilhum." — I.\b. Quart. 

Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease 

Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please ? 

Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, 

That I might live for love and you again : 

But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate ; 

By death alone I can avoid your hate. 



■ The hand of Death It in Id lo he unluat or unequal, a* Virgil wa» 
Considerably older iti&u Tibullui at hi* ileceaao. 
* From the private volume. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

" LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSERIS." 
I. 

Ye Cupids, droop each little head, 
Nor let ynur wings with joy be spread, 
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : 
For he was gentle, and so true, 
Obedient to her call lie flew, 
No fear, no wild alarm he knew, 

But lightly o'er her bosom moved ; 
2. 
And softly fluttering here and there, 
He never sought to clear the air, 
But chirupp'd oft, and, free fmm care, 

Tuned t.i her ear his grateful strain. 
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne 
From whence he never can return, 
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, 

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 

3. 

Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave, 
From whom no earthly power can save, 

For thou hast ta'en the bird away : 
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, 

Her swollen cheeks wiih weeping glow • 
Thou art the cause of all her wo 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 

TO ELLEN. 

Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire : 
Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
And dwell an age on every kiss: 
Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
Naught should my kiss from thine dissever, 
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; 
E'en though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
To part would be a vain endeavour : 
Could I desist? — ah ! never— never. 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACE*. 

ODE 3, LIB. 3. 
1. 

The man of firm and noble soul 
No factious clamours can control ; 
No threatening tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent : 
Gales the warring waves which plough, 

By Auster on the billows spent, 
To curb the Adriatic main, 
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. 

2. 
Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above, 



1 Only prlnUd In tht private Tolumt. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



390 



With alt his terrors then unfurl'd, 
He would unmoved, unawed behold : 

The flames of an expiring world, 
Again in crashing chaos roll'd, 

In vast promiscuous ruin hurled, 

Might light his glorious funeral pile: 

Still dauntless midst the wreck of earth he 'd smile, 



TRANSLATION FROM AXACREON*. 

TO HIS LYRE. 

I wish to tune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 
To echo, from its rising swell, 
How heroes fought and nations fell, 
When Atreus' sons advanced to war, 
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar; 
Bui still, to martial strains unknown, 
My Ivre recurs to love alone. 
Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name ; 
The dying chords are strung anew, 
To war, to war, my harp is due : 
With glowing strings, the epic strain 
To Jove s great son I raise again ; 
Alcides and his glorious deeds, 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds, 
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms! 
Adieu the clang of war's alarms ! 
To other deeds my soul is strung, 
And sweeter notes shall now be sung; 
My harp shall all its powers reveal, 
To tell the tale my heart must feel; 
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, 
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. 



ODE 111+. 

T* was now thp hour when Night had driven 

Her car half round von sable heaven ; 

Bootes, only, seem'd to roll 

His arctic charge around the pole ; 

While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, 

Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : 

At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, 

Descending from the realms of joy, 

Quick to my gate directs his course, 

And knocks with all his little force. 

My visions fled, alarm'd I rose.— 

" What stranger breaks my blest repose?" 

° Alas !" replies the wily child 

In faltering accents sweetly mil I, 

" A hapless infant here I roam, 

Far from my dear maternal home. 

Oh', shield me from the wintry blast ! 

The nightly storm is pouring fist. 

No prowling robber lingers here. 

A wandering babv who can fear ? 

I heard his seeming artless tnl>, 

I heard his Eigha upon the gale: 

My breast was never pity's foe, 

But felt for all the baby's wo. 

I drew the bar, and by ihe light 

Young Love, the infant, met mv sight ; 

His bow across his shoulders flung, -- 

And thence his fatal quiver hung, 

(Ah! little did I think the dart 

Would rankle soon within my heart.) 



• Pint published in Hour* of Idleness, 
| First printed in Hours of Idleness, 



With care I tend my weary guest, 

His little fingers chill my breast ; 

His glossy curls, his azure wing, 

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring : 

His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 

And now reviving from the storm, 

Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, 

Than swift he seized his slender bow :— 

" I fain would know, my gentle host," 

He cried, "if this its strength has lost; 

I fear, relax'd with midnight d< n 3, 

The strings their former aid refuse." 

With poison tipt, his arrow flies, 

Deep in my tortured heart it lies; 

Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd : — 

" My bnw can still impel the shaft : 

'T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; 

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?" 



FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. 

FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTU3 OF XSCHYLUS. 

Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 

Both gods and mortals homage pay, 
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 

Thv dr^ad behests ne'er disobey. 
Oft shall the sacred victim fall 
In seagirt ocean's mossy hall ; 
My voice shall raise no impious strain 
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. 
****** 

How different now thy joyless fate, 

Since first Hesione thy bride, 
When placed aloft in godlike state, 
The blushing beauty by thy side, 
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, 
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, 
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, 
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd, 
Harrow, Dec. 1, 1801. 



THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURIALUS. 

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE .EXEID, I IB. IX. 

Nisrs, the guardian of the portal, stood, 

Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; 

Well skill *d in fight the quivering lanre to wield, 

Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field: 

* From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, 

And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 

To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 

With him Euryalus sustains the post ; 

No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 

And beardless bloom ye! graced ihe gallant boy; 

Though few the seasons of his youthful life, 

As yet a novicn in the martial strife, 

'T was his, with beauty, valour's gifts to share — 

A soul heroic, as his form was fair : 

These burn with one pure flame of generous love; 

In peace, in war, united still they move ; 

Friendship and glory form their joint reward ; 

And now combined they hold their nightly guard. 



* Him Ma lent, a tinnier now no more, 
To combat foes upon a foreign shore. 
Near him, the I«*«li*a1 of ihe Tmjun hand 
Pi.) rail Kurynlus, hi* cntnrinte, stand : 
Few nre the seasons of his Toothful life 
A» yet a novice in the mums' ■>■ ' 
The eods to htm tin w mil ed gifli ii 
A female's beauty, with « hero'a heart. 

im mith one pnreflame of generous. love, 
In pea c«i in wur, untied siill they move ; 
Friendship and glory form their Joint re want. 
And now combined, the imssy gate they gnird. 
Such was Ihe original version of this passage, aa given In theprirslf 
volume, where no more than Ihe above fragment was printed. 



400 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



" What god," exclaim'd the first, " instils this fire ! 
Or, in itself a god, what great desire .' 
My labouring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, 
Abhors this station of inglorious rest; 
The love of fame with this ran ill accord, 
Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 
Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 
Where drunken slumbers wrap each la/v limb? 
Where confidence and ease the watch disdain. 
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign) 
Then hear my thought": — In deep and sullen grief 
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief: 
Now could the gifts and promised prize la- thine, 
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine,) 
Wen- tbis decreed, beneath yon rising mound, 
Me thinks, an easy path perchance weja found ; 
Which past, I speed my way to Palhuf walls, 
And lead .Eneas from E vender's halls." 
With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy, 
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan bov : — 
" These deeds, my Nisus shall thou dare alone? 
Must all the fame, the peril, bo thine own? 
Am I by thee despised, an I left afar, 
As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 
Not thus his son the great I 'pheltes taught ; 
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought; 
Not thus, when I lion fell by heavenly hate, 
r track'd /Kneas through the walks of fate: 
Thou know'sl my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, 
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns, 
And lij) ', ignoble life, for glory spurns. 
Fame, fame is efaeapl] aarn'd by fleeting breath : 
The price of honour is the sleep of death." 
Then Nisus, — " Calm thy bosom's fond alarms : 
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 
More dear thy worth and valour than my own, 

I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne ! 
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, 
And clasp again the comrade of my youth ! 
But should I fall, — and he who dares advance 
Through hostile legions must abide by chance, — 
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, 
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low, 
Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, 
Thy budding years a lengthened teem deserve. 
"When humbled in the dust, let some one be, 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse ; 
Or, if my destiny these last deny, 

If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, 
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, 
To mark thy love, and signalise my doom. 
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless ship ? 
Who, f,r thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, 
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ; 
Who br.ived what woman never braved hetnre, 
And left her native for the Latian shore." 

II In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," 
Replied Euryalus ; " it scorns control! 

Hence, let us haste!" — their brother guards arose, 
Roused by their call, nor court again repose ; 
The pair, buoy'd upon Hope's exulting wing, 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the kin«. 

Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
And lull'd al ke the c ires of brute and man ; 
Save wl the Dardan leaders nightlj hoi I 

Alternate converse, and their plans uuf.l I. 

On one great point the council are agreed, 
An instant message to their prince decreed; 
Eich lean'd upon the lance he well could wield 
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; 



Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high behest. 
With anxious tremors, vet iinawed by fear, 
The faithful pair before the throne appear: 
[utus greets them ; at his kind command, 
The elder lust addreSB J d the huarv band. 

" "With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began) 
'' Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. 
Where yonder beacons half expiring beam. 
Our slumbering roes of future conquest dream 
Nor heed thai we a secret path have traced, 
Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 

Whose shade seeiirelv OUf (l-'sijn will cloak ! 

If you, ye chiefs, and fortune, will ,, 

We II bend our course to yonder mountain's brow, 

Where Pallas' wads at distance meet the si^ht, 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night! 
Then shall JGneas in bis pride return, 
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn 
And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
Shall mark the havoc, of our hero's (read. 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way -. 
Where yonder torrent's devious water stray. 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, 
Moved by the speech, Alcthes here exclaim'd, 
" Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
When minds like these in striplings thus yc raise, 
> Ours is the godlike art, be yours the praise ; 
In gallant youth, mv fainting hopes revive, 
And [lion's wonted glories still survive.* 1 
Then in his warm embrace (he boys he press'd, 
And, quivering, strain'd them to Ins aged breast , 
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, 
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : 
" What gift, my countrymen, what martial prizo 
Can we bestow, which you may not despise ? 
Our deities the first best boon have given — 
Internal virtues are the gin of Heaven. 
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth 
I Lmiiiless awail such young, exalted worth. 
Cneas and Ascaniua shall combine 
To yield applause, far, far surpassing mine." 
lulus then : — " By all the powers above ! 
By those Penates* who my country love ! 
By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear, 
My hopes are all hi you, ye generous pair! 
Restore mv father to my grateful sight, 
And all in v sorrows yield to one delight. 
Nisu*; ! two silver goblets are thine own. 
Saved from An ba's statelj domes overthrown ! 

\ i ■■ ire ecun i on thai fatal >liv. 

Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey : 

Tun massy tripods, also, shall be thine; 

Two talents polished from the glittering mine : 

An ancient cup, which Tynan Dido gave, 

While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave 

But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 

When greal 2&neas wears Hesperia's crown, 

The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 

Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, 

Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, 

I pledge my word, irrevocably past : 

Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames, 

To sooth thy softer hours with amorous flames, 

And all the realms which now the Latins sway, 

The labours of to-night shall well repay. 



* Household godi. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



401 



But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
And near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun, 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; 
Without thy dear advice, no great desi<m ; 
Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy, 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 

To him Euryalus : — " No day shall shame 
The rising glories which from this I claim. 
Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown, 
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
One boon i beg, the nearest to my heart ; 
My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine, 
Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain 
Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; 
*AIone she came, all selfish fears above, 
A bright example of maternal love. 
Unknown the secret enterprise I bravo, 
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave ; 
From this alone no fond adieus I seek, 
No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek ; 
By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now : 
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, 
In thee her much-loved child may live again ; 
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress ; 
So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, 
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 
Struck with a filial care so deeplv felt, 
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt : 
Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ; 
Such love was his, and such had been his wo. 
11 All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied j 
u Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
Creusa's f style but wanting to the dame. 
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, 
But blexs'd fny mother in so dear a son. 
Now, by my life ! — my sire's most sacred oath — 
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, 
All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, 
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestcrw'd." 
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 
Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
For friends to envy and for foes to feel ; 
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, 
Slain 'mid the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, 
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 
Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assemhled train, 
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
lulus holds amid the chiefs his place : 
His prayers he sends ; but what can prayers avail, 
Lost in (he murmurs of the sighing gale ! 

The trench is pass'd, and, favour'd by the night, 
Through sleeping foes they wheel their warv flight. 
When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? 
Alas! some slumber who shall wake no more! 
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen ; 
And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between: 
Bacchus and Mars ro rule the camp combine ; 
A mingled chaos this of war and win 1 . 
"Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood prepare, 
With me the conquest and the labour share : 



■ "Alone thi cam*." In ihe first edition, " Hither the eamt.'' 
Tbe mother of lulua, lost on the night wbeu Troy mi taken. 

3 A 



Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise, 

Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies : 

[ 'II carve our passage through the heedless foe, 

And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 

His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, 

And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breast $ 

SlretchM at his ease, th' incautious king reposed; 

Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed : 

To Turnus dear, a prophet ana a prince, 

His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 

But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, 

Could not avert his own untimely fall. 

Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless fell, 

And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell. 

The charioteer along his courser's sides 

Expires, the steel his sevcr'd neck divides ; 

And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead : 

Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head; 

From the swoll'n veins the blackening torrents pour 

Slain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 

Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, 

And gav Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire : 

Half the Ions night in childish games was pass'd ; 

Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last : 

Ah ! happier far had he the morn survey'd, 

And till Aurora's dawn his skUl display'd. 

In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep 
His hunsry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls, 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls : 
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams ; 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 

Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
But falls on feeble crowds withou' a name; 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, 
Yet wakeful Mha?sus sees the threatening steel : 
His coward breast behind a jar he hides, 
And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 
Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow 
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, 
Whose 6res emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed : 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm; 
" Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd i 
Full foes enough to-night have breath'd their last *. 
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 

What silver arms, with various art ombossM, 
What howls and mantles in confusion toss'd, 
They leave regardlessT yet one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, 
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt: 
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus 1 helm his head in triumph bears ; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend 
To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 

Just at this hour a band of Latian horse 
To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course ; 
While the slow foot their tardy march delay, 
The knights, impatient, spur along the way: 
Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, 
To Turnus with their master's promise sped 



402 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Now they approach ihe trench, and view the walls, 

When, OH the left, a light reflection falls; 

The plundei'd helmet, through the waning night, 

Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 

Volscens with question loud the pair alarms : — 

'* Stand, stragglers ! stand ! why early thus in arms ? 

From whence, to whom ? v — He meet! with no reply : 

Trusting the covert of the night, they fly ; 

The thicket's depth with hurried pice i he v tread, 

While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 

With breakes entangled, scarce a path between, 
Dreary and dark appears ihe sylvan scene : 
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, 
The boughs and winding nuns his steps mislead; 
But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 
To where Latinus' steeds in safely graze, 
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
u O God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft, 
In what impending perils art thou left !" 
Listening he runs — above the waving treer, 
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze ; 
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; 
The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys: 
The hapless buy a ruffian train surround, 
While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; 
Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue, 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare? 
Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ? 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey? 
His life a votive ransom nobly give, 
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ? 
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, 
On Luna's orb bo cast his frenzied eye ; — 
"Goddess serene, transcending' every star ! 
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar ! 
By night heaven owns ihy sway, bv day the grove, 
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; 
If e'er myself) or sire, have sought to grace 
Thine altars with the produce of the chase, 
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud.'' 
Thus having said, the hissing dart he Bung ; 
Through parted shades the hurtling weapons sung; 
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 
Trans&c'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay : 
He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild ama , 
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. 
While pale they stare, through Tagus' temple riven, 
A second shaft with equal force is driven : 
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes ; 
VeiPd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers Fall. 
"Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all!" 
Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, 
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
Nisus no more the blackening shade con 
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals ; 
Aghast, confused, his fears 10 madness 1 1 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies : 
"Me, me — your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own. 
Ye starry spheres! thou conscious Heaven ! attest! 
He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile confest ! 
AH, all was mine — his early fate suspend; 
He only loved too well his hapless friend : 
Spare, spare, ye chief* ! from him your rage remove ; 
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." 
Ho pray'd in vain ,- the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; 



Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest. 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast: 

mig rose, whose blossom scents the air, 
Languid in death, expires beneaDj ihe share; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower : 
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, 
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 

But fury Nisus sicmj thf battle's tide, 
Revenge his leader, und despair his guide, 
Volscens he Beekfl amid the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost ; 
Steel, Bashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe ; 
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow ; 
In vain beneath unnumbered wounds he bleeds. 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds; 
In viewless Bin let wheel'd, his falchion flies, 
N*'ir quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies; 
Deep in his throal i's end the weapon fiund, 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
Thus Nisus all ins fond afiection proved — 
I )> ing, revenged the fate of him he loved ; 
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace' 

( ! elestial pa ir ! if aught my verse can claim, 
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame ! 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire, 
No future day shall see your names expire, 
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome! 
And vanrpiish'd millions hail their empress, Rome! 



TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OP 
EURIPIDES.* 

1. 
Wbeh fierce conflicting passions urge 

The breast where love is wont to glow, 
What mind can stem the stormy surge, 

Which rolls the tide of human wo ? 
The hope of praise, the dread of shame, 

Can rouse the tortured breast no more; 
The wild desire, the guilty flame, 

Absorbs each wish it fell before. 

2. 
But if affection gently thrills 

The soul by purer dreams possest. 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills 

In love can sooth the aching breast : 
If thus thou comest in disguise, ) 

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, 
What heart unfeeling would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods I ave given? 

3. 

But never from thv golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
Whose cret ping venom, sure and slow, 

Awakes an all-consuming fire: 
^ e racking doubts ! ye jealous fears : 

Witt) Other* wage internal war ; 
Repentance, source of future tears, 

From me be ever distant far ! 

4. 

May no distracting thoughts destroy 
The holy calm of sacred love! 

May all the hours be winged with joy, 
Which hover faithful hearts above ' 



* Pirtl prinlcri m Hour* of lrikiit*i. 

t Cvtnttt inditguitt. lathe fim edition, eom'tt in genllt diagulat. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



403 



Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrino 

May I with some fund lover sigh, 
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine- 

Wlth me to live, with me to die ! 
5. 
My native soil ! beloved bef >re, 

Now dearer as my peaceful home, 
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 

A hapless banish'd wretch to roam ! 
This wry day, this very hour, 

May I resign this Heeling hrealh! 
Nor quit my silent humble bower ; 

A doom to me far worse thau death. 
G. 
Have I not heard the exile's sigh, 

And seen the exile's siient tear, 
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly 

A pensive weary wanderer here ? 



Ah ! hapless dame !+ no sire bewails. 

No friend thy wretched fate deplores, 
No kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 
7. 
Perish the fiend whose iron heart, 

To fair affection's truth unknown, 
Bids her he fondly loved depart, 

Unpitied, helpless, and alone ; 
Who ne'er unlocks with silver key } 

The mildi-r treasures of his soul, — 
May such a friend be far from ine, 

And ocean's storms between us roll ! 



• Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by him for 
the Ja. ighler of Creon, king of that city. The chorus from which ibis 
is taken here addresses Medea : though a considerable liberty is taken 
with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in Home oilier parts of 
the translation. 

t The originnl is " Kn^apuv ivot^ai'Tt n\j}$a <PpiV&V ;" |jt e . 
rally " disclociug the bright key of the mind." 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



THOUGHTS 

6CGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.* 

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
MAGH178 his ample front sublime uprears : 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god 
While Sophs and Freshmen trenihlr at his nod. 
As all around sit rapt in speechless gloom, 
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome ; 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Piukill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's avioms tried, 
Thf'Ugh little versed in any art beside ; 
Who, scarcely skitl'd in English line to pen, 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What though he knows not how Ins fathers hied 
When civil discord piled the fields wilh dead. 
When Edward hide his conquering hands advance, 
Or Henry trampled on the crest ofFraiu 
Though marvelling at the mme of Magna Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta , 
Can t-dl what edicts sage Lyeurgus made, 
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laiil ; 
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, 
Of Avi n's bard remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
Class-honours, meilals, fellowships, await ; 
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, 
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
But, lo ! no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within his scope. 
Not that our heads much eloquence require, 
Th* Athenian's glowing style. orTully's fire. 
A manner clear or warm i~ us less, since 
We do not try by speaking to convince. 



•No reflection it here intended against the penon mentioned und»r 
the name of Mtgnm. Hfil merely represented as perform! n> an nn» 
voidable function of hU office. Indeed. such in atiempt could only recoil 
apon myself; at th-u gentleman is now na much riiailneoMhTd by htl 
elixjutnce, and the dignified propriety avith which he fills his situation, 
ai lie wii tn hii younger davs for wit and com 

The above note wu added in the first edition of the Houra of Ule- 



Be other orators of pleasing proud: 

We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd : 

Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 

A proper mixture of the squeak and groan : 

No borrow'd grace of action must be seen ; 

The slightes motion would displease the Dean ; 

Whilst every staring graduate would prate 

Against what he could never imitate. 

The man who hopes t* obtain the promised cup 
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up;- 
Nor stop, but raitle over every word — 
Not matter what, so it can not be heard. 
Thus let hint nurry on, nor think to rest; 
Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the besl ; 
Who utters most within the shortest space 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease in Gran'a's sluggish shade ; 
Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie 
Unknown — unhonour d live, unwept- for die : 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, 
They think all learning nVd within their walls : 
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, 
All modern arts affecting to despise ; [note, 

Vet prizing Bentley's,* Brunch's,* or Porson'sJ 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote : 
I Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
To friendship dead, t hough not untaught to feel 
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of power. 
Whether 't is Pitt or Petty rules the hour ;§ 
To him with suppliant smiles they bend the I ^ad, 
jj While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 

* Celebrated critics. 

t The prevent Greet proTeaaor at Trinity Collrge, Cambridge : a man 
■Those powera of mind and writing* may perhaps justify their pteference. 

The rone hiding clause of the foregoing note aril added la the first edi- 
tion of Hours of Idleness. 

I Vain n» thrir honouri, ttr — The four ensuing lines were inserted in 
the second edition of Hours of Idleness. 

§ Since (hi* was written. Lord H. Petty has lost his place, and sub- 
■ennentl* (I had almost said cansequtnilt/} the honour of repres tilling 
the University. A fact so glaring requirea no comment. 

i Eodu/onl nitre*, &c. in the private volume, Whii4 mttra 
prtbtttit, lo their eytt arc WfTMOA, 



404 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, 
They 'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place. 
Such are the men who- learning's treasures guard ; 
Such is their practice, such is their reward! 
This much, al least, we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price thev pay. 

180G. 



TO THE EARL OF- 



fts memor, et c 



1 Tu HOlptr nn 



nil* ne abscodal \m\go " 

VaUrvu Ftaccui. 



1. 

Friend of my youth ! when young we roved, 
Like striplings mutually beloved 

With friendship's [nire^t plow, 
The bliss which w-ing'd those rosy hours 
Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here below. 



The recollection seems alone 
Dearer than all the joys I 've known 

When distant far from you : 
Though pain, 't is slill a pleasing pain, 
To trace those days and hours again, 

And sigh again adieu ! 



My pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, 

Those scenes regretted ever : 
Tho measure of our youth is full, 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 

And we may meet — ah ! never ! 

4. 

As when one parent spring supplies 
Two streams which from one fountain rise, 

Together join'd in vain ; 
How soon, diverging from their source, 
Each, murmuring, seeks another course, 
Till mingled in the main! 



Our vital streams of weal or wo, 
Though near, alas! distinctly flow, 

Nur mingle as before : 
Now swift or slow, now black or clear, 
Till death's unfiihom'd gulf appear, 

And both shall quit the shore, 



Our souls, my friend! which once siipplie 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 

Now flow in different chann 
Disdaining humbler rural spurh, 
*T is yours to mix inpolish'd courts, 

An. I shine in fashion's annals : 



'T is mine to waste on love my time, 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme 

Without the aid of reason ; 
For sense and roason (critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous poet, 

Nor left a thought to seize on. 



1 The«o stanzas w«T« firat publiabad In ibt second edition of Hour* of 
MlUWI 



Pooh Little ! sweet, melodious bard . 
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard 

That he who sang before all, 
He who the lore of love expanded, 
By dire reviewers should be branded 

As void of wit and moral.* 

9. 

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, 
Harmonious favourite of the Nine! 

Repine not at thy lot : 
Thy southing rays may still be read, 
When Persecution's arm is dead, 

And critics are forgot. 

10. 
Still I must yield those worthies mem, 
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, 

Bad rhymes, and those who write them ; 
And though myself may be the next 
By critic sarcasm to be vext, 

I really will not fight them.f 

11. 

Perhaps they would do quite as well 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner. 
He who offends at pert nineteen, 
Ere thirty may become, I ween, 

A very harden'd sinner. 

12. 

Now, , I must return to you ; 

And sure apoligies are due : 

Accept, then, my concession. 

In truth, dear , in fancy's flight 

I soar along from left lo right ; 

Mv muse admires digression. 

13. 
I think I said 'twould be your fate 
To add one star to royal state,— 

May regal smiles attend you ! 
And should a noble monarch reign, 
You will not seek his smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you. 

14. 
Yet since in danger courts abound, 
Where specious rivals glitter round, 

From snares may saints preserve you .' 
And grant your love nor friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care 

But those who best deserve you ! 

15. 

Not for a moment may you stray 
From truth's secure unerring way \ 

May no delights decoy ! 
O'er roses may your footsteps move ! 
Tour smiles lie ever smiles of love ! 

Your tears be tears of joy ! 

16. 
Oh ! if you wish that happiness 
Your coming days and years may bless, 

And virtues crown your brow, 
Be still as you were wont to be, 
Spotless as you *ve been known to me,— 

Be still as von are now. 



• These »tnn:a» were wrlttf • toon after the appearance of n icrerc 
critique, in a northern review, on a new publication of the British Aoa- 
*Ht0Q, 

f A bird (horrMCO rtfann*) defied hts reviewer to mortal combat. 
If I hi. tjuruple btcomdi prrvalenl.our periodical cemori muat be dip- 
pad iii Ibfl rlvtrStjx ; for what elw can lecure them from lha numaroue 
noil of tnair enraged aaiaiianli ? 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



405 



17. 

And though some trilling share of praise, 
To cheer my last declining days, 

To me were doubly dear j 
Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
I M wave at once a poeVs fame, 
To prove a prophet here. 



ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES 
SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, 
COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DE- 
SCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARM- 
LY DRAWN.* 



1 But if any old [adv*, knight, priest, or physician, 
Should condemn me for printing a second edition ; 
If good Madam Squmtuin my work should abuse. 
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse ?" 

Anstey't New Bath Guide, p. 169. 



Candour compels me, Becher ! to commend 
The verse which blends the censor with the friend. 
Your strong, yet just, reproof extorts applause 
From me, the heedless and imprudent ] cause. 
For this wild J error which pervades my strain, 
I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain ? 
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart ; 
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart ? 
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control. 
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 
When love's delirium haunts the glowing mind, 
Limping Decorum lingers far behind : 
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
Outstript and vanquished in the mental chase. 
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love : -* 
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove : 
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power 
Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, 
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, 
Whose laboured lines in chilling numbers flow, 
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! 
The artless Helicon I boast is youth ; — ■ 
My lyre, the heart ; my muse, the simple truth. 
Far be 't from me the " virgin's mind" to " taint :" 
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, 
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile, 
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe — 
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine 
Will ne'er be " tainted" by a strain of mine. 
But for the nymph whose premature desires 
Torment the bosom wilh unholy fires, 
No net to snare her willing heart is spread ; 
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read. 
For me, i fain would please the chosen few, 
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, 
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
The light effusions of a heedless boy. 
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud ; 
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, 
Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 

November 26,1806. 



• These linea were printed in the private volume, and in the first 
edition of Houn of Idleness, but afterwards omitted . 
t Imprudent. In the private volume, unworthy, 
I Wild. Private volume, fob. 



GRANT A. 

A MEDLEV. 

" 'Apyup/atf \6yxaiat ftdxov teat iruvra Kpar>Jo*atS."* 

I. 

Oh ! could Le Sage's! demon's gift 

Be realized at my desire, 
This night my trembling form he'd lift 

To place it on St. Mary's spire. 

2. 

Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls 

Pedantic inmates full display ; 
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls^ 

The price of venal votes to pay. 

3. 

Then would I view each rival wight, 

Petty and Palmerston survey ; 
Who canvass there with all their might, 

Against the next elective, day. 
4. 
Lo ! candidates and voters liej 

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number ! 
A race renown'd for piety, 

Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber. 
5. 
Lord H , indeed, may not demur; 

Fellows are sage reflecting men : 
They know preferment can occur 

But very seldom, now and then. 
6. 
They know the chancellor has got 

Some pretty livings in disposal : 
Each hopes that one may be his lot, 

And therefore smiles on his proposal. 
7. 
Now from the soporific scene§ 

I 'II turn mine eye, as night grows later 
To view unheeded and unseen 

The studious sons of Alma Mater. 
8. 
There, in apartmenis small and damp, 

The candidate for college prizes 
Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; 

Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 
9. 
He surely well deserves to gain them, 

With all the honours of his college, 
Who, striving hardly to obtain them, 

Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge : 

10. 

Who sacrifices hours of rest 

To scan precisely metres attic ; 
Or agitates his anxious breast 

In solving problems mathemalic: 



• The motto w™* not given in the private volume. 
t The DiaMe tloiteux of Le Safe, where Aamodeus, the demon, 
places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses 
for inspection. 

J Lo .' candidnUt nnd voters lie, f>e. The foui to and fifih slaotas, 
which are given here us they were punted in tne Hours of Idleness, ran 
as follows in the private volume : — 

" One on his power and place depends, 
The other on the Lord knows what ; 
Each to some eloquence pretends, 

Though neither trill convince by thai. 
" The first, indeed, may not demur.' 1 
§ From Me soporific scene. In the private volume, From eorrttp- 
lion's ihamttttt ecent. 



406 



HOURS OK IDLENESS. 



11. 
Who reads false quantities in Sele,* 
Or puzzles o'er ihc deep triangle ; 
Deprived of many a wholesome meal ; 
la barbarous Latin j doom'd to wrangle : 
12. 
Renouncing every pleasing page 
From authors of historic use ; 
Preferring to the letter'd sage 
The square of the hypothenuse.J 
13. 
Si ill, harmless arc thes*> occupations, 

That hurt none but the hapless student, 
Compared with other recreations, 

Which briqo together the imprudent ; 
14. 
Whose daring revels shock the sight, 

When vice and infamy combine, 
When drunkenness and dice invite, 
Aa every sense is steep'd in wine. 
15. 
Not so the methodistic crew, 

Who plans of reformation lay ; 
Jn humble attitude they sue, 
And for the sins of others pray : 
16. 
Vorgetting that their pride of spirit, 

Their exultation in their trial, 
Detracts most largely from the merit 
Of all their boasted self denial. 
17. 
'T is morn : from these I turn my sight. 
What scene is this which meets the eye ? 
A numerous crowd, array'd in white,§ 
Across the green in numbers fly. 
18. 

Loud rings in air [tie chapel bell ; 

*T ishush'd: — what suunds are these I hear? 
The organ's soft celestial swell 
Rolls deeply on the list' Ding ear, 
19. 
To this is join'd the sacred song, 

The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain ; 
Though he who hears the music long 
Will never wish to hear again. 
20. 
Our choir would scarcely be excused, 
Even as a band of raw beginners ; 
All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set of croaking sinners. 
21. 
If David, when his toils were ended, 

Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 
To us his Psalms had ne'er descended, — 
In furious mood he would have lore 'em. 



The luckless Israelites, when taken 
By some inhuman tyrant's order, 

Were asked to sing, by joy forsaken, 
On Babylonian river's border. 



* Sele'a publication on Greek mi-lrea diaplafe considerable talent 
and ingenuity, but, aa might lie expected in au diilicult a work, u nut 
remarkable for accuracy. 

In ihe private volume, " Scle'i publication on Greek metre* is not 
remarkable for it j accuracy." 

1 The Latin of the school* la of the canine iptciei, and not Terr ln- 
tethgihle. 

la the private volume, " Every Cambridge man will assent to thii. 
The Latin of Die schools ll alinual unintelligible." 

J The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hynnlheouse 
la eqiinl to the aqiiarea of the other iwn aitlra of a right-angled triangle. 

% On a saint's cUy.ths atudsots mar surplices to neper! 



23. 

Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, 

Inspired by stratagem or fear, 
They might have Ml thnr hearts at ease, 

The devil a soul had stay'd lo hear. 
24. 

But if I scribble longer* now, 

The deuce a soul will stay to read : 
My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 

' i'i almost time to slop, indeed, 
25. 
Therefore, farewell, old Grant a*s spires! 

No more like Cleofits I fly ; 
No more thy theme my muse inspires : 

The reader's tired, and so am I. 



1801 



LACHIN T. GAIR.j 

Larhin y. Xjnir, or, aa it la pronounced in the Rr*e, /vmA na GVirr, 
towera proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highland*, nemi Inver. 
mill Oaool mr modern lounata mentions it as the highest moun> 
l.iin, perh.»,i», la Qreal BriUtlo. Uc thii sail m*y, it n certainly 
one or the moat auhlime and picturesque among our " Caledonian 
Alps. -1 Its opptKracDflB tool i dusky hue. buC the summit b the seat 
of eternal liiOWt, Near Littliiu y. Guir I apeut aoine of llic early 

fiart of my lift, the recollection of which has given birth to the fol- 
ijwiug sUiui.ib. 



1. 

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 

In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
Yet, Caledunia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white summits (hough elementl war ; 
Though cataracts fuam 'stead of smooth-flowing foun- 
tains, 

I sigh fur the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 
2, 
Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wanderM ^ 

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the piaid ;t 
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd. 

As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade . 

I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; 
For fancy was cheer' d by traditional story, 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

3. 

*' Shades of the dead '. have I not heard your voices 

Rise on the ni^ht-rolling breath of the gale ?'* 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale. 
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gather?, 

Winter presides in his cold icy car : 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers; 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr, 
4. 

II Illstarr'd,§ though brave, did no visions foreboding 
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause ?'' 

Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden.|| 
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : 



* If l $ crib hit longer. In the private volume, // I write much longer 

t Firat iiuMuhed in Houra of Idleness. 

* This word i* Irronoooilf pronounced plod: the proper prondncl 
alion (according lo the Scotch) ia known by the orthography. 

§ 1 allude here lo my malernul ancestors, " Ihi Goidvnt," many 
of whom fotmht for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the 
name of the Pretender Thia brunch wa> nearly allied by blood, aa well 
aa attachment, to Ilia Stuarta. Geurge, the second earl or Huntley, 
ISaVrltd the I'liuceia Annabelln Stuart, da tighter of James the First of 
Scotland. Ity her he left, four aona i the third, Sir William Gordon, I 
have Ihe honour to claim na one of my progenitor*. 

i Whether any perished in Ihe brittle of Culloden, I am aot certain ; 
but, aa many fell in the insurrection, 1 aa*e used (be mine of (heprtu- 
cu j! utlM, " pars pro toto." 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



407 



Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 
You rest with your clan in the caves ofBraemar;* 

The pibrochf resounds, to the piper's loud number, 
Your deeWs on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 

5. 
Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, 

Years must elapse ere I (read you again : 
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft vou, 

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved on the mountains afar. 
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic! 

The steep frowning glories of dark Locli na Garr'. 



TO ROMANCE.} 
1. 

Parent of golden dreams, Romance ! 

Auspicious queen of childish joys, 
Who iead'st along, in airy dance, 

Thy votive train of girls and boys; 
At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break the fetters of my vouth ; 
No more I tread thy mystic round, 

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 
2. 
And yet 't is hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
Where every nymph a goddess seems, 

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll; 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign, 

And all assume a varied hue; 
When virgins seem no longer vain, 

And even woman's smiles are true. 
3. 
And must we own thee but a name, 

And from thy hall of clouds descend 7 
Nor find a sylph in every dame, 

A Pylades§ in every friend ? 
But leave at once thv realms of air 

To mingling bands of fairv i 
Confess that woman 's false as fair, 

And friends have feeling for — themselves? 
4. 
With shame I own I've felt thy sway ; 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er: 
No more thy precepts X obey, 

No more on fancied pinions soar. 
Fond f >ol ! lo love a sparkling eye, 

And think that eye to truth was dear ; 
To trust a passing wanton's si^h, 

And melt beneath a wanton's tear. 
5. 
Romance! disgusted with deceit, 

Far from thy motley court I fly, 
Where Affectation holds her seat, 

And sickly Sensibility ; 
Whose silly tears can never flow 

For any panes excepting thine ; 
Who turns aside from real wo, 

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine 



* A tract ol the Highland* so called. There [■ also a Castle of Brae- 
mar. 

tThebagprpe. 

I First published in ihe Hours of I<D>ne?s. 

S Iu» hirdiy necessary load.) , ihat Py lades vu ihe companion of 
Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of 
AJulles and Patroelus, Niaus and Eonraliia. Damon and Pythias, have 
he *<■ handed down to posterity ua remark able instances of attachments 
which in all probability never existed beyoud the imagination of the 
poet, the page of an historian or modern mvelist. 



Now join with sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, 
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh. 

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; 
And call thy sylvan female choir, 

To mourn a swain forever gone, 
Who once could glow with equal fire, 

But bends not now before thy throne. 
7. 
Ye gentat nymphs, whose ready tears 

On all occasions swiftly How ■ 
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears 

With fancied flames and phrensyglow; 
Say, will you mourn my absent name, 

Apostate from your gentle train t 
An infant bard at least may claim 

From you a sympathetic strain. 
8. 
Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu ! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
E en now the gulf appears in view, 

Where unlamented you must lie : 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; 
"\\ here you, and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas ! must perish altogether. 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.* 

.w l * I W he i Yoi « of Tears U" 1 *" S<"«! tliey roll before me with a\ 
their deeds.f — Oetum. 

1. 

TS'ewstead ! fast-falling, once resplendent dome! 

Religion's shrine! repentant Henry%J pride! 
Of warriors, monks, and darnes the cloister'd tomb, 

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide, 
2. 
Hail to thy pile ! more honour'd in thy fall 

Than modern mansions in (heir pillar'd state ; 
Proudly majestic frowns thv vaulted hall, 

Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 
3. 
No mail-clad serfs, § obedient to their lord, 

In grim array the crimson cross|| demand ; 
Or gay assemble round the festive board 

Their chief's retainers, an immortal band : 
4. 
Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 

Retrace their progress through the lapse of time; 
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd lo die, 

A votive pilgrim in Jude&'s clime. 
5. 
But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief; 

His feudal realm in other regions lay : 
In thee the woui.ded conscience courts relief, 

Retiring fruiu the garish blaze of day. 

6. 
Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound 

The monk ahjured a world he ne'er could view; 
Or blo.'d-stain'd guilt repenting solace found, 

Or innocence from stern oppression flew. 



• As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, the anther 
had, orifinnlly, no intention of inserting ihe following ! it is nnw added 
at the particular ivquesl elwtat friends. See p. 383 of this edition. 

I The motto wai not given in the private volume. 

: Henry it. founded Newstoul soon after the murder of Thomas a 
Stent. 

§ This word is used by Walter Scott in his posm, " The WiW Hunts- 
man :" synonymous with vassal. 

II The red cross was tin badge of the eiusadtr. 



408 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, 

Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl: 

And superstition's crimes, of various dyes, 
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 

8. 
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 

The humid pall of hTe-extinguish'd clay, 
In sainted fame the sacred filth 

Nor raised their pious vofcea but to pray. 

9. 
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend 

Soon as the gloaming* spreads her waning shade, f 
The choir did ofi their mingling vespers blend, 

Or matin orisons to Mary} paid, 

10. 
Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed: 
Religion's charter their protecting shield 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 

11. 
One holy Hf.n*ry§ reared the Gothic walls, 

And hade the pious inmates n si in peace; 
Another Henut the kind gift recalls, 

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 

12. 

"Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer ; 

He drives them exiles from their blest abode, 
To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 

No friend, no home, no refuge, but their tioa. 

13. 
Hark how the hall, resounding to the Strain, 

Shakes with the martiiil music's novel din! 
Tli>- heralds of a warrior's naught; reign, 

High crested banners, wave thy walls within. 

11. 

Of changing sentinels the distant 1mm, 

The mirth of fra- 1 ofnurnish'd arms, 

The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, 

Unite in concert with increased alarms. 
15. 
An abbey once, a regal fortress|| now, 

Encircled by insulting rebel powers, 
War's dread machines o'erbang thy threatning brow, 

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 

16. 

Ah vain defence ! the hostile tini'.nr's siegR, 

Though oft repulsed by guile, o'ercomes the brave; 

His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, 
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 

17. 
Not unavenged the raging bamn yields; 

Tli.- b!ond of traitors smears the purple plain : 
Uhconquer'd still, his falrhion there he wields, 

And days of glory yet fur him remain. 

18. 

Still in that hour the warrior wistl'd to strew 
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave ; 

But Charles 1 protecting genius hither flew, 

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 



• Ai "cl nr »'ninr!." the ScoUleh word for twilight, i» Tnr more poclicnl, 

n mt i in* been recommended by ■ ■.■ ■ olnenl literary men, p 

t>y Dr. Moure iii hi« Letter* to Horn*, I ban IM it on-ac- 

count i>f in hnrmony. 

t Oloanung tpread* her tonning thiide. In the prlfatc *olnmc, Tui 
light win-t* « waning thade. 

1 The prior? M u dedk il*d to the Vliftn. 

\ At the dlnolatloo of ttu Benry VIII, bellowed New 

atead Abbey oa SJr John Byron. 

Newsiead auaUitned a considcrnbte aiege tn the war between Charles 
. and bi* parliament. 



19. 

Trembling, she snatch'd him* from th' unequal strife 

n other fields the torrent to repel ; 
For nobler combats, here, reserved his life, 

To lead the band where godlike Falkland! foil. 

20. 
From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, 

While dying groans their painful requiem sound, 
Far different incense now ascends to heaven, 

Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 

21. 

There many « pale and ruthless robber's corse, 
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod; 

O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, 
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 

22. 
Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, 

Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould : 
From ruffian '■■ not e'en the dead, 

Raked front repose in search for buried gold. 

23. 

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, 
The minstrel's palsied band reclines in death; 

No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire, 
Or sings the glories of the martial \ wreath. 

24. 

At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey, 
Retire; the clamour of the fight is o'er; 

Silence again resumes her awful sway, 
And sable IIorror|| guards the massy door. 

25. 
Here Desolation holds her dreary court: 

What satellites declare her dismal reign. 
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, 

To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. 

26. 
Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 

The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies 
The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, 

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 

27. 
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans; 

Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath ; 
Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones, 

Loathing^ the offering of so dark a death. 

28. 
The legal ruler^I now resumes the helm, 

He guides through gmile seas the prow of state ; 
Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm, 

And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate. 

29. 
The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells, 

Howling, resign their violated nest ; 
Again the master on Ins tenure dwells, 

Knjoy'd, from absence, with enraptur'd zest 



' Lord nvmn nod his brother : Sir William held high rnmmand \n the 

royal army ■ th.- former wm B'-nrmi in chief tn Irel ina, IleatnwDt of th# 

:, .i in Jamej, Duke of Fork, afterward! the unhappy 

Jameell.; the latUi hod ■ I elpoJ share in many action*. — vide 

Clarendon, Humr, fee. 
t Luclui Gary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the mnjt nfcomplUhed man 
wai killed j.t the beitliol Newberry .chargtoj In the mule* of 
Lord Byron'i rasln bi 

I Marti i I i [ ■■ Mi l idl I utreWd. 

II Sa&U Horror In it"' prl»«W volume Horror $talking. 

§ Thi* i ■ :'"' occurred immediately 

to the iii. Hi. or Internum of Cromwell, which occasioned 
many diepalea between hie partleanj and iheeae iBen i both interpreted 
thecircn'u - -t whether ni approbation 

or eoodemntUon, we leave IntlM uoakrliof ihnt a*e to decide. I bare 
nude raeh uceoflhe occurrenfte ■> euiled vbo iubjectof my poem. 

U Clwrlea II. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



409 



30. 

Vassals, within thy hospitable pale, 

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 

Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, 
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 

31. 

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 

Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; 
And hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note, 

The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 
32. 
Beneath their coursers hoofs the vallevs shake , 

What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase ! 
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake ; 

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 
33. 
Ah happy days! too happy to endure ! 

Sijch simple sports our plain forefathers knew: 
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 
34. 
From these descending, sons to sires succeed ; 

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart ; 
Another chief impels the foaming steed, 

Another crowd pursue the panting heart. 

35. 

Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine ! 

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; 
The last and youngest of a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 

36. 
Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers ; 

Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep; 
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers ; 

These, these he views, and views them but to weep 

37. 

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret : 

CherishM affection only hids them flow. 
Pride, hope, and love, forbid him to forget, 

But warm his bosom with impassionM glow. 
38. 
Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes 

Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great; 
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 

Nor breathes a murmur 'against the will of fate. 
39. 
Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, 

Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 
*Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, 

And bless thy future as thy former day. 



ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT 
PUBLIC SCHOOL.! 

Wmf.re are those honours, Ida! once your own, 
When ProbusJ fill'd your magisterial throne? 
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
Hail'd a barbarian in her Cxsar's place, 



' Hour* splendid, lie. In the private volume and the first edition 

of Hour* of Idlttl led wiili the following lines : 

" Fortune may smile upon a future line. 
Ami I! in ever cloudlets day. ■' 

t These lines were Only printed in the private volume. Lord Byron 
mott sincerely regretted having written ihla mid the subsequent attack 
on Dr Butler conf m called Childish Recollections. A 

Kween them before Lord Byron's Ural depar< 
fbi Greece ; and Mr. Moore inforcni us that, " not co:t tenl with 
■ itc atonement to Dr. Butler, ii was Lord Byron 'i Intention. 
had he puhlished another edition nf the Hours of Idleness, to luhttitute 
for llic offemive verses against thai gentleman, a frank avowal of the 
wrong he had bean guilty of, in giving vent to them."-£i/e of Byron, 
*ol. I. p. IBS. 
J Probus, Dr. Dmry. 

3B 



So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
And seat Pomposus* where your Probus sate. 
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; 
Pomposus, by no social virtue swav'd, 
With florid jargon, and with vain parade ; 
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, 
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause* 
With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
Ul-fated Ida! si ion must stamp your doom : 
Like her o'er thrown, for ever lost to fame, 
No trace of science left you but the name. 

July, 1805. 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS.f 

" I cannot but remember such things were, 
Ami were most dear to me." 

JWheb slow Disease, with all her host of pains, 
Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins ; 
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, 
And flies with every changing gale of spring ; 
Not to the aching frame alone confined, 
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind: 
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of wo, 
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow, 
Willi Resignation wage relentless strife, 
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings lo life. 
Yet less the pang when through the tedious hour 
Remembrance sheds around her genial power, 
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, 
When love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven ; 
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene, 
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 
As when through clouds that pour the summer storm 
The orb of day unveils bis distant form, 
Gilds with faint beams the chrysta! dews of rain, 
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
Thus, while ihe future dark and cheerless gleams, 
The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams, 
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, 
To scenes far distant points his paler rays ; 
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, 
The past confounding with the present day. 

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought; 



* Pomposus, Dr. Bnller. 

t This poem was pul ilihed in the private volume ; and with many 
dditlons and corrections in the first edition of Hours of Idleness ; Cat 
was afterwards suppressed, 

; In ihe private volume the poem opened with the following lines t 

i! ice I thoit unvarying song of varied loves, 

Which youth commends, malurer age reproves J 

Which every rhyming rote, 

By thousands echo'd lo the self-same note I 

Tired of ihe dull, unceasing, copious strain, 

My *uul is panting to lit free a 5,1m. 

Farewell ! ye nymphs propitious !■> my verse. 

Rome other Dnmon will your charms rehearse ; 
■ other paint his pant;*, in hope of hliss, 

1 ii dm ell in rapture on your nectar'd liiss. 

Those beauties, grateful to rny ardent flight, 

No more entrance my senses delight ; 

Those bosoms, form'd of animated snow, 

Alike are t»«telesa, nre unreeling now. 

These lo some h.<[<j'h.-r ii-vt-r 1 resign — 

1 iyi alone is mine. 

Censure no men 1 humlile name, 

The child of pa* mai I ol feme. 

Weary oflovi I with spleen, 

I rest a perfect Timon, nol nlnel 

W01 Idl I 1 .11. i'ii. b Lhee ! nil my hope 's o'ercast 

One |i ■'. 1 ul that ltgh 'a the last. 

Friend), fix I, ami t. -units nuw tilike adieu t 
i.rc of you toot 
future ilurk and cheerless gleams. 

The cor»e of memory, ho* ring in my dreams, 
j, are, 
■ 1 tears ; 

Still rules my senses with tyrannic sway, 

'I':., past 1 1 ■■" 1. in. ' v. Hi. tin- pmtoi day. 

" Alns t In vnin I check Hit maddening thought j 
It still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought : 
My soul to Fancy's," &c. 4c, Ac. as at line twenty-nine. 



410 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields ; 
Scenes of my youih, developM, crowd U> view, 
To which 1 long have bade a la.-t adi iu ! 
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; 
Friends lost to me for aye except in dreams ; 
Some who in marble prematurely sleep, 
Whose forms I now remember but to weep; 
Sutne who yet urge the same scholastic c 
Of early science, future fame the source ; 
Who, stilt contending in the studious race, 
In quick rotation fill the senior place! 
These with a thousand visions now unite, 
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight.* 

Ida ! blest spot, where Science holds her reign, 
How joyous once I joinM thy youthful train ! 
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 
Again I mingle with thy playful quire ; 
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 
Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same; 
Through winding paths, along the glade, I trace 
The social smile ofev'ry w< 
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and wo, 
Each early boyish friend or youthful foe, 
Our feuds dissolved, but Jin' :,,. friendship past; — 
I bless the former, and forgive the last. 
Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my breast, 
To love a stranger, friendship made me blest ; — 
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, 
When every artless bosom throbs with iruth ; 
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign, 
And check each impulse with prudential rein; 
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 
In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; 
No rarnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 

No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit. 

Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, 

Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 

When now the boy is ripen'd into man, 

His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 

Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink. 

Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think; 

Still to assent, and never to deny — 

A patron's praise can well reward the lie : 

And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, 

Would lose his opening prospects for a word ' 

Although against that won] his heart rebel, 

And truth, indignant, all his bosom swell. 

Away with themes like this! not mine the task 
From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask ; 
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting : 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing: 
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow, 
To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
Bur when that foe, from feeling or from shame, 
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired, 
With this submission all her rage expired. 
From dreaded pangs that fe< ble foe ti save, 
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave ; 
fOr, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
PompOSUS 1 virtues are but known to leu ; 
I never fearM the young usurper's nod, 
And he who wields must sometimes feel the ro3. 



If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
Who share the converse of a college hall, 
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
T is pas!, and thus she will not sin again. 
Soon must her early song for ever cease, 
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remetnherM be the joyous band 
Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command; 
j inM with me iu every boyish sport — 
Their first adviser, and their last resort ; 
♦Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, 
Or all the sable glories of his gown; 
Who, thus transplanted from his father's school— 
i i i anl of rule — 

Succeeded him whom all unite to praise, 
■ r preceptor of my early (lavs ; 

Probus f the pride of science, and the boast, 

To Ida now, alas! for ever lost. 

With him for y iai i ' page, 

And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage; 

Retired a' last, his small yet peaceful seat 

From learning's labour is the blest retreat. 

J Pomposus fills his magisterial chair ; 

Pornposus governs, — but, my muse, forbear: 

Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ; 

His name and precepts be alike forgot ;§ 

No more his mention shall my verse degrade, 

To him my tribute is already paid.]] 

tTHigh,thro gli those elms with hoary branches crown'd, 
Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round ; 
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys 
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise; 
To her awhile n signs be* youthful train, 
\\'h> more in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
In scatter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue ; 
Repeal 1 1 and discoi ar new ; 

Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun, 
In rival hands between the wickets run, 
I hive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 
But these with slower steps direct their way 
Where Brent's cool wares in limpid current's stray; 



* The next fifty -nix tinea, lo 

" Hera first remember'd be the loroiia band," 
were added III the drat e lition ol Bonn off Idleness, 
t Or if my mute a ]>■■'{ tnt'i portrait drew, 

Pompom*' virtues, c. 
Mr Bluore informs us, that in* ten.) of this passage, Lord Orroit meant 
U> liweri, 

" If iincu mv muse a banner portrait drew, 
Warm with hir irroDp and deara'd the uktoui true, 
By cooler judgment taught, her fault she, owm,- 
Wnti noble mlnda a. fault, couleea'd, aionea." 

Ls/l of Byron, vet. f. p, 188. 



• [nilead of ih* present coo] ■ volume baa the following 

I : — 

I lUrlOUe frown, 

1 i creee, 

Adding naw i<-i i ■ 

t This most able in I i tired from his situ nt Son In 

Mareh, 1805, tiftei I ■ ■ ■ 1 1 ■ ■ i ■. ] i he last 

twenty na hi i office In held with equal honour ti 

end adeanl prafjfclad. 

Klre>U enumerate 
qunlllicntione which « i Mvei Sou led * eonaldtrabli conim took 

nil : ol tin* 1 can 
only so v, 

Ri mr«, enm vrstrls valuleeent wrta, Pelaajrl I 
Non I lUHawta, 

I PompoavsJlH* h i* mntrittt' iat cAair ; 

•'i toctrwu. Ice. 
ti id i I i' Edition ol Roura of idicne»,U 

W(| tin iiilriiiiM,, to (iva) lb lothla |u)i^r ; 

i i.iir ; 
I; :■ : .i.- Ida owua a i i 

Ob '■ mnt like bonoore crown hi* future name, — 
If inch hie virtues, such eh all he his fume." 

-U w**e Lift of Byron, toI. 1. p. 189. 
§ Hi* name, &C. Instead of this line, the private volume reade, 
rtf precepts be forgot." 

II This nlliiL-s ton chum* Li l I >■ rmr private edition for 
Iba perusal of tome frienda, which, with man; other pieces, is withheld 

») To draw the attention of the public M 

'- 'Seance would | another reason, 

following: couplet i 



j'igli not hi ■ ■■■•■, may be e: 

■' Satire or eeuae, nine I c« 



I frel ? 



Wh ■ ■ pon the •rhaeli' 

POPK.— Prologue to the Satire: 
TJ The ensuing hundred and twenty Iwn lines, to 

" Ali'hM. baal nod >!.'.irrst of my friends," 
are not found in the private volume, but were introduced in the first edi- 
tion of Hours of 1 lk*neis. 



i "l Thoae pleoaa are reprinted in iha present edition. The cbaraVej 
alluded to ta coaieined m the preceding poem. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



411 



While yonder few search out some green retreat, 

And arbours shade them from the summer heat : 

Others again, a pert and lively crew, 

Some rough and thoughtless strangor placed in view, 

With frolic quaint their antic jests exp tse, 

And tease the "rumbling rustic as he goes ; 

Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 

Tradition treasures for a future day : 

"'T was here the grather'd swains fur vengeance fought. 

And here we earn"d the conquest dearly bought; 

Hare bare we Bed before superior might, 

And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight." 

While thus our souls with early passions swell, 

In lingering tones resounds the distant bell ; 

Tir allotted hour of daily spurt is o'er, 

And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 

No splendid tablets grace ht-r simple hall, 

Hut ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 

There, deeply carved, behold ! each tyro's name 

Secures ita owm r's a :ademi ■ fame; 

Here mingling view the names of sire and son — 

The one long graved, the other just begun : 

These shall survive alike when son and sire 

Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : 

Perhaps their last memorial these a'one, 

Denied in death a monumental stone, 

Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 

The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave. 

And here my name, and many an early friend's, 

Along the wall in lengthenM line extends. 

Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 

Who tread our steps, and till our firmer place, 

Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe, 

Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law, 

And now in turn possess the reins of power, 

To rule the little tyrants of an hour ; — i 

Though sometimes with the tales of ancient day 

They pass the dreary winter's eve away — 

"And thus our former rulers siemm'd the tide, 

And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; 

Just in this place the mouldering walls thev scaled] 

Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd ; 

Here Probns came, the rising fray to quell, 

And here he Faltered forth his last farewell ; 

.And here one nighl abroad ihey dared to roam, 

While bold Pomposus bravely stayed at home ;" — 

While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, 

When names of these, like ours, alone survive : 

Vet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 

The faint remembrance «>f our fairy realm. 

Dear honpst race, though now we meet no more, 
One last long look on what we were before— 
Our first kind greet ings, and our last adieu — 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with yon. 
Through splended circles, fashion's randy world, 
Where folly's glaring standard wares unfuri'd, 
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
And all I Bought or hopi d was to forget. 
Vain wish ' il me well-remen&er'd face, 

Some old companion of my earlv race, 
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy, 
My eyes, my heart proclaimed me still a boy ; 
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around, 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found; 
The smiles of beauty — (for, alas! I've known 
What 't is to bend before Love's mighty throne) — 
The smiles of beauty (hough those smi'es were dear, 
Could hardly charm me when that friend was near : 
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, 
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; 
I saw ihe sprightly wanderers pour along 
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng 
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, 
And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love. 



Yet why should 1 alone with such delight 
Retrace the circuit of my former flight ? 
Is there no cause beyond the common claim 
Endcar'd to all in childhood's very name 7 
Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear 
To one who thus f>r kindred hearts must roam, 
And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
Those hearts, dear [da, have I found in thee— 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
Stern deaih forbade my orphan youth to share 
The tender guidance of a father's care : 
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye ? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
Made by a parent's early loss my own? 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek? 
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek ? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise, 
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred lies ! 
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ; 
While still the visions to my heart are prest, 
The voice of love will murmur in my rest : 
1 hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice; 
I hear again, — but, ah ! no brother's voice. 
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims till the way ; 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine, 
I cannot call one single blossom mine : 
What then remains ? in solitude to groan, 
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone ? 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, 
And none more dear than Ida's social band. 
* 

* Alonzo ! best and dearest of my friends, 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends: 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise, 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth, 
If hope anticipate the words of truth, 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame.f 
Friend nfmy heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, 
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore ; 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. 
Yet when confinement's lingering hour was dor e 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one : 
Together we impell'd the flying ball ; 
Together waited in our tutor's hall; 
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, 
Or shared the produce 'if the river's spoil ; 
Or plunging from the green declining shore, 
Our pliant \ limbs the buoyant billows bore ; 
In every element, unchanged, the same, 
All, all that brothers should be but the name. 

Nor vet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 
Davus, the harbinger of childish joy; 
For ever foremost in the ranks of tun, 
The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
Yet with a breast of such materials made— 
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; 
Candid and liberal, with a heart ofsteel 
Tn danger's path, though not untaught to feel. 
Still I remember in the factious strife 
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life : 



'Alonzo. In ihe private volume, Johannet. 

t The following; four lines of the private volumea were omlttwt la tha 
Huurt of Id1*tie«i : 

" Coold noeht bl'pire me with pot*tic fire, 
Pot ihea nlone ( 'd iirike th»- hallow'd lyre ; 
I', ti in lome aMerhand (he ia*k I wave, 
Who»e ai raini immortal may outlive ihe grtTfl." 
J Plltnl. Pr'nmlt volume , luity. 



412 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



High poised in air ihe massy weapon hung, 
A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; 
Whilsl I, in combat with another fbe ( 
Fought on, unconscious of th 1 impending blow ; , 
Your arm, brave boy, aiTttted hifl e.ireer— 
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear ; 
Dtsarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand, 
The gravelling savage roll'd upon theeand : 
* An ant like this can simple thanks repay ? 
Or all the labours of a grateful I 
Oh no! when* deed, 

That instant, Dam es to bleed, 

Lycos ! on me thy claims are justly great: 
Thy milder virtues could my muse i 
To thee alone, unrivall'd, would bi 
Th»- feeble efforts of my lengthen 
Well canst thou boast to lead in senates til — 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wil ; 
Though yet in embryo these shine, 

Ltcus ! thj father's lame will soon be thine. 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
What may we hope from genius thus refined! 
When time at length matures thy growing years, 
How wilt tliou tower above thy tV 
Prudence and sens* , s spirit bold and free, 
With honour's soul, united beam in thee. 

Shall fair E an Y ALUS pass by unsung? 
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung : 
What though one sad dissension bade us pari, 
That name is yet emSalmM within my heart ; 
Vet at the mention dues thai heart rebound*, 
And palpitate responsive to the sound. 
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : , 

We once were friends, — 1 '11 think we are so still. 

A form unmatched in nature's partial mould, 
A heart untainted, we in ihee behold : 

Yet not tin- si shall wield, 

Nor seek fur glory in the tented field ; 

To minds of ruder texture these be given— 

Thy sold shall nearer soar i:s native heaven. 

Haply in p ilish'd c thy seat, 

But that thy tongue could never forgi deceit; 
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile. 
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, 
Would make th i indignation bum. 

And all the glittering snares to tempi ihee Bpurn 
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate ; 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate; 
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore ; 
(Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 



* An net like r/i-t, ' c. In ihf private volume the l.itl four line* o 
• hamctiT were as full owe : 

" Tims flid yon Suve thm life ' 
A life unwoi rifke 

Oh ! wl .... ,!,- c ,l, 

Thai ■ ■ ■ i 

■ 
■ ■ 

" Forever d ibee, 

Was bliea null v I bj me, 

r 
Thy m 

■ 
Thm i ■ 

Proclaim I i :■■ garth. 

u hen ilepress'd wd 
i rl iTourtte tomb, 

I 

.. | 
Or- when less tn mrnful • - ilicmes, 

vVe tried h i 
■ 
Whatever wieh waa mine mini be thtne 
" The i to lead In nennies fit— 

A Spartan tin »i wuh Athenian wil : 

ThO ; : ■ theae pel I' ■ lloW uliine, 

Claroj ! thy futher's fame will sooo bi Catiii 
When learning," ac. Ac. 
1 " Where U the restlaeafool would with Tor morr ?•' 

Privnti W9t 



Now last, but nearest of the social band, 
See honest, open, generous Cleon stand ; 
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene, 
No vice degrades that purest soul serene* 
i in the same day our studious race I 
On the u studious race was run ; 

side we pass'd our first career, 
Thus side by side we strove for many a year; 
At last concluded our scholastic life, 

ii r conquor'd in the classic strife: 
^ pi ah n ' ea< h supports an equal name, 
m to both ■ partial fa 
i :\ youthful rival's early pride, 

e.Liiduiir would the palm divide, 
ne now to own 
Justice awards it to my friend alone. j 

Oh ! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, 

R tmbi u with her warmest tear! 

ng, she bends o*ei pensive Fancy's urn 

To trace the hours which never can return; 
1 Yi t with the retrospection loves to dwell, 
ooth the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
Vet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, 
As infant laurels round my head were twined 
When Probus 1 praise repaid my lyric song, 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng 
Or when my first harangue received applause, 
His sage instruction the primeval cause, 
What gratitude to him my soul possest, 
While hope of dawning honours iill'd my breast.* 
§For all my humble fame, to him alone 
The praise is due, who made that dine my own. 
Oh ! could 1 sou above those feeble lays, 
These young effusions of my early days, 
To him my muse her noblest strain would give : 
The song might perish, but the theme must live. 
Yet why for him the needless verse essay ? 
His honoured name requires n<> vain display : 

v son of grateful Ida blest, 
It finds an echo in each youthful breast; 
A fame beyond the glories of die proud, 
Or all ihe plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida, not yet exhausted is the theme, 
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain, 
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain, 
Yet let me hush this echo of the past, 
This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, 
To me a silent and a sweet employ, 



* Tllie allude* '<> Ihe pvMk speeches delivered at the school where the 
1 The -it coududiof Unaa oft hit passage were giren ■• followi In the 

[it'.V.klC V ■ 

" As ■prnkrn each support* a ri»«] name, 

i aeeva io damn ihe oUttr*! fame 
decade : 
Wllfi r ure UiepAlm divide* 

luetic* awarda It to my friend alone." 
J " Vfi \o ihe retro paction Bnda relief, 

ii the luxury ofgriefV'—Pripafeeo/ume. 

ill.: poem, as printed Id the 
11 ' that la the prlf ate vulume wh eh 

contains mid concludes thus : 

n the mimic ait, 
I lelfn'd the iraitj|iiiri» of n veaganil heart ; 
1 trod the stage, 
■ ■ more limn mortal rage ; 

■ proud 
i in .ill the pUuolta of the lisfning crowd. 

" All I ■ ■ ■ i in thia childish at rain 

To ROOtfa the WOM ol winch 1 Lbue to tii|i|nin. 
What tan avail] the CrutUeea loi« al 
To mensure aorrow in a singling rhymel 
No aoelal aolkOB from a friend is near, 
And he trtleae itraogai edtop no li-iling tear 
I sack not ioy hi woman's sparkling eye : 
The tmllee of beauty ettnoot cheek the sigh. 
Adieu I thou world tin* pteteura 'a still adraan. 
Thy virtue hut n visionary thtm* , 
The years of vice on years of folly roll. 
Till grinutng death assigns the destined goal 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



413 



Whil* 1 . furure dope and fear alike unknown, 
I think with pleasure on the past alone ; 
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine, 
And chase the phantom of what once was mine. 

Ida '- still o'er thy hills in joy preside, 
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ; 
Still may thy blooming sons ihy name revere, 
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear ; — 
That tear perhaps the fondest which will flow 
O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
Tell me, ye hoary few who glide along, 
The feeble veterans of some former throng, 
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd, 
Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, 
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth, 
Say if remembrance days like these endears 
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ? 
Say can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 
So sweet a balm to sooth your hours of wo ? 
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, 
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys, 
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys,) 
Recall one scene so much beloved to view 
As tliose where Youth her garland twined for you. 
Ah, no ! amid the gloomy calm of age 
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page ; 
Peruse the record of your days on earth, 
Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 
Still iingering pause above each chequer'd leaf, 
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; 
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw, 
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn 
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn ; 
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth, 
And Love,* without his pinion, smiled on youth. 



f ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, WRIT 
TEN BY MONTGOMERY, AUTHOR OF 
« THE WANDERER IN SWITZERLAND,' 
&c. &c. ENTITLED « THE COMMON LOT. 
I. 
Montgomery . true, the common lot 

Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave ; 
Yet some shall never be forgot — 
Some shall exist beyond the grave. 



Where all are hastening to the dread ahode. 
To meet the Judgment of n righteous ' iod | 
Miz'd in the concourse of the thoughtless throng, 
A mounter midsl of mirth, I glide along ; 

A wretched, isolated, glnumy thing, 

Curst hv reflection 1 ! deep corroding stine ; 

Bui not ibat mental itiiig which smha within, 

The dark Liven ge r oT unpurush'd ain ; 

The silent shall which goads the guilt; wretch 

Extended on a rack's untiring Stretch : 

Hon enec thai Mine;, thai shaft to him supplies— 

His mind the racft from which he ne'er can riie. 

For rac, whjte'er my foily or my t.-.ir, 

On>- I I Still it cherish 'd here : 

No ilr-*ml internal hannu mj hours of rest 

i . , . ired innocence infest : 
Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft, 
Consd-nce, my last but welcome e<i-:«t ii left. 
Slander's impoison'd breath maj b'ait my name ; 
Envy delighu to blight the budi of mme : 
Drceit may chill the current of my blood. 
And fret?-- affection*! wfcriD [tnpiulon'd 
Presaei .. DM | — 

Here a ■ defence. 

My bosotn reedl no ' ■form which ne'er c-an die :' 
Not crime* I mourn, hul happiness gone by. 
Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile, 
My heart is bitter | though my cheek may smile i 
No mote wilh former bliss my heart is glad J 
Hope yields to anguish, and my snnl is sad *. 

ii< i regret no future Joy can save ; 
Remembrance slumbers only in the grave." 
" L'Amilie' est 1'Aroonr sans ailei" is a French proverb, 
t Only printed in the private voltima. 



2. 

u Unknown the region of his birth," 

The hero* rolls the liue of war • 
Yet not unknown his martial worth, 
Which glares a meteor from afar. 
3. 
His joy or grief, his weal or wo, 

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame ; 
Yet nations now unborn will know 
The record of his deathless name. 
4. 
The patriot's and the poet's frame 

Must share the common tomb of all: 
Their glory will not sleep the same , 
That will arise though empires fall. 
5. 
The luslre of a beauty's eye, 

Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 
The fair, the brave, the good must die, 
And sink the yawning grave beneath. 
6. 
Once more the speaking eye revives, 

Still beaming through the lover's strain; 
For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 
She died, but ne'er will die again. 
7. 
The rolling seasons pass away, 

And Time, untiring, waves his wing, 
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay, 
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 
8. 
All, all must sleep in grim repose, 

Collected in the silent tomb ; 
The old and young, wilh friends and foes, 
Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 

9. 

The mouldering marble lasts its day, 

Yet falls at length an useless fane ; 
To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey, 

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 
10. 
What though the sculpture be destroy'd 

From dark oblivion meant to guard ? 
A bright renown shall be en joy 'd 

By those whose virtues claim reward,. 
11. 
Then do not say the common lot 

Of all lies deep in Leihe's wave ; 
Some few who he'er will be forgot 

Shall burst the bondage of the gravw. 



1806. 



TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER.f 
I. 
Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind : 

I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind : 
I will not descend to a world I despise. 
a 

Did the senate or camp my exerlions require, 
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth; 

When infancy's years of probation expire, 
Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. 



• No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, 

Nemours, Edward ihe Black Prince, and in more modem times the fuint 

' , < Vrnnt Sate, Charles of Sweden 

&c, are famifter to every hi u [he einct [dace of their 

birth are known to a very mull progmrtion of their admirers. 

t Only found in the urivate to! time. 



4i4 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



The fire in the cavern of Etna ronceal'd 

Still mantles unseen in ita secret recess; 
At length in a volume terrific reveal'd 

No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. 
4. 
Oh ! thus, The desire in my bosom for fame 

Bids me live but to hope for prosperity's praise. 
Could I soar with the phcenix on pinions of flame, 

With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 
5. 
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, 

What censure, what danger, what wo would I brave 
Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath, 

Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. 
6. 
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd? 

Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to In r rules? 
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd ? 

Why search for delight in the friendship of (b 
7. 
I have tasted the sweets and the hitlers of love ; 

In friendship I early was [aught to believe; 
My passion the matrons ol prudence reprove ; 

I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive. 
8. 
To me what is wealth? it may pass in an hour, 

If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown. 
To me what is title ? — the phantom of power ; 

To me what is fashion ? — I seek but renown. 
9. 
Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul, 

I still am unpractised to varnish the truth ; 
Thon why should I live in a hateful control ? 

Why waste upon filly the days of my youth ? 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.* 

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON's OSSIAXT.'j 

Dear are the days of youth ! Age dwells on their 
remembrance through the mist of time. In the twi- 
light, he recalls the sunny hours of mom. He lifts his 
spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I 
raise the steel before my fathers!' 1 Past is the race 
of heroes ! but their fame rises; on the harp ; their souls 
ride on the wings of the wind ! tiny bear the sound 
through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall 
of clouds ! Such is Cahnar. Tin- gray stone marks his 
narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests ; 
he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the 
blast of the mountain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. 
His steps in the field were marked in blood ! Lochlin's 
sons had fled before his angry spear; but mild was the 
eye of Cahnar ; soft was the flow of his yellow locks : 
they streamed like the meteor of the night. No mud 
was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to 
friendship, lo dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! 

Equal were their swords in bailie ; but fierce was the 
pride of Orla : gentle alone to Cahnar. Together they 
dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. 
Erin's sons fell beneath his might. FingaJ roused bis 
chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean ! Thi ir 
hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid 
of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. 
But the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The 

* Fir»l published in Hours of Idtflltew. 

t It tuny be iifct'»iiry tOot*erve, tlml thr »lory, though comiderftWy 

?»ne<i in tha cj»U*irophe, i. [akin ft " Nun* and EorTallll," cf 

which apUefa k u-aotlittioa s» aire*.!/ ji»eo in the prtn-nl volume. 



snis of Lochlin slept; their dreams were of blood. 
They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so 
the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. 
Calmar stood by bis side. Their spears were in [hi if 
hands. Fingal called bis chiefs ; they stood around. 
The king was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but 
strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his 
powers. " Sons of Morven," said the hero, " to-mor- 
row we meet the foe : but where is Cuthullin, the shield 
u\' Erin? He rests in the halls ofTura; he knows not 
of our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the 
hero, and call the chief to arms? The path is by the 
swords of foes, but many are my heroes. They are 
thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will 
arise ?" 

11 Son of Trenmor ! mine be the deed,'* said dark- 
haired Orla, " and mine alone. "What is death tome ? 
I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. 
The si, ns of Lochlin dream. I w-ill seek car-bome 
Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards ; and lay me 
by the stream of Lobar." — " And shatt tliou fall alone?" 
said fair-haired Calmar. '• Will thuu leave thy friend 
afar ? Chi, f of Oithona ! not feeble is my arm in fight. 
Could I see thee die, and nol lift the spear? No, Orla ! 
ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and :he feast of 
shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has been the 
cave of Oithona ; ours he ihe narrow dwelling on the 
banks of Liibar." " Calmar" said the chief of Oithona, 
" why should thy yellow locks be darkened in ihe dust 
of Erin .' Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his 
hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy : but the blue-eyed 
Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She 
listens to the steps of the hunter QD ihe heath, and thinks 
it is the tread of Calmar. Lei him not say, ' Calmar 
has fallen by the Bteel of Lochlin : he died with gloomy 
Orla, the chief of the dark brow. 1 "Why should tears 
dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice 
enrse Orla, 'he destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar. 
Live to raise my stone of moss ; live to revenge me in 
the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my 
grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla from the 
voice of Calmar. My "host shall smile on the notes 
of praise." "Orla," said the son of Mora, "could I 
raise the song of death to my friend ? Could I give his 
fame to the « mda ? No, my heart would speak in sighs. 
Faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla ! our 
souls shall b( ar the song together. One cloud shall be 
our son high. The bards will mingle the names of 
Orla and Calmar." 

They quit the circle of tho chiefs. Their steps are to 
the host of Lochlin. The dying bla2cof oak dim twin- 
kles through the ni(jht. The northern star points the 
path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. 
1 [ere the troops are mixed : they frown in sleep. Their 
shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam at 
di tarn i in heaps. The fires are faint; their embers fail 
in smoke. All is hushed ; but the gale sighs on the 
rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the 
slumbering band. Half ihe journey is past, when Ala- 
thon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It 
rolls in (lame, and glistens throagh die shade. His 
spear is raised on high. u Whydost ihou bend thy brow, 
chief of Oiihona?' 1 said fair-haired Calmar. "We are 
in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?" " It is 
a time lor vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. 
'• Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : seest thou bis spear? Its 
point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of 
Mathon shall reek on mine ; but shall I slay him steeping, 
son of Mora ? No ! he shall feel his wound : my fame 
shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise ! Mathon ! 
rise! the son of Connal calls; thy life is his; rise to 
combat." Mathon starts from sleep ; but did he rise 
alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. 
Fly ! Calmar! fly !" said dark haired Orla. " Mnthon 
is mine. I shall die in joy. But Lochlin crowds 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



415 



around. Fly through the shade of night." Orla turns. 
The helm of Mathon is cleft ; his shield falls from his 
arm : he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of 
the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises ; 
his weapon glitters on the head of Orla : but a spear 
pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, 
and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves 
of the ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour 
the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the 
surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so 
rise the chiefs of Morven on the scatter'd crests of 
Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. 
He strikes his shield ; his sons throng around ; the peo- 
ple pour along the heath. Ryno b>unds in joy. Ossian 
stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes his spear. The eagle 
wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful isihe clang 
of death ! many are the widows of Lochlin. Morven 
prevails in his strength. 

Morn glimmers on the hills ; no living foe is seen ; but 
the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The 
breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. 
The hawks scream above their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? 
Bri^'it as the gold of the stranger, thev mingle with the 
dark hair of his friend. " 'T is Calmar : he lies on the 
b is ' n of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce 
is the look of the gloomy Orla. Ke breathes not ; but 
his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His 
hand is grasped in Calmar's ; but Calmar lives! he 
lives, though low. " Rise, 1 ' said the king, "rise, son of 
M ira : 't is mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar 
may yet bound on the hills of Morven." 

" Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of 
Morven with Orla," said the hero. " "What were the 
chase to me alone '? Who would share the spoils of bat- 
tle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, 
Orla ! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on 
others in lightning ; to me a silver beam of night. Bear 
my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my empty 
halL It is not pure from blood : but it could not save 
Orla, Lav me with my friend. Raise the song when I 
am dark !" 

Th-y are hid by the stream of Lunar. Four gray 
i siting of Orla and Calmar. 

When S .varan was bound, our sails rose on the blue 
waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The 
bards raised the song. 

" What form rises on the roar of clouds ? Whose 
dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests ? His 
voice rolls on the thunder. 'T is Orla, the brown chief 
of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy 
soul, Orla ! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar ! 
Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed M ira ; but not harm- 
less was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts 
of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, 
Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy 
name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy 
fair locks, son of Mora, Spread them on the arch of 
the rainbow ; and smile through the tears of the storm."* 



TO E. N. L. ESQ.f 

" N 1 ego rontuterim Jucundo aanns arnica "—//or. E. 

Dear L— — , in this sequester'd scene, 

While all around in slumber lie, 
The joyous days which ours have been 
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye ; 



• I Tear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope 
(lint Miniherson's Onian might prove the translation of a series of 
poem* complete in themselves ; but, while llie imposture is discovered, 
Um neril of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults— 

KMliculnrty, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction, — The present 
umble imitation will r>e pardoned by the admirers of the original am ail 
attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favour- 
ite author, 
t Fim published in Hwun of Idlr nest. 



Thus if amid the gathering storm, 
While clouds the uarkeu'd noon deform, 
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial bow, 
Which spreads the sign of future peace, 
And bids the war of tempest cease. 
Ah ! though the present brings but pain, 
I think those days may come again ; 
Or if, in melancholy mood, 
Some lurking envious fear intrude, 
To check my bosom's fondest thought, 

And interrupt the golden dream, 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 

And still indulge my wonted theme. 
Although we ne'er again can trace, 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore 
Nor through the groves of Ida chase 

Our raptured visions as before, 
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, 
And manhood claims his stern dominion; 
Age will not every hope destrov, 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
AVill shed around some dews of spring: 
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
Which bloom among the fairy bowers, 
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, 
And hearts with early rapture swell ; 
If frowning age, with cold control, 
Confines the current of the soul, 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, 
Or checks the sympathetic sigh, 
Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, 
And bids me feel for self alone; 
Oh! may my bosom never learn 

To sooth its wonted heedless flow ; 
Still, still despise the censor stern, 

But ne'er forget another's wo. 
Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which remembrance yet delays, 
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild, 
And even in age at heart a child. 

Though now on airy visions borne, 

To you my soul is still the same. 
Oft has it been my fate to mourn, 

And all my former joys are tame. 
But, hence! ye hours of sable hue! 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er; 
By every bliss my childhood knew, 

I Ml think upon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, 

And caves their suilen roar enclose, 
We heed no more the wintry blast, 

When Inll'd by zyphyr to repose. 
Full often has my infant Muse 

Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
Bui now, without a theme to choose, 

The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
My youthful nymphs, ala* ! are flown, 

E is a wife, and C a mother, 

And Carolina sighs alone, 

And Mary's given to another; 
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, 

Can now no more my love recall : 
In truth, dear L , 't was time to flee ; 

For Cora's eve will shine on all. 
And though the sun, with genial rays, 
His beams alike to all displays, 
And every lady's eye 's a sun, 
These last should be confined to one. 
The soul's meridian don't become her, 
Whose sun displays a general summer t 
Thus faint is every former flame, 
And passion's self is now a name. 



416 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



As, when die ebbing flames arc low, 

The aid which once improved their light, 
And Indf them bum witjb fiercer glow, 

Now quenches all iheir sparks in night; 
Thus has it been with passion's fires, 

As many a hoy and girl remembers, 
While all the force of love expires, 

Extinguished with the dying embers. 

But now, dear L , 't is midnight's noon, 

Am) clouds obscure the watery moon. 
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse. 
Described in every stripling's verse ; 
Fur why should I thi- path go o'er, 
Which every bard has trod before ? 
Vet ere yon silver lamp o!'n, : : .i 

Has. thrice per form! H het stated round, 
Has thrice retraced ner path oflii 

And chased away 'he gloom profound, 
I trusl thai we, my l"-"' ; <' friend, 
Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
Above the dear- loved peaceful seal 
Which once contain'd our vouth'a retreat ; 
And then with those our childhood knew, 

We'll mingle with the nstive crew ; 

While many a tale of former day 

Shall wing the laughing hours away; 

And all the flow of souls shall pour 

The sacred intellectual shower, 

Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 

Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn. 



* TO 

1. 

(.lit ! bad my late b en jotn'd « ith thine, 

As one.* this pledge appear'd a tok< n. 
These follies had n<>i. then been mine, 
For then my peace had not been broken. 

2. 
To thee these early faults I owe, 

To thee, the wise and old reproving : 
They know my sins, but do not know 

*T was thine to break the bonds of loving. 
3. 
For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 

And all its rising fires cou'd smother 
Bu1 now thy vows no more i n 

Bestow'd by thee upon another. 
4. 
Perhaps his pence I could destroy. 

And spoil the blisses thai await him ; 
Yet lei my rival smile in joy, 

For liiy dear sake I cannot hate him, 
5. 
Ah! since thy angel form is gone, 

My heart no more can rest with anv ; 
But what is sought i" 'hee alone, 

Attempts, alas! to find in many. 
b\ 
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, 

*T were vain and fruitless to regret thee; 
Nor Hope, nor Memory, yield their aid, 

But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 
7. 
Vet all this giddy waste of years, 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; 
These varied loves, these matron's fears, 

These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures; 



• Mt«t Ctiawortb. Firrt puMiihed in the Rr»t edition of Hour* of 
IdJenaai. 



8. 
If thou wcrt mine, had all been hush'd: 
This cheek, now pale from early riot, 
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, 
But bioom'd in calm domestic quiet. 
9. 
once the rural scene was sweet, 
For nature seem'd to smile before (hee ; 
And once niv breast abhord deceit, 
For then it heat but to adore thee. 
10. 
But now I seek fir other joys; 

To think would drive my soul to madness ; 
In thoughtless thrones and empty noise 
I compter half my bosom's sadness. 

11. 

Yet, even in these a thought will steal, 
In spile of every vain endeavour; 

And fiends might pity what I feel, 
To know that thou art lost for ever. 



STANZAS.* 

I. 

I won p I were a careless child, 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
Or roaming through the dusky wild, 

Or bounding o'er the dark-blue wave ; 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxonf pride 

Accords not with the freeborn 
\Y lnh loves the mountain's cragpy side, 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 
2. 
Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, 

Take back this name of splendid sound, 
I hate the touch of servile hands, 

I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
Place me along the rocks I love, 

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar; 
I ask but this— again to rove 

Through scenes my youth hath known before. 
3. 
Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er designed for me; 
Ah ! why do darkening shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to be ? 
Once I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss : 
Truth 1 — wherefore did thy haled beam 

Awake me to a world like ibis ? 
•1. 
I loved — but those I loved are pone ; 

Had friends — my early, friends ore fled ; 
How cheerless feels the heart alone 

When all its former hopes are dead? 
Though g:iy companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill; 
1 lira the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart is lonely still. 
5. 
How dull ! to hear the voice of those 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, 
Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 

Associates of the festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful fi-w, 

In years and feelings still the same, 
An i i will fly the midnight crew, 

Where boist'rous joy is but a name. 



* Pint published in the second edition of Hour* of HIenrM. 
t SKisetit(«, or Saxon, ft Gaelic word, •igtitfjtn* cllhar Lowlaas! c 
EngUih. 



CRITICIUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



417 



And woman! lovely woman, thou, 

My hope, my comforter, mv all ! 
How cold must be my bosom now, 

"When e'en thy smiles begin to pall 
"Without a sigh would I resign 

This busy scene of splendid wo, 
To make that calm contentment mine, 

Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 

7. 
Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
My breast requires the sullen glen, 

Whose gloom may suit a darken' d mind. 
Oh ! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest ! 
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 

To flee away, and be at rest.* 



LINESJ 

WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF 
HARROW ON THE HILL, SEPTEMBER 2, 1807. 

Sfot of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh, 
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; 



" Pialmlv. ver.6.— " And I soid.Oh! that I had wings like a dove; 
forlhen would 1 fly away, a. id be at rest." This ver6e also couBtii tiles 
I anthem in our language. 
t Pint published in lite second edition of the Hours of Idleness. 



Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, 
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before : 
Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, 
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 
Thou drooping Elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay, 
And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; 
Where)) as they once were wont, my limbs recline, 
But, ah ! without the thoughts which then were mine 
How do thv branches, moaning to the blast, 
Invite the'bosom to recall the past, 
And seem to whisper as they gently swell, 
" Take, while thou Canst, a lingering, last farewell !" 
When fate shail chill, at length, this fever'd breast, 
And calm its cares and passions into rest, 
Oft have I thought 't would sooth my dying hour, 
If aught may sooth when life resigns her power, 
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell ; 
With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to die— 
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie ; 
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose, 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose ; 
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd ; 
Wrapt by ihe soil that veils the spot I loved, 
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved ; 
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, 
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here ; 
Deplored by those, in early days allied, 
And unremember'd by the world beside. 



CRITIQUE. 

EXTRACTED FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, NO. 22, FOR JANUARY, 180S. 



Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and 
translated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a 3FinoT. 
8vo. pp. 200.— Newark t 1807. 

The poesy of this young lord belongs to the class 
which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, 
we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with 
so few deviations in either direction from that exact 
standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and 
can no more get above or below the level, than if they 
were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of 
this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in 
pleading minority. We have it in the litlepage, and 
on the very back of the volume; it follows his name 
like a favourite part of his ttyle. Much stress is laid 
upon it in the preface ; and the poems are connected 
with this general statement of his case, by particular 
dates, substantiating the a<:eat which each was written. 
Now, the law upon the point of minority we h^old to be 

tly clear. It is a plea available only to flu 
dant ; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground 
of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against 
Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him , " put 
into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment 
were given against him, it is highly probable thai an 
ion would be taken were he to deliver for poetry 
the contents of this volume. To this he might plead 
minority ; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the 
article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the 
price m good current praise, should ihe goods be un- 
marketable. This is our view of the law on the point, 
and, we dare to sav, so will it be ruled. Perhaps how- 
ever, m reality, all that he tells us about his youth is 
rather with a view to increase our wonder than lo 
B li'ii our censures. He possibly means to say, "See 
how a minor can write ! This poem was actually com- 

3 C 



posed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of 
only sixteen V — But, alas ! we all remember the poetry 
of "Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from 
hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor 
verses were written bv a youth from his leaving scnool 
to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this 
to be the most common of all occurrences ; that it hap- 
pens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated 
in England ; and that the tenth man writes better verse 
than Lord Byron. 

His other plea of privilege our author rather brings 
forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, 
does allude frequently to his family and ancestors — 
sometimes in poetry,, sometimes in notes; and while 
giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care 
to remember us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a 
nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be 
handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consi- 
deration only that induces us to give Lord Byron's 
poems a place in our review, beside our desire to coun- 
sel linn, thai he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn 
his talents, which are considerable, and his opportuni- 
ties, which are great, to belter account. 

With this view, we musl hog leave seriously to assure 
him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, e vet- 
when accompanied by the pn -< nee of a certain num- 
ber of feet,- nay, although (which does not always 
happen) those feet should scan regularly, and have 
been all counted accurately upon the fingers,— is not 
the whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to 
believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat 
of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a 
poem in the present day, to be read, must contain at 
least one thought, either in a little degree different from 
the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. 
We put it to his candour, whether there \s any thing 



418 



CRITIQUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the fol- 
written in 1806; and whether, if a youth of 
eighteen could say any thing so uninterei ting to his an- 
cestors, a youth of nineteen should publish (I : 

"Shade* of henWB, farewell ! your <ie«cnitnnt, departing 
From thettat o! hit aueeeiore, I 

Abroad or at h n parting 

New courage, '■■ i ;lory anil you. 

" Thong]] j tear dim nil ty ptntton, 

"i' i , riktui i, no) n ■ - . 1:1 ii e ■■ '■■ hi regret : 
For dim int h<- 
The fume of fill fathers b( << 

" That fame, and that memory, "till will h< ■ 

He vowa that bo ne'er w ■ ■ i novo; 

Like you will hi 
Whendecay'd, may he mingle bieduel with your own." 

Now we positively do assert, thai there is nothing 
better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the 
nohle minor's volume. 

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting 
what the greatest poets have done before him I 
parisuns (as he must have had occasion to see at his 
writing-master's) are odious. — Gray's Ode on Eton 
College should really have kepi out the ten hobblino 
stanzas "On a distant View or the Village and School 
of Harrow." 

'" Wherefonry yel Jovn to re'rnre the r.^ 
Of comrade*, in fi ieitdship a« ' 
How welcome to me foor "-■'< r-l ( "ire, 

Whidi reati to theboaom, though hope li d 

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers 

" On a Tw," might have warned the noble autfa il 

those premise?, and spared us a whole dozen such 
Blanzas as the following : 

" m li i 'h trUy'i glow, 

To us moi tali I i l rw, 
Show« the ».-.. i learj 

Compassion will melt 

Where this virtue la felt. 
And its dew is diffuaed In a Tear. 

■ 

With the blast ol thegale, 
Through uillowi Atlantic to •leer, 

Ai he bendi o'er (he wnvi , 
■ may booh he hi ■ 
The green sparkles bright 

And so of instances in which former poets had &iU 
ed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made for 
translating, during his nonage, K Adrian's Address to 
In- Soul, when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the 
attempt. If our readers, however, are of another 
opinion, they may look at it. 

" Ah! gentlftfcfleetfng.waTeringeprue, 
i of tiili clay I 

To what unknown n 1 1 

Wiii thou now wing ihj diatanl flight ? 

No rn ■ 

Bui pallid, cheerless, and forlorn." 

However, be this as it may, we feaT his translations 
and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. 
VVe have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; 
and, viewing them as school exercises, they ma 
Only, why prinl them after they have had tht 
and served their turn? And why fall the thing in p. 
79 ' a translation, where two words (3fAu> \eyeiv) of the 

original are expanded into four lines, and il thei 

tiling in p. 81, t where ucoowktuus ttoS 1 &p m is render- 
ed by means of six hobbling vers) ' Is to bis Ossianic 
p . , ■ iod judges, being, tn truth, so 

moderately skilled in thai species of composition, mat 
we should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of 
the genuine Macpherson itself) were we to express our 
opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the fol- 
lowing beginning of a " Son«; of Bards" is by his lord- 
ship, we ventuie to object to it, as far as we ran corn- 
end it. "What form rises on the roar of clouds, 



' See page 399. 



1 Page 399. 



ark ghost gleams on the red stream of tem- 
pests 3 I i ■ i lice rolls on the thunder; t is Orla, the 
efofOilh I: ls," &c. After detain- 

tome lime, the bards conclude 
by giving him their advice to "raise Ins fair locks;" 
then to "spread them on the arch of the rainbow;" 

and " i i : - through the tears of the storm." Of 

this kind of thing there than nine pages ; 

and we can so tar venture an opinion in their favour, 
thai thi y look very like Macpherson; and we are posi- 
tive- ili-\ an pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. 
It i- a sorl of pnvj i ge of poets to I"- egotists ; but 
il ; M and particularly 
■ in-' who piques himself (though in< i pe age 

of nineteen] of being "an infant bard," — (•• Tin i 
I oulh*') — should either no! kn 

i much about Ins <>\\ ai 
try. Besidt - e p ■»■ ai above cited, on the family seat 
"tih. By rons, we have another of < , on the 

self-same subject introduced with an apology, "ho 
certainly hail no intention • >! inserting it,*' but really 
"the particular request ol V &i . II 

concludes with five stanzas on himself) u tin- last and 

■ of a noble line." I deal also 
aboui ins maternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin 

■ mountain where be spent part <>f his youth, 
and ini^lii have learnt thai pibroch is not a bagpipe, 
any more than duet means a riddle. 

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his 
volume to immortalize his employments at school and 
,ii college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without pre- 
senting the reader with a spot imen of these ingenious 
ns. In an ode with a Greek motto, called 
Grranta, we have the following magnificent stanzas: 

" Tllrr ■ ■■ i|;»mp, 

The rni 

[hi lamp, 
Goe» laU p rUw. 

" \\ ; '■■ I il b ■" inline in Sett, 

i 
Dejjtl* H metil, 

n'd to wi angle ; 

■ 

ire i tin- hyjfoi lien use. 

KGOpaltoM, 

i 'uileat, 

■ 

liei the Impi u ir.it.' 1 

We art- sorry i" hear so bad an account of the col- 
lege psalmody as is contained in the following Attic 
stanzas : 

" Our choir v." ■ 
I 
Ail mere] now m reutecd 

To such « set uf croaking elnntrt. 

" If H ■ 

ii. re him, 

To ui !. led 

■ .■ 'rm I" 

nui whatever judgment me poems 
of this noble minor, it seems we must take them 
find them, and beconteni ; for tht \ an lh< last we shall 
evei have from him. Ho is, at besl tut an in- 
trude) into the groves of Pa ssus ; he never lived in 

a garret, liU** thorough-bred poel ough he 

once rove I a can less m mntaineer in the Highlat 

n i 1 tins advantage. 
Moreover, he expects no profit from his publit 
and, whether it succeeds 01 not, B it is high!} improba- 
ble, from In-- situation and pursuits hereafter, that 
he should again condescend t<> become an author. 
Therefore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. 
Whal right have we poor devils to I nice? We are 
well off to have i»ot so much from a man of this lords 
station, who does not live in a garret, but "has the 
sway" of Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, lot us be 
thankful; and, with honest Saneho, bid God bless the 
giver, nor look the gift horse in the mouth. 



ENGLISH BARDS 

AND 

SCOTCH REVIEWERS/ 

A SATIRE. 



" I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew I 
Thai) one of these same metre ballLi<l-mnn^ers.' ' 

SHAKSPEARE. 

' Such shameless hards we hare ; and yet 't is true, 
There are as mad, abandon 'd critics too." 

POPE. 



A fifth edition of the " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers," in which Lord Byron introduced several 
alterations and corrections, was prepared in 1812, but 
was, at his desire, destroyed on the eve of publication. 
One copy of this edition alone escaped, from which the 
satire has been printed in the present volume. The 
Author re-perused the poem in the latter part of the 
summer in 1816, after his final departure from England. 
He at that time also corrected the text in several places, 
and added a few notes and observations in the margin, 
which the reader will find inserted. On the blank leaf 
preceding the title-page of the copy from which he read, 
Lord Byron has written — (l The binding of this volume 
is considerably too valuable for the contents; and nothing 
but the consideration of its being the property of another 
prevents me from consigning this miserable record of 
misplaced anger and indiscriminate acrimony to the 
flames." — 



PREFACEf. 

All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me 
not to publish this satire with mv name. If I were to 
be" turned from the career of mv humour by quibbles 
quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I should have 
complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terri- 
fied by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without 
arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none per- 
sonally who did not commence on the offensive. An 
auihor's works are public property: he who purchases 
may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and 
the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may 
do by me as I have done by them : I dare Pay they \\ ill 
succeed better in condemning; my scribblings than in 
mending their own. But my object is not to prove that 
I nan write well, but, if possible to make others write 
better. 

As the poem has met with far more success than I 
eApected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make 
some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy 
of public perusal. 

In the first edition of this satire, puhlished anony- 
mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope 
were written by, and inserted at the request of, an in- 
genious friend of mine, who has now in the press a 
volume of poetry. In the present edition they are 
erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead ; 



• T n (he nneinal Manuscript the title was •' TIIF, BRITISH BARDS, 
4 SATIRE." 

t This preface was written for the second edition. Mid printed with it. 
The notile author had left ihis couutry previous to the publication of Uiat 
■dJUOD, and is not yet returned—Vire to the fourth tdition, toil. 

Uh ti, and gone again. 1S16. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 



my only reason for this being that which I conceive 
would operate with any other person in the same man- 
ner, a determination not to publish with my name any 
production which was not entirely and exclusively my 
own composition. 

With* regard to the real talents of many of the 
poetical persons whose performances are mentioned 
or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by 
the author that there can be little difference of opinion 
in the public at large ; though, like other sectaries, each 
has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his 
abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his 
metrical canons received without scruple and without 
confederation. But the unquestionable possession of 
considerable genius by several of the writers here cen- 
sured renders their menial prostitution more to be 
regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, 
laughed at and forgotten ; perverted powers demand 
the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more 
than die author that some known and able writer had 
undertaken their exposure, but Mr. Giftbrd has de- 
voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the 
regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases 
of absolute necessity, be allowed to proscribe his nos- 
trum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an 
epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treat- 
ment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it 
is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can re- 
cover the numerous palients afflicted with the present 
prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. — As to the 
Edinburgh Reviewers — it would indeed require an 
Hercules to crush the Hydra ; but if the author suc- 
ceeds in merely "bruising one of the heads of the 
serpent," though his own hand should suffer in the 
encounter, he will be amply satisfied 



Still! mus( * hear? — shall hoarse Fitzgerald} bawl§ 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, 
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews 
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse ? 
Prepare for rhyme — I 'II publish, right or wrong: 
Fools are mv theme, let satire be my song. 



: the 



unta 



• The preface to the first edition !>ee^r> here, 
t The first ninctytEz Unci were prefixed to the second cditio 
original o[«ned with 

Time whs, ere yet in these degenerate days 
le themes, ftc— Lint B7. 
J Hoar** Firrgeratd.—RizUt enough ; but why notice such a n 
honk?— MS. note by Laid Bvrm. 

\ IMITATION, 
" Pempereco auditor titntum ? nunquamnt reponua 
Vex&tus toties rftuci Theteidi Codi i ? ' 

Jux „■■'. Satire I. 
Mr. Fitzgerald, faeeltouslr termed by Cobbeti the " Small rWr Poet. 
tonjul tribute ofrerw on the " Lto iL content 

wuli writing, he spouts in person after the company have imhthed a iua 
aonable quantity of bad port, to enable tbcro to sustain the operation. 



420 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Oh ! nature's noblest gift — my gray goose-quill ! 
Slave of rny thoughts, obedient to my will, 
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ! 
The pen foredoom'd to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labour, big with verse Of prose, 
Though nymphs forsake, and Critics mav deride, 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride 
What wits ! what ports dost thou daily raise ! 
How frequent is thy use-, how small thy praise! 
Condemn'd at length to bo forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which *t was thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! 

< )iu'«' i u,| ;iMu.\ hill now as ■ ■! a«;i in, 

Our task complete, like Hansel's* shall be free; 
Though spurn'd by others, jrel beloved by me: 
Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, 
No eastern vision, no distempered dream 1 ! 
Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is plain ; 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, 
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey ; 
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime 
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
And weigh their justice in a golden scale ; 
I - en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, 
And shrinks from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of wit! but not belong 
To me the arrows of satiric BOIU ; 
The royal vices of our age demand 
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 
And yield at least amusement in the race: 
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ; 
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game 
Speed, Pegasus! — ye strains of great and small, 
< >de, epic, • legy, have at you all ! 
I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, 
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blamo 
I printed — older children do the same. 
Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print ; 
A book 's a book, although there 's nothing in 't. 
Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave 
This I, ami)-.- must own J, since his patrician name 
Fail'd tu preserve the spurious farce from shatne§. 
No matter, George continues still to write||, 
Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. 
Moved by the great example, I pursue 
The self-same road, but make my own review : 
Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet, like him, will be 
Self-constituted judge of poesy, 

A man must serve bis time to ev'ry trade 
Save censure— critirs all arc ready made. 
Take hackney 'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote; 
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
To Jeffrey gOj be silent and discreet, 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 

* CM i tit met Benengclt pi ' his pen In the last » 

Dnn ClulxoUe. Oh ! thai our volumtooui gentry would follow Ibi citun- 
plt of fid Harriet Benengeli. 

f .V. antttrn uUton, no dittemper'd dream.— Thi* must hove been 
WritUD in llic spirit of prophecy. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 

J 7'.i« Lomtie mutt own. — He 'i n eerj BDod fellow, ami except Ul 
uotboj end sister, the best ol ilie set, lo my mind.— MS. note of Lord 
Syr on, 

§ThIsIngOn tS ynuth is mentioned niero particularly, wilh bis produc- 
tion, in another plica, 

U to (ho WmUur^b Rovluw 



Fear not to lie, 't will seem a sharper hit; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 't will pass for wit; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 

And shall we own such judgment ? no— as soon 
Si-ik roses in December — ice in June ; 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; 
Believe a woman or an epitaph, 
Or any other thing that's false before 
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore , 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 
By Jeffrey's heart or Lambe's Hceotian head*. 

rag tyrantsf, by themselves misplaced, 
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste; 
1 ■ ' 101 I od in humble awe, 

And hail their voice as truth, their word as law; 
While these are censors, 't would be sin to spare 
i critics, why should I forbear? 

I tul yet, so neat ail mo lern worthies run, 

'T is doubtful whom to setk, or whom to shun ; 
Nor know we when to span-, or where to strike, 
Our bards and censors are so much alike. 

jThim should you ask me, why I venture o'er 
The path which Pope and Gilford trod before ; 
If not yet sicken'd you can still proceed: 
Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
Bui hold§ ! exclaims a friend, — here 's some neglect 
This — that — and t' other line seem incorrect. 
What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has got, 
And careless Dryden — ay — but Pye has not, — 
Indeed ! — '( is granted, faidi ! — but what care I ? 
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 

Time was, ore yet in these degenerate days 
Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, 
\\ hen sense and wit with poesy allied, 
No fabled graces, flourish'd side by side, 
From the same fount their inspiration drew, 
And, rearVl by taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew. 
Tin m, ui this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain ; 
A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim, 
And raised (he people's, as the poet's fame. 
Like him great Dryden pouVti the tide of" song, 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yel doublv strong. 
Thru Coiil'p'yc's sreiifs i mid cheer, or Ot way's melt— 
For nature then an English audience fi It. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
When all to feebler bards resign their place? 
Yet to-such times our lingering looks are cast, 
When taste and reason with those times are past. 
.Now look around, and turn each trifling page, 
Survey the pivrious works that please the age; 
This truth at least lei satire's self allow, 
No dearth of bards can be complained of now : 
Tin.' loaded press beneath her labour groans, 
And printers' devils shake their weary bonis ; 
While Southey's epics cram the creaking shelves, 
And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
|)Thus saith the pn scherU : " Nought beneath the sun 
Is new," vet still from change to change we run: 

* By Jrifey't hear/ or /.-■.'- /.'■■ if/on ttrad.—Thi* tu not Juat. 

i are it si] what tliry ars 

l.i.-.i. litholto ■■ ri i IStiS) I was personally 

" li ■,'■ tinii d ■■■. itb either, 1616.— WS Lord Byron. 

Messn. Jeffrey and Lambe an the i oaisn, the first and 

ln-i of tin: E Revfc n ; the i then * t ioned ban after- 

t " Stall* ■ I l 

occurras i ■■■ trei harts.*' 

Juetnal, Satire I. 
I IMITATION. 
'■ Ti.tr tamen lioc libeol j>otii.» deciin-ere rnrnpo 
Per quern rn*eni* equo* Auruncrc Belli nlumntis 
SI Tacsi, el placidi raUooed) edmltUUs, edem." 

Juvenal, Satire I. 
*j But hold f exclaims a friend, &c. — The following iix lines ware Id* 
be fifth edition. 

II Thui eaith the preacher, fte. — Tin following fourteen Huts wtnjls* 
ssried in the second edition. 

Tl Eodniiistvi, chap, i 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



421 



What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, 
Till the swolii bubble bursts — and all is air! 
Nor less new schools of poetrv arise, 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize: 
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, 
Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; 
Some leaden calf — but whom it matters not, 
From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott*. 

Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
For notice eager, pass in long review : 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race ; 
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 
And tales of terror jostle on the road 
Immeasurable measures move along 
For simpering folly loves a varied song, 
To strange mysterious dulness still the friend, 
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of Minstrelsf — may they be the last. — 
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast. 
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 
That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; 
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Homer's brood, 
Decoy young border-nobles through the wood, 
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, 
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why ; 
While high-born ladies in their magic cell, 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
And right with honest men to shield a knave. 

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 
Tne gibbet or the field prepared to grace 
A mighty mixture of the great and base, 
And think'st thou, Scott ! by vain conceit perchance, 
On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line ? 
No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 



• Stmt, belter known in the " Morning Post" hy the name of Hafiz. 

'! i'i>- . ■■■ ■ ■■ ' ■ .'.i. present the : . pi of ! exj lover of the batboi, j 

remember, when the reigning family left Portugal, a special ode of Master 
Sum's, beginning thua : 

(Sum loquitur quoad Riberolt.) 
" Princely offspring of Brtgnnza, 

Krin greets thee with a stanta," &c. &e. 
Also a sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a moel thundering 
ode, commencing as follows ; 

'* Oh 1 for a Lay ! loud as the surge 
That lashes Lapland's Bounding shore." 
Lord hare mercy on us I the " Lay of die Last Minstrel" wasnotbineto 

( See the " Lay of the Last Minstrel," pastim. Never was any plan 
».. incongruous and absurd as the groundwork of this production. The 
entrance of Thunder and Lightning prologulaiiie; la Bayes' irnreily unfor- 
iukesawaylhemciii.il ..- iginality from the dialogue between 
■ its of Flood and Pell in the first canto. Then we have 
i tumble WlUlamorDeloralne, " u stark mosstrooper," videlicet, a 

1 n. The pro- 

urieiy of hte magical lady's i ■ id .. , .quailed by 

- ofspelUng, 
lb uie hi* own elegant phrase, " 'twas Ml I 
b't . ' p. p.. the gallowt. 

The biompli]! "! GUpta Hdrner, and the marvellous pedestrian page, 
who travelled twice as mat B b ■■ .. ■ horse, without the aid of seven- 
leagued boots, are the e'le/d'ttuvreg in the improvement of taate. For in- 
cident we have the invisible, but by no means sparing box on the ear, 
bestowed on the page, and the entrance ot a knight and charger into the 
castle, under the IWJ natural disguise of a wain' of hay. MarmiOD, the 
hen 1 the latter romance, is exactly what William of Delorame would 
D, had he been able to reid and write. The poem was manu- 
factured for Messrs. Constable, Murray, and Miller, worshipful book- 
sellers, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of money, and truly, con- 
sidering the Inspiration, it is a very creditable production. If Mr. Scott 
Wfll write for hire, let him do his best for his paymasters, but not disgrace 
his genius, which is undoubtedly great, by a repetition of black letter ballad 
inlteAfau. 



Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame : 
Still for stern mammon may they toil in vain ! 
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain ! 
Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
And bid a long " good night to Marmion*." 

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now; 
These are the bards to whom the muse must bow ; 
While Milton, Dryden, Pope alike forgot, 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been, when yet tiie muse was young, 
When Homer swept the lyre, and Marosung, 
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, 
While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name: 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand yearsf. 
Empires have moulder'd from ihe face of earth, 
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth. 
Without the glory such a strain can give, 
As even in ruin bids the language live. 
Not so with us, though minor hards content, 
On one great work a life of labour spent 
With eagle pinions soaring to the skies, 
Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 
The scourge of England and the boast of Franco! 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
Behold her statue placed in glory's niche; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on J, 
Arabia's monstrous, wild and wond'rous son ; 
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome, 
For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
Since startled metre fled before ihy face, 
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! 
Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence, 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense! 
Now, last and greatest Madoc spreads his sails, 
Cacique in Mexico and prince in Wales ; 
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
More old than Mandeville's and not so true. 
Oh! Southey! Southey § ! cease thy varied song! 
A bard may chant too often and too long ; 
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare ! 
A fourth, alas ! were more than we could bear. 
But if, in spite of ail the world can say, 
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; 
If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil. 
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil II, 



" Good night to Mnrmion" — the pathetic and also prophetic eiclama- 
tion of Henr? Blount, Esquire, on the death of honest Marmion. 

t As the Odyssey U so closely connected with the story of the Iliad, ther 
may almost be classed ns one grand historical poem. In alluding to Mil- 
too and Tasso, we consider the " Paradise Lost," and " (iiemsulemme 
Liberate, " as their standard eflnris, since neither tie "Jerusalem Con- 
quered" of the Italian, nor the " Paradise Regained" of the Knglish hard, 
obtained a proportionate celebrity to their fed nier poems. Query : Vt hich 

Of Mr. Souther's will survive ? 

J Thalaba, Mr. Southey '6 second poem, is written in open defiance of 
precedent and poetry. Mr. 8. wished to produce something novel, and 
succeeded to a miracle. Joan of Arc wahnuursellouienougn. bill Thalaba 
was one of those poems " which," in the words of Poraon, " will be read 
when Homer and Virgil are forgntteu, hut— nor till (/ten." 

§ We beg Mr. Southey's pardon : " Mftdoc disdains the degrading title 
of epic." See his preface. Why " eph degraded? and by whom/ 
Certainly the late romaunls of Masters Cottle, Laureat Pye, OgilTj, 
Hole, and gentle Mistress Cowley, have not exalted the epic muK ; but 
as Mr. Soulhey's poem "disdain* the appellation," allow us to ask— 
has he substituted any thing better in its stead ? or must he be Content to 
rival Sir Richard Hlackmore in the quantity as well as the quality of hia 
Terse? 

II See "The Old Woman of Berkley," a ballad, by Mr. Soul hey, 
wherein an aged gentlewoman is carried away by Bctlicbub, on » "hi^h- 
trotlicuj horsa.'* 



422 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue : 

" God help thee," Southey, and thy readers loo*. 

fNext comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
That mild apostate from poetic rule, 
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
As soft as evening in bis favourite May, 
Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and trouble, 
And quit his books for fear of growing double! ;" 
Who, both by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain. 
Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; 
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
Thus, when he tells (he tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of" an idiot boy ; B 
A moon-struck, silly lad. who lost his way, 
And. like his bard, confounded night with day§ 
So dosr nil eaeh pathetic pari he dwells 
And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
That all who view the " idiot in his nlory" 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear . / 
Though themes of innocence amuse him best, 
Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. 
If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
To him who takes a pixy for a mused, 
Y't none iu lofty numbers can surpass 
The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
So well the subject suits his noble mind, 
He brays, the laureat of the long-ear'd kindlT. 

Oh! wonder-working Lewis ! monk, or bard, 
Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard '. 
Lo ' wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
Thy muss a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
Whether on ancient tombs thou takest thy stand 
By gibbVing spectres haifd, thy kindred band ; 
Or traccst chaste description on thy page, 
To please the females of our modes) age : 
All hail, M. P.**! from whose infernal brain 
Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 
At whose command " grim women" throng in crowds, 
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, 
With " small grey num." " wild yagers, 9 and what-not. 
To crown with honour thee and Walter Scotl ; 
Again all hail ! if tales like thine may please, 
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease ; 
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, 
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 



" The lust line, " God help thee," U an evident pliiginrism from the 
Anti -]ncot>ia to Mr. South*?, on his dactylics : 

" God help thee, silly one !" 

Poetry of the Anti-jacobin, p. "A. 
T Agaimt this passage on Wordsworth and t'oleridee. Lord Rrron has 

sYrflU mil..*..'' 

J Lyrical Httllmls, p. A.—" The T« 

my I end and cle«r tout looks ; 
\\".,v ill this toil and iro 

' '*>q*:s, 
tir inn louble." 

% Mr. W. in his preface labour*, hmi DTOH and veme are 

much the lumc ; mil certainly his precepts ami practice ore strictly con- 
formable. 

" And thus lo Betty's questions he 

Hade answer, like b traveller bold. 
The cock did o arhoo, 

And the ?uu did shine so cold," Ac. 4c. 

Lyrical Balhili, p. 129. 
J! Coleridge's Poems, p. 11, Songl "f tin' PiTie«. |, b, Drrnn- 1 ,. 
p, 42, we have •' Lines to a Young Lady ;" and p. 52, " Lines Ui n young 
An." 

U He 6r«v», the laureat of the tong-ear'd kind*— Altered I v Lord 
Byron in his last revision of the satire. In all former editions Uie line 

■toad, 

*— " A fellow-feeling makes us woo-J'rous kind." 

•• ■' F ir -v.-1-v (me knowl Ultle Ma.lt '* "" M. P."— See a poem lo Mr. 
Lewi*, in The Su teaman, supposed tu ue written by Mr. Jckyll. 



Wh" in loll guise, surrounded by a choir 
Of virgins melting] not to Vesta's tire, 
With sparkling eyes and cheek by passion flush'd, 
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames arc hush'd 7 
'T is Li'il- ! young Catullus ofhis day, 
As Bweet, but as immoral, in his lav! 
Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just, 
Nur span- melodious advocates of lust. 

I 'ure is the Same n hich o'er her altar bums ; 
1 •■■■ itfa dis| osl she tumi : 

Vet kind to youth, this expiation o'er, 
She bids thee " mend thy line*, and sin no more." 

For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
Hibernian Strangfbrd ! with thine eyes of blue,f 
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue, 
Whose plaintive strain each toTO-sick miss admire*. 
harmonious liisiianj halt' expires, 

if thou canst, to vi<-ld thine author's sense, 
Ni.t rend thy si.nii-.-ts mi a false pretence. 
ThuuVsl thou to gain thy rerse ■ higher place, 
By dressing Camoens^ in a suit i >( lace ! 
\I< ui. Strangfbrd! mend thy morals and thy taste 

mi. Imt pure; be amorous, but chaste : 

Cease to deceive j thy pilfer'd harp restore, 
Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy .Moure. 

Behold ! — ye tarts ! one moment spare the text— 
II.i\ lev's lasi work, and worst — until his nexl ; 
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays, 
Or damn (he dead wiili purgatorial praise||, 
His style in youth or age is still the same, 
For ever feeble and lor ever tame. 

Triumphant firs) e Temper's Triumphs" shine 

Al leasl I'm sun- they triurnph'd over mine. 

Uf •■ Musk's Triumphs," all who read mav swear 

That luckless music never trkunph'd theref. 

Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
On dull devotion — lo ! the Sabbath bard, 
Sepulchral Grahame, pours bis notes sublime 
In m;in _li .1 prose, nor e'en aspires to .rhyme ; 
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke** 
Ami boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ■ 
And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms, 
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalmsff. 

Hail, Sympathy! thv sofl idea brings 
A thousand visions of a thousand things, 

A ml show -S. still whimpering through threescore of yearsj J, 
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 

Ami art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowies' 
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls? 



" In the original manuscript, '■ Mend thv lift." 

t The reader, who nmi watl for ixplanatlon of this, mar raftr to 

i i ice 56, ur to the tost jag* 

! . 

I Futtiant In the Am edition, nonttntt. 

k It i« >■■ ' -ivrn lo the public m poems 

■ arc no more to I>e found I'nw^irii', Hum id 

the Songs of Solomon. 
|| "BahoMI — yetartsl am i. . irtt- 

untll hb next ; 

Or damni the data pi alee." 

D '>! thil lalire. The lines 
were original]* printed : 

" [nmi '.( folumM riaw 

Og new ; 

Oraeraw), n« Wood i coins! ilme." 

II Rarity's iw ■ tactions tire •' Triumph* o/ 

Temper," and "T npheol «lu Hi ■■ i swrittM rh cvme- 

e, iptalee, *<-., *c. a« hi 

i Mr. H. s 

" tu convert hli i*irtrr tmo prosa." wh<ch may ba 



easily done t>v inking ai 



the final syllable of c 



l.-l. 



i Luke." 
In the first i 

Eh i al Inl saaacb holy bo.*-." 

t ' Mr. Grnhama has poured forth iwovohiroeaa > ant, under ire nnme 
Of " Sahl nth Walk*." and " BtltlicaJ Pietui 

t; SHU uhimptrint rhroufi (Arwateert »/ years.— Thin sJUred ui the 
flfin edition. The ortfiiial readme was, 

" Dissblvsd in thino own malting 



ENGLISH BARDS AN'D SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



423 



♦Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and grief, 
The fall uf empires, or a yellow leaf; 
Whether thy muse most Lamentably tells 
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bellsf, 
Or, still iit bells delighting, funis a friend 
In every chime that jingled from Gstend; 
Ah! how much juster were thy muse's hap, 
If V» thy bells thou wouliist but add a cap ! 
Delightful Bowles! still blessing and still blest, 
All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
J T is thine, with gentle Little's moral song, 
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng! 
Willi thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, 
Ere miss as yet completes her infant year*s: 
But in her teens tliv whining powers are vain ; 
She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. 
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine ; 
" Awake a louder and a loftier strainf," 
Such as none heard before, or will again ! 
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood, 
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, 
By more or less, are sung in every book, 
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. 
Nor this alone; but, pausing on the road, 
The bard sighs forth a gentle episode § ; 
And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss !— 
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell, 
Stick to thy sonnets, man! — at least they sell||. 
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, 
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe; 
If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd, 
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered; 
If Pope, whose fame and genius from the first 
Have f nl'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 
Do thou essay ; each fault, each failing scan ; 
The first of poets was, alas! but man. 
Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, 
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in CurMT ; 
Let all the scandals of a former age 
Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er Uiy page ; 
Aflect a candour which thou canst not feel, 
Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 



• Whether ifiou ting'tt, tfc— This couplet, in all Lhe editions before 
the fili.ii, HU ;e mie<(. 

'filing winits thou srck'sl relief, 
Or consolation in a jrell ■■■■■ 

+ Pi-e Bowles's Sonnets, tic. — " So i to Oxford," and " Stanzas on 

hearing tend." 

I " Awake a louder," ftc, &e.,is the first line in Bowles's " Spirit of 
Di«o»ery ;" a very spirited and pretty dwarl Bylc. Among other exqui- 
site lines we h.ive the following : — 

" A klsa 
Stole nn the list'ning Bilence, nei e 

M. heard ; they trem led even aa If the power ," *c, *c. 
That i" ' ■ Madeira i a kiss, very much a 

a» well t h*- v might be, at such .1 phen imen m*. 

■■' ive al luiied to is the story of" R ibei I t Mftchln" and 
" \nn^ d* Ariel," .1 i> tir of c msl&nl 1 m . who performed the kiss uhuv c 
sacnliooed, thn' startle 

" SUcl to thy sonnets, m.in '—m leaal they sell. 
Or lake the only path that open lies 
For mixlem worthies who would hope to rise : 
Fix on some well-kin'ivn name, ami. bit hy bit. 
Fare >>tf the merits of his worth and wil ; 
1 in each alike employ die critic's kml ■, 

Ami whan .v.. at fail*, prefix a lire ; 

1 ■ " radii :«■, Its liefore unknown, 

Re-view forg md arid your own ; 

Lei no disease, let no misfortune 
And prim, if luckily ncfoi m'd, Ma shape ■■ 
Thm shall the world, quite indeceivi I at last, 
CIem*e to Uieir present wiu, and qui) their past ; 
Harris once revered no more wtlh divtjnr view, 
But give the modern sonneteers their doe : 
Tim* with the dead may Ihrinej mt I 
Thus Bowles may triumph o'er lhe shade of F>pe." 
In the first edition, the observations on Bowles ended willi these tines, 
which were written hy a friend ot Lord Byrooti and omitted when the 
Sitire wn» published with the author's name. The following fifty-five 
seises, containing the conclusion of the passaac on Bowles, and the no- 
Maurlce, were then printed lor (lie first lime. 

V Curll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad uidwaas bookseller. Lord 

Fanny is the poetical name of Lord IJervi-y, author of "Lines to the 
linitnior of Horace. " 



* Misquoted and misunderstood by me , !»ji not intentionally. It was 
no< the "woods," but the people in them who trembled— why, Heaven 
only knows — unless thev were overheard making the prodigious smack. — 
A/3 not* by Lord Byron. 1815. 

f Hoohouse. 



Write, as If St. John's soul could si ill inspire, 
And do from hate what *Mallet did for hire. 
Uh! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, 
To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhymef; 
Throng'd with the rest around his living head. 
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead ; 
A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 
{And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy paius§. 

jj Another epic! Who inflicts again 
Mure hooks of blank upon the sons of men? 
Bosotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, 
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
And sends his goods to market — all alive ! 
Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! 
Fresh fish from Helicon III who 'II buy ! who'll buy ? 
The precious bargain's cheap — in faith, not I. 
**Vour turtle- feeder's verse musl needs be flat, 
Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat ; 
Tf Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 
In him an authors luckless lot behold, 
Condemn'd to make the hooks which once he sold. 
'Mi, Amos Cottle! — Phoebus! what a name 
To fill die speaking trump of future fame !— 
Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! 
When thus devoted to poetic dreams, 
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams? 
Oh pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
Had f"tCottle still adorn'd the counter's side, 
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, 
Been taught to make the paper which be soils, 
Plough'd, delved, or plied lhe oar with lusty limb, 
tie had not sung of Wales, nor I of himJJ. 

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep, 
So up the hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves 
Dull Maurice§§ all his granite weight of leaves: 
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain! 
The petrifactions of a plodding brain, 
That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again. 

With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale, 
Lo ! sad Alcams wanders down the vale ; 
Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd at last, 
His hopes have perish 'd by the northern blast : 
Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales. 
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails! 



* Lord Bolinghroke hired Mallet to tra-hire Pupe after hie decease, be- 
cause lhe poet had retained some COOii - •'< ;i work by Lord Bollngbroka 
(the f'.iti n it King,) which tint spli a I I, I ul malignant genius, had order 
ed to he destroyed. 

t Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. 

" Silence, ye wolves 1 wh ■ RalpI l 1 Cynthia howls*, 
Making night hideous : answer him, ye owls !" 

Dunciad. 
; And link'd thee mint, — Too savage all this 

on Bowles. — MS, n ■' . ■ 1 1816. 

lion of F lor which he received three 

hundred pounds : thus Mr. B enced how much eaaier it is to 

1 reputati fanothei than lo elevate hie own. 

II Another epic I — Opposite Ihii ps sage on Joseph and Amos Cottle, 

1 1 Bj ron has written, " All right." 

II Freth /tali from Helicon ' — " Helicon" '<* a mountain, nnd not a 
fish-jwnd. It should have been " HippocreneJ* — MS, note by Lord 
Byron. 1816. 

** Your turtle feeder's versa, tee. — This couplet was altered in the 
fifth edition. It originally stood : 

" Too much in turtle Bristol 1 sons delight, 
Too much o'er bowls •■1 sacK prolong the night." 
tt Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I do n't know which, but one or hoth, 
once sellers of books they did 1 it write, ind 1 ;.- that do 

. iTe published a pair ni epics. " Alfred," (poor Alfred I P>e has 

been at him loo!) " Hired, ' and thi ' Pal of I brio." 

M fir had not em ■ 'I ' I 0/ him.—\ 6.\w some letters of 

1 ,.i «eph Cottle) lo an unfortunate poetess, « linse productions, 

. poor woman lyi ians Lhougjil vainly of, in* att&cki I ■• 

roughly ana bitterly, llial 1 could hardly resist muaihng him, even ware U 
unjust, which it is noi«— for verily he is an ans. — MS. note Ay Lord 
By on. 1816. 

§§ Mr. Maurice hath manufactured inr- eotnponenl parts of a ponderous 
quarto, upon the beauties of ''Richmond Hill." and the like :— it also 
lakes in a charming view of Tnnibam Greed, Hammersmith, Brentlotd 
Old and New and the parts adjacent. 



424 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep ! 
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep* ! 

Yet say ! why should the bard at once resign 
His claim to favour from the sacred nine ? 
For ever startled by the mingled howl 
Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl ; 
A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, 
fBy hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 
Aged or young, the living or the dead. 
No mercy find — these harpies musl be fid. 
'SVUy do the injured unresisting yield 
The calm possession of their native field? 
Why tamely thus before their faiifjs retreat, 
Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat| ? 

Health to immortal Jeffrey ! once, in name, 
England could boast a judge almost the same ; 
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 
Some think that Satan has resi^u'd his trust, 
An 1 given the spirit to the "world again, 
To sentence letters, as he sentenced men. 
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
With voice as willing to decree- ihe r;t« k ; 
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw ; 
Since well instructed in the patriot school 
To rail at party, though a party tool, 
Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
Back to the sway they forfeited before, 
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 
And raise this Daniel to the judgm>-nt-seat§ ? 
Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope, 
And greeting thus, present him with a rope: 
" H'-ir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, 
This cord receive, for thee reserved with care 
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." 

Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life, 
To flourish on the fertile shores of File, 
And guard it sacred in its future wars, 
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars ! 
Can none remember that eventful day||, 
That ever glorious, almost fatal (jay, 
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 
And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing byll ? 
Oh, day disastrous ! On her firm-set rock, 
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock; 
Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north ; 
Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear, 
The other half pursued its calm career** ; 
Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base, 
The surly Tolhooth scarcely kept her place. 
The Tolbooth felt — fir marble sometimes can, 
On such occasions, feel as much as man — 



* Poor Montgomery! though pralaed h/ cvrrv Fnzliih Review, he* 
been bitterly reeded by the Edinburgh. After nil, the bard of Bl 

a man of con*iderable renins : hit " wanderer of Swltcerland,' 
a thousand " Lyrical BatlaJ-<," am] 

• Bee Lord Byroa'i letter to Mr. Murray, June 13, 1813, volume 2, 
page 

I Arthur's Seat ; the hill which ovorhonip Edinburgh. 

(j Ami rails ifir* Daniel to the Uirlgmint-imt. — Too ferocloua— thin is 
mere Inianily w. note by Lorn Byron. 1816. 

!l Can none rmembtr, ft.?.— All this is bad, because personal.— MS. 
• >l Hyron. 1816. 

U In IS05, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met nt Chalk-Farm. The dual 
«m preTenled by the interference ot (he magistracy ; ud, on i 
1 1 .„ the belli ofthe pistole wen found to have- evaporated. Tbl 
ga»e occasion to much weeeeri in itw doll* print*. 

1 am Informed that Mr. M puhllihedat the limi* a di«i\»owol of the 

itatementa Id Uh newopapi i dedhimeelf; and In Justice 

to him I mention ihle ctreumatanoBi a* l never heard ol il before, I can- 
mii Hate the partlculara, and was only made acquainted with the fact very 
lataly^-November 4, 1811. 

** The Tweed here hehared with proper decorum; it would have been 
MgWy reprehensible in the Eneliah hair of the river to ha»e sliuwu the 
amalkM e>mptoiu ol apprehension. 



The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms, 

If Jeffrey died, except within her arms*: 

Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn. 

The sixteenth story, where himself was bom, 

His patrimonial garret, fell to ground, 

And pale Edina shndderVl al the sound: 

Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white reams, 

Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams; 

Tins of his candour seem'd the sable dow, 

Thai of his valour show'd the bloodless hue; 

And all with ju I 1 1 le two combined 

The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 

i o'er 
The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore; 
mgeful lead, 
tight restored it to her favourite^ head ; 
That head, with greater than ■ iwV, 

;o3 ten BhowV, 
And. to will scarce refine, 

Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 
• My son, 11 she cried, " ne'er thirst for gore again, 
! a the pistol, and resume the pen; 
O'er politics and poesy presii 
Boasl of thy country, and Britannia's guide '. 
For long as Albion's hi lubmit, 

Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, 

So long shall last thine unm Jested reign, 
Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan, 
And own thee chieflain of the critic clan. 
First in the oat-fed phahuixf shall be 
The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen^. 
Herbert shall wield Thorns hammer§, and sometimes, 
In gratitude, thou : lt praise his rugged rhymes. 
Smug Sydney|| too thy bin I seek, 

And classic HaIlam,H much renown'd for Greek ; 
Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 
And paltry Pillans** shall traduce his friend; 
While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lai 

1 )anm\l like die devil, devil-like will dainnj*. 

Known be thy name, unbounded be thy away ! 

Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay; 
While grateful Britain v i< M lie owes 

To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes. 
Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review 
Spread its light wings of saffron and ofblue, 



" This it kthy on Ihi part of the Tolbooth (the pi Endpal 

prison In Edinburgh), which truly teems to he 

ihie occasion, in much to he ■ ndad, that 

■ I ; n-nripred 

■ re callous. She it said 

l!i, hke most femi- 
'■■ stlfis'-. 
T — Oai litlon. Tlie original 

■ 

I Hm lordship h is been much abroad, li n tnrmlv-r nf the Aihenlan So- 
clei i . MM revii '.'..■■■■ i ■ ■ 

aetry. One *»f the 
i "Song on the Rei I ■ BTaOMoar:" the 

i ilme • — 

1 wot, 

I 

Thai Odto'e eon bli berne 

II Tlir Rev. Srili . r of Peter Plymley'e Let 
■■ 

'if,-- Taste," and ere* exceedingly 

... 

I- eriuqoe, 
n'e Ingenuity*. 

■ I 

[rue, I nrn iw>ry.— nnl for 

. 

;, I'.i I I i, ' r,v., :; l„u.| li 
! 
'I I ■ [)l ' • I. M I HeW It, thrt 

real name inatl Bud a place In i ruled i rertheless, the eald 

name be of two orthodoi mm me lnu> the versa) 

till then, Ballam iii'.t%i rtaml fur want of a hcltrr. 
'• Pillane is a into- at I" i 

m n . G. l.iimi'p reviewed " Bereeford'a MIeerlee,'* and l» mora. 
ofar aatbor of a farce enacted with much epptaojeat the Priory, Sian- 
moro: an'.! damned with great expedition at the late lhaatre, I 
Gartlen. It vaaeni lied, ** V I ir It." 

." n'd like the deBil,dt<oil-lik* itiltdamn.— The line stood, In aQ 
li fifth, 
" As he liimBcIf waadamnM »haI1 try to damn." 



' Hallam't ingenuity*— The uoic tudul Lai. i* the finrt cditioa. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



425 



Beware lest blundering Brougham* destroy the sale, 
Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist 
Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mistf. 

J Then prosper, Jeffrey ! pertest of the train 
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain! 
Whatever blessing waits a genius Scot, 
In double jK>rtion swells thy glorious lot ; 
ForlheeEdina culls her evening sweets, 
An I showers their odours on )hy candid sheets, 
hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear§. 
Lo! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamour'd grown, 
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone; 
And, too unjust to other Pictish men, 

thy person, and inspires thy pen! 

■ -trious Holland ! hard would be his lot, 
His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot I 
Holland, with Henry Petty at his back, 
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
^ here Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
Shall Grub-street dine, white duns are kept aloof. 
See honest Hallam lay aside his fork, 
Resume his p en, review his Lordship's work, 
''Ait i. jjravfu! for the dainties on his plate, 
Declare his lordship ran at least translate**! 

n ! view thy children with delight, 
They write for (bo 1 — and feed berause they write ; 

• '. when heal I visual grape, 

Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 
Aud tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
Breathes o'er the page her puritv of soul, 
Reforms each error, and refines the wholeff. 

to the drama turn — oh ! motlev si^ht ! 
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite ! 
Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent|J, 
And Dibdin's nonsense vield complete content. 
Though now, thank Heaven! the Rosciomania's o'er. 
And full-grown artors are endured once more ; 



• Mr, RroueK-nr.. .n No. XX ■■'. cftbe Edinburgh Review, throughout 

I fevallos, >< -ig displayed more politics 

■• u incomer! 

El -iwii their subacrlp- 

I I supposed, tint a r'nrderer. 
■ • 

I I a>i± '■■'■■% \ new god- 
dess with short 

- genius, it l>eine well known there is no such 
i'. snj-erna- 
tural n»f lit 

ghbotirs" (sjiints o! a 
'-, has l>ecn 
catted for the puri-ose ; and Brest ought to be the grni ' 

e oniycommoiiicaLiixi lie >.■ ly lo hold, with any 

■ 

-r.,]p e r, Jeffrey ! tec. — This paragraph was introduced in the 
I 
$ See the comurof the urgh Review. 

II ' \ irrf Vi'ihl be hi* lot, 

■■ ' 
Bad COOU ,: e by Lard Buron. 

1516. 

' dainties, $-c— lu all editions before the fifth 
thii couplet was printed, 

" An'\ grateful to the I 
Declare his landlord can iraiii!nk ■ 

■• Lor | ! ! VegBl, irv- 

llior? both are bepnused by his ditinterested 

t' (Jen . Ksplajed her malch- 

lefli wit il " Huvverer tliat may I*. we know, from 

r»vl tuth ; t* are s uLnniued to be r perusal— no 

IX In the melodrama of Tekeli. that heroic prince is clapl into a. barrel 
on the stage ; a new asylum for flistrgwrd heroes. 



* Their tubacriptiont.— Here followed, in the first edition, "The 
nanveT>f this personage is pronounced. Uroom in the south, hut i he truly 
northern and muticil pronunciation is Vrons^-am, in two syllables. 

The coQtJusioo. of the note was substituted for the above to the second 
■saUJcn. 

3 D 



Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, 

While British critics suffer scenes like these ; 

Whiie Reynolds vents his •* dammees !" " poohs !" and 

" zounds* !" 
Ana common-place and common sense confounds ? 
While Kenny's " World" — ah! where is Kenny's wit'— 
Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless piry ; 
And Beaumont's pilfered Caratach affords 
A tragedy complete in all but words.]; ? 
Who but must mount, while these are all the rage, 
The degradation of our vaunted stage ! 
Heavens ! is all sense of shame and talent gone? 
Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ! 
Awake, George Colman ! Cumberland, awake ! 
Ring th' alarum bell ! let folly quake ! 
Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen, 
Let Comedy assume her throne again ; 
Abjure the miimmery of German schools; 
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age, 
One classic drama, and reform '.he stage. 
Gods ! o'er those boards shall Foliy rear her head, 
Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread§ ? 
On those shall Farce display buflbon'ry's mask, 
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose 
ire, Otway, Massinger, forgot, 

must moulder, or in closets rot ? 
Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. 
And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise. 
For skinless coats and skeletons of plavs 
Renown'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs|| ; 
Nor sleeps with *' Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five factious acts comes thundering on1T, 
While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene, 
Stares**, wondering what the de\ il it can mean 
But as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 

Such are we now — ah ! wherefore should we turn 
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ? 
Degen'rate Britons ! are ye dead to shame 
Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame ? 
Well may the nobles of our present race 
Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face; 
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, 
And worship Catalina's pantaloonsff- 
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. 

Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art 
To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, 
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town. 
To sanction vice, and hunt decorum down : 



* All these are favourite expression* of Mr. Reynolds, and prominent 
in his com 

\ '■ Win l.j- K. -ah] where is Kenny's wit ?— 

■ 
Thus corrected in llie fifth edition. The lines were orieinnlly printed, 
■ World," Just inffer'd to proceed, 
1 inu the audience very kind indeed." 

I Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drory-lane theMre, stripped 

tTof Bonditca of the dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the 
spectacle ' B, or of himself? 

§ Siddona /ices (o tread.— Juall ediUooi pretioua to Ihe fifth, " Kera- 
ble Jives to tread." 

,-ve, Kene-painter to Drory-lane theatre— 
as such, Mr. Skeffington il ■■ 

II Mr. 61 author of the " .Sleeping Beauty ;** 
and tome . ■ ■ ■■■... i :" Baculauxfl 

I 

rpl." 
ft Naldi and OaU .. j'.re— forthe visageof the one, and 

(he salary of the other, will enable us tone to recollect these amusing 
vagabonds. Besides, we are sail black and blue from the tcjueexe to 104 
fintuiglil ,'l the .ii-ly ' » a^j^ear^nce Lo trouicrt. 



426 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Let wedded strumpets Languish o'er Deshayes, 

oss the promise which his form dis] 

While Uayion bounds befoi tired looks 

Of hoary marquises anil stripping dukes : 
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
Twirl her light limbs, (hat spurn the needless veil ; 

Let Angiolini bare her breasl of snow, 

VS ive the white arm, and point the pliant toe; 

Colluii frill her love-in p 

Strain her lair nech. and ch the listening throng ! 

W het* not your scythi . up] i i onr 

Reforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 
By whose decrees, our sin! <ve, 

No Sunday tankard- I m, no 1 shave; 

An 1 baftr undrawn, and beards unmown, display 
. !. i. rerence ! : >. the Sabbath-day. 

fOr hail at once the patron and the pile 
Of vice and tolly, Greville and Argylt 1 ! 
Where yon proud palace-, Fashion's hallow M fane, 
ids wide her porlals for the motley train, 
i the new Petronius§ of the day, 
Our arbiter of pleasure and uf play ! 
There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 
[ting lute, the soft la i 

ml1aly,t ■ m Prance, 

The midrrighl orgy, and the mazy dance, 
i smile ofbeauty and the Rush of wine, 
For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine: 
Each to his humour — ! !omus a I a] ovi 

Qpaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse* 
Talk not to us, ye starving sons of 
Of piteous ruin, which yourselves have made ; 

In Flenty's sunshine Fortum : n d i bask, 

Nor think of poverty i en ma que," 

\\ hen (or the i.'._ I b *ne latel) ti ■ 

Appears (he I" ggar which I ■ was. 

The curtain dropp'd, the ■ i « >'er, 

The audience take their turn upon the Moor; 

Now round the room the ci rs -weep, 

Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughter 

The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 

The last display the free unfettered limb ! 

Those for Hiberaia's lusty sons i 

With art the charms which nature cou I n rt ;>are ; 

These after husbands wing their eager flight, 

Not leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 

Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and < 
Where all forgotten hul the powt r to pi ■ 
E hmai may give a loose to genial (nought, 
i i . wain maj teach new sysh ins. or be laiij hi j 
There the blithe youngster, jusl return'd from Spain, 
( !ul i the lighl pack, or calls the rattling main; 
The \o\ i '. ca i i set, and seven 's the nick, 
Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick ! 
If. mad w lib loss, exi - n i tire, 

A n 1 all your hope or wish i 



- li . our ta/t* ■•-—From 1 I 

i [« cgiicloo. 

1 

J tht pi'r—Ti 

: ma i ■■ ■ 

t 

- To prevent any ' 1 ler, nich m mi&mkine; a «•> 

Ifiivf toflnte, 'hat it is U« I 

■.',i. i, .. here si! I I ' L 

»., ,.,,( .. ■■!■. several thorn »od i 

i 

■■ nili ii iru man I 
, 

. . 
nectiotu W hear the billinrd-ishlee rattling in out room, ami ' 
That thia is the ease 1 
[iiiion which mat 
. lie i'., lower maj n il i ren i n 

1 ' '' ,1, '" r 

i .-M-ity fellow 

lnhiertay,"M Mi I I Bncheloi 'aajthol Hannibal. 

• True. [| was D.liv W — v who lost the money. I knew him, and 
■W a aabKVtber to the Argyll m th« time of Ow event.— MS. note fry 



Here 's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 

■ "in wife* ; 
mmation of an earthly race 
Begun in folly, ended in di _< 

■ ■ the bed of death, 
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath, 
Traduced by lieu »l by all, 

... . ; ok< rj brawl, 
Clodiusf, and like Falkland} fall. 

enuinc bard, and gui le his hand 
To from out thi 

Even I — leasl throng, 

. . :;..', the right an I choose the wrong, 
I i when reasoi ■ lost, 

ilOSl§, 

m ry way 
Has lured in turn, and all I v— 

E'en 1 mni raise my voice, e'en I must fed 

thi public weal i 
ou ■■ l. iend w ill say, 
•■ \\ hat arl thd i Idling fool)], tlian u\< J 

And every brother rake will sroi 
Thai miracle, a moralist in me. 

■ i — -.-. : i u si mi i trd in virtue sti ■ 

chastening song, 
Then ! and my voice 

Be only heard to hail him, and rejo 

e praise, tl Ugh I 
■ • '■ a PPty* 

As- for 'he smallei I arm in shoals 

Prom illy HafizU up I i ■ : lowles, 

in from their dark abode, 
In broa I St. < iile 's or in 1 Dad? 

<>r (since some men offi no ly dare 

To i n verse) fi n Bond- treat or the Square ? 
[f things of ton their harmless lavs indite, 

ij^ht 
elf, 
Sir T. m stanzas to him 

Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try*, 
And live in prolog dramas die ; 

Lords too t it l inv - bi fat, 

And 'I is son* ■ al all, 

■ ■ 

Ah! who wo.uld take iheir ti i< - with their rhymes** ? 
R ii '■■ »n i '1 ! wilh your spii its Bed, 

No future laurels de< k a noble head ; 



• Tao PafffU fort ■"- T "■ 

........ 

f .1 i 'le te 

P tun 

* t knew the al' ' -■' r" i 

■ i 
■ i 

i . 
■ ■ 
s . ■ ■ 

U )uu ap- 
■ 

"'<* fim!.— Yh: and a 
1 
1(7. i- ' enough, certainly, 

i 1816 

il itiT, ron Id 
■i .-»■» with 
I ■ 

i trill and ciccrm- 

*• Ben foil iwad iii the original n ■ 

On ■ I -mile, 

I nriiale. 
Thi prorocB ■■ I : I i ■« MB, <noV place 

i . nffjtiencc, 

tiid all n ■ 'I"" n to, " W iih f ft Di til ' . 

fitftee. Thi . . . . ! in lupiircued he- 

ll, H we our i 

I ] . , ■ . . i . 

Botti kii 'iicncc, 

tnfera thai peera u 

. . ili.ii inch inouUl woo Jtl paMful ninef 1 
PariMMui ua» MM RUtdl If* ttfdl ui>t>vitnr. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



♦No muse will cheer, with renovating smile. 

The paralytic puling I 

The puny scl b >y an I his e irly lay 

Men pardon, if Ma follies pass a 

But H 

v \'' ' ' 3 grow worse? 

V, I] ti he er logene msli 

.eerf! 
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his 

Hl ingstac-e; 

R . m : ' once cried, '■ Hold, enough !" 

Nordrugg'd their i ,,„;,. s c luJ r 

Vet at their , his lordship laugh, 

A'i I umes in congenial c 

1 es ! don" that covering, where in jr.weo' shines, 

And hang a calf-skinj on those recreanl lines. 

With yon, ye DruiJs! rich in native lead, 
Who dailj your daily b.-« 

V>", ill yon I war not: ,,.,,, | 

Has crash'd, without rem ,r e, vour numerous band. 
<'n all the talents" v ml your venal s] 
Ul:l >ur screen. ' 

! r crew 

- A,|J * m a blanket too! 

One common lethe . . i, ar(ij 

And, peace be with you ! 't i. , lrd _ 

Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 

: ■ ■ ■■ live; 
But now at once your ti !ose,' 

W i'i names of greater note in blest repose.' 
Far be 't from me unkindly to upl 

ivi ly R isa's pr ise in m i guera le, 
Wh i." strains, the faithful echoes ofher mind 
Leave wondering co ttprehension , ■ . 

i_'h Crusca's bards no m ire mr journals fill, 
Som? stragglers skirmish rem, ! ;!.,.• ,. ilumns still ; 
Last of the h ;ls Bell'sIF ' 

Matilda snivels yet, and H 
And .A I 
Chain'd to the signature of O. P. 

ft When some bi , ,| „f a sta || 

Employs a pen less p dnted than hi 

Le;lv " loes, 

St. Crispin qu , and 

Heaven applaud' 

H iw la lie i re i !. an I lite a 

jest, 
'T is si 



.V. mus- wilt rtieer. , 

T. ■ ■ 

Tie* couplet tuxxl m ij,e firsi e liti n. 

U irnilo 
„ 0n minorB 

''■-• ■fnttMl i„ |J,« 

tax 

An- ,!.■,■ . ■ , r . 3 ,. 

*" M - ' ■,, o 

t« 

H. 1 '".""'.. .,.r,:...| ,1,.. 

mauh-.ud ,. . 

5 *"■»"" ■'' tlood Umii 

Bpu.lnH.po.U, 

m ,„:'»;:: «»i*™i»t«i 

0„T',"',"; .■0.eniM 1 rooi.oJ,,,A.J.n 

utri St ««'"" 1, T W ' '■ miiua, at l«o.i 

UnrJi noL— AJ.S. ooie 6y t^jrj S 7 , „o. 1316. 



427 



Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, 

Lofft* declares 't is quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye hap| aess trade' 

• quit the plough, resign the useless spade' 
Lo! Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, 
Giffbrd was born beneath an adverse star 

ik the labours of a servile s 
Stemm'd the rude storm and triumph'd over fate- 
ifPhcebus smile on you, 

B1 ; Sel I ' why not on brother Nathan too 1] 

Him too the mania, not the muse has seized ; 

Not inspiration, but a mind diseased : 

And now no boor can seek Ins last abode, 

No common be enclosed, without an ode. 

0,1 '■ ™ ' refinement deigns to smile 

On BrtJain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 

Let poesy go f .rth pervade the whole, 

Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul! 

V ""' ' ?™r notes prolong, 

' is e at once a slipper and a song ; 

the fair your handy-work peruse 
Your sonnets sure shall please— perhaps your shoes. 
May MoorlandJ weavers boast Pindaric skill, 
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 
And pay for poems— when they paj for coats. 
Com forth, oh Campbell^ ! give thy talents scope 
" '■ ' 'spire if thou must cease to hope 

And thou, n. il ,|, ins Rogers|| ! rise at last, 
Renal the pleasing memory of the past; 
Arise! let blesl rem mbrance still inspire. 
An 1 strike to wonted tunes thy hallow'd lyre 
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 
Assert thy country's honour and thine own. 
What ! musi deserted Poesy still weep 
Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep? 
I perchance, from his cold bier she turns, 

To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns 
\ . : though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood. 
The race who rhyme fr im folly, or for food, 
Vet still some genuini :„, a st, 

Who least affecting, s ill a reel the in. is: : 
Fee ' ** e but as they feel- 

Bear witness Gilford, Sotheby, Macneillf. 

"Whyslumbei e wasastd in vain 

I .' let us ask i 
Ar- ih ire 

Are.then n vhose backs demand She scourge 

Ar " t,1,,r " i ■ bard to greet 

ic V i ■■ in ever; 

'"• ' " I"' alike the law's and muse's wrath 



uieSgit 

j 

'rtriof 

.wrU«„,I„,h. M p 7rfl hi,»Ur. 

■ 

■ ■ 

I ■ ■' i .■■■ I .i my on, 
M iking I 
, „ '•- I ulre." 

I'i Georoi„, und 
Hacj, .in s ' "* IU 

i"i 'V' ' ' ' M.«'.vi ti.ooM 



428 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, 
Eternal beacons of consummate crim ' 

Arouse thee, Gilford ! be thy promise claim'd, 
Make bad men better or at least ash 

Unhappy White*! while life was in its spring, 
And thy young musejusl waved her joyous «mg, 
fThe spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, 
Which else had soundi 
Oh ! what a noble heart was hei 
When Scieno ■ ■ her favoui i 

} es, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
She sow'd (he seed's but death has n ap'd the fruit. 
'T was thine own geniui ;ai the final blow, 
And hclp'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
Sri lli.- struck caste, the plain 

No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
Yk-u'.I Ins own feather on the fatal dart, 
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in Ins heart; 
Keen were his pangs, bul keenei (ar to feel 
He nursed the pinion v. hit h inapt tt'd the steel ; 
While the same plumage that had wariuM his nest 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding br 

There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, 
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise; 
That sirain'd invention, ever on the wing, 
Alone impels the modern bard to sing: 
*T is true, that all who rhyme, nay, all who write, 
Shrink from '.hat fatal word to genius — trite ; 
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, 
And decorate the verse herself inspires: 
This fact in Virtue's name let CrabbeJ attest ; 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 

§And here let Shee|| and genius find a place, 
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal gra «■ ; 

To guide whose hand the sister arls Combine, 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
Whose magic touch can bid the canvass glow, 
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow ; 
While honours, doubly merited, attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower 
Where duel! the muses at their natal hour: 
Whose steps have press'd, whose eye lias niark'd afar, 
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, 
Her place of birth j her own Achaian shore. 
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
With hallow'd feelings l«>r those classic lands; 
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
And views their remnants with a poet's eye ! 
WrightlT! 'l was thy happy lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
To hail the land of gods anil godlike men. 

And you, associate bards** ! who snalch'd to light 
Those germ loo long withheld from modern sight; 



• Henry Kirk* White rJii En Ocioher, I8G8, in coneo- 

qnenoc of too much exertion In the | irtuSt o( Biudiea that wouln have ma- 

. . i and ■ i 

... 

aa muai Imprest the readci ■■■ ort a ueriod 

wu allotted LQ i"i which u red func- 

tion! ba " u ri lined w attume, 
■f ilernm j>t that eoni 

I! 

it >*lirc in 1316. In former 
nil i um.% Uu lin' 1 * 

•■ The ijioiler c.ime: tu\ '■ ill 1 loir 

Haai 
X Crnf>'ie.—\ comirter Crabbe ■ ftrel of these Lima 

in point of pow Br im I gi 'i . v J n .', ', !. ■ ! Bj .., 1816 

I ind '■" ' i SM - , '• ■' i' 1 " > n !■■ Lwenty*two lint** won inserted 

In the lcconil edition. 

r Mi . si ee, author of " RhyiMi m trt," I " ElemenM of Art." 

T Mr. w rig it, late coiisii i ltlandi, >» author o*" a 

1 1 
ctaifrijitive ol the i»!ci ftiidthe adj* 

• ■ I'hc iranilati ra of Us n 

i ,oc.Tk3, whi<h eflnca gunm titM only require* jf>jri'j- 
toiry to Mtaln «rnrt«n:«. 



Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath 
lowers Aonian odours breathe, 

And all their renovated fragrance flung, 

ities of your native tongue; 
minds, that nobly could transfuse 
oiril of the Grecian muse, 
Though 51 ifl the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone : 
lia's lyre and strike your own. 

Li I these, <>r such as these, with just applause, 
,: !-- muse's violated laws ; 

i mpoua chime, 

i Linmi aning rhjme, 

. moi e adoi n'd than clear, 
ntecT, but fatigued the car ; 
lii show the simple lyre- could once surpass, 

. worn down, appt ;;r in native brass ; 
Iphs around 
.i. imiit and i i ■ 
: Km It l ihem shun, with hire Lei tinsel die: 
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye*. 

Yet let them not to nilgai Wordsworth stoop, 

The meanes: object of the lowly group, 

\\ hose verse, ol all bul childish prattle void, 

Seems blessed harmony lo Lambe and Lloyd | : 

I ei lb m — bul boj I my muse, nor dare to teach 

A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach: 

The native genius with their being given 

Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 

/.tiij thou, ten, So.ttJ ! resign to minstrels rude 
The wilder Slogan of a bordi i 

spin the meagre Lines for hire ; 
Ei h for gi uius if itself in 
Let Southey sing, although Ins teeming muse, 

■ be toe profust ; 
§Lel Bimple Wordsworth chime Ins childish verse, 
And brother I !ol< ridge Lull the babes si qui 
Let spec£re-mongering Lewis aim, at most, 
To rouse the gall* ries, or lo raise s ghost ; 

Lei Moore still sigh ; lei Strangford steal from Moore, 
And swear thai ( lamoens sang such no$s of yore ; 
Lei 1 hi v lev hobble on, Montgomery rave, 

\ :,.! godhj Gi shan - chani b 
1 ,ei si >nm tt ei ing I ti w 

And whine and whimper k the fourteenth line; 
i . ■ , . 

Of Grub-! ' renor- lace ihi 



- -| i., ,.,.;,,..■ .| , !■..,,' 

lai ic ll 

, - follower* of Soulhvy and 
l 

i i pe that hi Mr. Fjoll* nexi poem hla bars or heroine 

will be leaa . than the 

i 

Bi an Cole- 
i ..::■.. , , , tJn 

■ i m1 reatunc wu, 

" hei Moore , M 

■ . . | ha I my guar- 

■ 

■ i ■ ■ . . ■ 

.,i.;.. i , ,i... ■ tarry for 

■ 

■ 
i condemn! 

| .!.,.■ 

■ i, ol yctir*. l-ceuilpfi n 

■ in ream* 

■ ■ ■ !' . l i 1 ■ ii 'i ■ Lop itucle to 

.. 

i I *air! any 

i dutiful 

1 idgmeulj 

. | . i i 

: : 

Carlisle . i. t learn what ihe« are, 

. " ■ I .'i ■] : ti 

What J ' ■ fill pi mied 

Ii om I'k-eiei, 
. land dainty tragadln burlnaj 
■ 

What can ennohte hnavei oi irarda/ 

Ala* ! not nil tlia blood of all ihe Flowaruj." 
B 

i Hi. foundation might be.- Af5 aott bf 
Ln-tt By on. I I 
I Th,« n*ft-fir»« a^vju-cd in the ft -nd « IK ton. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



429 



Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain, 
Or Common Sense assert her ruin- again < 
But th hi, with powers that mock the aid of praise, 
Should leave to humbler bards ign ible lays: 
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, 
Deman I a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. 
Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
The glorious record of some nobler field, 
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan 
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? 
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
*For Sherwood's outlaw tales of Robin Hood? 
Scotland! still proudly claim thy native bard, 
An 1 be ihy praise his iir^t, his best reward ! 
Vet not with thee alone his name should live, 
But own the vast renown a world can give ; 

rchance, when Albion is no more, 
And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
To future times her faded fame recal, 
And save her glory, though his country fall. 

1 Vet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, 
To conquer age;, and with time to cope? 
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 
An I other victors]: fill the applauding skies; 
A few brief generations fleet along, 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song : 
E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim 
The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
When fames loud trump hath blown its noblest blast, 
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last ; 
§And glory like the phcenix midst her fires, 
Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, 
Expert in science, more expert at puns? 
Shall these approach the muse? ah, no! she flies, 
|| Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize ; 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by HoylelT : 
Not h'un whose page, if still upheld by whist, 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list**. 
Ye ! who in tiranta's honours would surpass, 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ; 
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 

IfThere Clarke, still striving piteously " to please," 
Forgetting dog^rel leads not to degrees, 
A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
A monthly dribbler of some low lampoon, 
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; 
Himself a living libel" on mankind]!- 



• 'In the first edition! " Outlaw's Sherwood's." 

T Ttt <rhnl nvaiU, ic. — The following twelve Hues were introduced io 
the second edition. 

J " Tolicre humo, vie torque virum volitare per ora."' 

Virgil. 
§ Like the jthttnix midst her l?r«.— The deril lake that phcenix 1 
B i i una it then ? — MS. note by Lord Byron. I SIS. 

II E <•'■ from the tempting orr of Seaton's prize. — Thus corrected, in 
1816, by Lord Byron, In formei editions : 

" And even spurns the great Seatonlnn prize." 
Ti Tims m thi origin l1 m uiuscript : 

With odi s by S ' rToyte ■ 

i 1 ■ ■ upheld by whist, 

i ■ ed no sacred theme lo bid ui list, 
•• The lo the votaries of whist chess, 

■ i ! by the vagaries of hii poetieal namesake, 
I, as i (pressly stated in the advertisement, all the 
E ■■■[it." 
1' T.'iere i ..u ,'.?, ttitl striving, &c. — These eight lines were added in 
the * cond i 

Rig ten chi* wen well deserved, and well laid on. — MS. note by 

i i 
I* This person, who haa lately betrayed the most rabid sym 

eminrmi I a ill rship, is writer of ■■■ poem dei linaied the " Art of 

Pleasing,*' as " lurus a non luce ndo," containing little pleas miry and less 
poetry. He also icts as monthly stipendiary uid collector of calumnies for 
lirist." If this unfortunate J lid exchange the ma- 

i for the mathematics, and endeavour Lo take n decent degree in his 

oniveoity, it -nughi evtouialiy prove more servicenhls than his present 
atrial J. 



Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race* ! 

At once the boast of learning, and disgrace! 

fSo lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's], verse 

Can make thee better, or poor Hewson'sS worse. 

But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, 

The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 

On her green banks a greener wreath she|| wove, 

To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove ; 

Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, 

And modern Britons glory in their sireslT. 

For me, who, thus unask'd**, have dared to tell 
My country, what her sons should know too well, 
tfZeal for her honour bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age ; 
No just applause her honour'd nam? shall lose, 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power 
What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
'T is thine at once, fair Albion ! to have been 
Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely queen: 
But Rome decay 'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
And Tyre's proud piers lie shattered in the main; 
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurl'd, 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of ihe world. 
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, 
With warning ever scofT'd at, till too late ; ' 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine, 
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thinejf. 

Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest 
The senate's oracles, the people's jest! 
Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
The Mowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 
While Cannings colleagues hate hiin for his wit, 
And old dame Portland^ fills the place of Pitt. 

Yet once again adieu ! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale; 
And African || coast and Calpe'slffl adverse height, 
And Stamboul's*** minarets must greet my sight: 
Thence shall I stray through beauty's native climeftf, 
Where Kaff*JJ| is clad in rocks, and crown'd with 
snows sublime. 



* " Into i ■■ r Probiis transported a consider- 
able body of Vandal-. -' i ' ind p 33, vol. Si. There 

assertion ; tlie breed is it ill in high 

These four lines were substituted for die fallowing in the original manu- 
script : 

Yet hold— as when by Heaven's supreme behest, 

If found, ten righteous had p rved the rest, 

In Sodom's fated town, i ir Grama's name 
Let Hodgson's gen us pli ad, and lave her fame, 
t So lost to Pkabtto) that, fcc— This couplet, thus altered In the fifth 
edition, whs originally printed, 

tin ihnme, 
Thai Smyth and H tdgson scarce redeem thy fame." 
J This gentleman's nami n . the man who in transln- 

tl on displays unquestionable gemui may well be expected to excel in origi- 
nal composition, of which it is to < ped we shall soon see a splendid 
specimen. 

§ Hewson Clarke. Esq., as it is written. 
II " Is" in the first edition, 

Tl Tlie " Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem, by RicliArds. 
** Unask'd ; in the first edition unknown, 

tf Ztalfor her honour, &c. — In the firm edition this couplet ran, 
" Zeal frir her honour, no malignant rage, 
Has bade me spurn the follies of her ace." 
** And urge thy bards to sain a name tike thine*— With this verse the 
satire ended in die original edition, 

§§ A frmvl ui mine IwiiisJ asked » i y his grace of Portland eras likened 

to an old woman ? replied, "be sup] - I,, was pnat 

1 ulii-re he 

und as ever , but evou his t\< ep «.i>. better thau bis colleagues* 

waking. 1811. 

Nil Afnc's Coast, Saw it, August, 1809. — MS, note bu Lord Bur on. 
181G. 
Till Gibraltar. Saw it, August, I ?t>9 . — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 
*** Slamlioul. Was there the summer of lalO.—MS. note by Lord 
Byron. Itfl6. 
1 1 ■ Georgia, 

JlJ .Mount Caucasus. Saw the distant ridge of, 1810, 1811.— MS. not* 
by Lord Byron. 1816. 

* The breed it still in high perfection.— In tlie first edition :— " Them 
is no reason to doubt the tnich of this assertion, as a large stock of the 
same brwd is to be found there at this day. 



430 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



< 



But should I back return, no tempting press* 

Shall drag my journal from the desk's n i 

' ixcombs, printing as Ihej come from far, 

Snatch, his own wreath of ridicule from Carr; 

Let •Aberdeen and El^inf still pursue 

The shade of fame il rttl ; 

Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, 

Misshapen monuments and maim VI antiques ; 

And make thei* [ ran I saloons a general mart 

For all the miiti Tart: 

Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 

I leave topography to rapid > I ■ 

And, quite content, no more shall interpose 

To stun the public ear — at least with pre 

Thus fir I've hi I my undisturb'd career, 
Prepared for rancour, nsl selfish fear: 



• But tkould J back return, no tempting prat 
Shall 'Ims. 4c. 

These four , i "illy stood, 

: . .. 

^.agS ; 
Let v.i . 
And equal liim ■ 
' Lord I i persuade us thai i, with and 

without noses, in his tlonr of I " Cred&t 

1 

* Rapid. Thus altered in the fifth edition. In till previous editions, 
■ ■ 

: Rapid,' | indeed! He topographlxed Buid I 
1' I nm m in three days 1—1 Called 

i id, but lin e have learned better I a to tack to bis 
■ ■ Note to the fi't'i ■ 
Jflr Gel) a Topography of Troy r and Ith) ■ ensure the 

approbation of every man pa rlhe ii 

raation Mr. Gell conveys to the miud of the reader, ns for ihei 
rks display.— -No's to all the early ed 

of ■ ■■■ opinions are ■ ■■■ 

to the above note, Gell's survey wan hasty und superficial.— JH& note 
by Lmd Byron. ISM, 



* Lord \ ■ 

hical. topog 
t m i unlucky suit, liini 1 1 ■ 

i in Ireland." — Oh, fie, my lord? bos hip no more 

feeling for a fellow-tourist ? bui ■■ I ■ 

I Troy. Visited both in 181U and 1811.— Af-S, note by Lord Byron. 
1316. 
J Ithaca. Passed first iu 1809.— MS. note by Lord Byron. lblS. 



This ihing of rhyme I ne'er disdained to own— 
■ itmsive, yet ool quite unknown: 
b was heard again, though not so loud, 
uever disavow'd ; 
And now at once I tear the veil away : — 
' Iheer on ihe pack ! ihe quarry stands at bav, 
rjnscared by ail the din of Melbourne house'*, 

1 1 ■ i 'i nt, or by Holland's spouse, 

By Jefl !;■,... 

I brawny sons and brimstone | 

Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
And feel the} tooaro i ntl*:" 

And thou i open if hence unscathed to go, 
\\ fin con |uers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
The lime hath been, when no harsh sound would fall 
that now may seem imbued with gall; 
. | 
The mi ani si thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes : 
Bui n grown, so changed since vmith, 

i d to think| and sternly speak the truth ; 

1 tearn'd to deride the critic's starch 
And break him <m th»* wheel he meant for me ; 
To spurn the n«l a scribbler bids me kiss, 
Nor care if courts and • rowds applaud or hiss; 
, though all my rival rhymesters frown, 

I i ■■■'.! hunl a poAta iter down ; 

And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet east at onco 
To Scotch marauder, and :o southern dunce. 
Thus much I \>* dared ; if my incondite layf 

I these righteous times, let others say : 
1 trie world, which knows not how to spare 

Yet rarely blames unjustlj no i declare^. 



Din of M ■ •■■■■'■•• I), tad din enough, 

■ ■, 1816, 
Thui miirn f 'vtdoreil , it my r-.c n-fiielay. 

■ ■ fifth edition : originally pi !, 

'• Thui flaw far my lay." 

; The greater part of th! ' bad nmr *ew 

iUea! and 
i. ! temper are sucb as 1 can- 
■ 



THE FOLLOWING ARGUMENT INTENDED FOR THE SATIRE WAS IN THE 
ORIGINAL MANUSJRIPT, BUT NOT PUBLISHED. 

The poet considered) time* past nnd their pnesy — mnketh n s'i uten transition to times present.— Is incensed against ^r^k maken — reviled) W, Peolt 
for cupidity .mil ballxd-miingering, with notable remarks on A lineth that Master Southey hath Inflicted time |nrnu ej-ie and 

otherwise on the public— in veighelh againsl Wm. 'VVoi'dswortli i; bui laudetn Mr. Colerid roung aas—ia disrnted to vituperate 

Mr. Lewis— and greatl) i Littti Lord Sti ingford— ree immendelh '-'.r. Hayie* to turn l»* attention to piust 

■ad evii"i telh thi M h ni am to glorify Mr. Gra the B 

■ ' reaki th oui — calleth them hard nai es, hni 

phesieth — Episode of Jeffrey and J h, Frttn ol Forth 

severally shocked <i w onl ol i goddi ss to «im JeflVi he I ullell * itb hii ■ ■ nburgh Reviewers e» mas*§ 

—Lord Aberdeen, Herbert I H I lb I i Sydney Smith, im.ftc— Tin i . d Holls I applauded for diuuere n»J transbv 

tious.— 1 he Drama ; Skefliiigton, Boolct Rej Cherry, &i return to 

paesy«scrihb]en of all sorts si me; much elter not H M da, and X. Y. Z I Olflbrd, tit., 

true poeu — irauslators ol ilie Greek Anthology— Crabbe— Darwin's ttylc — Cambridge— Sealou ftiie— Smyth— IJodgsoa-^Datard — Bli 

Poeu loquitur — coiKluiion. 



POSTSCIIIPT.* 



en lul ..I. ' .rnhciire«enteditinn w«nl toUis press, that mff 
trusty and weil-beloved cuusinii, the I 

& most vehemani ci l q j poor, g ntle, un ■ / in Muss, whom 

■ rded ivitli the .■ 

" Tauutite animis CO)] 

[ tnppoie 1 must say of J^ifr-". as Sir tuthony AguectKek salth 

known hi ".i* so i unttiog il it ,11 - 

hiui." What a pity it la tint I shall 

nest number has passed tiit Tweed ; Uut i ret bops iv tight my pipe wiUi 

it in Persia. 

My northern friends hare acensed me, a th Justice, of pen 
wards their great liierary in 

- ith h m and hia dirty pack 
and slake their thirst Ihaveai 

well know .. n, in .r has 

he tlience sustained any injury i— what Karejujer was eversoili 

Lh mud.' It may be iaid that [ qull 
ceasuied tliere " persona of and 

II keep hot till my returoi Those who 
knoa ma can testify that mj ferydiffsranl 

from fean, literary or personal : those who <K> not, n, 

riuced. Since the publication of t . thing, 

coaled , i have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my truusjrss- 

' Added to U» socoitd CiliUjc 



*k>ti«,aiid in dally expectation of sundry csrub; but, alas " the age of 
chivalry Isovei , oi In the vulgar i 

i ■ ■ I ...... ibter of 

i denixsn •'' Berwick^upoi^Tweed, 

n Intruduced in ihi ich better company than he 

, be <-. uotwiU (Stand uig, a vatj *>ddug, «nd 

■ ; i .i persons) quarrel whli « t.«-jr, 

nt (..tnii ridge w sit foi a lellowshlp, au* 1 srhoi 

. 

and wii.n is wont, the defenceless tnuoceoisU vs rosuUoned.ln "The Sa- 

lamut ii "i imvusj 

eivcii hlmans urovocat ideed, I an iving beard bis name 

i v. un •■ i in .i.nii ! plain, 

nnd I nan nay thai, like Si i rctful !'■ nuwd Uian 

[ have i ■ i done me tin 

in l mine, thai is, 

tiodwoti I ■ i 

Ii n. I I.- :<r that 
Mr. Jemingham >* si oul to laki ■ , ■ ■ Metcenas, Lord 

Carlisle - i hi pi a t : he* i ' ■■ in the rt ry il orl lab r. 

course I had with h] i neo a boy, aud whaV 

avai lie may say oi do, "pour on, I will en Ii ;i I ' I log further 

to readers, purchasers, nnd 
puhliahcrs, and, lis. ii.; words of Scott, 1 

" To alt and each a fair good night, 
• Znd rosy dresmta and *uint«ir*iitjbi " 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 

BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE " AD PISONES, DE ARTE POETICA," AND 
INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO " ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." 



" Ergo fi agar i ce col -■ aeoitim 
Reildcre que fenuui v,i,, i , , rantli." 

HOit. D, Art, Poet. 304, 305. 

* Pbym^ ar; difficult things— they are stubborn things, sir " 

FIELDING'S ,1 vefia, Vol. ui. Book 5. li^, 5. 



Athena. Capuchin Convent, March fifth, 1311. 

Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to orace 
His cosily canvass with each rlatter'd lace, 
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush, 
Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, 
A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail ? 
Or low* Dubost (as once the world has seen) 

God's creatures in his graphic spleen? 
Nut ail thai forced politeness, which defends 
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
Poetic nightmares, witnout head or feet. 

Poets and painters, as all artists know, 
May shorn a hide with a lengthen'd bow ; 
We claim this mutual mercy for our task, 
And -.'rant in turn the pardon which we ask ; 
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams — 
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 

A labour'd, long exordium, sometimes tends 
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends; 
And nonsense in a lof down, 

As pertness passes with a leyal gown : 
Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
The e'ear brook babbling through the goodly plain ; 
The groves of Granta, and hcr-gothic halls, 
King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and old 

Or, in adventurous numbers, neatly aims 
To paint a rainbow, or the river Thames, f 

FTumano capiti cervicem pictor equinam 
Juns-ere si velit. et varias in lucerc p] imas, 
Undifjuecoll u mem iris, u( turpiter airurn 
Df--in.it in p : 8cem muJier formosasuperne; 

i iin admissi risum teneatis, s ? 

Pi tabula fore li h i n 

Persimilem, cujus, velutagri somni ., van-e 
Fin-.- , ui nef pes, nee caput uni 

i ■ ■ Pii tot ib a atque poeiis 
Quidltbei audendi aemp t fuii a ua note taa 
Sciin is et hanc reniam peiim la ;ue<lamuairue vicissim: 

Se:l nt.n ut placi li • c £aiti immitia ; n it 

Serpen tea avrbus geminentur, tigribus agni. 

tacfleptia gravibua pleruro |ue et magna professi 
Purpureas, late qui spl-n.lc.it, unu^pi alter 
Assuitur pinntis; cum Incus el ar.i Diane, 
Kt propers ntta a [uce per amcenos ambitus agrog, 
Aui llumen Rhcnu.n, ant pluvius describilur areas. 



• In an Brutish newiri.-i; ■<■ bread wherever there 

are Englishmen, I rend an account of ihii dirty dauber's cc 

,Mr. H — , ami the ron.se jueni action, &c. The circiKIMUitce u pruba- 
Uf too well known to require further comment. 
t " Where pure description held the place at sense." — P>ipt* 



You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine- 
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign; 
\ ou plan a rase — it dwindles to a pot ; 
Then glide down Grub-street — fasting and forgoj 
Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint review, 
Whose wit is never troublesome till true. 

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire, 
Let it at least be simple and entire. 

The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe) 
Are led astray by some peculiar lure. 
I labour to be brief — become obscure ; 
One falls while following elegance loo fast ; 
Another soars, inflated with bombast ; 
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly, 
He spins his subject to satiety ; 
Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves ' 

Unless your care's exact, your judgment nice, 
The flight from folly leads but into vice; 
None are complete, all warning in some part, 
Like certain tailors, limited in art. 
For galligaskins Slowshears is your man, 
But coats must claim another ortizan.* 
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 
As Vulcan's feel to bear V olio's frame; 
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 
Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose ! 

Dear authors! suit your topics to your strength, 
And ponder well your subject, and its length ; 

Sr,i nunc noil erat hi ■ I >cua : el Fbrtasrte cupressum 
Scia simul ire : nuirl hoc si fractis enatat exspea 
Navibus, i red to qui pingitur? amphora c*pit 
Institui : curn n i i i ■ ■ r ur eu exii ? 
De ■ in sitqti I via simplex duntaxai et unum. 

Maxim r par » num. p iter, ei furenea patre digni, 
D cipimu specie recti, Brevis esse laboro, 
I ibscurua Go : sectantem levia, nervi 
. Deficiunt animique : professus grandfa target : 
Serpit humi, tutus nimium, timid usque procellos : 
Qui vari ire i ipii rem prod crialitei unam, 
Delphi uni By 1 vis appuigit Ru< titma aprum. 

In vhium ifucit culpa? I'usa, si caret arte. 
j'Finilium circa luduni faber iinua et ungues 
Evprimet, el mollea imitabltur eere captllos; 
Infelix operis sum ma, quia ponfre totum 
Nesciet. Hunc earn me, .si quid cnmpnnere curem. 
Non m i gig esse velim, quam pravo vivere naso, 
Br> i tandurn igria oculis nigroqua capillo. 

• Mere "mmnn mortal) were eommmilv content with nne lailoi anj 
, bill iii.- more narticulti ■ nd It impossible to 

confide thcii low r clothes, 1 speak 

of the beginning of 1909 what reform may liaveaiuce taken place I ntiUwc 
know uor dean to kn«* ■ 



432 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Nor lift your load, before you're quite aware 
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear. 
But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, 
Await the poet, skilful in his choli ■ ; 

With Dative eloquence he suars almi:.', 
Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 

Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
With future parts the now omitted line ; 
This shall the author choose, or that reject, 
Precise in style, and cautious to select. 
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
To him who furnish- word. 

Then fear not if 'tis needful to produce 
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use, 
(As *Pitt has fumish'd us a word or two, 
Which lexicographers declined to do ;) 
So you indeed, with care, — (but be content 
To take this licence rarely) — may invent. 
New words find credit in these latter days, 
It neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 
To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse. 
If you can add a little, sav why not, 
As well as William Pitt and Walter Scott? 
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, 
Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues ; 
Tie then — and shall be — lawful to present 
Reform in writing, as in parliament. 

As forces shed their foliage by degrees. 
So fade expressions which in season please. 
And we and ours, alas! arc due to fate, 
And works and words but dwindle to a date. 
Though a> a monarch nods, and commerce calls, 
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals ; 
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drain'd, sustain 
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain, 
And rising ports along the busy shore 
Protect the vessel from old ocean's roar, 
All, all must perish ; but, surviving last, 
The love of letters half preserves the past. 
True, some decay, yet not a few revive ;f 
Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive, 

Semite materiem vestris, qui scribitis, equam 
Viribus; el versa e ■ iu quid ferre recusent 
Quid valeam humeri Cui lecta potentererit res, 
Nee facundia deseret huhc ncc lucidus ■ rdo. 

Ordinia hasc virtus erit el irenu i, at I i ?o Pallor, 
ft jam nunc dicat, jam nunc debentis dici 
Pleraque difrerat, ei prssens In tempua omittat ; 
Hoc amet, hoc spern tl promissi carmlnis auctor. 

In verbis ciiam tenuis cam squ serendia 
Dixeris eeregie, notum si calllda ?* i bum 

Reddiderit ju net in a ntivnm. Si form nen'sse est ' 
lridiciis moitsn .1 in n : :i-.i ;ih mi .1 mil, 
Fingcre cinctutis non exaudita Ceihi gis 
Continget; dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter; 
Et nova fa^taqu i nuper habebunt verba rtdem, I 
( ; i bsco (bni ■ i .ni. mi parce detoi ta. ftuid autom 

Crecilio PI au toque dabiiRomi ademptum 

Virgilio Varioque J ego cur, acquirers pa i 

Si possum, invide ir ; cum lb gu i Cai ei EnnJ 

Sermonem patrium oltai ei it, 1 1 na\ a rerum 
Nomina protulerii ? Licuit, si mperqus licebit, 
Si matum p a ■-■ te m ta proriui i t nomen. 
t't ii|va foliia pronoa a m intur In annos ; 
Prima cadunt : ita ve borum veiua I 
Ei juvenum run floreni n od 
i < bemur no >rti no ''plus 

Terra Neptunua i I ■ ■ reel, 

Regie opu ■■ ■. sterilisve diu pa Iu . a pi i |ue remls 
Vicinas ui i rum : 

Seu cursum mutavit iniquum I'm i 

li iCtUfl iter melius; mnr!;i!i;i facta perihm.l : 

v edum sen gratia i ivax. 

Mulia renascemur, quae jam cecidere ; cadentque, 



* Mr, Pill mi libera ar parllnmcnmrf I 

mnr i* icen in man the lid I 

t Old ballads, - I womou'i »torI», arsatpn « 

mil. h n qutti m old 
tf b!«k btler ; llianki lo uur Ucbtre, Wcbcre, mid ScolU I 



As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
Our life and language must alike obey. 

The immortal wars whit h gods and angels wage, 
Arc they not shown in Milti ;^e? 

, .'. r , 1 1 numbers heal belong 
■ estial told in epic sung. 

The slow I i a will correctly paint 
The lover's anguish or the Irii nd'a complaint. 
But which deserves the laurel, rhyme or blank '? 
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank 1 
\ ,•{ squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
Tins point, as puzzling as a I 'hancery suit. 

Satiric rhyme firs: spran j ' pleen. 

You doubt — see I harden. Pope, St. Patrick's dean.* 

Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied 
To Tragedy, ami rai 

inzor rhymed ui DrydenV days, 
No sing-eong hero rants in modem plays ; 
While modest Corned 
For jesl ami punl in v< 

Not thai our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse, 
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse. 
But so Thalia pleases Lo appear. 
Poor virgin! damn'd ■■■ i times a year! 

Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight :— 
Adapl your language to your hero's I ite. 
At timet Vlelpomen o man, 

isk Thalia lakes a serious tone; 
\f.i unregarded w ill thi 
\\ here ' lifts his \ oice on high. 

Again, our Shi Lo I ■ 

When ' immon things ; 

And In ely Hal i 
To" hollowing Hotspur"} and the sceptred sire. 

'T is not enou with aU ; ror art, 

To polish poems ; tin*} must touch the heart : 
Where'er the er the «>ng, 

Still let u bear the hearer's .soul along; 

Qurp nunc sunt in hon re i ocabula, pi volet uaus ; 
Quern penes arbitrlum e t, ei i tuondl 

Res i_' ( ■ r . ■ ■ 1 1 gumqtie ducumque ei trial a be Ita, 
Quo scribi n ■ trai ii li. ■ 

Versibu imparker junctis querfmonia prirnum ; 
I'n-i . 

. . ctor, 
cenani ei adhi i i 

■■i , h locum proprio rabie • ai ma v t iaml i 
Hui c jocci cepere p< it in grai le ique cothurni, 
Alternis aptum eermonibiu . ei pop 
VI nee mem crepitus, ei nan >bua agendia. 

Musa dedii i I h ■ I ■ ■ puero qui ueorum 
Et pugilem victme n. eiequu i mum, 

Ei iuvi num i uraa ei Eibei i v\\ a <■ I 

Desci Ipia ■■ »en ire imqm colores, 

Cur i 'i 

I main? 

1 ii vull 

[ndignai prn] ceo 

i »i ■ i i- i .Mi,. ' 

e i " urn i< neani aoi uta decanter. 
i iin umen • t i occm com > dfa toll i, 

! i| ore : 

i . li i unique dole! ■■■< i m ne pedMtri. 

Telephua ei Pel ius, cum pau ei ei exul, merque 
•■ ampullas, ei sesqutpi dalitt n rba j 

Si cm: t erela. 

Non ■■:! - ■■ i pulcl i I '■■unto, 

Et quocun |ue i olent, animum aui 



• m., r . itnoi . ihc D m< ia I, rikI nil J I ii»IU<Jt- 

I, . imp., 

.'■' i 1. 1 ihtte •»• 
lirti elav iw Uic poei ; i"-iioiiBi 

. I ll|« B i ii. '-. 

t \\ [th ,i|i Mir rulgnr ..■ "rut, thty 

, le en Uu li tide, ■ to oruiora, and givo ihcm 

ililiwn. 
; "And iu his v*r I '11 boUow, Murliinw!"— 1 Henry /K. 



HINTS FROM HORACE^ 



433 



Command your audience or to smite or weep, 
Whicheer may please you — any thing but sleep. 
The poet claims our tears ; but, by his leave, 
Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 

If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, 
Lull'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face, 
An 1 men took angry in the proper place. 
At double meanings folks seem wondrous slv, 
And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye ; 
For nature form'd at first the inward man, 
And actors copy nature — when they can. 
She bids the beating heart witli rapture bound, 
Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground ; 
And for expression's aid, 't is said, or sung, 
She gave our Blind's interpreter — the tongue, 
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
(At least in theatres) with common sense ; 
O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit, 
And raise a laugh with any thing but wit 

To skilful writers it will much import, 
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or court: 
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear, 
To draw a " Lying Valet," or a " Lear," 
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
A wandering " Peregrine," or plain " John Bull ; B 
All persons please, when nature's voice prevails, 
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales. 

Or follow common fame, or forge a plot. 
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not ? 
One precept serves to regulate the scene : 
Make it appear as if it might have been* 

If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw, 
Present him raving, and above all law : 
If female furies in your scheme are plann'd, 
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand ; 
For tears and treachery, for good or evil, 
Constance King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil! 

Ut rtdentibus arrident, ita flentibus adflent 
Hum ini vultua ; si via me flere dolendum est 
Prirmim ip^i tibl : tunc lua me infortnnia laedent. 
Telpphe, vel Peleu, male si mandata loqneris, 
Am dormiiabo, ant ridebb : trivia moestum 
Vultum verba decern ; iratum, plena minarum ; 
Ludentem, lasciva ; severum, seriadictu. 
Format-enim natura prius non intus ad omnem 
Fortunarum habitum; juvat, aut impellit ad iram ! 
Aut ad humu i m t-rore gravi deducit, et an^it; 
Post effert anitni motus inierprete lingua. 
Si dicenris erunt fortunis ahsona dicta, 
Roman i tollent e lniies, peditesque cachinnum. 

Intcrerit multum, Davusne [oquatur an heros ; 
Maturusne senex, an adhuc florente juventa 
Fervidus; an matrons potens, and sedula nutrix; 
Merratorne vagus, cultorne virentis agelli; 
Colchus an A-syrius ; Thebis nutritus, an Argis. 

A hi famam sequere, a-utsibi convenientia finge. 
inis Achillem ; 
[mplger, iracu I ■ irabilis, acer, 

Jura negel Ibi tl tta, nihil non arrozet armis. 
Sit Medea (erox Inviciaque Qebilislno; 
Perfido* Ixion : I" 7aga ; tristia Orestes; 
Si quid inexpe cummi'tts. et audeg 

Personam Cormare novam ; serveiur ad imura 
Qnali.j .ih incepto processerit, et sibi constet. 

Di ficlle est proprie communiadicere; tuque 
Recti ua lliarum carmen deducis in actus, 
(£i; I'm si p. :■ rres ignota indKtaque primus. 
Publics materlea prlvati juris erit, si 
Nee circa vilem pntulum iue morabens orbem ; 
Nee verbum v*erbo curabisreddere fidua 
Interpret, nee i«tator in an-tum 

Un le pedem p ofern | autoperis lex. 

Ner 9 c incrpiea, ut scriptor Cyclicus oiim : 
u Fortunam Pr ami • antabo, et nobiie belhim.'' 
Quid dlgnum tamo feret iiic promtssor hiatu 
Parmriunt montes : nascetur ridiculus mus. 
Quanto rectiua hie, qui nil molitur inepte ! 
3 E 



But if a new design you dare es6ay, 
And freely wander from the beaten way, 
True to your characters, till all be past, 
Preserve consistency from first to last. 

'T is hard to venture where our betters fail, 
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale ; 
And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 
A hackney'd plot, than choo=e a new, and err , 
Yet copy not too closely, but record, 
More justly, thought for thought than word for word 
Nor trace your prototype through narrow ways, 
But only follow where he merits praise. 

For you, young bard ! whom luckless fate may leid 
To tremble on the nod of all who read, 
Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls, 
Beware — for God's sake, do n't begin like Bowles \* 
" Awake a louder and a loftier strain," 
And pray, what follows from his boiling brain ?— 
He sinks to Southey's level in a trice, 
Whose epic mountains never fail in rr.ee ! 
Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 
The temper'd warblings of his master lyre ; 
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 
" Of man's tirst disobedience and the fruit" 
He speaks, but as his subject swells along, 
Earth, heaven, and hades echo with the song. 
Still to the midst of things he hastens on, 
As if we witness'd all already done •, 
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene ; 
Gives, as each page improves upon the sight, 
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness — light, 
And truth and fiction with such art compounds, 
We know not where to fix their several bounds. 
If you would please the public, deign to hear 
What soothes the many-headed monster's ear, 
If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall, 
Deserve those plaudits — study nature's page, 
And sketch the striking traits of every age; 

" Die mihi, Musa, virum captae post tempora Trojas, 
Qui mores hominum mulmrtim vidit, et urbes." 
Non fumum ex fulgore, Bed ex fumo dare lucem 
Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinr miracula promat, 
Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Charybdim 
Nee reditum Diomcdis ab interitu Meleagri, 
Nee gemino bellum Trnjanum orditur ab ovo. 
Semperad eventum fe-tinat; el in medias res 
Non seciiH ac notas, auditorem rspit, el qua} 
Desperai tractata nitescere posse, relinquit : 
Atque ita mentitur, sic verts falsa remiscet, 
Fritno ne medium, medio nediscrepet imum. 
Tu, quid ego et populus mecum desideret, audi ; 



• About two years ago a young man, named Townsend, wa9 announced 
by Mr. Cumberland (in a review since deceased) as being engaged in an 
epic poem to lie entitled "Armageddon.*' The plan and specimen pnv 
miae much ; but I hope neither to offend Mr. Townsend nor his friends, 
I'V retiunmendtne to his attention the lines of Hooice to which these 
rhymes allude. IT Mi . Townsend succeeds in his undertaking, as there 
Id hope, how much will the world he indebted to Mr. Cumber- 
land for bringing him before the public '■ But till that eventful day arrives, 
l whether the premature display of hid plar (lublime aa 
the ideas confessedly are) has not, bv raising expectation too high, or 
diminishing curiosity, ■ 'us argument, rather incurred the 

hazard of Injuring Mr. Townsen i - More prospects. Mr. Cumberland 
(whose talents 1 shall not depreciate b] lie of my praise)and 

Mr. Townsend must not suppose me actuated bv unworthy mot 
■USXjBStl id I wish the author all Oil- success he can wish himself, and 
shall be tnily hapnv I : weighed up from the bathos where 

it Ian sunk i Mrs. or Abraham), Ogl'vy, 

Wilkn;, P' ■■■■ "i'l ;"<:-- ii( •!.->-•-" Kven if i e is 

not a nut in, iter than Blackmore; if not a Homer, an 

ptuous, as a young man, in 
offering advice, were it not addressed to one still younger. Mr. Townsend 
has the greatest difficulties to encounter : but in conquering them he will 
rn, his reward. 1 know too 
well " the ' ■ the critfe'i cooUnnely," and I am afnirl time 

will teach Mr. Townsend to know rhem better. Tho«e who succeed, and 
those who do not mus! U-ar this alike, am! it is hard to say which bars 
most of it. I inisi that Mr. Towtnend's than will be from envy; — bs 
will soon know mankind well enough not to attribute this expression Is 
malice. 

The shove note was written before the author was apprised of Mr 
Cumbarlaud's death. 



434 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



While varying man and varying years unfold 
Life's little taie so oft, so vainly told. 
Observe his simple childhood's dawning days, 
Hi-; pranks, his prate, his playmates, and Ins plays; 
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans, 
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens ! 

Behold him freshman ! forced no more to groan 
O'er * Virgil's devilish verses and his own, 
Prayers are too tedious, lectu/es too abstrti i 
He flies from T — v — l's frown to" Fordhams Mews ;" 
( Unlucky T — v — 1 ! doom'd to daily cares 
By pugilistic pupils and by bearsf,) 
Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain, 
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash, 
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
Constant to nought — save hazard and a whore, 
Yet cursing both — for both have made him sore ; 
Unread (unless, since books beguile disease, 
The p — x becomes his passage to degrees); 
Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes Ins term away 
And, uncxpcll'd perhaps, retires M. A. ; 
Master of arts ! as hells and clubs* proclaim, 
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name ! 

Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire, 
He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank, 
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bonk ; 
Sits in the senate ; gets a son and heir ; 
Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
Mute, though he votes, unless when eall'd to cheer. 
His son's so sharp — lie '11 see the dog a oeer ! 

Manhood declines — age palsies every limit ; 
He quits the scene — or else the scene quits him ; 
Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, 
And avarice seizes all amhition leaves ; 
Counts cent, per cent., and smiles, or vainly frets, 
O'er hoards diminish'd by young Hopeful's debts; 
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, 
Complete in all life's lessons — but to die ; 
Pee* ish and spiteful, doting, hard to please, 
Commending every time, save times like these ; 
' 'razed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot, 
Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot ! 

Hut from the drama let me not. digress, 
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. 

Si plausoris e?es aulrra manentis, et usque 
Be Biiri, donee cantor, Voa plaudits, dicat ; 
vTiaiis cujusque notandl mini tibi mores, 
Mohilihiisque decor natnris dandua et annls. 
Reddere qui voces jam scil puer, el pede certo 
9ignai humum; lthim paribus cotludere, et iram 
Colligil ac ponit temere, et mutator in hors 

Imberbis juvenia, tandem custode remote, 

Gaudet eguis canibusqus, <•' aprici gjai i campi; 

''-nMis in vitium flcctl, n torlbus :i-per, 

UtHium tardus provj i r, pradigus reri*. 
SuWimis, ciipidusque, et amats relinquere pernlx, 

Conversis studiis, Bias anfmusqne virilia 
Qirerit oprs, el emtcltfas, Inservli !; mori ; 
Commisiase cavet qund mm mutare laboreL 

Mulia senem convenlunl incommoda ; vel quod 



* FI*rvrv, the rireulnlnr of the ri'culntinn of ll»' Mood, 

»wny Virgil in lii» eCRlacy of admiration and wr, "the book hud ideTlI." 

Now, »uch o character u I am copying we 

*!■... but rather wian tluti ihe devil had ilic book ; not ft 

to ibe poet, but n well-founded horror <>r hexameter*. Indeed the poblie 

■ehool iH'innre of " Ion* and t" Ik enough to bq I 

|K*trv fur the residue of a man's HA), Inr limy be an ad- 

ranlagr. 

t " lnfnndnm, ri'gind, Jul I ■ ■■ ' I ■ ■" ** v "E". 

T— *— 1 (io whom I ' ■ ■■■ 1 iii<- : and it " no 

maiW whether nnv one el** dotl or no. —To llie itlm»e event*. " queque 
Ipse miwrnma vidl, et quorum ymr* initgna fui," all timet and tcrmi I ear 
teilim-niv, 

t " Bell," «■ gn.mlnff'BOUM so relied, where you risk little, and we 
etienledagnoddetd. " Club," a i>ln\s«nt pureolory, where you low more, 
*od we not sutipocet) to be cheatud at all 



Though women weep, and hardest hearts are su'iVd, 
When whal is dons is rather leen than heard, 
Yet ma < rved in history's page 

Are better told than acted on the stage ; 

ks the timid eye, 
And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
True Briton all beside, I here am P'rench — 
Bl'jod^ied 't is surely better to retrench ; 
The gladiatorial gore we teach to Mow 
In tragic set ne disgusts, though but in show. 
We bate the carnage while we see the trick, 
And hnd small sympathy in being sick, 
Not on tl i regicide Macbeth 

Appals an audience with a monarch's death T 
To gaze when salt!'' Hubert threats to sear 
Young Arthurs eyes, can ours, or nature bear ? 
A *haherM heroine Johnson Bought to -lay — 
We saved [n ne, but halfdamn'd the play. 
And (Heaven I"- praised ') our tolerating times 
Si mi metamorphoses to pantomimes, 
And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would quake 
To change Earl Osmonds negro to a snake ! 
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief, 
We loathe the action which exct eds belief: 
And yet, God knows ! what may not authors do, 
Whose postcripts prate of dyeing " heroines blue ?"* 

Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can, 
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man \ 
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
Of all the monstrous things I VI fain forbid, 
I li.riflu' an >>\u-r:i worse than Dennis did ; 

Where good and ■ ril persons, right or wrong, 

l; ige, love, and aught but moralize, in song. 

Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends 

\\ huh (iaul allows, and still Hrspcria lends ! 

Napoleon's edicts no embargo 

On whores, spies, singers, wisely shipp'd away. 

Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 

Where rustics earn'd, ami now may beg, their bread; 

In all, iniquity is grown so nice, 

It scorns amusements which are not of price. 

Hence the perl shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 

Aches with orchestras which he pay/a to hear, 

Whom shame, nol sympathy, forbids to snore, 

His anguish doubling by his own " encore ;" 

Squeezed in " Fop's Alley," jn-.tt.-d by the beaux, 
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes ; 

Qurrrit, et inventjs misi ' ftbsl m t, SC timet uti ; 

Y.-l i| ) res orrmea limide srelideque oninistrai, 

Dilator, epe longus, iners, avidusque fiuurij 
Diffi cilia, qua>rulus, laudator temporie acii 
9i pue< o, cs itisj iter cens r |ue i iinorum. 
Mull i feruni annl veniente i ■ romods tecum, 

Multa recedenti mi I v forte seniles 

Mandenturju enl parte , pueroq 

Sempei I b'um n ■■■'■■ u " , ■ rabimur nptis. 

Ant agftnr res In scenis, aui seta refertur. 
Pegniua irritant anlmos demissa per aurem 
Quam niiae sunt nculi ellbus, et qua 

Ipsa Mb! iradii spectator Non tamen [ntua 
Dlgna gerl, promes in acenam ; tnultaque miles 
F.x oculis, qua: mox narrei facundia prsssens* 
.% , | . . i ■ . ■ i . ■ ■ i i ■ | ; i : i m 
Am humans palam coquai exta nefariua Atrens; 

Aut in ayem P ne vt n nur, Ca Imua in nnetiem. 

Q,uodcunque 01 tendie mihl Ic Incn dulu 

Neve minor, neu ail qidntu productior actU 
Fabula, qua poacl vult, el spectata reponl. 
Nee Dens inter it. nisi oignua rlndice nodus 
I ■ N rit. + * * 



* " Irene hml to ipMa two linM wilh the bowunnf nxuMl lirr nock: 
:.-.!, ml • Munlrr!' inn! die was obligtd to be earned off 
the siaer."— Bati'c.'l't Lift of Jnkiuan. 

■ ■ it grlpl ' ' M- Lcwti iflln u*. th» 

thoiieli l.larks were unknown in Bnjdtnd ai llil period ofhli action.jeth* 
hrut nifule the nnachroiiitni lo set off the *crne . and if he could ha»e pro 
rlnr.-il the effect " by milking hi* heroine blue" — 1 quote him — " bin* h« 
would have madt hir 1" 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



435 



Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease 
Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release ; 
Why tins, and more, he suffers — can ye guess?— 
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress ! 

So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools 
Give us but fiddlers, and they 're sure of fools ! 
Ere scenes were play'd by many a reverend clerk* 
( What harm, if David danced before the ark 7) 
In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
Were pleas'd with morric^-mumm'ry and coarse jokes. 
Improving yeans, with things no longer known, 
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan, 
Who still frisk od with feats so lewdly low, 
'T is strange Benvolio surfers such a show ;f 
Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives place, 
Oaths, boxing, begging, — all, save rout and race. 

Farce follow'd Comedy, and reachVl her prime 
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time ; 
Mad wag ! who pardon'd none, nor spared the best 
And tum'd some very serious things to jest. 
Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers, 
Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers: 
" Alas, poor Yorick !" now for ever mute ! 
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 

We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, 
When " Chrouonhotonthologos must die," 
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 

Moschus ! with whom once mo're I hope to sit 
And smile at folly, if we can 't at wit ; 
Yes, friend ! for thee I '11 quit my cynic cell, 
And bear Swift's motto " Vive la bagatelle !" 
Whirh charm'd our days in each j^Egean clime, 
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. 
Then may Fuphrosyne, who sped the past, 
Soothe thy life's scene's, nor leave thee in the last ; 
But find in thine, like pagan JPIato's bed, 
Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 

Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes, 
Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies ; 
Corruption fbil'd her, for she fear'd her glance ; 
Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 
Yet §Chcsterfield, whose polish'd pen inveighs 
'Gainst laughter, f night for freedom to our plays ; 
Uncherk'd by megrims of patrician brains, 
And damning dulness of lord chamberlains. 
Repeal that act ! again let Humour roam 
Wild o'er tin- sia^f — we Ye time for tears at home ; 
Let " Archer" plant the horns on " Sullen'a" brows, 
And " Estifania" gull her " Copper||" spouse ; 

Ex nolo Actum carmen sequar, ut sibi quivia 
Spertt i rm: sudei multini, fiustraque laboret 
Ausus idem : taniurn series juncturaque pollet ; 
Tan tum fie medio sumtia arce it honoris. 

Sii.i deduct! caveant, mejudice, Fauni, 
Ne velm Inmttl triviis, ac pene forenae3, 
Aut minium teneria juvenentur versibus unquam, 
Am iininun la crepent, ignominioaa |ue dicta. 
OfTendantur enim, mibus est equus, et pater, et res: 
Nee. si quid fricti ciceria probat et nucis emtor, 



' " The first thcatriral rCpnawntAtioni, entilvM ' Mysteries and Mornl- 
Hies,' were generally i n u •■■■'. al « hrutmas, bv nunfca (aa the only |*r- 
■ons who i by ■"! Kodenli of the 

P .i Coteaiia, 
Faith, Vice," ft«. fcc.— Vidt Warton't Hittc i I ' Pewfry. 

r Benvo [every man who maininina racO'floreea ie a 

E remoter of ail the ooncoraiiani evils ol the turf. Avoiding to bet ii a 
tile |iIi,mi« ii, ;ii. i 1 ihin n I i never yet heard 

e bawd prnlied for dmettiy because iA«A«r*eJfrild nol eommll fa 

* Unnei Plato'a pill m t volume of the Mimes of Sopliron was found 

the day he iled.— Vide Bar tWkmi, De Paiiv,or Diogentt bwtiitt, 

fnfire.ni ile. He Pnuw eelta u » jest > ■ciok.— Cumberland, iii hia Obaerver, 

Icbtm it moral, like the eaying? of "P 

5 Hi* »peech o» the licanaing -v-ct ir one of nil moat eloquent i-ftm-ia. 

II Michael Perec, the " Cuuuer Captain," in '* Rule a Wile and have a 



The morals scant — but that may be excused, 

Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 

He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 

Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill ; 

Ay, but Macheath's example — psha! — no more ! 

It form'd no thieves — the thief was form'd before 

And spite of puritans and Collier's curse,* 

Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 

Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men ! 

Nor burn damn'd Drury if it rise again. 

But why to hrain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal ! 

Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal 1 ? 

For times of fire and faggot let them hope , 

Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 

As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 

So would new sects on newer victims gaze. 

E'en now the songs of Solyma begin ; 

Faith cants, perplex'd apologist of sin! 

While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves, 

And Simeon kicks where f Baxter only " shoves." 

Whom nature guides, so writes, that every dunce, 
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once ; 
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails, 
And twenty scattered quires, the coxcomb fails. 

Let pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope ? 
Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind, 
For art too rude, for nature too refined, 
Instruct how hard the medium 't is to hit 
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 

A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste ; 
The dirty language, and the noisome jest, 
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest, 
Proscribed not only in the world polite, 
But even too nasty for a city knight ! 

Peace to Swift's faults ! his wit hath made them pass, 
Unmatched by all, save matchless Hudibras! 
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet, 
Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet; 
Nor less in merit than the longer line, 
This measure moves a favourite of the Nine. 
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious strain, 
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late 
This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight, 
And, varied skilfully, surpasses far 
Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war, 
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, 
Are curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 

JCquis accipiunt animis, donantve corona. 

Syllaba tonga brevj subjecta, vocatur iambus, 
Pes cUus : unde etiam irimeins accrescere jussit 
Nomen iambeis, cum aenoa rerlderet ictus, 
Trimus ad extrtsmum Blmilia slbi : non ita pridem, 
Tardier ut paulo graviorque veniretad aures, 
Spondeos stabiles injurs paterna recepit 
Commodus et paiiens ; nnn ut de sede secundi 
Cederet aut quarta socialiter Hie et in Acci 
Nobilibus trimetria apparel rarua, et Enni. 
In see nam miasofl magno cum pondere versus, 
Aut operT celeris nimi m, cura uie carentis, 
Aut i gnomt a» premit artis crimine turpi. 

Non quivia videt imm dulata poemata judex ; 
Etdata Romania venia eai indigi a poetis. 
Idcircone vager, scribamque licenter ? an omnes 



* Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, StQ. on the subject of the 
too well known to require further conununt. 

t " Baxter's Shove to htuvy- 1 — d Christiana." The veritable title of 
a booh once In sood rejiiile, and likelv enough to be - seam. — Mr. Simeon 
is the very bully of hetiefa, and CMugator of " gm arorin," He i* bUt 
aupportwi '>v John Btti kla-, a labourer In the «m >neyirvj : — but l my 
no more, for according to Juhnny in full cougrt Jon, " iVo hopet for 
ihema* laughn." 



436 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



But many a skilful judge abhors to see, 
What few admire — irregularity. 
This some vouchsafe tu pardon ; but 't is hard 
"When such a word contents a British bard. 

And must the bard his glowing thoughts confine, 
Lest censure hover o'er some faulty Line .' 
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect. 
To gain the paltry suffrage of" corrcctl" 
Or prune the spirit of each darinu phrase, 
To fly from error, not to merit praise ? 

Ye who seek finislul models, never cease, 
By day and night, to read the works fit" Greece. 
But our good fathers never bent their brains 
To heathen Greek, content with native strains. 
The few who read a page, or used a pen, 
Were satisfied with Chaucer anil old Ben ; 
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
Were quaint and careless, any tiling but chaste; 
Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules, 
It will not do to call our fathers Ebola ! 
Though you and I, who eruditely know 
To separate the elegant and low, 
Can also, when a hobbling line appears, 
Detect with fingers in default of ears. 

In sooth I do not know or greatly caro 
To learn, who our first English strollers were ; 
Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art, 
Our muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart. 
But thiy is certain, since our Shakspcare's days, 
There's pomp enough, if little else, in plays ; 
Nnr will Melpomene ascend her throne 
Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone. 

Old comedies still meet with much applause, 
Though too licentious for dramatic laws : 
At least, we modems, wisely, 't is confest, 
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 

Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside, 
Our enterprising bards pass nought untried; 
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
An English subject for an English inn > . 
And leave to minds which never dare invent 
French flippancy and German sentiment. 
Where is that living language which could claim 
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame, 
If all our bards, more patient of delay, 
Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way ? 

Viauros peccata putem mea; tutus, si intra 

Spem veni;e r;imus ? vitavi ilmnine rnlp;im, 
Non laudem mcrui. Vos exemplaria Graca 
Nocturna versale manu, versaie rliurna. 

At vestr] proavi Plautinoa et numeros el 
Laudavere sales ; nimium paiienter ulrumque, 
Ne dicarn smite, miraii -, si modo ego - 

Sri in us inurbanum lepido acponere d 

Legltimumqi i soi um disitis callemua cl aure. 

Ill mil urn ! lE/IC B ._ ■ ■ r i u ■- nr i in r t amen IB 

Dlcttur, et plaustria rexie e pui mala Th 
Qua? canen nl aserentque peruncti fceclbusora 

Poai nunc pei ■-■■• repertor \ I b 

/V.sehyliirt, - avil pulpits tisnts, 

Et docuil megnumaue loqui, nitique cothurno. 

Successit vetus hi- multa 

L&ude ; sed in vitium libei ■ 61 vim 

Dignam le?eregi ; lei pta, chorusque 
Turpitei obtii int, subl ito jut cendJ. 

Nil inientatum nosn i l quere poets ; 
Nee minimum meruen decus, vestigia Gncca 
Aussi deserere, * i celebi are rJomi Ll< b facts ; 
Vel qui pratextas, vel qui docuere logataa. 
Nee virtme Ibretclarisve potemiue armis. 
Quam lingua, Latin m, i i non offenderet iinum- 
quemque poi tarum limrr labor, et mora. Vos. ft 
PompiJlua sanguis", carmen reprehendite, (juud non 
Multa riiea ei niuitH litura coercult, atque 
Pneacctmn dcrles run custigerlt ud ungueui. 



Lords of the quid, whose critical assaults 
I I'erthrow v. bole quartos with their quires of faults, 
Who 'T we fail, 

And prove our marble with too Dice a nail ! 
I lemocr tua himself was Dot so bad | 
He only thought, but you would make, us mad ! 

But, truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
Against that ridicule they deem so bard ; 

In person n ■ ■ _■ ! i _- ■■ m 1 , ■ ■ m sloth, 

it nails of annuel growth , 

hi gai rets, fly I m i they meet, 
And walk in alleys, rather than the street. 

With tilth- rhyme, less reason, if you phase, 
The name of poet may be got with ease, 
So thai not tuns of hclleboric juice 
Shall ever turn your head to any use : 
Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a lake, 
And keep your bushy lochs a year from Blake* , 
Then print your book, once more return to town, 
And boys shall hunt your hardship up and down. 

Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight, 
To purge in spring (like Bayes) before I write 9 

If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 
I know no scribbler with a madder style ; 
But since (perhaps my feelings are loo nice) 
I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
I 'II labour gratis as a grinder's wheel, 
And, blunt myself, give edge to others 1 steel, 
Nor write at all, unless to teach the art 
To those rehearsing fur the poet's part ; 
From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, 
And from my own example, what is wrong. 

Though modern practice differs quite, 

'Tia just as well to think before you wilts ; 
Lei every book that suits your theme be read. 
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 

He who has learnt the duty which he owes 
To friend and country, and to pardon foes ; 
Who models his deportment as may best 
Arrm-d u ith brother, sire, 01 stranger guesl 1 

Who takes our laws and worship as they are, 
Nor roars reform for senate, church, and bar ; 
In practice, rather than loud pn cept, wise, 
Bids nol his tongue, bul heart, philosophise ; 
Such is the man the poel should rehi 
As joint exemplar of his Life and verse. 

I.- Bnhim i ■- ■ tunstlus arte 

Credit, el e rclm ii ■■ anoa Helicone p 

Demoi riti I na pai non ui ue | ire curat 

N.-n barbam ■ si creta petii loca, haloes vital. 
Nat ciscetui pn 

Si tribi i uam 

i 

Q_Ul p ■ 

Non alius facer I m rum 

.mm 
Reddei e qua: fei rum • del, t i b< andi : 

Munu ■ ei officiumj nil sn I 

: i mi tque postern ; 

<^ | non ; quo virtus, nuo feral error. 

Scrll ' pore est et pi Incipium ei fons. 

Rem tiiii Sot i re charm : 

: mi n tu non Im Eta Bequemur. 
Qui d mJcIs ; 

Quo ii am i idus, et hospes; 

1 1 ■. cium; qua 

Partes in b ilium mlssi dui i . Ille profecto 
Reddei b persom iscil i uique. 

H,. .,,.. ere i i ■ an i ; "' inhebo 

Doctum imil torem, el vivas hlnc iiuccre voces. 

Interdum t i iosa loci , moi n tque recie 



Ai feflioai ii tonaor iwMdlllli hfmaelf, and helterpaiil,oiid may, llltt 
him, Iw one tit v I Ni -hllcaiiof tlitui uou Unit iA 

tbt heaJi he erupt, fblj— Uldap«n«wnt». 



Hints from Horace. 



437 



Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told, 
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold 
A longer empire o'er the public mind 
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 

Unhappy Greece ! thy sons of ancient days 
The muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 
Whos.- generous children narrow'd not their hearts 
With commerce, given alone to arms and art-?. 
Our boys (save those whom public schools compel 
To •■ long and short" before they're taught to spell) 
From frugal lathers soon imbibe by rote, 
11 A penny saved, my lad, 'a a penny got." 
Babe of a city birth ! from sixpence take 
Two thirds, how much will the remainder make?— 
" A groat." — " Ah, bravo ! Dick hath done the sum ! 
He 'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 

They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 
'Tis clear, are fit for any thing hut rhymes ; 
And Locke will tell you, that the father's right 
Who hides all verses from his children's sight ; 
For poets (says this sage, and many more*,) 
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore ; 
And Delphi now, however rich of old, 
Discovers little silver and less gold, 
Because Parnassus, though a mount divine, 
Is poor as Irusi, or an Irish minej. 

Two objects always should the poet move, 
Or one or both, — to please or to improve. 
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
For our remembrance your didactic line ; 
Redundance places memory on the rack, 
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 

Fiction does best when taught to look like truth, 
And fairy fables bubble none but youth : 
Expect no credit for too wond'rous tales, 
Since Jonas only springs alive from whales! 

Young men with aught but elegance dispense 
Maturer years require a little sense. 
'I 'o end at once: — that bard for all is fit 
Who mingles well instruction with his wit ; 

Fabula, millius veneris, sine pondere et arte, 
Valdiua oblectat poptilum, melius |ue moratur, 
Quam versus inopea rerum nug i que canorae. 

Grand ingenium, Graiis de lit ore rotundo 
Musa loijui, prsier laudem uullius avaris. 
Romani pueri longis raiionibus assi m 
! i mm itiducere : dicat 

Films Albiui, 3i de quincum 

Uncia. quid auperat; poterat dixisse — Triens. Eu ! 
Rem p leris sen are tuam. Redii uncia : quid fit? 
Semis. An htec animos aerugo et cura peculi 
Cum semei imbuerit, aperamus carmina fingi 
Posse lin -iula cedro, ei [evi servanda cupresso ? 

Aui prodesse volunt, 
Aui Bimul etjucunda et idonea dicera vine, 
Quid. unit pr ecipies, esto brevis : ut cito dicta 
Percipi&m animi dociles, tetieantque fidi 
Omne eupei i acuum pi mo de pei tore manat. 

Ficta vul tpiaois causa, aim proxima veria : 
Nee, quodcunque volet, poBCat sibi fabula credi : 
Neu pranss Lami e vivum puerum extra hat alvo. 

Ceniuri e semorum agiiant expertia frugls: 
Celsi prstereuni austera poemaia Rhamnea. 
Omne tulit punctual, qui iniscuit utile dulcl, 
Lectorem deli c ando, pariter pie monendo. 
Hie merei sera liber Susiis ; uic et mare transit, 



* I hare not the original by mi?, hut Hie Italian IriuiBlnlion rum as fol- 
lows: — " E una cuia a mJo credere pule, che uu pndre- 
deaideri, o permit ui, che sno figliuolo col tin c perTesi joi queato talento.*" 

A hull.- further on ! tie ered'oroe 

d' argemo." — Educaziont dei Fancivlli dal Sign r Locke. Venetian 
$diiwn. 

t -'In* pauperior :" th&Ei tbeaimt ixed witliUlyeseR Tor 

I pound uf kid's fry, Which he lost, and hull a (Wen IcetU uenides. — Sp 
Qdytiey, b. IS. 

I The Irish (told mine of WlcklaW, which yield* ]u»l ore enough lo 
twear by or gild a bad gulue*. 



For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erflow 
The patronage of Paternoster-row ; 
His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass 
(Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass); 
Through three long weeks the taste of London lead, 
And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 

But every ihing has faults, nor is 't unknown 
That harps ami fiddles often lose their tone, 
And wayward voices, at their owner's call 
With all his best endeavours, only squall ; 
Dogs blink their cover, Mints withhold their spark, 
And double-barrels (damn them!) miss their mark*. 

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view 
We must not quarrel for a blot or two ; 
But pardon equally to books or men, 
The slips of human nature, and the pen. 

Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 
Despises all advice too much to mend, 
But ever twangs the same discordant string, 
Give him no quarter, howso'er he sing. 
Let *Havard's fate o'ertake him, who, for once 
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : 
At first none deem'd it his, but when his name 
Announced the fact — what then? — it lost its famo. 
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, 
In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 

As pictures, so shall poems be ; some stand 
The critic eye, and please when near at hand ; 
But others at a distance strike the sight ; 
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, 
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, 
But, ten times scrutinized, is ten times new. 

Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance or choice 
Hath led to listen to the muse's voice, 
Receive this counsel, and be timely wise ; 
Few reach the summit which before you lies. 
Our church and state, our courts and camps, concede 
Reward to very moderate heads indeed ! 
In these plain common sense will travel far; 
All are not Erskin.es who mislead the bar : 

Et (ongurrj nolo scriptori prorogat <evum. 

Sunt delicta lamen, quibus isniovisse velimus , 
IS'ani neque chorda son urn reddit quern vult man us et 

mens, 
Poscentique {rravem persaspe remtttit acutum ; 
JVec semper feriet quodcunque minahitur arcus. 
Veiuni ubi plura n tenl in carmine, non ego paucis 
Offendar maculis, quas aui in curia fudit, 
Aut humana pavum cavit natura. Quid ergo ? 
Ut scriptor si peccat idem Mbrarius usque, 
Quamvia esi monitus, venia caret ; ut citharcedus 
Ridetur. chorda qui semper oberrat eadem : 
Sic milii, ipii multutn ccssat lit Cho-rilus ille, 
Quern bis tervc bonum cum risu miror ; et idem 
Indignor, quandoque bonus dormiiat Homerus 
Verum operi longo fas est <>brepere snmnum. 

Ut picture, poesis : erll quae, si propius stes, 
Te capiet magis ; el qua dam, si longius abstes : 
H.cc .'im. it I'ti.-riirnin ; vn|,-t h.n- sub luce videri, 
Judicis argutum qua; non formidai acumen : 
Htc placuti semel ; hasc deci s repetita placebit. 

O major juvenum, quamvis el voce paterna 
Fingeris ad rectum, el per te sapis ; hoc tibi dictum 
Tolle memor : certifl medium et tolerabile rebus 
Recte concedi : consultns juris, et actor 
Causarum mc Morris abest virtuic iMserti 
Messal^P, nee sat quantum Ca-selliua Aulus : 
Sed tamen in pretio est : mediocribus esse poetis 
Non homines, non df, non concessere columns. 



* As Mr. Pope look th.' Ill ■ ; Homer, to whom he w«i 

under great obOgationa— " A a ■ ■■< him!) calW'—'ti may be 

presumed that any body or any thine; may be damned inverse by poetical 
Ui enee , and, in case of accident, I ("■■.• I.uve lo plead so illuBiii-.us a pre- 
cedent. 

f For the >lory of Billy Hnvnrd's irn^fdv, nee " Onries'i Life of Gar- 
rick." I belian flU " Reg Charlu Se Pirai." — Thu moment 
it urai known to be In- the ibeatn thinned, uud tU bookseller ltd lied m 
pre the cuatomary turn for the coi>rri£M. 



438 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



But poesy between the best and worst 

No medium knows ; you must be last or first : 

For middling poets' miserable volumes. 

Arc damn'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 

Again, my Jeffrey ! — as that sound inspires, 
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires! 
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel, 
When Southrons writhe upon their critic 
Or mild Eclectics*, when some, worse ihan Turks, 
Would rob poor Faith to decorate " good works " 
Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim 
My falcon ni>_s not at i tumble »ame. 
Mightiest of all Duneihn's beast of chase ! 
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 
Arise, my Jeffrey ! or my inklcss pen 
Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men; 
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
Alas ! 1 cannot " strike at wretched kernes." 
Inhuman Saxon ! will thou then resign 
A muse and heart by choice so wholly thine ? 
1 'i .ii . <1 — d contemner of my schoolboy songs, 
Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's wrongs? 
[f unprovoked thou once couldsf bid mi I 
Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed ? 
What ! not a word ! — and am I then so low ? 
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe f 
Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent ? 
No wits for nobles, dunces by descent? 
No jest on " minors," quibbles on a name, 
Nor one facetious paragraph of blame s 
Is it for this on I lion I have stood, 

And thought of Homer Less than Holyrood ? 

On shore of Euxirn' <<r /K->:ni : 'M, 

My hate untravclTd, fondly turned to thee. 

Ah ! let me cease ; tn vain my bosom burns, 

From Corydon unkind Alcxisf turns: 

Thy rhymes are vain ; thy Jeffrey then forego, 

Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 

Ul gralas inter mensas symphonia discofs, 

El crassum unguentum, et Sanlo cum melie papaver 

Offend ot, poteraiduci quia ccena sine istia 

Sic anion's natum invent urn |ue poema juvandts, 

Si paulum a au o decessit, vergit ad imum. 

Lud<-re tiui nescit, campestriUus abstinet armia, 
tndoctuaque pilx, discive, trochive, quiescit, 
Ne apiasaa risum tollant impune corona*: 
Qui nescit, versus tamen .unlet Sngere !— Quid ni ? 
Liber et ingenuus prssertim cenaua e iue itrem 
Bummam numtnorum, vitioque n motua ab omnl. 
Tu nihil tnvita dices facieave Minerva : 

lil tibi judicium est, e i . •> quid tamen olim 

Scripsei'ia, in Metii descendant judii ia aures, 

Et patria, ei nostraa, nonunique prematui In annum 

Membrania intu posilis, deiere licel il 

Qiimi non eiliiiens ; n. ■.-' it v ><\ mi ;i revertt. 

Bylvi sires homines sacer inti rpresque deorum 

Casdibus et victu fedo deten nil Orpheus : 



" To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewer* I have l turn thanks tor 

(he fervour of that chsxily which tn 1 i ' 

that ■ thing then published by me iriieht Iced to cert 

which, although natural enough, surely came but i i 

\ip». I red 

selves on the prospect of a liK between Mi I Irei ind mj 

1 jn* '"" , 
on the has in. ■ years and » hall ' 

which they were kin By preparing to review, I hive no 

fire them "to Joyful a li cnmpulsxw, 

■ 
■word and emi fighting," we " won't run, will we. Su I 
nut kn.-.w whitt I ' ' '""' nivwnrtllh! 

Lheirlawl like Act'. 1 1 It should seem 

meet unto ll em ; bul wl t if i y ihould be in ■ II off their 

author, I am Ignorant. '''The race Ll not always <" < 1 "' rwlft, "'"' the 
, . " ;,,„! now, as then Christians have " smote me on 

i thei and in 

repes tins them. Had ant othei 
. I such sentlmen'ta, 1 should nave emlled, and left I i 
n ,',.,.,,, ii, | . n»el," bul from the pharisees of Christianity di et 

oe expected. 1 can assure these brethren, ilmi. puhlloan ana t ir ai t 

am, I would nol havi Lrewb A i i Loglhui I 

the superiority ufmy brother I v I- ■ v . ii .\<- 1 1-,- I.Yv.-m'm 
or Rnmsdi'u ihould I* engserd in such ft coufl.ct n« Una In which tlwy re 
queslH inr t., I.,tl. I I...I- " '"I, Unit;" « illgsd" QOll 

■ ,, ..i . i ii.-avrndr may he at hand to rxtrnctthe ball. 
• alium, si M bic EesuJdU, Alexin. 



What then ? — Edina starves some lanker son, 
To write an article then canst not shun: 
Some less fastidious Scon hman shall be found, 
As bold in Billingsgate, though less icnown'd. 

As if at fable some discordant dish 
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish , 
As oil in Yu a of butter men decry, 

Anil p'lppies please not in a modern pie; 

li i mixtures then be half a crime, 

We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 

A I. ist and boil'd no epicure invites ; 

Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun ; 
Will he "ho swims not to the river run ? 
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks 
Musi go to Jackson ere they dare to box. 
Whate'ei the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, 
None reach ezpertnees without years of toil, 
But fifty dunces can, frith perfect I 
Tag twenty thousand couplets when tbey please. 
Why not ' — shall 1, thus quali6ed to sit 
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit ? 
Shall 1. w hose fathers h ith the quorum sate, 
And lived in freedom on a fair estate ; 
Who li li tin heir, with stables, kennels, packs, 
To all their income, and to twice its true; 
Whose firm and pedigree have scarce a fault, 
Shall I, I say, suppress my attic salt? 

Thus think " the mob of gentlemen ; w but you, 
I' ides all this, must have .some genius too. 
1 te this your sober judgment, and a rule, 
And prim nut piping hoi from Suiithry's school, 
Who (ere another Thalaba appears), 
I trust, will spare us for at li a (I nine ft are. 
rk'ye, Southey* ! pray — but don 1 ! I 
Burn all your last three works — and half the next. 



• Mr. Southey hns lately tied another ranbrtar to hn tail in the "Cure* 
of Ktshama," maoere the neglect ol nladoc,w.c M and has n emu Lnstancsj 

bad a w Serful effect. A literary friend i mine, walking oat em >ovely 

svenlngjael summer, on the i theft i canal «u 

oouvstad a 
u,s ..ii butiermUli in an ■ 
procurcfi three i iki 

referena) pulled om — In- own publlsl I 

lor ever, an I quai to ^ hi rea 

been Mr. Southi r*s last went. Its 

.i . 

thouch some maintain thai it i* ul til n Milerman 

Birch's pastry | I may, the coroner'» in- 

ehi in u verdict ol " Pelo de bibUopola" against a "quarto 

unknown ; i clrcumstsmtln] evidence beinf 

11 Cut se of fCe na" (of which the sbi ,,■,,..,. 

it will be tried I | \m peen neal sa i m, in Gnih ilreel.— Arth i 

1 ■ . i i i . I, Calvary, 

Pall i Siege ol tore, Don Rodi > ii k, and Tom Thumb lua 

twelve Jurors, The Judges ore Pyc, Bowles, 

and the i - llman of Ki I ■ idvocatae, pro •'"'^ f°». 

will be empli ved as are dow ''i b iged in Sir F. B iled cause 

in il.. Scotch courts, The pul l.. sni sly await Ute result, ami all Uvs 

pu! liehers will be suhpeened 
Bul Mr Sou the) has published lbs Ci '''■■■ utiivithisj 

Keotl aad Caiup- 

bell, ana ne !,..■■■ 

them, ni the Edinburgh Ann :-<"uihey ia 

ed ) " the grand poetical ' B on second 

: )< ndera of 

in ■ .■[.■» thirty 

.. .!.—.■ ■ ! 1 1 1 1 1 pool Bouthey's unssuV 

1 j . . ' , . i tbll potttceJ 

triumvirate. I am only BUT] I m lUCfa guod company. 

r rnre, 

...i.i how the devil 'ir cam i 

1 ■■ I (i- .1 in it..' Mvi, ■ Euclid : " Because, 

esOBi LCB,D and Bl eomoa d 

DB, BC, LC, OB, each to each, and 

■ 1 1] . hsuM lit' i» equal 

: .. . 

"■■ i* B, the kc< — Thaeditovoi 

i i. ' . ..urn bard by his 

..li to cross the river; 'tis lie lii»i tumpuio t' uUier 

■ .in,'" 



* This Lata hu sorelv nuttled the I niversltyof Edinburgh, H;.Uan- 

Bridgi ■! Bti ■ I il : " sy rimmed it 

a» half KiirIi-.Ii ; Scott swore it WES the " Brig O 1 Stli ling ;" he hud Just 

1 ..!,:...:. 1 1 sjaases over It. At laat it waa 

asi ided by Jeffrey i thing own dm Lass than the " count* 

ol Aichy CouiloLils's ■liou." 



HINTS FROM HORACE 



439 



But why this vain advice ? once published, books 
Can never be recall'd — from pastry cooks! 
Though " Madoc," with " Pucelle*," instead of Punch. 
May travel back to Quito on a trunkt ! 

Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
Led all wild beasts but women by ihc ear ; 
And had he fiddled at the present hour, 
We 'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower; 
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then, 
Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
Did more than constables to keep the peace ; 
Abolislfd cuckoMMin with much applause, 
Call'd county meetings, and enforced the laws, 
Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes, 
And served the church without demanding tithes ; 
And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
Each poet was a prophet and a priest, 
\\'l!'»se old-establish'd board of joint controls 
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 

Next rose the martial Homer, epic's prince, 
And fighting 's been in fashion ever since ; 
And old TyrtjEus, when the Spartans warr'd, 
(A limping leader, but a lofy bard,) 
Though wall'd Iihoine had resisted long 
Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 

When oracles prevail'd, in times of old, 
In song alone Apollo's will was told. 
Then if your verse is what all verse should be, 
And gods were not ashamed on 't, why should we ? 

The muse, like mortal females, may be woo'd ; 
In turns she 'II seem a Paphian or a prude ; 
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright, 
Mild as the same upon the second night ; 
Wild as the wife of alderman or peer, 
Now for his grace, and now a grenadier ! 
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone, 
Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 

If verse be studied with some show of art, 
Kind Nature always will perform her part 
Though without genius, and a native vein 
Of wit, we loalhc an artificial strain ; 
Yet art and nature join'd will win the prize, 
Unless they act like us and our allies. 

Dirt's ob hoc lenire tiirres, rabidnsque leones ; 
Dictna ct Amphion, ThebansB conditor arn^, 
Sax;i movere s-tno usiudints, et prece blamia 
Ducere quo vellet : fuit hmc snp ; entia quondam, 
Publira privatis serernfre ; aacra p nfanra; 
Concubitu prohiberc rago; dare jura mantis; 
Oppidii moliri; leges incidere ligno. 
Sic donor el nomen dtvinis vatibua atflne 
Carminibiis renit. Post Yw* insignia Homerus 
Tyrfpusque mar^s animn- in Marti a nella 
■Versibus exacuit ; dicta; per carmina sortea :' 
Ei vie e monstraia via est : et gratia regum 
Pieriis tentain modis : lodusque repertus, 
Et Inngorum operum Boia : ne forte pudori 
Bit mih MEuea lyrae bo I era, et cantor Apollo. 
N itnra Beret iamlabile carmen, an arte, 
Quajsitum est: ego nee sunburn sine divite vena, 
Nee rude quid prosit video ingenium ; alterius sic 
Altera poacit opem res, etconjurat amice. 
Qui ludet optat hi c irsu contingere metam, 
Malta tulit fecit |ue puer ; sudavii el alsil ; 
AbKiooit Venere ei vino: qui Pythiacantal 
Tibicen, didicit pri is, extimuitque magistrum. 
Nunc satia est dixisse : ego mira poemata pango : 
Occupet extremui'i i hi lurpe relinqui eat, 

Et, quod non didici, sane nescire fated. 



* Volttdre's " Pucelle" U nol quite so immaculate as Mr. Sou t hey \ 
»• Joan of Arc," and yet f am afraal the Frenchman has holh more innh 
and |*ifirv ton on hi* side — (they rarely go loeether) — than our patriotic 
mmaiivl, whose h-sl essay was in praise of a fanatical French strumpet, 
whme Irtle of wild) would be correct with the change of the first letter. 

* Like Sir B. Rurgera's Richard, the tenth book ot which I read at 
Malta, on a trunk of Eyres, 19, Coclupur-eUMU If this be doubted, I 
kball buy a pormanle;iti to quote from. 



The youth who trains to ride or run a race 
Must bear privation with unruffled face, 
Be call'd to labour when he thinks to dine, 
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. 
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight, 
Have follow'd music through her farthest flight \ 
But rhymers tell you neither more nnr less, 
" I Ve got a pretty poem for the press ;" 
And that 's enough ; then write and print so last ; • 
If Satan take the hindmost, who 'd he last? 
They storm the types, they publish, one and all, 
They leap the counter, ami ihey leave the stall. 
Provincial maidens, men of high command, 
Yea, baronets have inkYl the bloody hand! 
Cash cannot quell them ; Pullia play'd this prank 
(Then Phoebus first found credit in a bank !) 
Not all the living only, but the dead, 
Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' head**, 
Damn'd all their days, they posthumously thrive— 
Dug up from dust, though buried when alive t 
Reviews record this epidemic crime, 
Those " Books of Martyrs" to the rage for rhyme. 
Alas ! woe worth the scribbler ! often seen 
In Morning Post or Monthly Magazine. 
There lurk his earlier lays ; but soon, hot-prest, 
Behold a quarto ! — Tarts must tell the rest. 
Then leave, yo wise, the lyre's precarious chords 
To muse-mad baronets or maader lords, 
Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, 
Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale ! 
Hark to those notes, narcoticallv soft ! 
The cobbler laureats singt to Capej LofftJ ! 
Till, lo ! that modern Midas, as he hears, 
Adds an ell growth to his egregious cars ! 

There lives one druid, who prepares in time 
'Gainst future fueds his poor revenue of rhyme ; 
Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse, 
To publish faults which friendship should excuse. 



• Turn quoque marmorea caput a cervice revulaam, 
Gurgite cum medio |> rtaiu QBagrius Hehrus, 
Volveret Enrydicen vox ipsa, et Irisida lingua ; 
Ah, miserara Eurydieeii I ai i U vocabat : 

Euryrlli en toto referebanl Bumine npaj, — Georgia, iv. 523. 
f I bee Nathaniel's pardon ; be is not -i cobbler; it is n tailor, ont 
begged C»|ie I Loft to sink the profession in his preface to two pair of pan- 

La penal — ol cam lo try on ; but ■.he 

sieve of a patron let ii oul and so far i ived l\ Kpense of an adverttse- 

meul to his country customers.— Merry '■ " Moorfield's whine" was 
nothing to all tins. The "Del Cm iiui" ol ! ne Bn <- 

Lion, and no profession ; hut these an yiians c Arcades ambo" — bump- 
kins both) aend out Lheir iiatii I I lallesl alloy, and 

leave all the shoes ind smallclothes in the parish unrepaired, to patch up 

Elegies on i P tans inpowder. StiUng on a shopboard. 

' i attle, wl be onh blood they ever sow was shed 

from the finger ■ and an" Essay on War" is produced by the ninth part 
of a" poet." 

" And own that nfft< sncti poets made a Tale. 
Put Nathan ever rea \ that line dI Pope ? and il be did, why not take it as 
his motto ? 

J This v- led -me excellent shoe-makers, 

and been ao 

Nathaniel Bloomfia I and lis >rolher Bot>hy have set aJ| Somei lire 
si uKinj , noi ha mti idy co iflned itself Lc one county. P-att too 

(who once was wiser) has caught the conln f patronage, and ■ i 

a] r '>-::■■■■ it into poetrj ; bui lie died darina the opera- 

l ant] I wo volumes of " H> ■ -" utlei 

i' ■' t take a i Lwial, and © me forth :\ c a *u-ie- 

making Sappho, may do welt ] bui the ".tragedies" are as rickety as if 
■ i the ,,r pring of an Earl or a Realonian prize poet. The 
patrons of this poor iad are certainly an is end, and il ought 

t<> he an indictable offence. Bui this is the lease they basa done, for, by ■ 
refinement of barbarity, they have made the (late) man posthumous! j 
ridiculous, by printing what he would have had sen»e enough nevei ti 

print himself. Cerles these rakers of " Remains" com der the itatuU 

agjitisl " resiirrection men." What does it signify whether • n 

dead dunce is to be biu k up in Surgeons' or in Statlnnera 1 Hall ? bit n 

bad to uni kith his bonaa aa his bluu ler* J ra it noi better lo gibbet Ins 

body in a heath, than hit soul In an octavo ? "We know what we are. 

but we know not wha! ' led we never shall 

know, if a man wh igh life with a aort of eclat is to find 

htmteil I mountebank on the oilier side of Stvx, and m i 

Blackett. lh The plea ol publication is t*> 

pi ■'. ide ' "■ the child ; now, mlgh I some ol this " Sul Iti i 

dumV ft I ' nl artion without inveigling 

Pratt into biography * And then hi* Inscription split into so many modi- 
cums I— "To the Duchess if So-much, the Itiehi Hon. So-and 
Mrs. and Miss Somebody, Hirst volumes are, Ac. &C." — why, this is doling 
nut t)iu " soft milk of dedication" In gills, — there is but a quart, and he 
divides it among ad ' not a putt'efl * Dosf 

thou think six families of distinction can share ibis in quiet .•'—There is 
child, a book, and a dedication ; send the girl to her grace, Uie volumes lo 
the grocer, suid the dedication to thu rtevU, 



440 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



If friendship's nothing, self-regard might teach 

More poliah'd usage of his parts of spee li. 

Bui what is shame, or wha! is aught, to him? 

He vents his spleen or gratifies his whim. 

Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hatO, 

Some folly cross'd, some jest, or some debate | 

Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 

The gathered gall is voided in lampoon. 

Perhaps at some pert speech you 've dared to frown, 

Perhaps your poem may have please 1 the town ; 

If so, alas! 't is nature in the man — 

May heaven forgive you, for !"■ never can ! 

Then be it so ; and may his withering bays 

Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise! 

While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink, 

The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 

But springing upwards from the sluggish mould, 

Be, (what they never were before) be sold ! 

Should some rich bard (but such a monster now, 

In modern physics, we can scarce allow), 

Should some pretending Bcribblei of the court, 

Some rhyming peer — there 'a plenty of the sort* — 

All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn] 

(Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn!) 

Condemn the unlucky curate t«> recite 

Their last dramatic work by candle-light, 

How woidd the preacher turn each rueful leaf, 

Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! 

Yet, since 't is promised at the rector's death, 

He 'II risk no living for a little breath. 

Then spouts and foams, and cries ^t every line, 

(The Lord forgive him !) " Bravo ! grand ! divine !" 

Hoarse with those praises (which, by flatt'ry fed 

Dependence barters for her bitter bread), 

He strides and stamps along with creaking boot, 

Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot ; 

Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 

As when the dying vicar will not die ! 

Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart ; — 

But all dissemblers overact their part. 



• Here will Mr.Gifftird allow me to introduce once more to Ms notice the- 

eols aurvivor, the" ullimu.i R LBOram." the lut of ilic " CnUCUti I" 

— " Edwin" Hie " profound," bj our Lady ol Puniil ot ' be 

Into n» In the dan of •■ well uid Bartad the Correct." I th< 
(crnld had been the tail of poesy, but, alas I lie is only the pen ultimate. 

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF TriE 
MORNING CHRONICLE. 

*' What reams of paper, floods of ink," 

Do Borne men 10011, wl aver thlnJtl 

And so perhaps you 'II any of me, 

In which vour renders RIB] 

Still I Write on, mid It'll \ 

Nothing '8 so bad, yon enn't deny, 

But mi f Instruct i tain 

"Without the rink of giving pain. 

And should you doubt what I assert, 

The name of Cnrmlen 1 insert, 

W"hn novel" rend, and oft matntninM 

He here find (' ere * me knowledge gatn'd i 

Then why DOl I Indulge >«•■ I" n, 

Though I no fame oi profit gnin, 
Yet may antu e youi dli men; 
Of whom, though some may he severe, 
Others may read wtthoul i 
Thu* much premised, I next proceed 
i - ■ viii what i led "■■■ 
And in what follows t.> di 
Borne liunioun of the pamuig day. 

ON SOME MODERN ttUACKS AND REFORMISTS. 

In trnclneof the human mind 

Through ii II its various couraem, 
Thtugh strange, 'I ii I , wo of! 

It knows not Iti reaouYeeil 

And men through We aiaume a part 

For which n ■ la!i 
T*t wonder that, with all Uietrart, 

They meet no hetter Wltli 
*T is thus we sec, through Nfe*i career,' 

Sn few excel in i 1 I 
Whereas, would each man hut appear 
In what '■ wilhiji hin own piMucseion, 

We nlmuiil nflt see such daily ipincka 

(For quack* there are in every art) 
Attempting., by their «tr«iigr nltncka 

To meliorate the mind ami heart. 



Ye who asnire to build the lofty rhyme, 
i not all who laud your false " sublime;" 

But if sonic friend shall bear your work, and say, 
" Expunge that stanza, lop lltal line away," 
And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
Without amen Iment, and he answers, " Burn ! M 
That instant throw your paper in the fire, 
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire ; 

But if (true bai * >m to condescend, 

And will no) alter what you cann defi nd, 

If you will breed this I astard of; our brains*, — 

We "II have no words — 1 've only lost my pains. 

Tet, il ur favourite thought 

As Critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 
If your cool friend annoy you now and then, 
And cross whole pages with Ins plaguy pen; 
No malti r, throw your ornaments aside — 
Better let him than all ihe world d< 
Give light to passages too much in 
Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you Ve made ; 
Your friend 's '* a Johnson," nol to It ave one word, 
However (rifling, which may seem absurd, 
Such erring trifles lead to serious ills, 
And furnish food for critics! , or their quills. 

As the Scoti li fiddle, m ith its touching tune, 
Or the sad influence of the angry m 

All men avoid had writ 

As yawning wait rs lU I Fitzscribble's lungs ; 
Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 

As prelate 1 s ImniiIv or pla<*. -man's spnrli ; 

Long as t! ingering lease, 

When riot pauses unt il n n 

While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 

O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented wavs, 

If by some chance be walks into a wejl, 

And shouts Eur succour with stentorian yell, 

" A rope ! help, Christians, as ye hope for grace!" 

Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace ; 

+ + * Si rnrmina enndes, 

Nunrmam to faUant animl suti vulpe latente& 

QniniiliM si qui l recitares, Comge, sodes, 
Hoc (aiebat) et hoc: melius te posse Dtgarea, 
Bis terque expertum frn tra, defere jubebat, 
\'.t male tornatos incu 

Si rji fender e d< lictum quam vertere ma lies, 
Nullum ultra verbum, .nil opera m insumebat inanem. 
Quiii ■ ine i ivali teque 1 1 tua sulusai 

\'n iini ii 1 1 pen ,-,.■ i , , i i . ' .'.i inertes 

Culpabit rJurotj inc pti allinet atrum 

Xi ■ i ' o cals signum . ambitiosa' recidet 

Ornaments ; partim c aris lucem dare roget; 

tmbis lictum m tai ; '.i notabii ; 

Kni \n larchus: nee dicet, Cur ego amicum 
Offendam In nugis ' bsa i i :ent 

In mala derisum semel exi ept |ue inistre. 



Nor mean I her- Il 

\\ hen •' they meet , 

1 they well known, 

i ■ n '". bold o seal. 

Reform '• the »i i hear, 

To whd i 
But then ■Ppear, 

i maoU 
For II | i few, 

Ami ■ I D*nf, 

i ■ ..I '.I'll, do, 

mlepent. 

1 ,|1 I'll, | .. Tl'.l 

And ihi 
To call quack.* 

• BfWfim* nf uour 6 ni» the first by Jupiter'* head- 

■ uiriiions upi'u earth, §uch 
ii. Mado -■.'■.. 

f ■' ,\ CI B 7 *. In tf"T /?«A«OT#o/. 

1 Ant ili i' " waitera" era nly B who can" fly" from 

them; all the rest* rii. the tad i>i,"heine* 
. . v, tn tii out t'li- 1 ■ il exclaim- 
ing, " Sic" iU.it li, bvchoal i bad wine or worse poetry) 
" me eervavit Apollo !" 

" For audi every man is who cither appears to be what lie is not, or 
strives to be what In cannot. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



441 



For there his carcass he might freely fling, 
From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 
Though this has happenM to more bards than one, 
\ 'U tell you Budgets story, and have done. 

Budgell a rogue and rhymester, for no good, 
(Unless his case-be much misunderstood) 
When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
* To die like Cato*," leapt into the Thames! 
And therefore be it lawful through the town 
For any bard to poison, hang, or drown. 
Who saves the intended suicide receives 
Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves; 
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
The glory of that death they freely choose. 

Ut mala quern scabies aut morbus regiue urguet, 
Am fanatlcus error et iracunda Diana, 

timent fugi unique poetam. 
Qui sapium ; agkant pueri, incauiique sequuntur. 
Hie dum sublimes versus ructatur, et errat 
Si veluti meniiis intentus decidit aucepa 
[nputeum, foveamve; Jicet, Succurrite, longum 
Clamet, Io cives ! non sit C|ui tollere curet. 
Si quis curet opem ferre, et demittere funem, 
Qui scis an prude na hue se dejecerit, atque 
Servari nutit? Dicam: Siculique poetae 
Narrabo internum. Deus immorialis haberi 
Dum cupit Enr.pedoc1es,ardentem frigidua JEtnam 
Insiluii : sit i i? liceatque perire poetia : 
Invitum qui servat, idem lack occidenti. 
Nee semeJ hoc fecit ; nee, si retractus erit. jam 
Fiet homo, et ponei famosx monks amorem. 
Nee satis apparel cur versus factitet; utrum 
Minxerii in patrios cineres, an triste bidental 
Movent incestus ; certe furic, ac velut ursus, 
Objectos caves valuit si frangere clathros, 
IivJoctum "ioctum iue fug at recUator acerbus 
Quern vfiro arripujt, t-'net, occiditque legendo, 
ISon misaura cutem, nisi plena cruoris, hirudo. 



• On his Utile were found these words : What Cato did nnd Addison 
nppro-ed cannot be wrong." Bui Addison did not •' approve ," and il 
he had, il would not nave mended the mailer. He had invited his daughter 
on tSe same water party, bui Miss Budeell , by some accident, escaped Ihis 
last paten, :d attention. Thus fell the sycophant of " Attic as," and ihe 
enemy of Pope. 



Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 

Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse ; 

*Dosed with vile drams on Sunday he was found, 

Or got a child on consecrated ground ! 

And hence is haunted with a rhymino - rage— 

Fear'd like a bear just bursting from his cage. 

If free, all fly his versifying fit, 

Fatal at once to simpleton or wit. 

But htm, unhappy ! whom he seizes, — hijn 

He flays with recitation limb by limb ; 

Probes to Uie quick where'er he makes his breach, 

And gorges like a lawyer or a leech. 



■. ! wiih," &c. be censured as low, I beg .eave to refer to the 
igiual for something still lower ; and if any reader will translate "Minx- 
erii in pulrics cineres," &c. into a decent couplet, 1 will insert said couplet 
'n lieu of the present 



ta dicere." — Mdc. Dacier, Mde. d« 



Difficile est prnpric c 
Sevigne, Boileau, and others, have left their dispute on the meaning of 
ihis passage in a tract considerably longer than the poem of Horace. It is 
printed at the close of the eleventh volume of Madame de Sevigne"* 
Letters, edited by Grovelle, Pans, lsufl. Presuming that all who can 
Construe may venture an opinion on such subjects, particularly as so 
many who can nor have taken the same liberty, I should have held my 
" farthing candle" as awkwardly as another, had not my respect forthe 
wits of Louis ihe Fourteenth's Augnslau siccle induced me lo^subjoia 
these illustrious authorities. 1st, Boileau : " 11 esL difficile de trailer des 
ts qui sout a la ported ti^ lout le monde d' one maniere qui vous lea 
rende propri ■ '■■ ■'approprier un sujet par le tour qu'on y 

donne." "ilk, Balteux : " Mais il est bien diffitile de donner des train 
proprei el in Itviduela au i alrei pureraeui possibles " 3dly, Dacier : " II 
est difficile de trailer convenahlemenl ces caractfires que tout le m mde 
pent inventei ." Mde. de 3evjgue"a opinion and translation, consisting of 
some thirty pages, 1 omit, particularly as M. tirouvelle observes, " La 
chose est DM a rerses interpretations ne pa- 

raii Sire la veritable. ' But, by way of comfort, it seems, fifty years after 
wards, " Le lumineux Dumarsais"' ma ce to set Horace on 

his legs again, " dissiper lous les nuages, et coacilier tons les dissents 
ine ns ;" said, some filly ye trs hence,soaiebody f still more luminous," will 
doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais mid his system on this weighty 
affair, as if he were no better than Ptolemy and Tycho, or comments of no 
more consequence than astronomical calculations on ihe present comet. I 
happy to say, "la longueur de la dissertation" of M. D. prevent" 
G. from saying any more on the matter. A better poet than Boileau, 
and at least as good a scholar as Sevigntf, has said, 

" A little learning is a dangerous thing." 

And by this comparison of comments it may be perceived how a good de*! 
may be rendered as perilous to the proprietors. 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



" Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas 
Immolat, el panam seeleralo ex sanguine sumit." 

JEXIAD, 12th. 



•Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
Along Moiea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light; 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
Gilds tne green wave that trembles as it glows; 
On old jEg'ina's rock and Hydra's isle 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unronquer'd Salamts! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse, 
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own Ihe hues of heaven; 
Till, darkly shaded from the "land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast 
When, Athens! here thy wisest looked his last. 



* Ta« lints with which this satire opens, to " As thus, within the walls 
of Pallas' fane," are repealed, with some alterations, at the commence- 
ment of tii«. thud canto ul the Corsair. 

3F 



H\>w watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's* latest day ! 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes: 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head, 
The cup of woe was quaff'd — the spirit fled; 
The soul of him that scorned to fear or fly, 
Who lived and died as none can live or die. 

But, lo! from high Hymettus to the plain 
The queen of night asserts her silent reignf: 
No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form. 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 



• Socrates drank the hemlock a short lime before sunset (t'je hour of 
execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till Lhs 
«o i wi at down. 

| The twilight in Hreece is much shorter than in our own country J the 
days in winter am lunger, but in sumraei of less duration. 



442 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



And bright around with quivering beams beset, 
Her emblem sparkled o'er the minaret: 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide, 
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The glimmering turret of the gay kiosk*, 
And sad anJ sombre mid the holy calm. 
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary p 
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye ; 
And dull were his that pass'J them heedless by. 

Again the JEgean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; 
Again his waves in milder tin's anibld 
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile. 

As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane, 
I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore, 
Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore ; 
Oft as the matchless dome I tum'd to scan, 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man, 
The past return'd, the present seem'd to © 
And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! 

Hours roU'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanished god 
But chiefly, Pallas ! thine ; when Hecate's glare, 
Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair 
O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 
When, lo! a giant form before me strode, 
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode! 

Yes, 't was Minerva's self; but, ah ! how changed 
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ! 
Not such as erst, by her divine command, 
Her form appeared from Phidias' plastic hand: 
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, 
Her idle regis bore no Gorgon now ; 
Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
Seem'd weak and shafiless e'en to mortal glance ; 
The olive branch, which stilt she deign'd to clasp, 
Shrunk from her touch, and wither'd in her grasp 
An I, ah ! though still the brightest of the sky, 
Celestial tears bedimrn'd her large blue eye ; 
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow, 
And moum'd his mistress with a shriek of woe! 

n Mortal !" ('twas thus she spake) "that blush of shame 
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name ; 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free, 
Now honour'd less by all, and least by me : 
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. 
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing? — look around. 
Lo! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
[ saw successive tyrannies expire, 
'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, 
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. 
Survey this vacant, violated fane; 
Recount the relics torn that yet remain; 
Tht ■■'■ Cecrops placed, this Pericles adoni'df? 
That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn'd. 
What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the n ' 
That all may learn from whence the plunderer came, 
The insulted wall sustains his ha'ed name : 



• The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the (wlm i* wHhoat tin* pn- 
ftit wt.lt* ot All. », i. 1 froflO Hie lain >!._■ of ThaMUti bctWMO » 
thctn-u the wall inUTVciiua.— Oephj - > 1 ncanty, and Iliuu* 

bu (to sirmm Mull. 

t This i. ipsken of the rity in gnnernl, and not of the Acropoli* in par- 
Uculnr : the temple of Jiifiiter Olympius, hy some anpp ! 

was finished l v i : en coin mm ore Handing, of Ibe most 

Uuaui'uJ marble and iircluMcturo. 



For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, 
uis name — above, behold ins deeds! 
I'., ever hail'd with equal honour hers 
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer: 
Arms gave the first hisright, the lasl had none, 
what less barbarians won. 

So when the lion quits Ins fell n , i 
Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last: 
Plesh, limbs, and blood the former make i heir own; 
I hi lasl poor brute B< lws the bone. 

Xel still the gods are just, and crimes are cross'd: 
See here wh.it Elgin won, and what he lost! 
Anothei name wi my ahi ine i 

lined to shine! 
Some retribution stijj might Pallas claim, 
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame*. 1 

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply, 

'I'n s.mllie ihe vengeance kindling in her I 

" Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 

A true-born Briton may ihe deed di 

Frown not on England : England owns him not: 

Athena ! no! thy plunder* i was a S< or. 

Ask?s1 thou th< ' From fair Phyles' towers 

Survey BcBotia ; * "aledonia's ours. 

And well I know- within thai bastard landt 

Hath Wisdom's goddess nev« i held command: 

A barren soil, where Nature's germs confined 

To stem sterility, can stint the mind ; 

V\ . ■ utll In"- trays ihe ni^ard earth, 

Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth ; 

Each genial influence nurtured to resist : 

A. land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 

Bach breeze from foggy mount -'111(1 marshy plain 

■a ith di ivel ei i rj drizzly brain, 
Till, burst atlen , rflowa, 

Foul as their soil, ." ! iheir snows. 

Then thousand schemes ol ;■■ I pride 

l despatch hi r a henring children far and n ide ; 
Some east, some w est norisj, 

In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 
And thus — accursed be the day and year! — 
She sent a Picl to play the felon here. 

Ionia claims some native worth, 
As dull Bceotia gave a Pindar birth ; 
So may her fi w, the lettered and the brave, 
Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave, 
Shake off the sordid dust of such a land, 
And shine hke children of a happier strand ; 
As once, of yore, in some obnoxioue . 
Ten names (iffbund) had saved a wretched race." 

" Mortal !" the blue-eyed maid resumed, " once more 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 
Though fallen, a is! I hi i v< ageanoe yet is mine, 
To turn my counsels far from lands like mine. 
Hear Uien in silence Pallas' stern behest ; 
Hear and believe, for time will tell the rest. 

■• Firsl on the head of him who did this deed 
Mv curse shall light, on him and all his seed: 
Without one spark of intellectual fire, 
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire : 
If ono with wit the parent brood disgrace, 
Believe him bastard of a brighter race: 
Still with his hireling artists let him prate 
And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate ; 
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell, 
Whose noblest, natii r gusto is — to sell : 

To sell, and make — may Shame record the day! — 
The state receiver of his pilfW'd prey. 
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard, West, 

Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, 

bhlp'toum and ihotof one who do longer bfkfl it «.rte»rrcrt 

■, e Pant* j ahon luap « Ihrdurtant, we ths 

. hi* of llic t'&tso relieves destroyed in ■ vim Attempt to reaer 

t " Irish baitardt," B«onling loSir Callahan O'Brallagh** 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



443' 



With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er. 

And own himself an infant cffoursc 

Be all the bruisers cull'd from all St. Giles" 

That art and nature may compare their styles ; 

While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 

And marvel at his lordship's ' stone shopf there. 

Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs creep. 

To lounge and lucubrate, to p-aie and peep ; 

While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 

On giant statues casts the curious 

The room with transient glance appears to skim, 

Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 

Mourns o'er tiie difference of now and then : 

Exclaims, ' These Greeks indeed were proper men ' 

Draws sly comparisons of these with those t 

An 1 envies Lais all her Attic beaux. 

When shall a modern maid have swains like these! 

Alas! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 

Aii.1 last of all. amidst the gaping crew, 

Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, 

In silent indignation mix'd with grief. 

Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 

Oh, loathed in life, nor pardonM in the dust, 

May hate pursue his sacrilegious lint '. 

Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome, 

Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, 

And Eratostratns and Elgin shine 

In many a branding page ami burning line ; 

Alike reserved for aye to stand accurst, 

Perchance the second blacker than the first. 

" So let him stand, through ages yet unborn, 
Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn; 
Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, 
But fits thy country for4ier coming fate : 
He.*s were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar, 
Your old allv yet mourns perfidious war. 
Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 
Or break the compact which herself had made; 
Far from such councils, from the faithless field 
She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield : 
A fatal gift, that turn'd your friends to stone, 
And left lost Albion hated and alone. 

11 Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base ; 
Lo! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 
And glares the Nemesis of native dead ; 
Till Indus rolls a deep purpurea! flood, 
And claim-; Ins long arrear of northern blood. 
So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she save 
Tour free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 

"Look on your Spain! — she clasps the hand she hates, 
But boldly clasps, ami thrusts you from her gates. 
Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
Bin Lusitania, kind and dear ally j 
Can spare a fen to fight, and sometimes fly. 

Oh glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
But when did Pallas teach (hat one retreat 
Retrieved three king olympiads of defeat? 

" Look last at home — ve love not to look there 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair: 
Your city saddens: loud though Revel howls, 
Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. 
See all alike of more or less bereft ; 
No misers tremble when there 's nothing left. 



• Mr. Wert, onveinuthe " Elgin Collection" (1 sunocnewe »li all hear 
•fine Ahertha* and "Jack ShephardV collection), declared himself " a 
mere itto" in art. 

t ftior Crib was aadlv puzzled when exhibited al F House : he 

caked '""it wu not " a sloae shop ?"— He was right ; it it a shop. 



' Blest paper credit*,' who shall dare to sing? 
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, 
Who gods and nun alike disdain'd to hear; 
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, 
On Pallas calls, but calls, alas! too late: 
Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends, 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So once of yore, each reasonable frog 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign ' log.' 
Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, 
As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 

M Now fare ye well ! enjoy your little hour ; 
Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power ; 
Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; 
Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream. 
Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind, 
And pirates barter all that 's left behindf. 
No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, 
Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. 
The idle merchant on the useless quay 
Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away ; 
Or back returning sees rejected stores 
Rot piecemeal on his own encumbered shores : 
The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, 
And desperate mans him 'gainst the common doom- 
Then in the senate of your sinking state 
Show me the man whose councils may have weight. 
Vain is each voice where tones could once command ; 
E'en factions cease to charm a factious land: 
Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle, 
And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 

" 'T is done, 't is past, since Pallas warns in vain 
The furies sieze her abdicated reign : 
Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands. 
And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
But one convulsive struggle still remains, 
And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains. 
The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, 
O'er whose gay trappings" stern Bellona smiles ; 
The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 
That bid the fbe defiance ere they come ; 
The hero bounding at his country's call, 
The glorious death that decorates his fall, 
Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 
And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
But know a lesson you may yet be taught, 
With death alone are laurels cheaply bought: 
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, 
His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
But when the field is fought, the battle won, 
Though drench'd with gore, his woes* are but begun: 

His deeper d Is a< yel ye know by name ; 

The slaughtered peasant and the ravish'd dame, 
The riflet' mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 
Til suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
Say with what eye along the distant down 
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town? 
How view the column of ascending flames 
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames? 
Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thine 
That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine: 
Now should they burs; on thy devoted coast, 
Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
The law of heaven and earth is life for life, 
And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife." 



* '* Blest paper credit ! last and beat suppta. 

That lends Comiplton lietiter wings lo if t"— Pop*, 
t The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie. 



THE WALTZ; 

AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN. 



BwOtB rlpil. nut per Jngft Cynthl, 
Kxercel Diana choios." 

1 
" Such on Btirubk'e bukl, or Cynthia's height, 
ninim seems : mid <o the chirms ihe Bight, 

Wiie the dunce i he receful goddeia leadi 

The quire of oyioj'lit, ami overtop* their hem!*. 

Dryden't Virgil, 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 



Sir. 



I am a country gentleman of a midland county. I 
might have been a parliament-man for a certain borough, 

having had the. offer of as many votes as General T. at 
the general election in 1812.* But I was all for domes- 
tic happiness ; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, 
I married a middle-aged maid of honour. We lived 
happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when my wife 
and T were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway (a dis- 
tant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town. 
Thinking no harm, and our girls being come ioa mar- 
riageable (or, as they call it, -nutrhtuhU ) agej and having 
besides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the 
family estate, we came up in our old chariot, of which, by 
the by, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a 
week, that I was obliged to buy a st cond-hand barouche, 
of which I might mount the box, Mr*. II. says, if I could 
drive, but never see the inside — thai place being reserved 
for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general 
and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s 
dancing, (she was famous for birtlmight minuets id the 
latter end of the last century,) I unbooted, and went to a 
ball at the countess's, expecting to see a country dance, 
or, at most, cotillions, reel?, and all the old pacus to the 
newest tunes. But, jud^e of my surprise, on arriving, to 
see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round 
the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I novcr sei 
eyes on before ; and bis, to say truth, rather more than 
half round her waist, turning round, and round, and round, 
to a d ■— d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, thai 
reminded me of the " Black joke," only more a qffe£hioso* 
till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not 
so. By and b) they stopped a bit, and I thought they 
would sit 01 fall low n:— but, no; with Mrs. H.'s hand on 
Ins shoulder, *qucttn J tmffia ' . I (as Terence said, 
when I was at school.) they walked about a minute, 
and then at it again, like two cocki spitted on 

the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, 
with :i loud laugh, a child no older than our VVilhelmma 
(a name I never beard bul in (he Vicar ofVi i 

tj , her mother would call her after the Princess of 

Bwappenbach) said, "Lord ! Mr. Hornem, can'l vou see 
they arevallzing !" or waltzing, (1 forget which ;) and then 
up she got, and tier mother and sister, ami avt ay they B ent, 

and round-aboutedjt till supper-ti , Now that I know 

what it is, I like it of all things, and so does Mrs. H. 
(though I have broken my shins, and four limes over- 
turned Mrs. Ijnriii -iii's maid, in practising the preliminary 
steps in a morning.) Indeed, so much do I like it, that 
having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in some elec- 

• State of Lhe poll, (last day,) 5, 

* Mv I. ii. ■!! forgotten, If nman can be 1111(110 hare forgotten whal 

he ntvfr re me ml en Catho 

priest for » Once shilling bank token, after much i 

•Ixpence. I grudged the money to ■ |>itpist, feting all for the memory of 
Perceval and *' No popery." and quite regretting the downfall of the 
tope, became we can't hum bun an* more. 



lion ballads, and songs in honour of all the victories, (but 
till lately I have had little practice in that way,) I sat 
down, ami with the aid of W. P. Esq. and a few hints 
from Dr. B. (whose recitations I attend, and am mon- 
s truiis fond of Master H.'s manner of delivering his father's 
late successful " 1>. L. Address") I composed the follow- 
ing hymn, wherewithal lo make my sentiments known to 
the public, whom, nevertheless, I heartily despise as well 
as the critics. 

I am, Sir, yours, &C &c. 

HORACE HORNEM. 



Muse of the many-twinkling feet!* whose charms 
Are now extended Up from legs to arms; 
Terpsichore! — too long misdei m\[ a maid — 
Reproachful term — bestow'd but to upbraid — 
ili nceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, 
The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 
Far be from thee and Uiine the name of prude ; 
Mock'd, yet triumphant; sneer'd at, unsubdued ; 
Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 
If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 
Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield ; 
Dance forth — sans armour thou shall take the field. 
And own — impregnable to most assaults. 
Thy not too lawfully begotten " Waltz." 

Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young hussar, 
The whisker^ votary of waltz and war, 
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots ; 
A sight unmatched since Orpheus and his brutes: 
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz! — beneath whose banners 
A on "dern hero fought (or modish manners; 
0;i Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley Vf fiune, 

Rred — and miss'd his man— but gain'd his aim ; 



■ ■■ Glance their mnoj-iwlnklinrfeet."— G 

],,.,,! \\ .. ,, i be reader plrnari :— the one 

I , | ii"; »nd the other 

!,-,, be n ■ ■ huwaburj 

. . 

. w dial Beiug I Deuau" (be carnage 

are Ihi r Illatobe jin-turncd lhe gonial will one day 

• :■ . (here 

" T' ' i lhe itubborn plain, 

i d Spain I" 

The Lord P- in Bill Mil! in * summer; we rlo 

mora— we eoni i ive oih lo conquer and loae ihem in u ihortar teuton. If 
ogreai in apiculture be no ipaedlar 
ihan lhe proportional average of lime In Pupe*» couplet, it will, according 
nig with itoga." 
i . .,, ■ i ■. - i. new liileait fori. ' 

•" Salvador dat man 'o.'" er*dil*,p09t*rit 

I Ll i inhabitant! of the Pai 

. , ■ i . 

■trine e*en rdingto the mlldi H modJOcatloni of 

i ■- make the odda much ana mil tham 

.., _ "Saviour hi the world," quotha I— It were to be *i»hrd 

; , or any one elte, could m>v r a corner .a it— hie country. Yet thie 

ttufiid in" ■ n»i eonneslon between icper* 

-.,,,,,,, i ■ ■ ■ ■ here can he little to 

d I from ' Ml Lholtte I | - ■■■■' ' W ■■ ■■■ • too] who can .'outer 

such mi ap I'oUtiant. 1 »u pote next year he will b* 

entitled the" Virgin Marj " II 10, I ■ p 3on himirlf would 

btwe nothing lo vb'ecl to mch liberal baeurda ol our Lady of Babvlou. 



THE WALTZ. 



445 



Hail moving muse ! to whom the fair one's breast 

Gives all it can, and bids us lake the rest. 

Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 

The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 

To "energise the object I pursue," 

And give both Belial and his dance their due! 

Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine, 
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine,) 
Long be thine import from all duty free, 
And hock itself be less esteemed than thee ; 
In some fesv qualities alike — tor hock 
Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart : 
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, 
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 

Oh Germany ! how much to thee we owe, 
As heaven-horn Pitt can testify below, 
Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 
And only left us thy d — d debts and dances ! 
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, 
We bless thee still — for George the Third is left ! 
Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 
For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 
To Germany, and highnesses serene, 
Who owe us millions — do n't we owe the queen ? 
To Germany, what owe we not besides? 
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides ; 
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, 
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 
Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults — 
A dozen dukes — some kings — a queen — and Waltz. 

But peace to her — her emperor and diet, 
Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's "fiat!" 
Back to my theme — O Muse of motion! say, 
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way? 

Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales, 
From Hamburg's port, (while Hamburg yet had mails,) 
Ere yet unlucky Fame — compell'd to creep 
To snowy Goitenburg — was chill'd to sleep ; 
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
Heligoland ! to stock thy mart with lies ; 
While unbomt Moscow* yet had news to send, 
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend, 
She came — Waltz came — and with her certain sets 
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes; 
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, 
Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match; 
And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news — 
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, 
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs; 
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind; 
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it, 
Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 
Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freight, 
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, 



* The patriotic nrsnn of our amiable allies cannot be sufficiently com- 
mended— n miiietl in the various 

nV* patches of our eloquent aaibaaead >r. lie Jul not mmc, (being too much 

occupied wild the exploits "I' Col. C , ia sere frozen, 

ai.J galloping over roads impassable,) ih.it o-ie entire province perished 
r.y firnuie in the most melancholy m 

stopchin's consummate conflagra , the consumption of ia 

train oil was ho great, (oat the marl 

aad thus one hundred and thtrcy-tlin -urved to 
death, by beins reduced to ■>. of London 
nave since subscribed a pint (of mi) a piece, and the i.< I low-chandlers have 
unanimously voted u ijt.iitiiy of best moulds (four to the pound) to (he 
relief of the surviving Scjthiaoa— I »m, by such exer- 
tions, and a proper atte lolhe jualtiy rather than the , 

provision, lie totally alleviated. It iB said, io return, that the untouched 
Ukraine has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meal (o our suf- 
fering man ufacl oxers. 



The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, 

And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. 

Not decent David, when, before the ark, 

His grand pas-seul excited some remark; 

Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought 

The knight's fandango friskier than it ought ; 

Not soft Herodias, when with winning tread 

Her nimble feel danced off" another's head ; 

Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 

Displayed so much of kg, or more of neck, 

Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 

Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune! 

To you, ye husbands of ten years! whose brow* 

Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse; 

To you of nine years less, who only bear 

The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, 

With added ornaments around them roll'd 

Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 

To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 

To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match; 

To you, ye children of — whom chance accords— 

Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords; 

To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek 

Torments for life, or pleasures for a week; 

As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide, 

To gain your own, or snatch another's bridn 

To one and all the lovely stranger came, 

And every ball-room echoes with her name. 

Endearing Waltz! — to thy more melting tuno 
Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon. 
Scotch reels, avaunt! and country-dance, forego 
Your future claims to each fantastic toe! 
Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms demands, 
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands; 
Hands which may freely range in public sight 
Where ne'er before — but — pray (i put out the light.** 
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 
Shines much too far — or I am much too near; 
And true, though strange — Waltz whispers this remark 
" My slippery steps are safest in the dark !" 
But here the muse with due decorum halts, 
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 

Observant travellers of every time ! 
Ye quartos publish'd upon every clime! 
O say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round, 
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
Can Egypt's Almas*— tantalizing group — 
Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — 
Can aught from cold Kamchatka to Cape Horn 
With Waltz compare, or after waltz be borne ? 
Ah no! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph for ''Waltz." 

Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore, 
With George the Third's — and ended long before! — 
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive! 
Back to the ball-room speed your specired host : 
Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake; 
No stitf-stareh'd stays make meddling fingers ache , 
(Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
Goats in their visage, f women in their shape ;) 



* Dancing girls— who do for hire what Waltz doth erstis. 

til cannot be complained now, as in the l.adj Bauuiere's time, of the 
"Sieurde la Croix," that there be "no whiskers ;" but how 
ore indications of valour in the fit hi, or elsewhere, may alitl he qneation 
able. Much may be and hnlh wen evooche t on both sides, In the olden 
time philosophers h I soldiers none— Scipio himself »•« 

■haven— Hannibal thought his one eye handsome enough wl hout a 
beard; bul Adrian, the emperor, wore e beard (having warn "n his 
. N. .", r Lhi Empress Sabine nor even the courtiers could 
abide) — Turenne had whiskers, Marlborough none— Buonaparte Is tin- 
whiskered, the Regent whiskered ; " iir^a/" grcntness of mind and 
whiskers may or may not go together : but certainly the different occur- 
rences, since the growth uf the last-neutloaed, go further ia bvhalf wl 



44G 



THE WALTZ. 



No dimsel faints when rather closely pressM, 
Bnl more caressing seems when most earess'd ; 
Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts. 
Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial " Waltz.*' 

Seductive Waltz! — though nn thy native shore 
Even Werters self proclaim'd thee halfa whore; 
AVerter — to decent vice though much inclined, 
Yet warm, not wanton; dazzled, but not blind — 
Though gentle Grenlis, in her strife \-. ith Sta< 1, 
"Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball; 
The fashion hails — from countesses to queens, 
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes; 
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, 
And turns — if nothing else — at least our head* ; 
Wilh thee even clumsy ejis attempt to bounce, 
And cockneys practise what they can't pronounce. 
Gods! how the glorious theme my strain exalts. 
And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of •> Waltz!" 

Blest was the lime Waltz chose lor her dt 
The court, the Recent, like herself were nn\ ;* 

New face fir friends, fir fbes swim- new rewards; 
New ornaments f>r black and nnal guards; 
New laws to hang the rogues thai roar'd lor broad; 
New coins (m>.>t newf) to f .How those that fled; 
New victories — nor can we prize them less, 
Though Jenky wonders a' his own success; 
New wars, because the old succeed so well, 
That most survivors envy those who fell ; 
New mistresses — no, old — and yet 't is true, 
Though they be old, the thing is something new ; 
Each new, quite new — (except some ancient tricks, J) 
New white-sticks, gold-stieks, broom-sticks, all new 
With vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue, [sticks! 

New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue: 

So sailh the muse — my S whal say you? 

Such was the tune when Waltz might best maintain 

Ih r now preferments in this novel n ign 

Such was the time, nor ever vet was Mich ; 

Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much; 

Morals and minuets, virtue and her stavs, 

And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 

rir' ball begins — the honours of the house 

First duly dnie by daughter or by spouse, 

Some potentate — or royal <ir serene — 

With Kent's gay grare, or sapient Gloucester's mien, 

I :•■.!■ I ■■ l 'i'li tin- ready dune, whose rising Hush 

Might once have been mistaken ft >r a blush. 

From where the garb just leaves the bosom free, 

That spot where hearts)] were once supposed to be ; 



whiiltera thnn [lie anathema of Aneelm did agiintt long hnir in the reien 
of Henry I. 

P "'Lj "-'' *WI » favourite colour. See Lndowick Bai-rcy 'a comedy 

of Rum in«y, 1661, lei l. Scene I. 

" Tufna. Now, for a wager— Whit coloured heard comes next hv 
tin- window / 

I blfich mun'a, I think, 

'' T fr!a. 1 think noi *o : I think it rrd. fir thai is mnst in fashion." 

riiara ii "nothing new under the aim;" but red, then a/at- 
now mil .,.!,.., i Into i /■,<■ urii^t colour, 

'" ""■' •'"' ^ 'll/ Ml..- I. ..i it Ai,.u-.[,i, „re before snld 

meant, (if hi mennanoyi I 

' ' ' " ■ ..mo of III 

l laHty. w til , hi. ■ 

niin.ii.-.l heaven and mi ih, In 

of Ui-..' the comet ., M iv hni ■ ii r . ..,,.., n„ , i.i, m , 

aatonleh us Hill.- Pi ifi ■ Devi 

1 am ben i new nincpence n creditable ■.-■tin now forlbxo- 

min», worth a | I, in itioi 

I " Oln ■ i M not ro . 

kVealigali >n" in the " Merry Wive* ,,i Wind- 
■or?" 

I Prm- yon, come nrnr : If 1 in t pec t without Cauai 

■it Hi me; then let me be yourjeatj I di trvi [i How now 

W II hi HI v.. ii thi I ,' 

•• ftfra Font, Whal have you to do wblthertlley bearltl— you were 

ben meddle wuli huek-waahing." 
$ Ti„- gentle, oi ■ rnnv rill npthe blank an Ii 

lavernl rihuyllubic namaaat hit lervice, (bring aln 

Resent'* :) i( m il not : ■ ■ 

alphabet, aa en ih wi I add to ilia lui now entered for the awaep- 

atakea:— a di<Hiiif.uiahed con»on«m i« anul to be the l.iv,..,, 
•{ftiiut tlir wlahea ul [he knomni one*. 

II " VVe ill that " aays the Mock n.x'ior— 't ii nil gone— 
aamodi iu kn >wi where After all, ft la of uo greal Importani e howwo 
BDru ahurte u'c dispoied of ; they have nature'! privilege to diau-ibjie 



Round all the confines of the yielded waist, 

The strangesl hand may wander undisplaced; 

The lady's in return may grasp as much 

As princely paunches offer to her touch. 

i i round the chalky floor how well they trip, 

i J<n l;;in I reposing on the royal hip; 

The other to the shoulder no less royal 

Ascending with affection truly loyal! 

Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 

The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 

And all in turn may follow in their rank, 

The Karl of— Asterisk — and Lady — Blank ; 

Sir — Such-a>one — with those of fashion's host, 

For whose blest surnames — vide '' Morning Post;" 

(Or if for that impartial print too late, 

Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date,)— 

Thus all and each, in movement soft or slow, 

The genial contact gently undergo ; 

Till '-Mine nnjit marvel, with ihe modest Turk, 

If" nothing follows all this palming work?"* 

True, honesl Mirza!— you may trust my rhyme- ■ 

Something does follow al ■ filter time ; 

The breast thus publicly resigu'd to man, 

In private may resist him if it can. 

O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore, 
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more ! 
And thou, my prince! whose sovereign taste and will 
It is to love the lovely beldames still ! 
Thou ghost of Q,ueeusherry ! whose judging sprite 
Satan may spare to peep a single night, 
Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss 
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this ; 
To teach the young ideas how to rise, 
Flush in the cheek and languish in the eyes 
Hush to the heart and lighten through the frame, 
Wuli half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame; 
For prurient nature still will storm the breast — 
lr'!r>, tempted (hus, can answer for the rest ? 

But ye — who never felt a single thought 
For what our morals are to he or ought; 
Who wisely wish the charms von view to reap, 
Say — would you make those beauties quite so cheap' 
Hot from the ban is promiscuously applied, 
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side, 
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form 
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm ? 
At once love's most endearing thought resign. 
To press the hand so press'd by none but thine ; 
To gaze upon that eye which never met 
Another's ardent look without regret ; 
Approach the lip which all, without restraint, 
Come near enough — if nut to touch — to taint ; 
[fsuch thou lovest — love her then no more, 
I h give— like I to a score ; 

Her mind with theso is gone, and with it go 
The little left behind it to bestow, 
Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme' 
Thy hard forgot thy praises were his theme. 
Terpsichore, forgive! — at every ball 
\h wife now waltzes — and my daughters shall; 

i — (or slor> — 't is needless to inquire — 
These little accidents should ne'er transpire; 
Some ages hence our genealogic tree 
\\ HI wear as green a hough for him as me) — 
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 
I rran Isons for me — in heirs to all bis friends. 



them ns absurdly m poaalble. But ihtrr are aim no me men wilh hearta 

■o ihorouehlj bad, ae to remind uaof iboee phenomena often mwiunned 

In natural hietory ; tii. a maaaof aolid alone— only to be opened by lores 

i divided you discover! toad in the centra, lively, and with 

■ >n l>i" being vemomoua. 

In Turkey a pertinent, hare on InpertllatDl and auperflnnue quae 

Uon— lilerullv put, n« In Ok- tent, lr n PtriiAit lo Morier, on aecinfj a 

walniu Pcra,.— Yidi Ofbrier'e TraeiU. 






THE AGE OF BRONZE 



CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. 



' Injpar Congretsus Achilli." 



The <{ good old times" — all times when old are good — 

Are gone ; the present might be if they would ; 

Great things have been, and are, and greater still 

Want little of mere mortals but their will ; 

A wider jpace, a greener field, is v\wn 

To those who play their " tricks before high heaven." 

1 know not if the angels weep, but men 

Have wept enough — fur what ? — to weep again. 

II. 

All is exploded — be it good or bad. 

Reader! remember when thou wert a lad, 

Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much, 

His very rival almost deem'd him such. 

"We, we have seen the intellectual race 

Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 

Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 

Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free, 

As the deep billows of the ^Egean roar 

Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore. 

But where are they — the rivals ? — a few feet 

Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. 

Hnw peaceful and how powerful is the grave 

Which hushes all! a calm, unstormy wave 

Which oversweeps the world. The theme is old 

Of " Dust to dust ;" but half its tale untold : 

Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 

"Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form 

Varied above, but still alike below ; 

The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow, 

Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea 

O'er which from empire she lured Antony ; 

Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 

On shore's he wept to conquer, though unknown — 

How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear 

The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear! 

He wept for worlds to conquer — half the earth 

Knows not hifl name, or but his death, and birth, 

And desolation; while his native Greece 

Hath all of desolation, sa^e its peace. 

He "wept for worlds to conquer!" he who ne'er 

Conceived the <dobe, he panted not to spare! 

"With even the busy Northern Isle unknown, 

Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. 

in. 
But where is he, the modern, mightier far, 
Who. born no king, made monarchs draw his car ; 
The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings, 
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings, 
And spurn the dust o'er which they CrawFd of late, 
Chain'd to che chariot of the chieftain's state? 
Yes! where is he, the champion and the child 
Of aH that 's great or little, wise or wild? 
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were 

thrones? 
Whose table earth — whjse dice were human bones ? 



Behold the grand result in yon lone isle, 
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage; 
Smile to survey the queller of the naiiins 
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations; 
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 
O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines; 
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things. 
Is this the mm who scoured or feas'cd kings? 
Behold the scales in which his fortune ban--, 
A surgeon's statement, and an earl's harangues 
A bust delavM, a book refused, can shake 
The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
Is this indeed the lamer of the great, 
Now slave of all could tease or irritate — 
The paltry gaoler an I the prying spy, 
The staring stranger with his notebook nigh? 
Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great; 
How low, how little was this middle state, 

i: i prison and a palace, where 
How few could feel for what he had to bear ! 
Vain his complaint, — my lord presents his bill, 
His food and wine were doled out duly still : 
Vain was his sickness, never was a clime 
So free from homicide — to doubt 's a crime ; 
And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his cause, 
Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's applause. 
But smile — though all the pangs of brain and heart 
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art; 
Though, save the few fond friends, and imaged face 
Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace, 
None stand by his low bed — though even the mind 
Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind ; 
Smile^fbr the fetler'd eagle bn alts his chain, 
And higher worlds than this are his again. 

iv. 
How, if that soaring tain 

A conscious twilight ol blazi [reign, 
i 1"'.'. musl he si Ic king down, to see 

The little ihat he was and sought to be! 
What though his name a wider empire found 
Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound ; 
Though lirsi in glory, deepest in reverse, 
He tasted empire's blessings and its curse; 
Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape; 
How must he smile, and lurn to yon lone grave, 

The proudest seamark that u'ertops the wave! 

What though duteous to the last. 

Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him fast» 

Refu ■ u-j on< poor line along fhi lid, 

To dale the birth and death of all it hid; 

That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
man to all save him who bore: 
eta that sweep before the eastern blast 

Shall hear their seaboys hail it from the mast ; 



•148 

When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise, 

Like Pompcy's pillar, in a desert's skies, 

The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 

Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 

And mighty nature o'er his obsequies 

Do nioro than niggard envy still denies. 

But what are these to him? Can glory's lust 

Touch the freed spirit or the fettm 

Small care hall, he of what his tomb consists ; 

Naught if he sleeps — nor more if he exists; 

Alike the belter-seeing Shade will smile 

On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, 

As if his ashes found their latest home 

In Home's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome. 

He wants not this ; but France shall feel the want 

( If this last consolation, though so scant i 

Her honour, fame, and faith demand his bones, 

To rear above a pyramid of thrones ; 

Or carried onward in the battle's van, 

To form, like Guesclin's* dusi, her talisman. 

But he it as it is— die time may i te 

His name sliall beat the alarm, like Ziska's drum. 

v. 

Oh heaven! of which he was in power a feature ; 

Oh earth '. of which he was a noble creature ; 

Thou isle! to be remember'd loin: and well, 

That saw'st the nnflodg'd eaglet chip his shell ! 

Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning flights 

Hover, the victor of a hundred lights ! 

Thou Rome, who saw'si thy Ceesar's deeds outdono . 

Alas ! why past he too the Rubicon — 

The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights, 

To herd with vulgar kings and parasites 9 

Egypt ! from whose all dateless tombs arose 

Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 

And" shook within their pyramids to hear 

A new Cambysis thundering in their ear; 

While the dark shades of forty ages stood 

Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 

Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 

Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell, 

With clasning hosts, who strew'd the barren sand 

To re-manure the uncultivated land! 

Spain! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 

Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid! 

Austria! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 

Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall ! 

Ye race of Frederic!— Frederics but in namo 

And falsehood— heirs to all except his fame ; 

Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell 

First, and but rose to follow ! Ye who dwell 

Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 

The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt ! 

Poland! o'er which the avenging angel past, 

But left thee as he found thee, si ill a waste, 

Forgetting all thy still enduring claim, 

Thy lotted people and axtuigunh'd name, 

Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear, 

That souud that crashes in the tyrant's ear— 

Kosciusko! On— on— on— the thirst of war 

Gasps for the gore of serfs, and of their czar. 

The half barbaric Moscow's minarets 

i lleam in the sun. but 'l is a sun that sets . 

.Moscow ! thou limit of his long career. 

For which rude Charles had wepl his frozen tear 

To see in rain— he s»w Ihee— how ' with spire 

And palace fuel to one common lire. 

To this the soldier lem his kindling match. 

To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, 

To this the merchant Bung his hoarded store, 

The prince his hall— and Moscow was no more 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



Sublimest of volcanos! Etna's flame 
Pales before thine, and qoenchli n Hacla 's tame; 
IS shows his blaze, an usual sight 

hi. is, from Ins hackney'd height: 
ind'st alone unrivnU'd. till the lire 
I mw, in which all empires shall expire ! 
Thou other element! as strong and stern, 
To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn! 

icj wing Rapp'd o'er the faltering foe, 
Till fell a hero with each Bake of snow 5 
How did they numbing beak and silent fang 
Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang. 
In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
For the gav thousands of hi dashing ran 
I , rain shall France recall beneath her vines 
Her youth— their blood Bows faster than her wines; 
Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
on iln- Polar plains. 
In vain will Italv's broad sun awaken 
Her offspring chill'd; its beams are now forsaken, 
of all the trophies gather'd from the war, 
What shall return /—the conqueror's broken car : 
The conqueror's yet ui irt! Asam 

The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 
Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory, 
Beholds linn conquer, 1"", alas! not die: 
Dresden surveys three d ispots fly once more 
Before their sovereign, — soveri ign as before ; 

But there exhausted Foi [uits the fieki> 

And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield 

The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 

To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fix's, guide ; 

And backward to the den of his despair 

The lores! monarch shrink? " lair 

Oh ye! and each, and all! Oh Prance! who found 

Thy long fair fields, plough'd up as hostile ground 

nil treason, still 
ih- onl) victor, from Montrnartre's hill 
Look'd down o'er trampled Paris! and tboi 
Which seesl Etruria from thy ramparts smile 
Thou momentary shelter of his pride, 
Till woo'd by danger, his J bride 

Oh France ! retaken by a single march, 
Whose path was through one long triumphal arch! 
i ih i,I..o lv an I ii v\ aterloo! 

Which proves how fools may have their fortune too, 
Won halfbv blunder, half by treachery: 
Oh dull Saint Helen! with thy gaoler nigh— 
H.ar ! hear Prometheus* from his rock appeal 
To earth, air. ocean, all that fell or feel 
His power and glory, all who yet sliall hear 
A name eternal as tho rolling year; 

He teaches them the Ii aught so long, 

So oft, so vainly— learn to do no wrong ! 
A single step into the right had made | 

This man the Washington of worlds betray d , 
A single step into the wrong has given • 

His name a .1 mbt to all tin- winds of heaven ; 
The re.-d of Fortune, and of thrones the rod, 
Of fame the Moloch or the demigod; 
His country's Caesar, Europe's Hannibal, 
Without tlieir decent dignity of fall. 
Yet Vanity herself had better taught 

A surer path even to the lame he sought, 

By pointing out on history's fruitier- 

Ten thousand conquerors for a single sago. 

While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, 

I lalming the lightning which he thence hath riven, 

rig from the no lees kindled earth 
Freedom and peace to ili.it which boasts his birth ; 
While Washington's a watchword, such as no'er 
Shall sink while there 's an echo left to air : 



^f.^w:«^^ 



*.<>c trough. — 
rendered tebiiiibM 



• I refer the render lo the Aral »<Mre.s of Prometheti. In £■*?*■■ 
vhen ha Ii lift "I""* by hif aUeadanlt, nod btlon the arrival ol U» 
Chorus el Settnyrnjjhi. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



449 



While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 
Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar! 
Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 
Which w rafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave— 
The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave, 
Who bursts the chains of millions to renew 
The very fetters which his arm broke through, 
And ciush'd the rights of Europe and his own, 
To flit between a dungeon and a throne i 

VI. 

But 't will not be — the spark s awaken'd — lo ! 

The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow; 

The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 

Through eight long ages of alternate gore 

Revives — and where ? in that avenging clime 

Where Spain was once synonymous with crime, 

Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew, 

The infant world redeems her name of " New." 

'T is the old aspiration breathed afresh, 

To kindle souls within degraded flesh, 

Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 

Where Greece was — No! she still is Greece no more. 

One common cause makes myriads of one breast, 

Slaves of the east, or helots of the wes( ; 

On Andes' and on Athoa' peaks unfurlM, 

The self-same standard streams o'er either world ;*" 

The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword; 

The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord ; 

The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek, 

Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique; 

Debating despots, hcinni'd on either shore, 

Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar; 

Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, 

Sw-eeu slightly by the half-tamed land of France, 

Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain 

Unite Ausonia to the mighty main : 

But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye 

Break o'er th' iEgean, mindful of the day 

Of Salamis ! — there, there the waves arise, 

Not to be lulPd by tyrant victories. 

Lone, lost, abandon'd in (heir utmost need 

By Christians, unto whom they gave their creed, 

The desolated lands, the ravaged isle, 

The fosterM feud encouraged to beguile 

The aid evaded, and ihe cold delay, 

Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ;— 

These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show 

The false friend worse than the infuriate foe, 

But this is well : Greeks only should free Greece, 

Not ihe Barbarian, with his mask of peace. 

How should the autocrat of bondage be 

The kino f serfs, and set the nations free ? 

Belter still serve the haughty Mussulman, 

Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan; 

Better stili toil for masters, than await, 

The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate,— 

Number'd by hordes, a human capital, 

A live estate, existing but for thrall, 

Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 

For the first courtier in the czar's regard ; 

While their immediate owner never tastes 

His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes ; 

Better succumb even lo their own despair, 

And drive the camel lhan purvey the bear. 

VII. 

Bui not alone within the hoariest clime 
Where Freedom dates her birth with lhat of Time, 
And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd 
Of Incas darken lo a dubious cloud, 
The dawn revives: renown'd, romantic Spain 
Holds back the invader from her soil again. 
Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 
Demand her fields as lists to prove ihe sword 
Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 
Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 
3G 



Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears, 

The warlike fathers of a thousand years. 

That seed is sown and reapM, as oft the Moor 

Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 

Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 

Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage; 

The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung 

Back to the barbarous realm from whence they sprung. 

But these are gone — their failh, iheir swords, their sway, 

Vet lt-0 more antichrisiian foes than they ; 

The bigot monarch and the butcher priest, 

The inquisition, with her burning feast, 

The faith's red " auto," fed with human fuel, 

While sate ihe Catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 

Enjoying, with inexorable eye, 

That fiery festival of agony ! 

The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 

By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth: 

The long degenerate noble ; the debased 

Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced, 

But more degraded ; the unpeopled realm ; 

The once proud navy which forgot the helm; 

The once impervious phalanx disarray'd ; 

The idle forge lhat form'd Toledo's blade ; 

The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore, 

Save hers who earn'd it with the natives' gore ; 

The very language which might vie with Rome's, 

And once was known to nalions like iheir home's, 

Neglected or forgotten : — such was Spain ; 

But such he is not, nor shall be again. 

These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel 

The new Numantine sou] of old Castile. 

Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor! 

The bull of Phalaris renews his roar; 

Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 

Revive the cry — " lago ! and close Spain !"* 

Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, 

And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — 

The exterminating war, the desert plain, 

The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 

The wild sierra, with its wilder troop 

Of vulture-plumed guerillas, on ihe stoop 

For their incessant prey ; the desperate wall 

Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 

The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 

Waving her more than Amazonian blade, 

The knife of Arragon.f Toledo's steel ; 

The famous lance of chivalrous Castile ; 

The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; 

The Andalusian courser in ihe van ; 

The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 

And in each heart the spirit of the Cid :— 

Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 

And win — not Spain, but thine own freedom, France ! 

VIII. 

Butlo! a congress! What! thathallow'd name 
Which freed the Atlantic? May we hope the same 
For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise, 
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 
The prophets of young Freedom, summon'd far 
From climes of Washington and Bolivar; 
Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, 
Whnse thunder shook the Philip of the seas; 
And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, 
Robed in the lightnings which his hand allayM ; 
And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, 
To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. 
Bill who compose this senate of the few 
That should redeem the many ? Who renew 
This consecrated name, till now assign'd 
To councils held to benefit mankind ! 



■ " St. (mo t and doae Spain I" the old Spanish war-cry. 
t The Arntgnnians are peculiarly deilerouiio ihe uatoflilla weapOO, 
a*d displayed it fmrUcuiaxly iu former French wars. 



450 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



"Wlii now assemble at tlte holy call ? 

The blest Alliance, which says three arc all ! 

An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 

Of Jieaven's, as man is niimickM by the ape. 

A pious unity ! in purpose one — 

To melt three fools <■ oleon. 

Why, Egypt's go la were rational to these; 

Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 

An J, quiet in their kennel or their ih< d, 

Cared little, so that they were duly led ; 

But these, more hungry, must have something more 

The power to bark anil bite, to loss anil gore. 

All! how much happier were goo I JSsopfs frogs 
Than we ! for ours are animated logs, 
With ponderous malice swaying t.i and fro, 
Ami crushing nations with a stupid blow; 
All dully anxious to leave little work 
Unto the revolutionary slock. 

IX. 

Thrice blest Verona ! sine- the holy three 

With their imperial presence shine on thee; 

Honour'd by them, thy treacherous lite fb 

The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets; M 

Thy Scaligers — for whai was " Dog the Great," 

"Can Giande," (which I venture to trans! 

To these sublimer pugs ? Thv poet too, 

Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 

Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate; 

And Dante's exile sheltered by thy »ate ; 

Thy good old man,* "hose world was all within 

Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in : 

Would that the royal guests it girds about 

Were so fir like, as never to get out ! 

Ay, shout ! inscribe! rear monuments of shame, 

To tell Oppression that the world is tame! 

Crowd to the theatre with loyal rs 

The comedy is not upon the stage ; 

The show is rich in nbandry and Stars, 

Then gaze upon it through the dungeon bars ; 

Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 

For thus much still thy fettered hands are free. 

x. 
Resplendent sight! Behold the coxcomb czar, 
The autoerat of waltzes and of war! 
As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 
And just as fit for flirting as the helm; 
A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit, 
And generous spirit, when 'l is not frostbit ; 
Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw, 
But harden'd hark whene'er the morning's raw; 
With no objection to true liberty, 
Except that it would make the nations free. 
How well the imperial dandy prates of peace, 
How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece! 
How nobly gave he back the Pules their I >i< it. 
Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 
How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 
With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ! 
How royally show off in proud Madrid 
His goodly person, from the South long hid ! 

A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, 
By having Muscot ites foi fi i 
Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son 
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on ; 
And thai which Scylhia was to him of yore 
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 
Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth ; 
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 
Many an old woman, but no Catherine. t 



• The farm >»• old man if Verona. 

t Tliedexieruy of Catherine extricated P t >lcr (oiled (he Great tiy 
co-irteiy) winu turrourided by the Muwulnuoi on ihu Uuki of the 
Pruth. 



> hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles— 
ar may tush into the lion's toils. 
Fatal i" Goths are X« res 1 Bunnj & 
Think'sl tor yields ? 

Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy 
To plou ave and wash thy Bashkir hordes* 

em . i j \. realms from slaver) and the knuut, 
Than follow headlong in the fatal route, 
To infesl the clime whose skies and laws are pure 
With thy i wants DO manure ; 

I il is fertile, but she feeds ho foe ; 
Her vultures, too, were goi sgo; 

\n i wouldst thou furnish thi at w ith fresher prey? 
Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 
I mi I Ii ■. enes, though Russ and Hun 
Stand b ind many a myriad's sun; 

But wire [ not l)i. L '.|i.v | | \i wander 
Rather a worm than such an Alexander *■ 
1 . > s who w ill, the cynic shall be free ; 

lli^ tiii) hath tougher walls than Sin 

Siill will he bold his hint- rn up to scan 

ice of inonarchs for an " honest man " 

\i. 
And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
0£hc plus idlta ultras and their hand 
Of mercenaries? and her noisy chambers 
And tribune, which each orator first clambers 
be finds a voice, and when 'tis found, 
Hears " the lie 11 echo foi his answer round ! 
Our British commons sometimes deign to ''hear !" 
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear ; 
Even Constant, their sole master of deb il 
Must fight next day bis spe< i h to vindicate. 
But this costs lilt e to true Franks, who had rather 

- n, were it to their father 
u ii if i-. the simple SI l --hot, 

To listening long, and interrupting not 1 
Though this was nol tht meth id of old Rome, 
When Tull) fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 

Demoslln-tio has sanctioned the transaction, 
In saying eloquence meant " Action, action !" 

XII. 

But where 's the monarch ? hath he dined ? or yet 

i rroans b< m atfa indigestion's heary debt ? 

I [ave revolution try pa £ - n- en 

And turii'd the royal entrails to a prison? 

IIi< discontented movements stirr'd the troops ; 

< tr have no mi i emenis followed traitorous soups ? 

! lave i';i inks not carbonadoed 

Bach course enough .' ar doctors due dissuaded 

R< pit tion .' Ah! in thy dejected looks 

I read all France's treason in her cook* ! 

1 1 1 i lassie Louis ! is it, canst thou say, 

i resit able to be the " Desire 1 n 

Why wouldst ihou leave calm Hartwell'a green abode, 

A pician table, and Horaiia le. 

To rule a people who will not be ruled, 

And love much rather to be scourged than school'd ? 

Ah ! thine was nut the temper or the taste 

Poi thrones ; t ! thee better placed: 

A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best, 

To be a kind host and as good a guest, 

To talk of letters, ami to know by heart 

< >ni' half the poet's, alt the gourmand's art ; 

A scholar always, now and then a wit, 

And gentle when digestion may permit;— 

But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 

The gout was martyrdom enough for thee. 

XIII. 

Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 

From a hold Briton in her wonted praise? 

"Arts — arms — and George — and glory — and the isles— 

And happy Britain — wealth — and freedom's smiles — 






THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



451 



White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof— 

Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
Proud Wellington, 'with Eagle beak so curfd, 
That nose, the hook where lie suspends the world •* 

And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush! not yet 

A syllable of imposts or of debt) 

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlerea 
Whose penknife slii .1 go tse-qui . 1' other day — 
And ' pilots who have wealher'd every storm' — ■ 
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform.") 
These are the themes thus Sting so ofi before, 
Methinks we need nol sing them any more; 
Pound in so many volumes Wir and near, 
There 's no occasion you should find them here. 
Yet Something may remain perchance to chime 
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme. 
Even tins thy genius. Canning ! may permit, 
Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit, 
And never, even in that dull house, couldst tame 
To unleavened prose thine own poetic flame \ 
Our last, our best, our only orator, 
Even t can praise thee — lories do no more ; 
Nay, not bo much ; — they hate thee, man, because 
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. 
The hound* will gather to the huntsman's hollo, 
And where he leads the duteous pack will follow ; 
But not lor love mistake iheir veiling crv ; 
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; 
Less faithful far than the fourfooted park, 
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, 
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; 
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
To stumble, kick, and now and then slick fast 
With his great self and rider in the mud ; 
But what of that 1 the animal shows blood. 



Alas, the country! how sball tongue or pen 

Bewail her now uncotintry gentlemen ? 

The last to bid the crv of warfare cease, 

The first to make a malady of peace. 

For what were all these country patriots born ? 

To hunt, and vote, and rai*e the price of corn ? 

But corn, like .every mortal thing, must fall, 

Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 

And must ye fill with every ear of grain ? 

Why woo! 1 you trouble Buonaparte's reign ? 

He was your great Triplolemus ; his vices 

Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your prices 

He amplified to every lord's content 

The grand agrarian nlchymy, liight rent. 

Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 

Ani! lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? 

Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 

The man was worth much more upon his throne. 

True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spill ; 

But what of thai ? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; 

Bot bread was high, the farmer paid his wny, 

And acres told upon the appointed day. 
But where is now the goodly audit ale? 
The purseproud ten tnt, never known to fiil ? 
The farm which never yet was left on hand? 
The marsh rec'.aun'd to most improving land ? 
The impatient hope of the expiring lease? 
The doubling rental ? Whai an evil's peace! 
In vain the itrize excites i he ploughman's -^k ill, 
In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill ; 
The landed interest — (ymi may understand 
The phrase much better leaving out the land) — 



* " \*i\«n lu spend it artunco. 1 ' — Horace. 

,Trie Roman applie* it lu one who merely was imperious to his ac- 
quaintance.) 



The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 

For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 

Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes, 

Or else the ministry will loose their voles, 

And patriotism] so delicately nice, 

Her loaves will lower lo the market price ; 

For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so high, 

Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry, 

And naught remains of all the millions spent, 

Excepting to grow moderate and content. 

They who are not so, had their turn — and turn 

About still flows from Fortune's equal urn ; 

Now let their virtue be its own reward, 

And share the blessing which themselves prepared. 

See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 

Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ; 

Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, 

Their fields manured by eore of other lands ; 

Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 

Their brethren out to battle — why ? for rent I 

Year after year they voted cent, per cent., 

Blood, sweat, ami tear-wrung millions — why ? for rent 

They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they 

meant 
To die for England — why then live? for rent I 
The peace has made one general malecontent 
Of these high-market patriots: war was rent! 
Their love cf country, millions all mispent, 
How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
And will they not repay the treasures lent? 
No : down with every thing, and up with rent ! 
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 
Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent ! 
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess; 
Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less ; 
Now thou hast swill' d thy po'tage, thy demands 
Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
Such landlords! was your appetite for war, 
And, gorged with blood, vou grumble at a scar! 
What! would iheyspread their earthquake even o'er cash? 
And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash? 
So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, 
And found on 'Change a FwneUing Hospital ? 
Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes, 
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes ; 
The prelates go to — where the sainis have gone, 
And proud pluralities subside to one ; 
Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, 
Toss'd by the deluge in Iheir common ark. 
Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, 
Another Babel soars — but Brirain ends. 
And why ? to pamper the self-seeking wants, 
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
" Go lo these ants, ihou sluggard, and be wise;" 
Admire their patience through each sacrifice, 
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, 
The price of taxes and of homicide ; 
Admire iheir justice, which would fain deny 
The debt of nations :— pray who made it high ? 



Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, 

Tke new Symplegades — the crushing Slocks, 

Where Midas might again his wish behold 

In real paper or imagined gold. 

That magic palace of Alcina shows 

More wealth than Britain -verbid to lose, 

Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore, 

And all her pebbles from Pai 

There Foriunf plavs, while Rutnoui holds the stake, 

And ihe world trembles lo bid brokers beak. 

How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines, 

Or peace or plenty, com or nil, or vi ii 

No land of t'anaan, full of milk anil honey, 

Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money: 



452 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



But let us not to own the truth refuse, 

Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews? 

Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 

And now, ye kings! they kindly draw your own; 

All states, all things, all sovereigns they control, 

And waft a loan " from Indus to the pole." 

The banker — broker — baron— brethren, speed 

To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 

Nor these alone : Columbia feels no less 

Fresh speculations follow each success; 

And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 

Her mild percentage from exhausted Spain. 

Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march ; 

'T is gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. 

Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 

In every realm their scripture-promised land : — 

Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold 

The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old 

Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct 

The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 

"Whal is the happiness of earth to them? 

A congress forms their " New Jerusalem " 

Where baronies and orders both invite — 

Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight ? 

Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 

Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 

But honour them as portion of the show — 

(Where now, oh pope ! is thy forsaken toe ? 

Could it not favour Judali with some kicks ? 

Oi lias it ceased to *' kick against the pricks ?" 

OnShylock's shore behold ihem stand afresh, 

To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of flesh." 

XVI. 

Strange sight this congress ! destined to unite 

All that 's incongruous, all that 's opposite. 

I speak not of the sovereigns— they 're alike, 

A common coin as ever mint could strike : 

But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, 

Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 

Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, 

While Europe wonders at the vast design: 

There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, 

Cajoles ; there Wellington forgets to fight ; 

There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs ;* 

And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars ; 

There Montmorency, the sworn foe to charters, 

Turns a diplomatist of great eclat, 

To furnish ari tries lor " the Debats;** 

Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 

As his dismissal in the " Momteur." 

Alas! how could his cabinet thus err? 

Can peac be worth an ultra-minister? 

He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again 

" Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain." 



■ Montleur Chateaubriand, who hai not forgotten the author in the 
minister, receive) a tmnHsome compliment It (I ■» liler 

■ovrrcign : " Ah ! Monsieur C , are you related to that Chnte 

brland who— who— who ha» written tomilhing ."' (dcril yu«/yu« ch ne •) 
]i )x v<hl thai the author of Amu repealed him for n moinenl of hit 
legitimacy. 



Enough of tliis — a sight more mournful wooa 

The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 

The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 

The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride ; 

The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, 

The young Astyanax of modern Troy ; 

The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 

That earth yet to sec, or e'er hath seen ; 

She Bits amid the phantoms of the hour, 

The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. 

Oli, cruel mockery ! Could not Austria spare 

A daughter r What did France's widow there? 

Her filter place was by St. Helen's wave, 

Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 

But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign, 

Flank'd by hor formidable chamberlain; 

The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 

Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. 

What though she share no more, and shared in vain t 

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 

Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas 

Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 

Where Parma views the traveller resort 

To note the trappings of her mimic court. 

But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 

Of all hor beams— while nations gaze and mourn— 

Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 

To chill in their inhospitable clime ; 

(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ; 

But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould ;) 

She comes!— the Andromache (hut not Racine's, 

Nor Homer's ) — Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! 

Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 

Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through, 

Is ofler'd and accepted! Could a slave 

Do more ? or less ? — and he in his new grave ! 

Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, 

And he ex-empress grows as ex a wife ! 

So much for human ties in royal breasts I 

Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests ? 



But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, 
And sketch the group — the picture 's yet to como. 
My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt, 
Sh** caught Sir William Curtis in a kill! 
While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan 
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman! 
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, 
While all the Common Council cry " Claymore!* 
To see proud Alhyn's tartan's as a belt 
Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt, 
She burs' into a laughter so extreme, 
That I awoke — and lo ! 't was iw dream ! 



Here, reader, will we pause : — if there 's no harm in 
This first — you 'II have, perhaps, a second " Carmen.* 1 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 

BY aUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

SUGGESTED BT THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF " WAT TYLER." 



1 A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
1 thank ihee, Jew, for teaching me that word." 



PREFACE. 
It hath been wisely said, that "One fool makes many ■" 
and it hath been poetically observed, 

" Thai fools rufthia where angels fear to tread." — Pope, 

If Mr. Southpy had not rushed in where he had no 
business, and where he never was before, and never will 
be again, the following poem would not have been 
mitten. It is not impossible that it may be as good as 
his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupi- 
dity, natural or acquired, be worse. The gross flattery, 
the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance and im- 
pious cant of the poem by the author of Wat Tyler, 
are something so stupendous as to form the sublime of 
himself — containing the quintessence of his own attri- 
butes. 

So much for his poem, a word on his preface. In 
this preface it has pleased the magnanimous laureate to 
draw the picture of a supposed " Satanic School," the 
which he doth recommend to the notice of the legislature ; 
thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition of those 
of an informer. If there exists anv where, excepting in 
his imagination, such a school, is he not sufficiently 
armed against ii by his own intense vanity ? The truth 
is, that there are certain writers whom Mr, S. imagim 
like Scrub, io have " talked of him ; for they laughed 
consumedly." 

I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom 
he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, in their in- 
dividual capacities, have done more good in the chari- 
ties of life to their fellow-creatures in any one year, than 
Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdi- 
ties in his whole life ; and this is saying a great deal. 
But I have a lew questions to ask. 

ls:ly. Is Mr. Southey the author of Wat Tyler? 

2dly. "Was he not refused a remedy at law by the 
highest judge of his beloved England, because it was a 
blasphemous and seditious publication? 

3dly. Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full 
parliament, " a rancorous renegado?" 

4thly. Is he not poet laureate, with his own lines on 
Martin the regicide staring him in the face? 

And 5thly. Putting the four preceding items together, 
with what conscience dare he call the attention of the 
laws to the publications of others, be they what they 
may ? 

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding ; 
its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch upon 
the motive, which is neither more nor less than that Mr. 
S. has been laughed at a little in some recent publica- 
tions, as he was of yore in the " Anti-jacobin" by his 
present patrons. Hence all this "skimble scamble 
stuff" about " Satanic," and so forth. However, it is 
worthy of him — H Qualis ub incepto." 

If there is any thing obnoxious to the political opinions 
of a portion of the public in the following poem, they 



may thank Mr. Southey. He might have written hexa- 
meters, as he has written every thing else, foraught that 
the writer cared — had they been upon another subject. 
But to attempt lo canonize a monarch, who, whatever 
were his household virtues, was neither a successful nor 
a patriot king, — inasmuch as several years of his reign 
passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing 
of the aggression upon France, — like all other exagge- 
ration, necessarily begets opposition. In whatever man- 
ner he may be spoken of in this new " Vision," his 
public career will not be more favourably transmitted by 
history. Of his private virtues (although a little expen- 
sive to the nation) there can be no doubt. 

With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, 

I can only say that I know as much about them, and (as 
an honest man) have a better right to talk of them than 
Robert Southey. I have also treated them more tole- 
rantly. The wav in which that poor insane creature, the 
laureate, deals about his judgments in the next world, is 
like his own judgment in this. If it was not complete- 
ly ludicrous, it would be something worse. 1 do n't think 
that there is much more to say at present. 

tlUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

P. S. — Tt is possible that some readers may object, in 
these ohjo.-tionable times, to the freedom with which 
saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse in this 
" Vision." But for precedents upon such points I must 
refer him to Fielding's" Journey from this World to the 
next," and to the Visions of myself, the said Quevedo, 
in Spanish or translated. The reader is also requested 
to observe, that no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or 
discussed ; that the person of th* Deity is carefully with- 
held from sight, which is more than can be said for the 
laureate, who hath thought proper to make him talk, not 

II like a school divine," but like the unscholarlike Mr. 
Southey. The whole action passes on the outside of 
heaven ; and Chaucer's Wife of Bath, Pulci's Morgante 
Maggiore, Swift's Tale of a Tub, and ihe other works 
above referred to, are cases in point of the freedom with 
which saints. &c. may be permitted to converse in works 
not intended to be serious. 

a. r. 

[%* Mr. Southey being, as he says, a good Christian 
and vindictive, threatens, I understand, a reply to this 
our answer. It is to be hoped that his visionary faculties 
will in the meantime have acquired a little more judg- 
ment, properly so called : otherwise he will get himself 
into new dilemmas. These apostate jacobins furnish 
rich rejoinders. Let him take a specimen. Mr. Southey 
laudeth grievously " one Mr. Landor," who cultivates 
much private renown in the shape of Latin verses ; and 
not long ago, the poet laureate dedicated to him, it ap- 
peareth, one of his fugitive lyrics, upon the strength of 
a poem called Gebir. Who could suppose, that in thi* 



454 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



same Gebirthc aforesaid Savage Landor (lor such is his 
grim cognomen) putteth into ihe infernal regions no less 
a person than the hero of his friend Mr. Southey's 
heaven, — yea, even George ihe Third ! See .also how 
personal Savage become th, when he hath a mind. The 
fallowing is his portrait of our late gracious sovereign : 

(Prince Gebir kavinfdttcinded into Mo infernal regions, 
the thade* of hit royal tvtmton are, at fin rtquttt 
to hit view, and he erctainu to hit gkitili/ guide} — 

" Aro^r, whul Wretch that nrnrc»l III ? what ■ I 
I* ihit wiili eyebrow* while en I 
LI •tea - him yonder, who, ' onml down iiinlae. 
Shrink* jelling from tl Iraog* 

He too among i Nate 

The despoi, hut therlailard Idealise. 
Was he our countryman . J " 

" AIh.O king I 
Iberia bore him, bnl the breed .iccurst 
Inclement winds blew blighting from nori I ■ 

" II'' W.IS « W.irrjar thru, ii ■! I | I I ' I I gOCUl ?" 

'• Gebir, he fear d the demon . not the gotta, 

Though ihein indeed hied i 

Ami waa in) Warrior, rel the thom md liVM 

S(j'i.iii>li-rM, SJ (lone* lu exerci- I 

Ami ihe nine erueli; ipi Ice— 

Oh injilue^j of mankind ! nddreti'J, •dured !" — Gebir, p. 28. 

I omilnoticing some edifj iog [ihyphallics of Savagius, 
wishing to keep ihe proper veil over them, if his grave 

lini siiMi.-wb.it indiscreet worshipper will suffer it ; but. 
certainly these teachers of " great moral lessons" are apt 
to be found iu strange company.] 



Saint Peter sat by the celestial sate ; 

His keys were rusty, and the luck was dull, 
So liitle trouble had been given of late; 

Not that the place by any means was full, 
But since the Gallic era " eighty-eight*' 

The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, 
And " a pull altogether," as they say 
At sea — which drew most souls another way. 

ii. 
The angels all were singing out of time, 

And hoarse with having little else to do, 
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 

Or curb a runaway young star or two, 
Or wild cult of a comet, which ton soon 

Bruke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 
Splitting some planet with its playful fail, 
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 

hi. 
The guardian seraphs had retired on high, 

Finding their charges past all care below ; 
Terrestrial business fill'd naught in the sky 

Save the recording angel's black bureau; 
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 

With such rapidity of vice and wo, 
That he had sti ipp'd off both his wings in quills, 
And yet was in arrear of human ills. 

i v. 
His business so augmented of hue years, 

That he was (breed, against his will, no doubt, 
(Jutl like those cherubs, earthly ministers,) 

For some resource to turn himself about 
And claim the help of his celesl Lai peers, 

To aid him ere he should trt quite worn out 
By the increased demand for his remarks ; 
Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks 

v. 
This was a handsome board — at least for heaven, 

And yet they had even then enough to do, 
So many conquerors* cars were daily driven, 

So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 
Each day too slew its thousands six or seven, 

Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 
They threw their pens down in divine disgust— 
The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust. 



This by the way; 't is not mine to record 

What angels shrink fruin : even the very devil 

On tins occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
So surfeited with ihe infernal revel ; 

Though lie himself had sharpened « very sword, 
It aim »8l Quench'd bis innate iliirst of evil. 

(Here S itan's sole good work deserves insertion — 

' T is, that he hath both generals in reversion.) 

VII. 

Lei 's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, 

And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease, 
With nothing but new names nibscribM upon 't; 

'Twill one day finish: meantime they increase, 
" With seven heads and ten horns," and all in front, 

Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours are born 

Less formidable in the head (ban horn. 

VIII. 

In ihe first year of freedom's second dawn 

Pud I ieorge ihe Third ; although no tyrant, one 

Who shielded tyrants, nil each '-rise withdrawn 

LeO him nor mental nor external sun: 
A battel farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, 

A worse king never left a realm undone ! 
Be died — but left his subjects still behind, 
One half as mad — and t' other no less blind. 

IX. 

He died ! — his death made no great stir on earth, 

His bun, il mad-- some pomp; there was profusion 
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 

Of aught but tears — save ihose shed by collusion. 
For these things may he bought at their true worth : 

Of elegy then- was the due infusion — 
Bought also ; and the torcheS] cloaks, and banners, 
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 

x. 
FormM a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all 

The fools who tlock'd to swell or see the show, 
Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 

Made the attraction, and the black the wo. 
There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced the 

And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 
It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 
The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 

XI. 

So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
Return to what it must far sooner, were 
The natural compound left alone to light 

Its way back inio earth, and lire, and air; 
But the unnatural balsams merely blight 

What nature made him ut his birth, as bare 
As the mere million's base unmummied clay- 
Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 

XII. 

He 's dead — and upper earth with him has done : 
He *s buried ; save the undertaker's bill, 

Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 
For him, unless he left a German will ; 

But where \s the proctor who will ask his son ? 
In whom bis qualities are reigning still, 

Kxcept that household virtue, mast uncommon, 

Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 

XIII. 

" God save the king "' It is a large economy 

In God to save the like ; but if he will 
Be saving, all the better ; for not one am I 

Of those who think damnation better still: 
I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 

In this small hope of bettering future ill 
By circumscribing', with some slight restriction, 
The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



455 



XIV. 

I know this is unpopular ; I know 

'T is blasphemous; I know on-: may be damn'd 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 

I know my catechism ; I know we are era mm d 
With ihe best doctrines till we quite o'erflow \. 

I know that all save England's church have shamm'd, 
And that the oiher twice two hundred churches 
And synagogues have made a damned bad purchase. 

xv. 
God help us all ! God help me too ! I am, 

God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 
And not a whit more difficult to damn 

Than is to bring ;o land a late-hook'd fish, 
Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb; 

Not that I 'm fit for such a noble dish 
As one day will be that immortal fry 
Of almost every body born to die. 

xvi. 
Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, 

And nodded o'er bis keys ; when lo ! there came 
A wond'rous noise he had not heard of late — 

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame ; 
In short, a roar of things extremely great, 

Which would have-made aught save a saint exclaim ; 
But he, with fiist a start and then a wink. 
Said, li There's another star gone out, I think '. r ' 

xvii. 
But ere he could return to his repose, 

A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes — 
At which Saiat Peter vawn'd, and rubb'd his nnse : 

"Saint porter," said the angel, " prithee rise 1" 
"Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 

An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes : 
To which the saint replied, " Well, what's the matter ? 
Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter V* 
XVIII. 

II No," quoth the cherub; (t George the Third is dead.'' 
"And who is George ihe Third V* replied the ap ist e : 

« What George ? what Third ?» " The king of Eng- 
land," said 

The angel. '■ Well ! he won't tin.} kings to jostle 
Him on his way ; but does he wear his head ? 

Because the last we saw here had a tustle, 
And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces, 
Had he nut flung his head in all our faces. 

XIX. 

" He was, if I remember, king of France ; 

That head of his, which could not keep a crown 
On earth, yel ventured in my face to advance 

A claim to those of martyrs — like my own : 
It I had bad my sword, as I had once 

"When I cut ears orf, I had cu: him down ; 
Bui having but my keys, and not my brand, 

I only knock'd his head from out his band. 

XX. 

II And thfn he set up such a headless howl, 
That all the saints came out, and took htm in ; 

And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl ; 

That fellow Paul — the parvenu ! The skin 
Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 

In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin 
So as to make a martyr, never sped 
Better than did this weak and wooden head. 

XXI. 

" But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 
There would have been a different tale to tell : 

The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders 
Seems to have acted on them like a spell ; 

And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 

And seems the custom here to overthrow 

Whatever has been wisely done below." 



The angel answer'd, "Peter! do not pout : 

The king who comes has head and all entire, 
And never knew much what it was about— 

He did as doth the puppet — by its wire, 
And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt: 

My business and your own is not to inquire 
Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 
Winch is to act as we are bid to do." 

XXIII. 
While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 

Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 

Some silver stream, (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 
Or Thames, or Tweed,) and mid I hem, an old man 

With an old soul, and both extremely blind, 
Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 

XXIV. 

But bringing up the rear of this bright host 

A spirit of a different aspect waved 
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved; 
His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost ; 

Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
Eternal wrath on his immortal face, 
And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 

XXV. 

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 

Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or sin, 
With such a glance of supernatural hate, 

As made Saint Peter wish himself within; 
He patler'd with his keys at a great rate, 

And sweated through his apostolic skin, 
Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 
Or some such other spiritual liquor. 

XXVI. 

The very cherubs huddled altogether, 

Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they kit 
A tingling to the tip of every feather, 

And form'd a circle like Orion's belt 
Around their poor old charge ; who scarce knew whither 

His guards bad led him, though they gently dealt 
With royal mane-;, (for by many stories, 
And true, we learn the angels all are tories.) 

XXVII. 
As things were in this posture, the gate flew 

Asunder, and the flashing of its binges 
Flung over space an universal hi.e 

Of many-colutir'd flame, until its tinges 
Ileach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 

Aurora borealis spread its fringes 
O'er ihe North Pole; the same seen, when ice-bound, 
By Captain Parry's crews, in " Melville's Sound." 

xxviii. 
And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 

A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 
Radiant with glory, like a burner streaming 

Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight: 
My poor comparisons musts needs be teeming 

With earthly likenesses, for her the night 
Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 
Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving. 

xxtv. 
'T was the archangel Michael : all men know 

The make of angels and archangels, since 
There 's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 

From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince. 
There also are some allar-pieces, though 

I really can 't say that they much evince 
One 's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 
But let the connoisseurs explain their merits. 



456 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 

A goodly work of him from whom all E 
And gond arise ; the portal past — he stood ; 

Before hint the young cherubs and saint hoary, 
(I nay young, begging to be understood 

By looks, not years ; and should be very sorry 
To state, they were not older than Saint Peter, 
But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter.) 

xwi. 
The cherubs and the saints bowed down before 

That archangelic hierarch, the first 
Of essences angelical, who wore 

The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nurst 
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 

No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst 
Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 

XXXII. 

He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 

They knew each other both fir good and ill j 

Such was their power, that neither oould forget 
His former friend and futon- foe ; but still 

There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
In either's eye, as if 't were less their will 

Than destiny to make the eternal years 

Their date of war, and their " champ clos" the spheres 

XXXIII. 

But here they were in neutral space: we know 
From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay 

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 
And that " the sons of God," like those of clay, 

Must keep him company ; and we might show, 
From the same book, in how polite a way 

The dialogue is held between the Pow era 

Of Good and Evil — but 't would take up hours, 

XXXIV. 

And this is not a theologic tract, 

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic 

If Job be allegory or a fact, 

But a true narrative; and thus I pick 

From out the whole but such and such an act 
As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 

*T is every tittle true, beyond suspicion 

And accurate as any other vision. 

XXXV. 

The spirits were in neutral space, heforo 

The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresholds is 
The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er, 

And souls despatched to that world or to this ; 
And therefore Michael and the other wore 

A civil aspect : though they did not kiss, 
Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 
There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 

xxxvi. 
The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau, 

But with a graceful Oriental bend, 
Pressing one radiant arm just where below 

The heart in good men i> supposes 1 to tend. 
He turn'd as to an equal, no! too low. 

But kindly ; Satan met his ancient friend 
With more hauteur, as might an old Caslilian 
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 

XXX VII. 

He merely bent his diabolic brow 

An instant; and then raising it, he stood 

In act to assert his right <>r wrong, and show 

Cause why King George by no means could or should 

Make out a case to ho exempt from wo 
Eternal, more than other kings, endued 

Willi better sense and hearts, whom history mentions, 

Who long have "paved hell with their good intentions.' 



XXXVIII. 

Michael began : ■Whal would si thou with this man, 
Now dead, and broughl l» fore the Lord? What ill 

Hath be wroughl since his mortal race began, 

Thai thou can's) claim him? Speak! and do thy will, 

If it be just : if in this earthly span 
11. ■ ha h hi en gr< ally fai ig 10 fulfil 

His duti< a as a king and mortal, say, 

And he is thine ; if not, lei him have way." 

XXXIX. 

" Michael !" replied the Prince of Air, " even here, 
Before the gate of him thou serveat, must 

I claim my subji cl ; and w i I make appear 
That as he was my worshipper in dust, 

So shall h<- In- m spirit, although di ar 

To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 

Were of his on the throne 

He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 

XL. 

I . i k to our earth, or rather mine ; it was, 

Onct, mart ihj master's: hut 1 triumph not 
In this poor planet's conqu ; nor alas! 

Need he thou serves! envy me my lot! 
With all the myriads of bright worlds v. Inch pass 

In worship round him, he may have forgot 
i on weak creation of such paltry things : 
I think few worth damnation save their kings,— 

XI.I. 

'' And these hut as a kind of quitrent, to 

Assert my right as lord; and even had 
[such an inclination, 'i were (as you 

Well know ) ; (hey are grown so bad, 

That hell has nothing left to do 

Than leave them to themselves : so much more mad 
And evil by their own internal curse, 
Heaven cannot make them better, nor 1 worse. 

Mil. 

" Look to the earth, I said, and say again : 
When ihis old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm 

Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign, 
The world and he both wore a different form, 

And much of earth and all thewaterv plain 

Of ocean call'd him king : through many a storm 

His isles had floated on the abyss pf time ; 

For the rough virtues chose iheiu fur their clime. 

XLIII. 

" He came to his sceptre young ; he leaves it old : 

Look to the s'ate in which he found his realm. 
Arid lefl it ; and his annals tOO behold, 

How tO a minion first he gave the helm; 
How grew Upon his heart a thirst for gold, 

The beggars vice, which can but overwhelm 
The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, but glance 
Thitio eye along America and France. 

XLIV. 
" 'T is true, he was a tool from first to last, 

( l have the workmen Bale ;) but as a tool 
So let him be consumed. For out the past 

;es, since mankind have known the rule 
Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amassed 

Of sin and slaughter— from the Caesars' school, 
Take the worst pupil ; and produce a reign 
More drench'd with gore, more cumbered with the slain. 

XLV. 
' lie ever warr'd with freedom and the free : 

Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foos, 
So thai they ulter'd the word 'Liberty! 1 

Found George the Third their first opponent. Whoso 
History was ever Btain'd as his wilt be 
With national and individual woes? 
I grant his household abstinence; I grant 
His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want; 



THE VISION OP JUDGMENT. 



457 



xlvi. 
11 1 know he was a constant consort ; own 

He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 

As temperance, if at Apicius' board, 
Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 

I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 
And this was well fir him, but not for those 
Millions who found him what oppression chose. 

XLVIT. 

11 The New World shook him off'; the Old yet groans 
Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 

Completed : he leaves his heirs on many thrones 
To all his vices, without what begot 

Compassion for him — his tame virtues; drones 
Who Bleep, or despots who have now forgot 

A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 

Upon the thrones .of earth ; but let them quake ! 

XLTIII. 

11 Five millions of the primitive, who hold 

The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 

A part of that vast all they held of old, — 
Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 

Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter ! Cold 
Musi be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 

The foe to catholic participation 

In all the license of a Christian nation. 

XLIX. 

" True ! he allow'd them to prayGod ; but as 

A consequence of prayer, refused the law 
Which would have placed them upon the same base 

With those who did not hold the saints in awe." 
But ere Saint Peter started from his place, 

And cried, " You may the prisoner withdraw : 
Kre heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph, 
While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself! 

L. 
" Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 

My office (and his is no sinecure) 
Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 

The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure t rt 
11 Saint !" replied Satan, " you do well to avenge 

The wrongs he made your satellites endure; 
And if to this exchange you should be given, 
I 'II try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 

LI. 

Here Michael interposed : " Good saint! and devil! 

Pray, not so fast ; you both outrun discretion. 
Saint Peter • you were wont to be more civil : 

Satan! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
And condescension to the vulgar's level : 

Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
Have you got more to say ?" — " No." — " If you please, 
I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." 

L1I. 

Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand, 
Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 

Clouds farther off than we can understand, 

Although we find him sometimes in our skies ; 

Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
In all the planets, and hell's batteries 

Let off* the artillery, which Milton mentions 

As one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 

LIU. 

This was a signal unlo such damn'd souls 
As have the privilege of their damnation 

Extended far beyond the mere controls 
Of worlds past, present, or to come ; no station 

Is theirs particularly in the rolls 

Of hell assign'd ; but where their inclination 

Or business carries them in search of game, 

They may range freely — being damn'd the same. 

3H 



They are proud of this — as very well they mav, 
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 

Stuck in their loins ; or 1 ike to an u entrfc" 
Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 

I borrow my comparisons from clay, 
'Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 

Offended with such baso low likenesses ; 

We know their posts are nobler far than these. 

LV. 

When the great signal ran from heaven lo hell — 
About ten million times the distance reckon'd 

From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 

How much time it takes up, even to a second, 

For every ray that travels to dispel 

The fogs of London, through which, dimly beacWd, 

The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year. 

If that the summer is not too severe : — 

LVI. 

[ say that T can tell — 't was half a minute : 
I know the solar beams take up more timo 

Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it; 
But then their telegraph is less sublime, 

And if they ran a race, they would not win it 

'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own clinv 

The sun takes up some years for every ray 

To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 

LVII. 

Upon the verge of space, about the size 

Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear'd, 
(I've seen a something like it in the skies 

In the jEgean, ere a squall;) it near'd, 
And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 

Like an aerial ship it tack'd, and steer'd, 
Or was steer'd, (I am doubtful of the grammar 
Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer ; 

LV1II. 
But take your choice ;) and then it grew a cloud 

And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 

Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these; 
Theyshadow'd with their myriads space; their loud 

And varied cries were like those of wild-geese, 
(If nations may be Hken'd to a goose,) 
And realized the phrase of u hell broke loose." 

LIX. 

Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 

Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore: [wull ?" 

There Paddy brogued " By Jasus!" — " What's your 
The temperate Scot exclaim'd : the French ghost 

In certain terms I shan't translate in full, [swore 

As the first coachman will ; and mid the war 

The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 

" Our President is going to war, I guess." 

LX. 

Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane ; 

In short, an universal shoal of shades, 
From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 

Of all climes and professions, years and trades, 
Ready to swear against the good king's reign, 

Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades : 
All summon'd by this grand ''subpeena," to 
Try If kings may n't be damn'd like me or you. 

LXI. 

When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale, 
As angels can ; next, like Italian twilight, 

He turn'd all colours — as a peacock's tail, 

Or sunset streaming through a gothic skylight 

In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, 

Or distant lightning on the horizon by night, 

Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 

Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 



45o 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



Then he addressM himself to Satan : " Why — 

My good old friend, for such I deem you, though 
Our different parties make us fight m shy, 

I ne'er mistake you fur a. personal foe ; 
Our difference 13 political, and I 

Trust that, whatever may occur below, 
You know my great respect for you ; and this 
Makes me regret whale'er you do amis* — 

LXJU. 
c Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 

My call for witnesses ? I did not mean 
That you should half of earth and hell produce ; 

*Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean, 
True testimonies are enough : we lose 

Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
The accusation and defence : if we 
Hear both, 'twilll stretch our immortality." 

LXIV. 

Satan replied, ; ' To me the matter is 
Indifferent, in a personal point of view : 

I can have fifty better souls than this 

With far less trouble than we have gone through 

Already; and I merely argued his 

Late majesty of Britain's case in ith you 

Upon a point of form : you may dispose 

Of him ; I 've kings enough below, God knows !" 

LXV. 

Thus spoke the Demon, (late call'd " multifaced" 
By multo-scribbling Southey.) " Then we'll call 

One or two persons of the myriads placed 
Around our congress, and dispense with all 

The rest," quoth Michael : " Who may be so graced 
As to speak first? there's choice enough — who shall 

It be .'" Then Satan answer'd, u There are many ; 

But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 

LXVI. 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite, 
Upon the instant started from the throng, 

Drest in a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
For all the fashions of the flesh sties long 

By people in the next world; where unite 

AH the costumes since Adam's, right or wrong, 

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 

Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 

LXV II. 

The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 

Assembled, and exclaim'd, " My friends of all 

The spheres, we shall catch cold among these clouds ; 
So let *s to business : why this general call? 

If those are freeholders I see in shrouds. 
And 'lis for an election that they bawl, 

Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat ! 

Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote?" 

LXVIII. 

" Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake : these things 

Are of a former life, and what we do 
Above is more august ; to judge of kings 

Is the tribunal met: so now you know." 
" Then I presume those gentlemen with wings," 

Said Wilkes, '• are cherubs ; and that soul below 
Looks much like George the Third, bin to my mind 
A good deal older — Bless me ! is he blind ?" 

LXIX. 

B He is what you behold him, and his doom 
Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said, 

" If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
Gives licence to the humblest beggar's head 

To lift itself against the loftiest." — " Some," 
Said Wilkes, " do n't wait to sec them laid in lead, 

For such a liberty — and I, for one, 

Have told them what I thought beneath the sun." 



" t 1bovc the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 

'Jo utl" against lnm," said the Archangel. *' Why 

Replied the spirit, "since old scores are pa>t, 
Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 

Besides, 1 beat him hollow at the last, 
With all bis Lords and Commons : in the sky 

I do n't like ripping up old stories, since 
His conduct was but natural in a prince. 

l.xxi. 
" Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 

A poor unlucky devil without a shilling ; 
But then I blame the man himself much less 

Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 
To see him punish'd here for their excess, 

Since they were both damn'd Inns at."') and still in 
Their place below : for me, I have forgiven, 
And vote his ' habeas corpus' into heaven." 
i.xxn. 

II Wilkes," said the Devil, " I understand alt this ; 
You turiiM to half a courtier ere you died, 

A ml seem to think it would nol be ami^s 

To £r-ow a whole one on ihe other side 
Of Charon's ferry ; you forgel 'hat his 

Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide, 
He won't he sovereign more : you 've lost your labour 
For at the best he will hut be your neighbour. 

LXXIIJ. 

" However, I knew what to think of it, 
When I beheld you m your jesting way 

Flitting and whispering round ahum the spit 
Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 

With Pox's tat. 1 was basting William Pitt, 

His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say : 
Thai fellow even in hell breeds farther ills; 
I 'II have him gagg\l — 't was one of his own bills. 

i.xxiv. 
" Call Junius ! From the crowd a shadow slalkM, 

And at the name lliere was a general squeeze, 
So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 

In comfort, at their own aerial ease, 
But were all ramm'd, and jammM, (hut to be balUM, 

As we shall see,) and jostled hands and knees, 
I. die w bid compress'd snd pi ni « ithin a bladder, 
Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 

I.XXV. 

The shadow came — n tail, thin, gray-hatrM figure, 
That look'd as it had been a shade on earth ; 

Quick in its motions, w iih an air of vigour. 
But naught to mark its breeding or H.-> birth ; 

Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger, 
With now an air of L'Umi, or savage mirth, 

But as you gazed upon its features, they 

Changed every instant — to iv.'uit, none COOld say. 
LXXVI. 

The more intently the ghosts gazed, ihe less 
( lould ihey distinguish whose the fentures were; 

The Devil himself seemM puzzled even to guess; 

They varied like a dream — now here, now there , 
And several people swore from out the press, 

They knew him perfectly ; and one could swear 
He was his father : upon which another 
Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother: 

LXXVM. 

Another, that he was a duke or knight, 

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, a man-midwife ; but the wight, 

Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
As oft as they their minds : though in full sigh 

lie stood, the puzzle only was iiu'reas'd 
The man was a phantasmagoria in 
Himself— ho was so volatile and thin. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



459 



Lxxvur. 

The moment that you had pronounced him one, 
Presto ! his face changed, and he was another ; 

And when that change was hardly well put on, 
It varied, till I do n't think his own mother 

(If that he had a mother) would her son 

Have known, he shifted so from one to t'other: 

Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 

At this epistolary " Iron M^sk." 

i.wix. 
For sometimes he like Cerberus seem — 

11 Three gentlemen at once," (as sagely says 
Good Mrs. Malaprop ;) then you might deem 

That he was not even out ; now many rays 
Were flashing round him; and now a (hick steam 

Hid hin] from sight — like fogs on London days : 
Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies, 
And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 

LXXX. 
I 've an hypothesis — 't is quite my own ; 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm aboul the throne, 

And injuring some minister or peer, 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown 

li is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
'T is, tliat what Junius we are wont to call 
Was really, truly, nobody at all. 

LXXX1. 

I do n't see wherefore letters should not be 
Written without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads ; and books, we see, 
Are fill'd as well without the latter too : 

And reallv till we fix on somebody 

For certain sure to claim tliem as his due, 

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother 

The world to say ittkere be mouth or author. 

LXXXII. 

M And who and what art thou ?" the Archangel said. 

" For that you may consult my tide page,*' 
Replied this mighty shadow of a shade: 

"If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce shall leil it now." — "Canst thou upbraid," 

Continued Michael, '■ George Hex, or allege 
Aught further?" Junius answerM, "You had better 
First ask him for his answer to my letter : 

LXXXII I. 
M My charges upon record will outlast 

The brass of both his epitaph and tomh." 
'* Repeat's! tli >u not," said Michael, " of some past 

Exaggeration? something which may doom 
Thyself if false, as him if true ? Thou wast 

Too bitter — is it not so? — in thy gloom 
Of passion ?'* — 'Passion!" cried the phantom dim, 
" I loved my country, and I hated him. 

LXXX1V. 

" What I have written, I have written: let 

The rest he on his head or mine!" Sn spoke 
Old " Noniinu Umbra ;" and while speaking yet, 

Away he melted in celestial smoke. 
Then Satan said to Michael, " Do n't forget 

To call George Washington, and John Home Tooke 
And Franklin ;" — but at this time there was heard 
A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 

LXXXV. 
At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 

Of cherubim appointed to lliat post, 
The devil Asmodeus lo the circle made 

His way, and look 'd as if his journey cost 
Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 

11 What 's this ?" cried Michael ; " why, f is not 
' I know it," quoth the incubus ; " but he [ghost ? 

Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 



LXXXVI. 

• l Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd 
My left wing, he's so heavy; one would think 

Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
But to the point : while hovering o'er the Brink 

OfSkiddaw, (where as usual it still raui'd,) 
I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 

And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel— 

No less on history than the Holy Bible. 

LXXXVII. 

11 The former is the devil's scripture, and 

The latter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 

Belongs to all of us, you understand. 
I snatchM him up just as you see him there, 

And brought him off for sentence out of hand : 
I 've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 

At least a quarter it can hardly be : 

I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 

LXXXVIIf. 

Here Satan said, " I know this man of old, 
And have expected him for some time here; 

A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 
Or more conceited in his petty sphere: 

But surely it was not worth while to fold 

Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear; 

We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 

With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX. 

a But since he 's here, let 's see what he has done." 

Done !" cried Asmodeus, " he anticipates 
The very business you are now upon, 

And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 
Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 

When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates ?'* 
" Let's hear," quoin Michael, " what he has to say ; 
You know we're bound lo that in every way." 

xc. 

Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which 

Bv no means often was his case below, 
Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 

His voice into t' at awful note of wo 
To all unhappy hearers within rearh 

Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow 
But stuck fast with his first hexameter, 
Not one of all whose gouty feet woukl stir. 

xcr. 
But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd 

Into recitative, in great dismay 
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 

To murmur loudly through their long array ; 
And Michael rose ere he could get a word 

Of all his founder'd verses under way, 
And cried,'' For God's sake stop, my friend ! 't were best, 
•Yon Di, non homines — you know the rest.*' 

xcir. 
A general bustle spead throughout the throng, 

Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation; 
The angels had of course enough of song 

When upon service; and the generation 
Of gho-sts had heard loo much in life, not long 

Before, to profit by a new occasion : 
The monarch, mule till then, exclaim'd, "What! what! 
Pye come again ? No more — no more of that !" 

xcui. 
The tumult grew ; an universal cough 

Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 
When Castlereagli has been up long enough, 

(Before he was first minister of slate, 
I mean — the staves hearnow ;) somecried " Off, off!" 

As at a farce ; till grown quite desperate, 
The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
(Himself an author) only for his prose. 



460 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



The varlet was not an ill-favour' d knave ; 

A good deal like a vuhure in the face, 
Willi a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 

A smart and sharper looking sort of g.-ace 
To his whole aspect; which, though rather grave, 

Was hy no means so ugly as his case ; 
Bui that indeed was hopeless as can be, 
Q,uitc a poetic felony " de se. v 
xcv. 
Then Michael blew his trump, anJ still'd the noise 

With one still greater, as is yet ihe mode 
On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice, 

Which now and then will make a slight inroad 
Upon decorous silence, few will twice 

Lift up their lungs when fairly over-crow'd ; 
Aiiil now the bard could plead his own bad cause, 
With all the altitudes of self-applause. 

xcvi. 
He said — (I only give the heads) — he said, 

He meant no harm in scribbling : 't was his way 
Upon all topics j 'i was, besides, his bread, 

Of which he butter'd both sides ; 'i would delay 
Too long the assembly, (he was pleased to dread,) 

And take up rather more time than a day, 
To name his works — he would but cite a few — 
Wat Tyler — Rhymes on Blenheim — Waterloo. 

xevn. 
He had written praises of a regicide ; 

He had written praises of all kings whatever ; 
He had written for republics far and wide, 

And then against them bitterer than ever; 
For pantisocracy he once had cried 

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 't was clever ; 
Then grew a hearty antijacobin — 
Had turnM his coat — and would have turnM his skin. 

xcvin. 
He had suns against all battles, and again 

In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 
Reviewing* " the ungentle craft/ 1 and then 

Become as base a critic as e'er craw I'd — 
Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 

By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd: 
He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose, 
And more of both than any body knows. 

Ki EX. 
He had written Wesley's life : — here, turning round 

To Satan, " Sir, I 'am ready to write yours, 
In two octavo volumes, so nicely bound, 

With notes and preface, all that most allures 
The pious purchaser; and there's no ground 

For fear, fir I can choose my own reviewers : 
So let me haw- the proper documents, 
That I may add you to my other saints." 

c. 
Satan bowM r and was silent. " Well, if you, 

Willi amiable moilislv, (In-line 
My offer, what says Michael? There are few 

Whose memoirs could be rendered more divine. 
Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 

As it was once, but I would make you shine 
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 



» See "Mb of II. KIrke White." 



'' But talking about trumpets, here 's my Vision ! 

Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, you shall 
a nli my judgment, and by my decision 

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. 
I settle all these things by intuition, 

Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all. 
Like King Alfonso.* When I thus see double, 
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 

en. 

!!•■ erased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 

Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 
ii; mgels, now could stop the torrent ; so 

He read the first three lines of the contents; 
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 

Had vanish'd, with variety of scents, 
Ambrosiul and sulphureous, as they sprang, 
Like lightning, off from his "melodious twang.'f 

cm. 
Those grand heroics acted as a spell : 

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinion, 
The devils ran howling deafenM, down to ! 

The ghosts Red, gibbering, for their own dominion 
(P'or 'ii* not yet decided where they dwell, 

And I leave every man to bis own opinions ;) 
Michael took refuge in his trump — but lo ! 
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow ! 

civ. 
Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 

For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys 
And at the fifth line knock *d the poet down ; 

Who fell tiko Phaeton, but more at ease 
Into his lake, for there he did not drown 

A different web being by the Destinies 
Woven for the laureate's final wreath, when'er 
Reform shall happen either here or there. 

cv. 
He first sank to the bottom — like his works, 

But soon rose to the surface — like himself; 
For all corrupted things are buoyM, like corks, J 

By their own rottenness, light as an elf, 
Or wish that flits o'er a morass : he lurks, 

It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, 
1 r In - own den, to scrawl some " Life'' or u Vision," 
As Wellborn says — " the devil turnM precisian.'* 

cvi. 
As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 

Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 
Which kept my optics free from all delusion, 

And show'd me what I in my turn have shown , 
All I saw farther, in the last confusion, 

Was, thai King < leorge slipped into heaven for one ; 
And when (lie tumult dwindled to a calm, 
I left him practising the hundredth psalm. 



KIngAlfbnio, ipMklngof ihr nolfinaan «y»tem, aald.ihai" had he 
been conmlteri ni im creation ofthe iroridthe would h.ivc spared the 
M;ik. 'i iodu abaurdltlt*." 

' Sit Lubrcj'a BCCOUOt of the npparlllnn which dtwppearad " with a 
Eonoui ntrfonH and n raeladloaa twang;" or aee the ilnrio-uary, vol, (. 

J A drowned body liei at the bottom till rotten ; it then float*, aa moa 
I-eople know. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE, 

DI MESSER LUIGI PULCI. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of which 
this translation is offered, divides with the Orlando In- 
namurato the honour of having formed and suggested the 
style and story of Ariosto. The great defects of Boiardo, 
were his treating too seriously the narratives of chivalry, 
and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his continuation, by a 
judicious mixture of the gayety of Pulci, has avoided the 
one, and Berni, in his reformation of Boiardo's poem, has 
corrected the other. Pulci may be considered as the pre- 
cursor and model of Berni altogether, as he has partly 
been to Ariosto, however inferior to both his copyists. 
He is no less the founder of a new style of poetry very 
lately sprung up in England. I allude to that of the in- 
genious Whistlecraft. The serious poems on Ronces- 
valles in the same language, and more particularly the 
excellent one of Mr. Merivale, are to be traced to the 
same source. It has never yet been decided entirely 
whether Pulci's intention was or was not to deride the 
religion which is one of his favourite topics. It appears 
to me, that such an intention would have been no less 
hazardous to the poet than to the priest, particularly in 
that age and country; and the permission to publish the 
poem, and its reception among the classics of Italy, prove 
that it neither was nor is so interpreted. That he in- 
tended to ridicule the monastic lift-, and suffered his 
imagination to play with the simple dullness of his con- 
verted giant, seems evident enough ; but surely it were 
as unjust to accuse him of irreligion on this account, as 
to denounce Fielding for his Parson Adams, Barnabas. 
Thwackum, Supple, and the Ordinary in Jonathan Wild, 
— or Scott, for the exquisite use of his Covenanters in 
the " Tales of my Landlord." 

In the following translation I have used the liberty of 
the original with the proper names • as Pulci uses Gan. 
Ganellon, or Ganellone ; Carlo, Carlomagno, or Carlo- 
mano ; Rondel, or Rondello, &c. as it suits his conve- 
nience ; so has the translator. In other respects the 
version is faithful to the best of the translator's ability in 
combining his interpretation of the one language with the 
not very easy tjsk of reducing it to the same versification 
in the other. The reader, on comparing it with the ori- 
ginal, is requested to remember lha' the antiquated lan- 
guage of Pulci, however pure, is not easy to the gene- 
rality of Italians themselves from its great mixture of 
Tuscan proverbs ; and he may iherefure be more indul- 
gent to the present attempt. How far the translator has 
succeeded, and whether or no he shall continue the work, 
are questions which the public will decide. He was in- 
duced to make the experiment partly by his love for, and 
partial intercourse with, the Italian language, of which 
it is so easy to acquire a slight knowledge, and with 
which it is so nearly impossible for a foreigner to become 
accurately conversant. The Italian language is like a 
capricious beauty, who accords her smiles to all, her 
favours to few, and sometimes least to those who have 
courted her longest. The translator wished also to pre* 
sent in an English dress a part at least of a poem never 
yet rendered into a northern language ; at the same 
time that it has been the original of some of the most 
celebrated productions on this side of the Alps, as well 
as of those recent experiments in poetry in England 
which have been already mentioned. 



CANTO I. 



In the beginning was the Word next God , 

God was the Word, the Word no less was he. 

This was in the beginning, to my mode 

Of thinking, and without him naught could be : 

Therefore, just Lord ! from out thy high abode, 
Benign and pious, bid an angel dee, 

One only, to be my companion, who 

Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through. 

ii. 

And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride, 

Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 
Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside, 

The day thy Gabriel said " All hail!" to thee, 
Since to thy servants pity 's ne'er denied, 

With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, 
Be to my verses then benignly kind, 
And to the end illuminate my mind. 

in. 
'T was in the season when sad Philomel 

Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 
Deplores the ancient woes which both befell, 

And makes the nymphs enamour'd, to the hand 
Of Phaeton by Phcebus loved so well 

His car (bin temper'd by his sire's command) 
Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 
Appear'd, so that Tithonus scraich'd his brow : 

IV. 

When I prepared my bark first to obey, 

As it should still obey, the helm, my mind, 
An-I carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 

Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 
By several pens already praised ; but they 

Who to diffuse his glory were inclined, 
For all that I can see in prose or verse, 
Have understood Charles badly — and wrote worsn. 

v. 
Leonardo Arettno said already, 

That if, like Pepin. Charles had had a writer 
Of genius quick, and diligently steady, 

No hero would in hislory look brighter ; 
He in the cabinet being always ready, 

And in the field a most victorious fighter, 
Who fjr the church and christian faith had wrought 
Certes far more than yet is said or thought. 

VI. 

You still may see at Saint Liberatore 

The abbey, no great way from Manopell, 

Erected in the Abiuzzi to his glory, 

Because of the great battle in which fell 

A pagan king, according lo the story, 
And felon people whom Charles sent to hell : 

And there are bones so many, and so many, 

Near them GiusanVs would seem few, if any 



462 



TRANSLATION OF MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



Cakto T. 



But the world, blind and ignorant, do n*l prize 

His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 
Florence, by his great bounty dosl arise 

And hast, and may have, if ihou wilt allow, 
All proper customs and true rourlesies : 

Whale'er thou hist acquired from then till now, 
"With knightly courage, tri asure, or the lance, 
Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 

v i n . 
Twelve paladins had Charles in court, of whom 

The wisest and mosl famous was Orlando ; 
Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 

In Roncesvalles, as the villain planned too, 
While the horn ran^ so loud, and knell'd the doom 

Of their sad rout, though he did all knight can do, 
And Dante in his comedy has given 
To him a happy seat with Charles in heaven. 

XI. 

*T was Christmas-day ; in Paris all his court 

Charles held ; the chief] I say, < Orlando was, 
The Dane ; Astolfo thore too did resort, 

Also Ansui^i, tin- gay time to pass 
In festival and in triumphal sport, 

The much-renown'd Si . Dennis being the cause ; 
Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 
And gentle Belinghieri too came there : 

x. 
Avol'io, and Arino, and Oihone 

Of Normandy, arm Richard Paladin, 
Wise Harao, and ihe ancient Salemone, 

Walter of Lion's Mount and Baldovm, 
Who was the son of ihe sad Granellone, 

Were mere, exciting too much gladness in 
The son of Pepin :— whi n his knights came hither 
He groanM with joy to see them altogether. 

XI. 

But watchful Fortune, lurking, lakes good heed 

Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring. 
While Charles reposed him thus, in word and deed, 

Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thine ; 
Curst Gan, with envy bursting', had such need 

To v.-ni in-; spite, thai thus w ilh Charles the king 
One day ho openly began to say, 
" Orlando must we always then obey ? 

xir. 
*• A thousand times I 've been about to say, 

Orlando too presumptuously goes on ; 
Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway, 

Hamo, and Oiho, Ogier, Solomon 
Each have to honour thee and to obey; 

But he has too much credit near the throne, 
Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided 
liy such a hoy to b • no longer guided. 

XIII. 
*' And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 

To let him know lie was a gallant knight, 
And by the founl did much the day to win ; 

But I know who thai day in. I won thi Bght, 
If ir had not for good Gherardo been ; 

The victory was Almonte's else ; bis si^ht 
He kepi upon the standard, and the laurels 
In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 

xiv. 
" If thmi rememberest being in Gascony, 

When there advanced the nations nut of Spain, 
The Christian cause had suffered shamefully, 

Had not his valour driven them back again. 
Best speak the truth when there *s a reason why : 

Know then, oh emperor ! that all complain : 
As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 
O'er which I cross'd with two and sixty counts. 



" T i- fir thy grandeur should dispense relief, 
So thai each Sere may have his proper part, 

For the whole court is more or less in grief: 

Perhaps thou deem'sl this lad a Mars in heart ?" 

Orlando one day heard this speech in brief, 
As by himself it chanced he sate apart : 

ed he was with Gan because he said it, 

But much more still that Charles should give him credit. 

XVI. 

And with the sword he would have murder' d Gan, 

But Oliver thrust in between the pair, 
And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 

And thus at length they separated were. 
Orlando, angry loo withCarioraan, 

Wanted but little to have slain him there 
Then forth alone from Paris went the chief, 

An-! burst and madden'd with disdain and grief. 

x\ ir. 
From Ermellina, consort of the pane, 

He took Cortana, and then to. k Koudell, 
And on towards Brara prick'd him o'er the plain ; 

And when she saw him coining, Aldabelle 
Stretch'd forth her arms to clasp her lord again 

Orlando, in whose brain all was not well, 
As « Welcome, my Orlando, home," she said, 
Raised up his sword to smite heron the head. 

xviii. 
Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 

On Gan in that rash act he scetn'd to take, 
Which Aldabella thought extremely strange; 

Bui soon Orlando found himself awake ; 
And his spouse took his bridle on ibis change, 

And he dismounted from bis horse, and spake 
Of every thing whirh pass'd without demur. 
And then reposed himself some days wiih her. 

XIX. 

Then full of wrath departed from the place, 
And faras pagan countries roamM astray ; 

And white he rode, yet still at every pace 
The ttaitor Gan remember'd by the way ; 

An I wandering on in error a long space, 
Ao abbey which in u lone desert lav, 

'Mi I glens obscure, and distant lands he found, 
Which fonn'd the Christian's and the pagan's bound. 

XX. 

The abbot was call'd Clermont, and by blood 
Descended from Angrante: undercover 

Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood, 
But certain savage giants look'd him over ; 

One Passamont was foremost of the brood, 
And Alabaster and Morgante hover 

Second and third, with certain slings, and throw 

In dally jeopardy the place below. 
XXI. 

The monks could pass the convent gate no more, 

Nor leave their cells for water or for wood ; 
Orlando knoekM, but none would ope, before 

Unto the prior it at length seem'd good ; 
Enter'd, he said that he was taught to adore 

Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood, 
And was baptized a Christian ; and then show'd 
How to the abbey he had found his road. 

xxir. 
Said the abbot, " Yon are welcome; what is mine 

We give you freely, since that you believe 
With us in Mary Mother's Son divine; 

And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 
The cause of our delay to let you in 

To be rusticity, you shall receive 
The reason why our gate was barr'd to you 
Thus those who in suspicion Iivo must do. 



Canto I. 



TRANSLATION OF MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



463 



XXIII. 

" When hither to inhabit first we came 

These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 

As yon perceive, yet without fear or blame 
Tbev seem'd to promise an asylum sure : 

From savage brutes alone, too fierce to lame, 
'T was fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 

But now, if here we'd stay, we needs must guard 

Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 



11 These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch; 

For lare there have appear'd three giants rough 
What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 

f know not, hut they are all of savage stuff; 
When force and malice with some genius match, 

You know, they can do all — we are not enough : 
And these so much our orisons derange, 

I know not what to do, till matters change. 

XXV. 

II Our ancient fathers living the desert in, 

For just and holy works were duly fed ; 
Think not they lived on locusts sole, 't is certain 

That manna was raiu'd down from heaven instead ; 
But here *t is fit we keep on the alert in [bread, 

Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd down for 
From off* yon mountain daily raining faster, 
And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 

XXVI. 

" The third, Morgan! e, 's savagest by far ; he 
Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, 

And flings them, our community to bury ; 
And all that I can do but more provokes." 

While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, 

Which nearly crushM Rondell, came tumbling over, 

So that he took a long le;ip under cover. 

XXVII. 

" For God sake, cavalier, come in with speed 
The manna 's falling now," the abbot cried. 

,( This fellow does not wish mv horse should feed, 
Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied. 

11 Of resliveness he \J cure him had h* need ; 

That stone seem? with good will and aim applied." 

The holy father said, " I do n't deceive : 

They Ml one day fling the mountain. I believe. 1 ' 

XXVIII. 

Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 

And also made a breakfast of his own: 
" Abbot," he said, " I want to find that fellow 

Who flung at my good horse yon corner-stone. 
Said the abbot, " Let not my advice seem shallow ; 

As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 
I would dissuade you, baron, from tins strife, 
As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 

XXIX. 

" That Passamont has in his hand three darts — 

Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you must ; 

You know that giants have much stou'er hearts 
Than us, with reason, in proportion just ; 

If go you will, guard well against their arls, 
For these are very barbarous and robust." 

Orlando answer'd, " This I Ml see, be sure, 

And walk the wild on foot lo be secure." 

XXX. 

The abbot signM the great cross on his front, 
" Then go you with God's benison and mine : u 

Orlando, after he had scaled the moont, 
As the abbot had directed, ke pt the line 

Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
Who, seeing him alone in this design, 

Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant, 

Then ask'd him, " If he wish'd to stay as servant ?" 



XXXI. 

And promised him an office of great ease. 
But, said Orlando, " Saracen insane! 

[ come to kill you, if it shall so please 
God, not to serve as tbotboy in your train ; 

You with bis monks so oft have broke the peace- 
Vile dog ! 't is past his patience to sustain." 

The giant ran to fetch his anus, quite furious, 

When he received an answer so injurious. 

XXXII. 

And being returned to where Orlando slood, 

Who had not moved him from the spot, and swinging 

The cord, he hurl'd a stone with strength so rude, 
As show'd a sample of his skill in slinging; 

It rolIM on Count Orlando's helmet good 
And head, and set both head and helmet ringing, 

So that he swoon'd with pain as if he died, 

But more than dead, he seem'd so stupified. 

XXXIII. 

Then Passamont, who thought him slain outright, 
Said, " I will go, and while he lies along, 

Disarm me: why such craven did I fight?" 
But Christ his servants ne'er abandons Ions') 

Especially Orlando, such a knight, 

As to desert would almost he a wrong. 

While ill.- ioant goes to put off" his defences, 

Orlando has recallM his force and senses : 

XXXIV. 

And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go ? 

Thou thought's! me doubtless for the bier outlaid ; 
To the right about — without wings thou 'rt too slow 

To fly my vengeame — cuirish renegade! 
'T was but by treachery thou laid'st me low." 

The giant his astonishment betray 'd. 
And tm n'd about, and stopp'd his journey on, 
And then he stoop'd lo pick up a great stone. 

XXXV. 

Orlando had Cortana bare in hand, 

To split the head in twain was what he schemed :— 
Cortar a clave ihe skull like a true brand, 

And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd. 
Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd, 

And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed; 
Yel while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
Orlando Lhank'd the Father and the Word, — 

XXXVI. 

Saying, " What grace to me thou 'st given ! 

And I to thee, oh Lord ! am ever hound. 
t know my life was saved by ihee from heaven 

Sum,' by thy giant I was f.iirlv dowjn'd. 
All things by thee are measured just and even; 

Our power without thine aid would naught be found: 
I pray thee take heed of me, till I can 
At least return once more to Cailotnan." 

XXXVII. 

And bavin,' said thus much, he went his way ; 

And Alabaster he found out below, 
I '>-<\i\'j the very best that in him lay 

To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
Orlando, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan say 

" How thiuk'st thou, glutton, such a stone to throw ?" 
When Alabaster heard his tleep voice ring, 
He suddenly betook him to Ins sling, 

XXXVIII. 

And hurl'd a fragment of a si?.e so large, 
That if it had in fact fuIlilIM its mission, 

And Roland not avail'd him of his targe, 
There would have been no need of a physician. 

Oil and' i set Loose If in turn lo charge, 
And in his bulky bosom made incision 

With ail his sword. The lout fell ; but, o'erthrown, he 

However by no means forgot Macone. 



464 



TRANSLATION OF MORGANTE MAGGTORE. 



Cajito r. 



XXXIX. 

Moigante had a palace in his mode, 
Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth, 

And siretchM himself at ease on this abode, 
And shut himself at night within his berth. 

Orlando knock'd, and knock'd again, to goad 
The giant from his sleep ; and lie came forth, 

The door to open, like a crazy thing, 

For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 

XL. 

He thought that a fierce serpent had aitack'd him, 
And Mahomet he call'd ; but Mahomet 

Is nothing worth, and not an instant back'd him; 
But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 

Al liberty from all the fears which rack'd him ; 
And to the gate he came with great regret — 

" Who knocks here ?" grumbling all the while, said he 

11 That," said Orlando, ' you will quickly see. 
XLI. 

* I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, 

Sunt by the miserable monks — repentance; 
For Providence divine, in you and others, 

Condemns the evil dnnt by new acquaintance. 
*T is writ on high — your wrong must pay another's; 

From heaven itself is issued out ibis sentence 
Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 
I left your Passamonl and Alabaster." 

I HI. 
Morgante said, " Oh gentle cavalier! 

Now by thv God say me no villany ; 
The favour of your name I fain would hear, 

And if a Christtan, speak for courtesy. '' 
Replied Orlando, "So much to your ear 

I by my faith disclose contentedly ; 
Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
And, if you please, by you may be adored." 

X 1,1 II, 
The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone, 

il I have had an extraordinary vision ; 
A savage serpent fell on me alone, 

And Macon would not pity my condition; 
Hence to thy God, who for ye did atono 

Upon the cross, preferr'd I my petition; 
His timely succour set me safe and free, 
And 1 a Christian am disposed to be." 

xlit. 
Orlando answer'd, " Baron j ust and pious, 

If this good wish your heart can really move 
To the true God, who will not then deny us 

Eternal honour, you will go above, 
And, if you please, as friends we will ally us, 

And I will love you with a perfect love. 
Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud ; 
The only true God is the Christian's God. 

XLT. 

" The Lord descended to (he virgin breast 

Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine; 
If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest, 

Without whom neither son nor star L -an shine, 
Abjure bad Macon's false and felon 

Your renegado god, and worship mine, — 
Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent.*' 
To which Morgante answer'd, " I'm content." 

XI.VI. 

And then Orlando to embrace him flow, 

And made mueh of his convert, as ho cried, 

•' To the abbey I will gladly marshal you." 
To whom Morgante, '■ Let us go," replied ; 

" llo the friars have for peace to sue." 

Which thing Orlando heani with inward pride, 

8ayin«, " My brother, so devout and good, 

Ask the Abbot pardon, as I wish you would : 



XLVir. 
" Since God has granted your illumination, 

A< epting you in mercy for his own, 
Humility should be your first ohlation.' : 

Morgante said, " For goodness' sake, make known- 
Since that your God is to be mine — your station, 

And let your name in verity be shown ; 
Then will I every thing at your command do." 
On n hich the other said, he was Orlando. 

XLVIII. 

" Then," quoth the giant, " blessed be Jesu 
A thousand times with gratitude and praise! 

Oft| perfect baron ! have I heard of you 

Through all (he different periods of my da s: 

And, as 1 said, to be your vassal too 
I wish, for your great gallantry always." 

Thus n i ) '-iinhnneu much to say, 

And onwards to the abbey wenl their way. 

xi.ix. 
And by the wny about the giants dead 

Orlando with Morgante reason'd : "Be, 
For their decease, I pray youj comforted; 

And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me. 
A thousand whui^ imtu I lie monks they bred, 

And our true Scripture soundeih openly, 
Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill, 
Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 

L. 

" Because his love of justice unto all 

Is such, he wills his judgment should devour 

All who have sin, however great or small; 
But « I be well remembers to r- 

Nor without justice holy could we call 
Him, whom I now require vou to adore. 

All men must make his will their wishes sway, 

And quickly and spontaneously obey. 

LI. 

" And here our doctors are of one accord 
Coming on this point to the same conclusion,— 

That in their thoughts who praise in heaven the Lord, 
If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 

For their unfortunate relations stored 

In hell below, and damn'd in great confusion, — 

Their happiness would be reduced to naught, 

And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 

LII. 

" But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 
Which se-'ins to him, to them too musi appear 

Well done ; nor could it pther wise befall: 
He never can in any purpose err. 

If sire or moth* r sutler endless thrall, 

They do n't disturb themselves for him or her ' 

What pleases God to them must joy inspire ;— 

Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 

LIII. 

" A word unto the « ise," Morgante said, 
>' is wont i" be enough, and you Bhatl see 

How much I grieve about my brethren dead; 
And if the will of God seem good to me, 

JUSI, as voi: tell me, 't is in heaven obey'd 

Ashes to ashe — merry let us be ' 
I will cut off the hands from both their trunks, 
And carry them unto the holy monks. 

117, 
" So that all persons may be sure and certain 

That they are dead, and have no further fear 
To wander solitary this desert in, 

And that they may perceive my spirit clear 
By the Lord's grace, who hadi withdrawn the curtaia 

Of darkness, making his bright realm appear." 
He cut his brethren's hands off* at these words, 
And left them to the savage beasts and birds, 



Canto I. 



TRANSLATION OF MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



465 



Then to the abbey they went on together, 

Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 

The monks who knew not yet the fact, ran thither 
To their superior, all in breathless rout, 

Baying with tremor, " Please to tell us whether 
You wish to have this person in or out?" 

The abbot, looking through upon the giant, 

Too greatly fear'd, at firsf, to be compliant, 

LVI. 

Orlando, seeing him thus agitated, 

Said quickly, " Abbot, be thou of good cheer ; 
He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated, 

And hath renounced his Macon false ;" which here 
Morganle with the hands corroborated, 

A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear 
Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored, 
Saying, " Thou hast contented me, oh Lord !" 

LVI*. 

He gazed ; Morgante's height he calculated, 
And more than once contemplated his size ; 

And then he said, " Oh giant celebrated ! 
Know that no more my wonder will arise, 

How could you tear and fling the trees you late did, 
When I behold your form with my own eyes. 

You now a true and perfect fiiend will show 

Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 

lvih. 
" And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 

Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 
Till one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 

'Why dost thou persecute me thus!' said Christ; 
And then from his offence he was reclaimed, 

And went for ever after preaching Christ, 
And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 
O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 

LIX. 

4< So, my Morgante, you may do likewise ; 

He who repents — thus writes the Evangelist, 
Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 

Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
You may be sure, should each desire arise 

With just zeal for the Lord, that you Ml exist 
Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
But you were lost and damn'd to hell before!" 

LX 

And thus great honour to Morgante paid 

The abbot : many days they did repose. 
One day, as with Orlando they both stray'd, 

And saunter'd here and there, where'er they chose, 
The abbot show'd a chamber, where array'd 

Much armour was, and hung up certain bows ; 
And one of these Morgante for a whim 
Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 

I-Xl. 
There being a want of water in the place, 

Orlamlo, like a worthy brother, said, 
" Morgante, I could wish you in this case 

To go for water." '• You shall be obey'd, 
In all commands," was the reply, " straightways." 

Upon bis shoulder a great tub he laid, 
And went out on his way unto a fountain, 
Where he was wont to drink below the mountain. 

I. XI I. 

Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears 
Which suddenly along the forest spread ; 

Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 
An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 

And lo! a monstrous herd of swine appears, 
And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 

And to the fountain's brink precisely pours ; 

So that the giant 's join'd by all the boars. 
31 



LXIII. 

Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 

Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 

And pass'd unto the other side quite thorough; 
So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp'd up near. 

Another, to revenge his fellow farrow, 
Against the giant rtish'd in fierce career. 

And reacli'd the passage with so swift a foot, 

Morgante was not now in lime to shoot. 

LXIV. 

Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 
He gave him such a punch upon the head* 

As floor'd him so that he no more arose, 
Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 

Next to the other. Having seen such blows, 
The other pigs along the valley fled ; 

Morgante on his neck ihe bucket took 

Full from the spring, which neither swerved nor shook. 

LXV. 

The ton was on one shoulder, and there were 
The hogs on t' other, and he brush'd apace 

On to the abbey, though by no means near, 
Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. 

Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 

With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, 

Marvell'd to see his strength so very great; 

So did ihe abbot, and set wide the gate. 

LXVI. 

The monks, who saw the water fresh and good, 

Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the pork;— 
All animals are glad at sight of food : 

They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 
With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood, 

That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork. 
Of ranknoss and of rot there is no fear, 
For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 

lxvu. 
As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate , 

And gorged so that, as if the bones had been 
In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat, 

Perceiving that they all were pick'd too clean. 
The abbot, who to all did honour great, 

A few days after this convivial scene, 
Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train'd, 
Which he long time had for himself maintainM. 

LXVUt. 

The horse Morgante to a meadow led, 

To gallop, and to put him to the proof, 
Thinking that he a back of iron bad, 

Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough ; 
But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 

And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoof 
Morgante said, "Gel up, thou sulky cur !" 
And still continued pricking with the spur. 

LXIX. 

But finally he thought fit to dismount, 
And said, "lain as light as any feather, 

And he has burst ; — to this what say vou, count V* 
Orlando answer'd, " Like a ship's mast rather 

You seem to me, and with the truck for front : — 
Let him go ; Fortune wills that we together 

Should march, but you on foot Morgante still." 

To which the giant answer'd, " So I will. 

LXX. 

" When there shall be occasion, you will see 
How I approve my courage in the fight." 

Orlando said, " I really think you 'II be, 

If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight ; 

Nor will you napping there discover me. 
But never mind your horse, though out of sight 

'T were best to carry him into some wood, 

If but the means or way I understood." 



* " Gli det'e in Bulla teaia tin gran pun none." It is linage (hat Pule 
•honld have literally anticipated the technical terms of my old friend 
aod matter, Jackaon, and the art which he ha* carried lo lu hif,uo* 



466 



TRANSLATION OF MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



CiVTOl. 



The giant said, u Then carry him I will, 

Since that to carry me he was so slack — 
To render, as tho gods do, good for ill ; 

But lend a hand to place him un my back." 
Orlando answer'd, " If my counsel Mill 

EV9 iy weigh, Morgante, do not. undertake 
To lift or carry this dead courser, who, 
As you have done to him, will do to you. 

Lxxrr. 
11 Take care he do n't revenge himself, though dead, 

As Nessns did ofold beyond all cure. 
I do n't know if the fact you 've heard ur read ; 

But he will make you burst, you may be sure." 
"But help him on my back," Morgante said, 

11 And you shall see what weight I can endure. 
In place, my gen te Roland, ofLhis palfrey, 
With all the bells, I 'd carry yonder belfry.'* 
X.3CXXXX. 

The abbot said, " The steeple may do well, 

But, for the bells you 've broken them, I wot." 
IVIorganie answer'd, " Let them pav in hell 

The penalty who lie dead in yon grol ;" 
And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, 

He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 
Orlando, in the legs — or if 1 have force ;" — 
And then he made two gambols with the horse. 

lxxtv. 
Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 

So if he did this, 't is no prodigy ; 
But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 

Because he was one of his family ; 
And fearing that he might be hurt or maimM, 

Once more he bade him 'ay his burden by : 
*' Put down, nor bear him further the desert in." 
Morgante said, " I Ml carry him fur certain." 

iAxr. 
He did ; and stowM him in some nook away, 

And to the abbey then return'd with speed. 
Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay ? 

" Morgante, here is naught to do indeed." 
The abbot by the hand he took one dav, 

And said, with great respect, he had agreed 
To leave his reverence ; but for this decision 
He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. 

Z.XXYJT, 

The honours they continued to receive 

Perhaps exceeded what his merits claim'd: 
He said, " I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 

The lost days of time past, which may be blamed ; 
Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave, 

Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 
And know not how to show my Sentiment] 
So much I see you with our stay content. 

l x x v r i . 
t( But in my heart I bear through every clime 

The abbot, abbey, and this solitude— 
So much I love you in so short a time ; 

For me, from heaven reward you « ith all good. 
The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime! 

Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood. 
Meantime we stand expectant of your blessing, 
And recommend us to your prayers with pressing." 

LXXVIII. 

Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard, 
His heart grew soft with inner tenderness, 

Such fervour in his bosom bred each word ; 
And, "Cavalier," he said, " if I have less 

Courteous and kind to your great worth appear'd, 
Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, 

I know I 've done too little in this case ; 

But blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 

pitch. "A puncfi on the head," or " a punch in I ha h'ad,"—" un pun- 
tone in sulla leala,"— )• the exact and frequent phrase of our belt 
pugilist*, who little dream that Llity are talking the purest Tutctn. 



LXXIX. 

■■ \\ i can indeed but honour you with masses, 
And sermons, thanksgivings, ami paier-uosters, 

Hot suppers, dinners, (biting other places 
In verity much rather than the cloisters;) 

Bill such a l«ive for you my heart embraces, 
For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters, 

Thai wheresoever you go 1 too shall be, 

\u i, ii the other part, you rest with me. 

I. X X X . 

" This may involve a seeming contradiction ; 

But you I know are sage, and feel, and taste, 
And understand my speech with fall convictJOBw 

For your just pious deeds may you be graced 
With the Lord's great reward And benediction 

By whom you were directed to this waste: 
To his high mercy is our freedom due, 
Fur which we render thanks to him and you. 

UTO. 

" You saved at onre mir life and soul : such fear 
The giants caused us, thai the way was lost 

By which we could pursue a fit career 
In search of Jesus and the saintly host; 

And your departure breeds such sorrow here, 
That comfortless »e all are to our cost ; 

But months and years you could not stay in sloth, 

Nor are you form'd to wear our sober cloth ; 

Lxxxir. 

" But to bear arms, and wield the lance ; indeed, 
With these as much is done as with this cow : 

In proof of which the Scripture you may rend. 
This giant up to heaven may beat V do] 

Bv your compassion : now in peace proceed. 
Your stale and name I seek not to unroll ; 

But, if 1 'm ask*d, this answer shall be given, 

That here an angel was sent down from hearcrr. 

LXXXIII. 

' If you want armour or anghl else, go in, 
Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you choose, 

\nd cover with it o'er tin-; giant's skin.*' 
Orlando answer'd, " [f there should lie loose 

Some armour, ere our journey we begin, 

Which mighl be tum'd to my companion's use, 

The gift would be acceptable to me." 

The abbot said to him, " Come in and sec. 1 * 

L XX XIV. 

And in a certain closet, where the wail 
Was covered with old armour like a crust, 

The abbot said to them, " I give you alt." 

Morgante rummaged piecemeal from the dust 

The whole, which, save one cuirass, was too small, 
And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 

They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly, 

Which ne'er has suited others so compactly, 

LXXXV. 

'T was an immeasurable giant's, who 
By the great Miloof Agrante fell 

Before the abbey many years ago. 

The story on the wall was loured well; 
In the last moment of the abbey's foe, 

Who long had waged a war implacable: 
Precisely as the war occurred they drew him, 

And there was INI do as he overihrew lum. 

t .xxxvi. 
Seeing this history, Count Orlando said 

In his own heart, "Oh God. who in die sky 
Know'st all things! how was Milo hither led ? 

Who caused the giant in this place to die V* 
A nd certain letters, weeping, then he read, 

So that he could not keep his visage dry,— 
As I will tell in the ensuing story. 
From evil keep you the high King of glory ! 



POEMS 



NOT INCLUDED IN ANY COLLECTION OF LORD BYRON'S WORKS 
UNTIL AFTER HIS DEATH. 



THE BLUES. 

A LITERARY ECLOGUE. 



** Nimium nftcrede colori." — Virgil. 
O truil not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue, 
Though your hair were aa red as your stockings are blue. 



ECLOGUE FIRST. 

London — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 
Enter Tract, meeting Inkel. 

Ink. You're too late. 

Tra. Is it over ? 

Ink, Nor will be this hour. 

But the benches are crammM, like a garden in flower, 
With the priileofonr belles, who have made it the fashion ; 
So instead uf " beaux arts," we may say " fa belle passion' 1 
For learning, which lately has taken the lead in 
The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. 

Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out my patience 
With studying to study your new publications. 
There 's Vamp, Scamp and Mouthy, and Wordswords 

and Co. 
With 'their damnable — 

Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know 

Whom you speak to? 

Tra. Right well, boy, and so does ( -the Row :" 

You 're an author — a poet — 

Ink. And think you that I 

Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry 
The Muses ? 

Tra. Excuse me ; I meant no offence 

To the Nine ; though the number who make some pre- 
tence 

To their favours is such but the subject lo drop, 

I amjust piping hpt from a publisher's shop, 
(Next door to the pastry-cook's ; so that when I 
Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy 
On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces, 
As one finds every auihor in one of those places,) 
Where I just had been skimming a charming critique, 
So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek ! 
Where your friend — you know who — has just got such 

a threshing, 
That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely " refreshing." 
What a beautiful word! 

ink. Very true ; 't is so soft 

And so cooling — they use it a little too oft ; 
And the papers have got it at last — but no matter. 
So they 've cut up our friend then ? 

Tra. Not left him a tatter — 

Not a rag of his present or past reputation, 
Which they call a disgrace to the age and the nation. 

Ink. I 'm sorry to hear this ; f >r friendship, you know — 
Our poor friend ! — but [ thought il would terminate so. 
Our friendship is such, I 'II read nothing to shock it. 
You do 'nt happen to have the Review in your pocket ? 

Tra. No ; I left a round dozen of authors and others 



(Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother's) 

All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps, 

And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. 

Ink, Let us join them. 

Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture ? 

Ink. Why, the place issocramm'd, there 's notroom 
for a spectre. 
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 

Tra, How can you tell that till you hear him ? 

Ink. I heard 

I imir enough ; and to tell you the truth, my retreat 
Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. 

Tra, I have had no great loss then? 

/" /•'■ Loss ! — such a palaver ! 

F 'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours 
To the torrent of trash winch around him he pours, 
Ptimp'd up with sucli effort, disgorged with such labour, 

That come — do not make me speak ill of one*s 

neighbour. 

Tra. I make you ! 

Ink. Yes, you ! I said nothing until 

Youcompell'd me, by speaking the truth — 

Tra. To speak ill ? 

Is that your deduction ? 

Ink. When speaking of Scamp ill, 

I certainly follow, not set an example. 
The fellow 's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 

Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that one fool 
makes many. 
But we two will be wise. 

Ink, P ra y> then, let us retire. 

Tra. I would, hut 

Ink. There must be attraction much higher 

Than Scamp, or the Jews'-harp he nicknames his lyre, 
To call you to this hotbed. 

Tra. I own it — 'tis true — 

A fair lady — 

Ink. A spinster ? 

Tra, Miss Lilac! 

Ink. The Blue! 

The heiress ? 

Tra. The angel ! 

Ink. The devil ! why, man! 

Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
You wed with Miss Lilac! 'twould be your perdition : 
She 'a a poet, a chvmist, a mathematician. 

Tra. I say she J s an angel. 

/,,£-, Say rather an angle. 

If you and she marry, you Ml certainly wrangle, 
I say she *s a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. 

Tt a. And is that any cause for not coming together ? 

Ink. Humph! I can't say I know any happy alliance 
Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with science. 
She 's so learned in all things, and fond of concerning 
Herself in all matters connected with learning. 
That 

Tra. What? 

/,(&, I perhaps may as well hold my tongue; 



46S 



POEMS. 



But there 's five hundred people can tell you you 're 
wrong. 

Tra. You forget Lady Lilac 's as rich as a Jew. 

Ink. Is it miss <ir tin- rash of mamma you pursue ? 

Tin. Why, Jack, I'll bo frank with you — something 
of both. 
The girl 's a fine girl. 

Ink* And you feel nothing loth 

To her good lady-mothers reversion ; and yet 
Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. 

Tra. Let her live, and as long ;is sh( likes ; I demand 
Nothing more than tin* heart of her daughter and hand. 

Ink. Why, that heart *s in the inkstand — that hand 
on the pen. 

Tra. Apropos — Will you write me a song now and 
thru ? 

Ink. To what purpose? 

Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in prose 
My talent is decent, as far as it goes; 
But in rhyme 

Ink. You *re a terrible stick, to bo sure. 

Tra. I own it ; and yet, m these limes, there's no lure 
For the heart of a fair like a stanza or two; 
And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few ? 

Ink. In your name ? 

Tra. In my name. I will copy them out, 

To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 

Ink, Are you so far advanced as to hazard this ? 

Tra. Why, 

Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, 
So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 
What I 've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime ? 

Ink. As sublime ! If it be so, no need of my Muse. 

Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she 's one of the 
" Blues." 

Ink. As sublime ! — Mr. Tracy — I 've nothing to say. 
St irk to prose — As sublime ! !— but I wish you good day. 

Tra, Nay, stay, my dear fellow— consider — I *m 
wrong ; 
I own it ; but, prithee, compose me the song. 

/'t/.". As sublime !! 

Tra. I but used the expression in haste. 

Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows damn'd 
bad taste. 

Tra. I own it — I know it — acknowledge it — what 
Can I say to ) ou more ? 

Ink. I see what you 'd be at : 

You disparage my parts with insidious abuse, 
Till you think you can turn them best to your own use. 

Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them ? 

Ink. Why that 

To be sure makes a difference* 

Tra, I know what is what : 

And you, who 're a man of ilir gay world, no less 
Than a poet of l' other, may easily guess 
That T never could mean, by a word, to offend 
A genius like yon, and moreover my friend. 

Ink, No doubt ; you by this lime should know what 
is due 
To a man of but come — let us shako hands. 

Tra, You knew, 

And you know, mv dear fellow, how heartily I, 
Whatever you publish, am ready to buy. 

Ink. That 's my bookseller's business ; I care not for 
sale; 
Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. 
There were Renegade's epics, and Bulherhy fl plays, 
And my own grand romance— 

Tra, Had Eta full share of praise. 

I myself saw it putT'd in the " Old Girl's Review." 

Ink. What Review? 

Tra. 'T is the English " Journal de Trevoux f 

A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
Have you never yet seen it ? 

Ink. That pleasure's to come. 



Tra. Make haste then. 

Ink. Why so 7 

Tra, I have heard people say 

That it threatened to give up ihe ghost t* other day. 

Ink, Well, that is a sign of some spirit. 

Tra, No doubt. 

Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout? 

Ink. ' *W a card, and shall go ; but at present, as soon 
As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from the 

moon. 
( Whet e he seeroa to be soaring in search of his wits,) 
And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
I 'in engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, 
To partake of a luncheon and Irarn'd conversation : 
'T is a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days 
Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and praise. 
And 1 own, for my own part, that 't is not unpleasant. 
Will you go ? There 's Miss Lilac will aL«o be present. 

Tra. That " metal 's attractive." 

Ink. No doubt — to the pocket. 

Tra. Ton should rather encourage my passion than 
shock it. 
But let us proceed ; for I think, by the hum 

Ink. Very true ; let us go, then, before ihey can come. 
Or else we Ml be kept here an hour at their levy, 
On the rack of cross questions, by all the blue bevy. 
Hark ! Zounds, they 'II be on us ; I know by the drone 
Of old Boiherby's spouting, ex-ca:hedra tone. 
Ay ! there he is at it. Poor Scamp ! belter join 
Your friends, or he '11 pay you back in your own coin. 

Tra. All fair ; 'l is but lecture for lecture. 

Ink. That's clear. 

But for God's sake let 's go, or the bore will be here. 
Come, come: nay, I 'ni off. [Exit [NEEL. 

Tra, You are right, and I '11 follow ; 

'T is high time fur a " Sic me servavM Apollo," 
And vet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes, 
Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second* hand scribes, 
All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles 
With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 

[Exit Tract. 



ECLOGUE SECOND. 

An Apartment in the House o/Ladi Bluebottle. 
./ Tablt prepared. 
Sib Richard Bluebottle solus. 
Was there ever a man who was married so sorry? 
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry. 
Mv life is reversed, and my quiet destroy M ; 
My days, whirh once passd in so gentle a void, 
Must now, ever) hour of the twelve, be employ'd: 
The twelve, do I Bay ■ — of the whole twenty-lour, 
Is there our which i dare call my own any more ? 
What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining, 
What with foaming, and teaching, and scribbling, and 
shining, 
'- and art, I '11 be curat if I know 
Myself from my wife ; for ult hough we arc two, 
Yet she smihi-Iiow miurivri that all things shall be dono 
In a st\le that proclaims us eternally one. 
But the thing of all things which distresses me more 
Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me sore) 
Is the numerous, humorous, barkbitjng crew 
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black and blue, 
Who arc brought to iny house as an inn, in my cost 
--For I hr lull here, it seems, is defray 'd by the host- 
No pleasure ! no leisure ! no thought for my pains, 
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains ; 
A smaller and chatter, glean'd out of reviews, 
By the rag, lag, and bobtail, of those they call " Blues;'* 

A rabble who know not Bui soft, here they come! 

Would to God I were deaf! as I 'in not, I '11 be dumb. 



POEMS. 



469 



Enter hxDY Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady Blue- 
mount, Mr. Botherby, I.vkel, Tracv, Miss Ma- 
zarine, and others, with Scamp, the Lecturer, <$*c. 
Lady Blueb. Ah ! Sir Richard, good morning ; I 've 

brought you some friends. 
Sir Rich, (bows, and afterwards aside.) Iffriends, 

they Ve the first. 
Lady lit neb. But the luncheon attends. 

I pray ye be seated, " sans ceremonie." 
Mr. Scamp, you're fatigued; take your chair there, 
next me. [They alt sit. I 



Very good.' 



Sir Rich, (aside.) If he docs, his fatigue is to come. "T was in your defence 



Both. 

Lady Bluem. How good? 

Lady Blueb. He means naught — 't is his phrase. 

Lady Bit urn. He grows rude. 

Lady Bteub. He means nothing ; nay, ask him. 

Lady Bleum. Pray, sir ! did you mean 

What you say ? 

Ink, Never mind if he did ; 't will be seen 

That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. 

Both. Sir! 

Ink. Pray be content with your portion of praise ; 



Lady Blueb, Mr. Tracv 

Lady Bluemount — Miss Lilac — be pleased, pray, 

place ye ; 
And you, Mr. Botherby — 

Both. Oh, my dear Lady, 

I obey. 

Lidy Blueb. Mr. Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye : 
You were not at the lecture. 

Ink. Excuse me, I was ; 

Bjt the heat forced me out in the best part — alas ! 

And when 

Lady Blueb. To be sure it was broiling ; but then 
You have lost such a lecture ! 

Both, The best of the ten. 

Tra. How can you know that ? there are two more. 
Both. Because 

I defy him lo beat this day's wondrous applause. 
The very walls shook. 

Ink. Oh, if that be the test, 

I allow our friend Scamp has this day done his best. 
Miss Lilac, permit me to help you ; — a wing ? 
Miss Lil. No more, sir, I thank you. Who lectures 

next spring ? 
Both. Dick Dunder. 

Ink. That is, if he lives. 

Miss Lil. And why not? 

Ink. No reason whatever, save that he 's a sot. 
Lady Bluemount! a glass of Madeira? 

Lady Blutm. With pleasure. 

Ink. How docs your friend Words words, that Win- 
dermere treasure ? 
Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he sings, 
And their gatherers, as Homer suns warriors and kings ? 
Lady Blueb. He has just got a place. 
Ink. As a footman ? 

Lady Bluem. For shame! 

Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 

Ink. Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his master : 
For the poet of pedlars 't were, sure, no disast) r 
To wear a new livery ; the more, as 't is not 
The first time he has lurnM both his creed and his coat. 
Lady Bluem. For shame ! I repeat. If Sir George 

could but hear 

Lady Blueb. Never mind our friend Inkel j we all 
know, my dear, 
'T is his way. 

Sir Ricfi. But this place— — - 

Ink. Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 

A lecturer's. 

Lady Blueb. Excuse me — 't is one in » the Stamps ;" 
He is made a collector. 

Tra. Collector! 

Sir Rich. How ? 

Miss Lil. What? 

Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat : 

There his works will appear 

Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 

Jnkr I shan't go so far — I can have them at Grange's/ 

Lady Bteub. Oh fie ! 

Miss L'l. And for shame ! 

Lady Bluem. You 're too bad. 



' Grange la or wu t famoui paJlrj-cook md fruiterar to Picceuhllj. I 



Both. If you please, with submission, 

I can make out my own. 

Ink, It would be your perdition. 

While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend 
Yourself or your works ; but leave both to a friend. 
Apropos— Is your play then accepted at last? 
Both. At last? 

Ink. Why I thought — that 's to say — there had past 
A few green-room whispers, which hinted — you know 
That the taste of the actors at best is so so. 

Both. Sir, ihe green-room 's in rapture, and so 's the 

committee. 
Inf:. Ay — yours are the plavs for exciting our " pity 
And fear," as the Greek says : for " purging the mind/' 
T doubt if you Ml leave us an equal behind. 
Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to have 
prav'd 
For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's- aid. 

Itik, Well, time enough yet, when the play 's to bo 
play'd. 
[s it cast yet ? 

Both. The actors are fighting for parts, 

As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 

Lady Blutb. We 'il all make a party, and go the first 

night. 
Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. 
Ink. Not quite. 

However, to save my friend Botherhy trouble, 
I '11 do what I can, though my pains must be double. 
Tra. Why so ? 

Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 

Both. Sir, I 'm happy lo say, I Ve no fears on that 
score. 

Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are 

Iik. Never mind mine ; 

Sick to those of your play, which is quite your own line, 
Lahj Bluem. You 're a fugitive writer, I think, sir, 

of rhymes ? 
In/:. Yes, ma'am; and a fugitive reader sometimes 
On Wordswords, fur instance, I seldom alight, 
Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight. 
Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common ; but 
time and posterity 
Will right these great men, and this age's severity 
Become its reproach. 

Ink. I 've no sort of objection, 

So I 'm not of the party to take the infection. 

Lady Blueb* Perhaps you have doubts that they ever 

will take ? 
Ink. Not at all ; on the contrary, those of the lake 
Have taken already, and still will continue 
To take — what they can. from a groat to a guinea, 
Of pension or place ; — but the subject *s a bore! 
Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the lime's coming. 
Ink. Scamp ! do n't you feel sore ? 

What say you to this ? 

Scamp. They have merit, I own , 

Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown. 
Ink, Then why not unearth it in one of your lectures? 
Scamp. It is only time past which comes under my 

strictures. 
Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartness : — tho 
joy of my heart 



470 



POEMS. 



Is lo see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. 
Wild Nature ! — Grand Shakspeare ! 

Both, And down Aristotle ! 

Lady Bluem. Sir George thinks exactly with Lady 
Bluebottle; 
And my Lord Seventy-four, who protects our dear Bard, 
And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard 
F'or the poet, who, singing of pedlars and asses, 
Hag found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. 

Tra. And you, Scamp, — 

Scamp. I needs must confess I 'm emharrassM. 

Ink. Do n'tcall upon Scimp, who's already so harasa'd 
AVith old schools., and new schools, and no schools, and 
all schools. 

Tra. Well, one thing is certain, thai some must be 
fools. 
I should like to know who. 

Ink. And I should not be sorry 

To know who are not : — it would save us some worry. 

Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let nothing 
control 
This " fenst of our reason, and flow of the soul.'' 
Oh, my dear Mr. Botherby! sympathise! — I 
Now feel such a rapture, I 'm ready to fly, 
I feel so elastic — " so buoyant — so buoyant .'"* 

Ink: Tracy ! open the window. 

Tra. I wish her much joy on 't. 

Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check not 
This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
Upon earth. Give it way ; 'l is an impulse which lifts 
Our spirits from earth ; the Bliblimest of gifts ; 
For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his moun- 
tain. 
*T is the source bf at! sentiment—- feeling's true fountain : 
'T is the Vision of Heaven upon Earth : 'l ta the gas 
Of the soul: 't is the seizing of shades as they pass, 
And m iking them substance : 't is something divine : — 

Ink, Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more wine? 

Both. I thank you ; not any more, sir, till I dine. 

Ink. Apropos — Do you dine with Sir Humphrey to- 
day ? 

Tra. I should think with Duke Humphrey was more 
in your way. 

Ink. It might he of yore ; but we authors now look 
To the knight, as a landlord, much more than the Duke. 
The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is, 
And (except with his publisher) dines where he pleases. 
But 't is now nearly five, and I must lo the Park. 

Tra. And I Ml take a turn with you there till 't is 
dark. 
And you, Scamp — 

Scamp. Kxcuse ine ; I must to my notes, 

For my lecture next week. 

Ink. He must mind when he quotes 

Out of " Elegant Extracts." 

Lady Blueb. Well, now we break up ; 

But remember Miss Diddle invites us to sup. 

Ink. Then at two hours past midnight we all meet 
again, 
For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and champagne ! 

Tra. And the sweet lobster salad! 

Both. I honour that meal : 

For 't is then that our feelings most genuinely — (eel, 

Ink. True; feeling is truest then, far beyond question : 
I wish to the gods 't was the same with digestion ! 

Lady Blueb. Pshaw ! — never mind that ; for one mo- 
ment of feeling 
Is worth— God knows what. 

/,,/.-, 'T is at least worth concealing 

For itself, or what follows— But here comes your 
carriage. 

Sir Rich {aside.) I wish all these people were 
d — d with my marriage ! [Exeunt. 



* FucLfroiQ Ld'e, with the word*. 



THE THIRD ACT OF MANFRED, IN ITS 
ORIGINAL SHAPE, AS FIRST SENT TO 

THE PUBLISHER.* 

ACT III. 

Scene I.— .7 Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 

Manfred 0)10* Herman. 

Mail. What is the hour ? 

//' r. It wants but one till sunset, 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready : 

Here U the key and casket. 

Man. It is well : 

Thou mayst retire. [Exit Herman. 

Man. (alone.) There is a calm upon me — 
Inexplicable siillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the moiliest, 
I'll,- rjiereel word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should eWem 
The golden secret, the sought " Kulon" found, 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but once 
Ii halh enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
And I within my tablets would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there? 

Re-enter Herman. 

Her. My lord, the Abb it of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbott of St. Maurice. 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred! 

Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these walls: 
Thy presence honours them, and bless those 
Who dwell within ihem. 

Abbot. "Would it were so, Count ! 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Mtn. Herman retire. What would my reverend 
guest? [Exit Herman. 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude ,*— Age and zeal, my 
office, 
And good intent, must plead my privilege; 
Out DO&r, though not acquainted, neighbourhood 
May also be my herald. Rumours strange, 
And of unholy naiure, are abroad, 
And busy with thy name — a noble name 
For centuries ; may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpaired ! 

Man. Proceed, — I listen. 

Abbot. 'T is said thou holdest converse with the things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
That with the dwellers of the d.irk abodes, 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Whioh walk the valley of the shade of death, 
Thou commonest. I know that with mankind, 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch these things? 

Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 
Even thy own vassals — who do look on ihee 
\Vidi must unquiet eyes. Thy life 's in peril. 

M m. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 

I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there si ill is time 
For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church to heaven. 



* See Letter to Mr. Murray, April U, 1817, page 111 



P0EM9. 



471 



Man. I huar ihee. This is my reply; whate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven ami myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish !* 

Abbot. Then, hear and tremble! For the headstrong 
wretch 
Who in the mail of innate hardihood 
Would shield himself, and battle for his sins, 
There is the stake on earth, and beyond earth eternal — 

Man. Charity, most reverend father, 
Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace, 
That I would cail thee back to it \ but say, 
What wouldst thou with me ? 

Abbot. It may be there are 

Things that would shake thee — but I keep them back, 
And give the till to- mo row to repent. 
Then if thou dost not all devote thyself 
To penance, and with gift of all thy lands 
To the monastery 

Man. I understand thee, — well. 

Abbot. Expect no mercy; I have warned thee. 

Man. {opening the casket.) Stop — 

There is a gift for thee within this casket. 

[Manfred opens the casket, strikes a light, 
and burns some incense. 
Ho! Ashtaroth! 
The Demon Ashtaroth appears^ singing asfultws : 

The raven sits 

On the raven s!one, 
And his black wing flits 

O'er the milk white bone ; 
To and fro, as the night winds blow, 

The carcass of the assassin swings ; 
And there alone, on the raven-stone,f 

The raven 0aps his dusky wings. 
The fetters creak — and his ebon beak 

Croaks to the close of the hollow sound ; 
And this is the tune by the light of the moon 

To which the witches dance their round, 
Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily, 

Merrily, merrily, speeds the ball : 
The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds, 

Flock to the witches* carnival. 

Abbot. I fear thee not — hence — hence — 
Avaunt thee, evil one ! — help, ho ! without there ! 

Man. Convey this man to the Shreckhorn — to its 
peak — 
To its extremes! peak — watch with him there 
From now till sunrise ; let him gaze, and know 
He ne'er again will be so near to heaven. 
But harm him not ; and when the morrow breaks, 
Set him down safe in his cell — away with him ! 

Ash. Had I not better bring his brethren loo, 
Convent and all, to bear him company ? 

Man. No, this will serve for the present. Take him up. 

Ash. Come, friar! now an exorcism or two, 
And we shall fly the lighter. 

Ashtaroth disappears with the Abbot, singing 
as follows : 
A prodigal son and a maid undone, 

And a widow re-wedded within the year ; 
And a worldly monk and a pregnant nun, 
Are things which even' day appear. 
Manfred alone. 

Man. Why would this fool break in on mej and force 
My art to pranks fantastical ? — no matter, 



• It will be pereeiTed that, at fur aa lliii, the original matter of the 
Third Act has been retained. 

t " Ra*en-»looe, (ttabenilein,) a trsmliUion of the German word for 
the gibbet, which in Germany and Switcerlaod i* permanent, and made 
cf Hum.'' 



It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens 
And weighs a fix'd foreboding on my soul ; 
But it is calm — calm as a sullen sea 
^fter the hurricane ; the winds are still, 
But the cold waves swell high and heavily, 
And there is danger in thern. Such a rest 
Is no repose. My life hath been a combat, 
And every thought a wound, till I am scarr'd 
In the immortal part of me, — What now ? 

Re-enter Herman. 

Her. Mv lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

Man. Doth he so? 

I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the window of the hail. 
Glorious orb '* the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Ofundiseased mankind, the giant sons 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd,on their mountain tops, the hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! thou chief star! 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, nnd temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them ! for, near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 
Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a' more fatal nature. He is gone : 
follow. [Exit Manfred. 

Scene r I.— The Mountains— The Castle of Manfred at 
some distance — A Terrace before a Tower. — Timr, 
Twilight. 

Herman. M \xu el, andothcr Dependants of M\x fret*. 

Her. 'T is strange enough ; night after night, for 
years, 
Hp hath pursued long vigils in 'his tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within i',- 
So have we all been ofttimes ; but from it, 
Or its contents, it weie impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
One chamber where none enter ; I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
To pore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. 'T were dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 
And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the 

castle — 
How many years is't ? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his father, whom he naught resembles. 

Her. 1 here be more sons in like predicament. 
But wherein do they differ? 

Manuel. I speak not 



This soliloquy, and a great part of the subsequent scene, baye been 
retained in U.e present form of the drama. 



472 



POEMS. 



Offeatures or of form, but mind and habits : 
Couni Sigumund was proud,--but pay and free,— 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwell not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
Merrier than day , he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wolfj nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshren the hour, 

Bui those were jocund times! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; ihey look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

Manuel-, These waits 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! t have seen 
Some strange things in these few years.* 

Her. Come, be friendly ; 

Relate me some, to while away our watch : 
I *ve heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed! I do remember 
'T was twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; - yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like it that it might I"- the same; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbin« moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing seemM to love, 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 
The lady Aslarte, his^— 

Her. Look — look — the lower — 

The tower 's on fire. Oh, heavens and earth ! what sound. 
What dreadful sound is thai ? [»i crash like thunder. 
Manuel, Help, help, there! — to the rescue of the 
Count, — 
The Count 's in danger, — what ho! there ! approach ! 
[The Servants, Vassals, and Peasantry approach, 
stitpijied with terror. 
If there be any of you who have heart 
And love of human kind, and will to aid 
Those in distress — pause not — but follow me — 
The portal's open, follow. [Manuel goes in. 

Her. Come — who follows? 

What, none of ye ? — ye recreants ! shiver then 
Without. I will not see old Manuel risk 
His few remaining years unaided. [ Heum \x goes in. 

Vassal. Hark !— 

No — all is silent — not a breath — the flame 
Which shot forth such a blaze is also gone ; 
What may this mean ? let 's enter ! 

Peasant. Faith, not T, — 

Not that, if one, or two, or more, will join, 
I then will stay behind; but, for my part, 
I do not see precisely to what end. 

Vassal. Cease your vain prating — come. 
Manuel (speaking within.) 'T is all in vain — 

He *s dead. 

fhr. (within.) Not so, even now methought ho moved ; 
But it is dark — so bear him gently out — 
Softly — how cold he is ! take care of his temples 
In winding down the staircase, 

J2e-»tfer Manuel oik/IIehman, bearing Manfred 
in their artns. 

JMannel. Hie to the castle, some of ye, and bring 
What aid you can. Saddle the barb, and speed 
For the leach to ihe city — quick ! some water there ! 

Hrr. His cheek is black — but there i< a faint beat 
Still lingering about the heart. Some water. 

* Ali-rnl, In Uw prennl form lo " Some iUixnge Ihfoga Id tlcm, Her- 



[Theij sprinkle Manfred with water; after a 

pause he gives some signs of life. 
Manuel. Be seems to strive to speak — come,cheerly 
Count ! 
He moves his lips — canst hear him ? I am old, 
And cannot cai«h faint soun 

[Herman inclining his head and listening. 

Her. I hear a word 

Or two — but indistinctly — what is next ? 
What's to be don- } let's bear htm to the castle. 
[Manfri with his hand not to remove him. 

Manut I . II ■ disapproves — and 'twere of no avail- 
He changes rapidly. 

// r. 'T will soon be over. 

Manuel. Oh! what a death is this! that 1 should live 
To shake my gray hairs over the last chief 
Of the house of Sigismund. — And such a death ! 
Alone — we know not how — unshrived — untended— 
Wilh strange accompaniments and fearful si^ns — 
[ shulder at the sight — but must not leave him. 

Manfred. I tpeaking faintly und slowly.) Old man 
't i not so difficult to die. 

[Manfred, having said this, expires. 
Her. Hi<= eyes are hVd and lifeless. — He is gone. 
Manuel. Close them. My old hand quivers. — He de- 
parts m 

Whither ? I dread to think — But he is gone ! 



TO MY DEAR MARY ANNE. 

[THE FOLLOWING LINKS ARE TUT. EARLIEST WRITTEN BV 
LORD BYRON. THLY WCRI AIMIIH-'MID TO HSS CHA 

worth, LPTEawABDa msj. kuiters, in 1804, about 
a year before her UAanaoc] 

Adieu to sweet Mary for ever! 
From her I must quickly depart ; 

Though the fates us from each other sever, 
Still her image will dwell in my heart. 

The flame that within my heart burns 
If unlike what in lovers' hearts glows; 

The love which for Mary I feel 
Is far purer then Cupid bestows. 

I wish not your peace to disturb, 
I wish not your joys to molest ; 

Mistake nol mj passion for love, 
'T is your friendship alone 1 request. 

Not ten thousand [overs could feel 
The friendship my bosom contains; 

It will aver within my heart dwell, 

While the warm blood flows through my veins. 

May the Ruler of Heaven look down, 

And my Mary from evil defend ! 
May she ne'er know adversity's frown, 
May her happiness ne'er have an end 1 

Once more, my sweet Mary, adieu! 

Farewell ! I with anguish repeat, 
For ever I 'II think upon you 

While this heart in my bosom shall beat. 



TO MISS CHA WORTH. 

Oh Memory, torture me no more, 
The present 's all oVrcast ; 

My hopes of future bliss are o'er, 
In mercy veil the past. 



POEMS. 



473 



What bring ihose images to view 

I henceforth must resign? 
Ah ! why those happy hours renew, 

That never can be mine ? 
Past pleasure doubles present pain, 

To sorrow adds regret, 
Regret and hope are both in vain, 

I ask but to— forget," 



1S04 



FRAGMENT. 

1. 
Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren, 

Where my thoughtless childhood strav'd, 
How the northern tempests, warring, 

Howl above thy tufted shade J 



2. 

Now no more, the hours beguiling, 
Former favourite haunts l see; 

Now no more my Mary smiling 
Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 



IS05. 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE. 

fATHEK of Light! great God of Heaven! 

Hear'st thou the accents of despair? 
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? 

Can vice atone for crimes by praver? 
Father of Light, on thee I call ! 

Thou see's! my soul is dark within ; 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from me the death of sin. 
No shrine I seek to sects unknown ; 

Oh point to me the path of truth! 
Thy dread omnipotence I own ; 

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 
Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, 

Let superstition hail the pile. 
Let priests, lo spread their sable reign, 

With tales of mystic riles beguile. 
Shall man confine his Maker's sway 

To Gothic domes of mouldering stone ? 
Thv temple is the face of day ; 

Earth, ocean, heaven thy boundless throne. 
Shall man condemn his race to hell 

Unless they bend in pompous form; 
Tell us that all, for one who fell, 

Must perish m the mingling storm ? 
Shall each pretend lo reach the skies, 

Yet doom his brother to expire, 
Whose soul a different hope supplies, 

Or doctrines less severe inspire ? 
Shall these, bv creeds they can't expound, 

Prepare a fancied bliss or wo ? 
Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground, 

Their great Creator's purpose know? 
Shall those, who live for self alone, 

Whose years float on in daily crime — 
Shall they by Faith for guilt atone, 

And live beyond the bounds of Time? 
Father! no prophet's laws I seek, — 

Thy laws in Nature's works appear ;— 
I own myself corrupt and weak, 

Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 

Through trackless realms of ether's space ; 
Who calm'st the elemental war, 

Whose hand from pole to pole I trace : — 
Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, 

Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence, 
Ah ! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, 

Extend to me thv wide defence. 
3K 



To Thee, my God, to Thee I call! 

Whatever weal or wo betide, 
By thy command I rise or fall, 

In thy protection I confide. 
If, when this dust to dust restored, 

My soul shall float on airy wing, 
How shall thy glorious name adored 

Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 
But, if this fleeting spirit share 

With clay the grave*s eternal bed, 
While life yet throbs I raise my prayer, 

Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 
To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 

Grateful fbr all thy mercies past, 
And hope, my God, to thee again 

This erring life may tly at last. 

29tk Dec. 1806. 



FRAGMENT. 

[Win ii Lor J Byron first went to Newstend on his arrival from Aber- 
deen, he planted a voting oak in some part of [be grounds, and had nn 
li i flourished, bo should he. Some six or seven years after, 
Dg the spot, he found his oak choked up by weeds, and almost 
destroyed. The following opening lines arc a specimen of lite poem he 
wrote on the occasion.} 

Yol'ng Oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 

That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, 
On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride; 

They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, 

Thy decay not the weeds, that surround thee, can hide. 

1 left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 

A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire, &c. &c. 



ON REVISITING HARROW. 

[Sumo yeart ago, when at Hut-row, a friend of ihe author engraved 
on a particular spot (be Dames of loth, with a few additional words, as 
a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving BO me real or imagined injury, the 
author desi rove ■] the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting 
the place in 1807, he wrote under it tbe following stanzas J 

1. 

Here once engaged the stranger's view 

Young Friendship's record simply traced, 
Few were her words, — but yet though few, 
Resentment's hand the line defaced. 

o ' 

Deeply she cut — bul, not erased, 

The characters were still so plain, 
That Friendship once returnM, and gazed, 

Till Memory hail'd the words again. 
3. 
Repentance placed them as before ; 

Forgiveness join'd her genlle name ; 
So fair the inscription seem'd once more, 

That Friendship thought it still the same. 

4. 

Thus might the Record now have been ; 

But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour, 
Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, 

And blotted out the line for ever! 



L'AMITIE EST L' AMOUR SANS AILES. 
I. 

Why should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled? 
Days of delight may still be mine ; 

Affection is not dead. 



474 



POEMS. 



In tracino back the years of youth, 
One firm record, on** lasting truth 

Celestial consolation brings ; 
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, 
Where first my heart responsive beat, — 

"Friendship is Love without his wings!* 1 

2. 
Tn rough few, but deeply chequerM years 

What moments have been mine ! 
Now, h.df obscured by clouds of tears, 

Now, bright in rays divine ; 
Howe'er my future doom be cast, 
Mv soul, enraptured vviih the past, 

To one idea fondly clings ; 
Friendship ! that thought is all thine own, 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone, 

'Friendship is Love without ins wings!" 

S. 

Where vonder yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gab', 
Unheeded heavens a simple grave, 

Which tells the common tale ; 
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, 
Till the dull knelt of childish play 

From yonder studious mansion rings ; 
Bui here whene'er mv footsteps move, 
Mv silent tears too plainly prove 

" Friendship is Love without his wings!" 

4. 

Oh Love ! before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows were paid ; 
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, 

But these are now decay 'd ; 
For thine arc pinions like the wind, 
No trace of thee remains behind, 

Except, alas ! thy jea'.ous stings. 
Away, away ! delusive power, 
Thou shall not haunt my coming hour ; 

" Unless, indeed, without thy wings !" 

5. 

Seat of my youth ! thy distant spire 

Recalls each scene of joy ; 
My bosom glows with former fire, — 

In mind again a boy. 
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, 
Thv every path delights me still, 

Each flower a double fragrance flings-, 
Again, as once, in converse gay, 
Each dear associate seems to sav 

" Friendship is Love without his wings !'" 

6. 
My Lycus ! wherefore do?t thou weep ? 

Thy falling tears restrain; 
Affection for a time may sleep, 

But oh, *t will wake again. 
Think, think, mv friend, when next we meet, 
Our long-wishM interview, how sweet ! 

From this mv hope of rapture springs ; 
While vouthful hearts thus fonHlv swell, 
Absence, my friend, can only tell, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings !'* 

7. 
In one, and one alone deceived, 

Did I my error mourn ? 
No — from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left the wretch to scorn. 
I turn'd to those my childhood knew, 
With feelings warm, with hosoms true, 

Twined with mv heart's according strings ; 
And till those vital chords shall break, 
For none but these my breast shall wake, 

,( Friendship, the power deprived of wings !" 



8. 
Ye few ! mv sou], mv lift is yours, 

.My memory and my hope ; 
Your worth a lasting >»ve ensures, 

rjnfetter'd in its scope ; 
From smooth deceit and terror sprung, 
With aspect fair and honrv'd tungue, 

Let Adulation wait on kinpi, 
Wiih joy elate, by snares beset, 
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 

11 Friendship is Love without his wings!" 

9. 
Fictions and dreams' inspire the bard 

Who rolls the epic song ; 
Friendship and Truth be my reward, 

To mp no beys belong : 
IflaureH'd fame but dwells with lies, 
Me the enchantress ever flies, 

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings: 
Simple and young, I dare not f ign, 
Mine be the rude yel heartfelt strain, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings!" 

December. 1806. 



TO MY SON.* 



1. 



TnosE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, 
Bright as thy mother's in their hue ; 
Those rosy lips whose dimples play 
And smile to steal the In-art away, 
Recall a scene offbrmerjoy, 
And touch thy Father's heart, my Boy ! 

2. 

And thou canst li^p a father's name — 
Ah, William, were thine own the same, 
No self-reproach— but, let me cease — 
My care for thee shall purchase peace; 
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, 
And pardon all the past, mv Boy. 

3. 

Her lowly grave the turf has prest, 

And thou hast known a stranger's breast. 

Derision sneers upon thy birth, 

And yields thee scarce a name on earth; 

Yet shall not these on.- hope destroy, — 

A Father's heart is thine, my Boy! 

4. 

Why, let the world unfeeling frown, 
Must I fond Nature's claim disown* 
Ah, no— though moralists reprove, 
I hail thee, dearest child of to»o, 
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy — 
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy ! 



* "The only ctrenmatanee 1 know, 1 hat lieara rem rvmntelronihe nih- 
il ilir I'n I looine. Aliout ii v na the dnte 
I he wralelo bit mother, front il ti m . j l have tarn lold by 
* penon, i" whom Mm. Byron tar* thi clreomatance,) 
low J, ihnt he h«d lately n . ntof ii young 
woman, whom ha L:.. a Eo haTtbeenj ite rrteud.Curton, 
Mid who, finding herself after hi* death In i itaic of'uiugirai I 

b id led ■ ■■■ ! i ■ .■ ■■ » ft I In i child. Thi«, 

■ I ' liitine. as ho 
diil firmly, that the child helonejed to ■ urzon, ifwai Mi wuh that it 
■ ouehl ii;. with ill 1 , ■■-"Mr- care, and he there/on Hit ratted 
thni >iIb mother would h»Te tta klndneaa to tali Though 

auch a reqiiutmbjht well <anm* Informant expr«aaei in haw rilecom- 
poaed n ipinjwr mora mild than Mri Byron '•, aha aotwltbatandtn^ an- 
swered her n'n in thf kimieai terra*, aaylncihat ita would willingly 
receive the child a* soon oa it waa born, and brine It na in whatemf 
manner he deal red. Hnnfllv, howetW, i lis Infant died ilrnoal immedi- 
ately, and wai thua spared the being a tfi* on the food nature ««' any 
body,"— Moore. 



POEMS. 



475 



5. 
Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace 
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
Ere half my glass of life is run, 
At once a brother anil a son ; 
And all my wane ofycars employ 
In justice done to lliee, my Boy ! 

6. 
Although so young thy heedless sire, 
Youth will not damp parental tire ; 
And, wert thou still lessdear to me, 
While Helen's form revives in thee, 
The breast, which beat to former joy, 
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy ! 



1807. 



EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF 
SOUTHWELL, 

A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. 

John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, 
A Carrier^ who carried his can to his mouth well • 
He carried so much, and^he carried so fast, 
He could carry no more — so was curried at last ; 
For, the liquur he drank, being tuo much for one, 
He could not carry off, — so he 's now carri~on. 

Sept. 1807. 



FRAGMENT. 

[The following lines form the conclusion of a poem written by Lord 
Byroa under the melancholy impression that he should soon die.] 

Forget this world, my restless sprite, 

Turn, turn thy thoughts to heaven : 
There must thou soon direct thy fli<>ht, 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown, 
Bow down beneath th' Almighty's Throne, — 

To him address thy trembling prayer. 
He, who is merciful and just, 
Will not reject a child, of dust, 

Although his meanest care. 
Father of Light ! to thee I call, 

My soul is dark within ; 
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall, 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, 
Who calm'st the elemental war, 

Whose mantle is yon bound ess sky, 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ; 
And, since I soon must cease to live, 

Instruct me how to die. 

1307. 



* TO MRS. * * *, 

ON BEING ASKED MT REASON FOR QCITTINQ ENG- 
LAND IN THE SPRING, 

When man, expell'd from Eden's bowers 

A moment linger'd near the gate, 
Each scene recail'd the vanished hours, 

And bade hinj curse his future fate. 

But, wandering on through distant climes, 

He learnt to bear his load of grief; 
Just gave a sigh to other times, 

And found in busier scenes relief. 



" This *nd ihe 6>e foil owing poems were first published In Hob- 
boiue's MisceLlsoy. 



Thus, Mary, will it be with me, 
And I must view thy charms no more ; 

For, while I linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all I knew before. 

In flight t shall be surely wise, 
Escaping from temptation's snare ; 

I cannot view my paradise 

Without the wish of dwelling there.* 

Dec. 2, 1808. 

A LOVE-SONG. 

TO ****** * # 

Remind me not, remind me not, 

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours 
When all my soul was given to thee • 
Hours that may never be forgot, 
Till time unnerves our vital powers, 
And liiou and I shall cease to be. 

Can I (brget — canst thou forget, 
When playing with thy golden hair, 

How quick thy fluttering heart did move ? 
Oh, by my soul, I see thee yet, 

With eyes so languid, breast so fair, 
And lips, though silent, breathing lova 

When thus reclining on my breast, 

Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
As half reproach'd yet raised desire, 
And still we near and nearer prest, 
And still our glowing lips would meet, 
As if in kisses to expire. 

And then those pensive eyes would close, 
And bid their lids ea<:h other seek, 
Veiling the azure orbs below j 
While their long lashes darkening gloss 
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow. 

I dreamt last night our love refum'd, 
And, sooth to say, that very dream 
Was sweeter in its phantasy 
Than if for other hearts I burn'd, 

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
In rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not, 

Of hours which, though forever gone, 
Can still a pleasing dream restore, 
Till thou and I shall be forgot, 

Ami senseless as the mouldering stone 
Which tells that we shall be no more. 



STANZAS 
TO * * * * + * * s 

There was a time, I need not name, 

Since it will ne'er foreotten be, 
When all our feelings were the same 

As still my soul hath been to thee. 

• 
And from that hour when first thy tongue 

Confess'd a love whi< h equalled mine, 
Though many a grief my h^art hath wrung, 

Unknown and thus unfelt by thine, 

None, none hath sunk so depp as this — 
T.i think how all that love hath flown ; 

Transient ns every faithless kiss, 
But transient in thy breast alone. 



In the original this line Hands, " Without a wish to enterthere.' 
The reading giveu aUire is from a AL3. correuiou by Lord Byron. 



476 



POEMS. 



And yet my heart some solace knew, 
When lafe I heard thy lips declare, 

In accents once imagined true, 

Remembrance of the days that were. 

Yes ! my adored, yet most unkind ! 

Though thou Will never love again, 
To me 't is doubly Bweet to find 

Remembrance of that love remain. 

Yes! 't is a glorious thought to me, 
Nor longer shall my soul re nine, 

Whate'er thou art or e'er shah l>--. 
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine ! 



TO THE SAME. 
A*;n wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! apeak those words again : 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, 

My blood runs coldly through my breast : 
And when I perish, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet, merhinks, a gleam of peace 

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine; 

And for awhile my sorows cease, 
To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 

Oh lady ! blessed be that tear — 
It fails for one that cannot weep : 

Such precious drops are doubly dear 

To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 

Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
With every feeling soft as thine ; 

But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
A wretch created to repine. 

Yet will thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again; 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 



SONG. 



Fill the goblet again, for I never before 

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart 10 its core ; 

Let us drink! — who would not? — since, through life's 

varied round, 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

I have tried in its turn all that life ran supply/ ; 
] h ive basVd in the beams of a dark rolling eye ; 
1 have loved! — who has not ? — but what heart can de- 
That pleasure existed while passion was there ? [dare 

In the*days of my youth, when the heart 's in its spring 

And dream-: lhat afTeciinn can never lake wing, 

1 bad friends! — who has not? — but what tongue will 

avow, 
That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst 

change : 
Thou grow 'st old — who does not ? — but on earth what 

appears, 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? 



V.i if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 

ifl ' — who T S not '.' — thou hast no such alloy, 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 

Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at tasl ! 
Hi* ii we find — do we not? — in the flow of the soul, 
Thai truth, as of yore, is confined to llie bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was oper/d on earth, 
And Misery's triumph «bmm**nccd over Mirth, 

b leftj was she not ? — but the goblei we kiss, 
And rare not for hope, who are certain of bliss. 

I ,oi : life to the grape ! fir when summer is flown, 
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own ; 
Wfi must die — who shall not? — May our sins be for- 
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. [gi veB * 



STANZAS. 

TO * * *, ON LEAVING ENGLAND*. 

'T is done — and shivering in the gale 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
Loud sings on high the freshening blast ; 
And I must from this land be gone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

But could I be what I have been, 
And could I see what I have seen — 
Could I repose upon the breast 
Whjch once my warmest wishes blest — 
I should not seek another zone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

'T is long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery ; 
And I have striven, but in vain, 
Never to think of il again; 
For though I fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird, without a mate, 
My weary heart is desolate ; 
I look around, and cannot trace 
One friendly smile or welcqmc face, 
And even in crowds am still alone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foam, 
And 1 will seek a foreign home; 
Till I forget a false fair face, 
I ne'er shall find a resting-place ; 
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
Bui ever love, and love but one. 

The poorest veriest wretch on earth 
Still finds some hospitablo hearth, 
Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or sooth in wo; 
But friend or leman I have none, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I «o — but whereso'er I flee, 
There 's not an eye will weep for me; 
There *s not a kind congenial heart, 
Where I can claim the meanest part; 
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 



POEMS. 



477 



To think of every early scene, 

Of what we are, and what we 've been, 

Would whelm some softer hearts with wo- 

But mine, alas ! lias stood the blow; 

Yet still beats on as it begun, 

And never truly loves but one. 

And who that dear loved one may be 
Is not for vulvar eyes to see, 
And why that early love was crost, 
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most • 
But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 

I 've tried another's fetters too, 
With charms perchance as fair to view ; 
And 1 would fain have loved as well, 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'T would sooth to take one lingering view, 
And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
His home, his Impe, his youth are gone, 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.* 



LINES TO MR. HODGSON. 

Falmouth Roada, June30Lh, 1809. 
1. 
Huzza ! Hodgson, we are going, 

Our embargo 's ofTat last 
Favourable breezes blowing 

Bend the canvass o'er the mast 
From aloft the signal's streaming, 
Hark ! the farewell gun is fired ; 
Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 
Tell us that our time 's expired. 
Here 's a rascal 
Come to task all, 
Prying from the custom-house; 
Trunks unpacking, 
Cases cracking, 
Not a corner for a mouse 
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, 
Ere we sail on board the Packet. 



Now our boatmen quit their mooring, 

And all hands must ply the oar; 
Baggage from the quay is lowering, 

We 're impatient — push from shore. 
" Have a care ! that case holds liquor — 
Slop the boat — I 'm sick — oh Lord !" 
"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker 
Ere you 've been an hour on board.** 
Thus are screaming 
Men and women, 
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks ; 
Here entangling, 
All are wrangling, 
Stuck together close as wax. — 
Such the general noise and racket, 
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 



• Thu* corrected by himself in a copy of the Miicellany — the two Jaat 
lb it* being, originally, m follows ; — 

" Though whereso'er my bark may run, 
I love but thee, 1 lore but one." 



Now we Ve reach'd her, lo I the captain, 

Gallant Kidd, commands the crew ; 
Passengers their berths are clapt in, 

Some to grumble, some to spew. 
" Heyday! call you that a cabin? 

Why 't is hardly three feet square ; 
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in — 
Who the deuce can harbour there?" 
" Who, sir ? plenty- 
Nobles twenty 
Did at once my vessel fill.'' — 
" Did they ? Jesus, 
How you squeeze us! 
Would lo God they did so still : 
Then I 'd scape the heat and racket 
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 

4. 
Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you? 

Stretch'd along the deck like logs- 
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you ! 

Here's a rope's end for the dogs. 
Hohhouse muttering fearful curses, 
As the hatchway down he rolls, 
Now his breakfast, now his verses, 
Vomits f irili— and damns our souls 
" Here 's a stanza 
On Braganza — 
Help !" — " a couplet V — " No, a cup 
Of warm water — " 
"What's the matter?" 
" Zounds ! my liver *s coming up ; 
I shall not survive the racket 
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 

5. 

Now at length we 're off* for Turkey, 

Lord knows when we shall come back 
Breezes foul and tempests murky 

May unship us in a crack. 
But, since life at most a jest is, 

As philosophers allow, 
StiM to laugh by far the best is, 
Then laugh on— as I do now. 
Laugh at all things, 
Great and small things, 
Sick or well, at sea or shore ; 
While we 're quaffing, 
Let 's have laughing— 
Who the devil cares for more? — 
Some good wine ! and who would lack it, 
Even on board the Lisbon Packet ? 



LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT 

ORCHOMENUS. 

IN THIS EOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN : — 

(< Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart 
To trace the birth and nursery of art: 
Noble his ohject, glorious is his aim : 
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." 

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE 
FOLLOWING REPLY '.— 

The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, 
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; 
But yet whoe'er he be, to say no worse, 
His name would bring more credit than his verse. 



478 



POEMS. 



ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE. 

A FARCICAL EPIGRAM. 

Sept. 14, 1811. 
Good plays are scarce, 
So Moore wi iies farce : 
The poet's fame grows brittle— 
Wo knew before 
That Little 's Mo 
But now 't is Moore that 's little. 



EPISTLE TO MR. HODGSON, 

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING HIM TO BE 
CHEERFUL AND TO " BANISH CARE." 

Nt-vmeact Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811. 

11 Oh ! banish care" — such ever be 
The motto of thy revelry ! 
Perchance f»f mine, when wassail nights 
Renew those riotous delights, 
Wherewith the children of Despair 
Lull the lone heart, and (l banish care." 
But not in morn's reflecting hour, 
When present, past, ami future lower, 
When all I loved is changed or gone, 
Mock with such taunts trie woes of one, 
Whose every thought — but let them pass — 
Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
But, above all, if ihou wouldst hold 
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
By all the powers that men revere, 
By all unto thy bosom dear, 
Thy joys below, thv hopes above, 
Speak — speak of any thing but love. 

'T were long to tell, am! vain lo hear, 
The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 
And there is little in that tale 
Which better bosoms would bewail. 
But mine has suffer'd more than well 
'T would suit philosophy to tell. 
I've seen my bride another's bride, — 
Hive seen her seated by his side, — 
Have seen the infant, which she bore, 
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, 
When she and I in youth have smiled 
As fond and faultless as her child ; — 
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
Ask if I felt no secret pain, 
And / have acted well my part, 
And made my cheek belie my heart, 
Returned the freezing glance she gave, 
Yet felt the while thai woman's slave;— 
• Have kiss'd, as if without design, 

The babe which oiwht lo have been mine, 
And show'd, alas! in each caress 
Time had not made me love the less. 

But let this pass — I '11 whine no more, 
Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 
The world befits a busy brain, — 
I 'II hie me to its haunts a 
But if, in some succeeding year, 
When Britain's ■' May is in the sere," 
Thou hear'st of one, whos,- deepening crimes 
Suit with the sab leal of the times, 
Of one, whom love nor pity sways, 
Nor hope of fame, nor good in ■■it's praise, 
One, who in stern ambition's pride, 
Perchance not blood shall turn aside, 
One rank'd in some recording pa«e 
With the wost anarchs of the age, 
Him wilt thou know — and knowing pause, 
Nor with the effect forget the cause. 



ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 

DCniCATED TO MR. KOUEIlS. 

May, 1813. 
1. 

When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, 

{I hope I am not violent,) 

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant, 

2. 
And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise 
To common sense his thoughts could raise- 
Why WatUd they let him print his lays ? 

3. 



5. 
Tome, divine Apollo, grant — O! 
Hermilda's first and second canto, 
I 'in lilting up a new portmanteau ; 

6. 

And thus to furnish decent lining, 

Mv own ami others 1 bays I 'in twining- 

So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 



TO LORD THURLOW. 

" I lay my bnoch of lanrel dawn, 
Then Hi u * crown 

Lei l/Vi i ■ 

Lord Thurltm't Lint* to Mr, Rogtri. 
1. 

" / lay my branch of laurel i/otcn." 
Thou " lay thy branch of laurel down P* 

Why, what thou 'si stole is not enon | 
And, where it lawfully thine own, 

Does Rogers want it most, or thou 

Keep to thyself thv wither'd bough, 

Or send it hack lo Doctor Donne- 
Were justice done to both, I trow, 
He'd have but little, and thou — none. 

2. 
11 Then thus to form Apollo's crown. 1 
A crown ! why, twist it how you will, 
Thy chaplet must be fiolscap still. 
When next you visit Delphi's town, 

Inquire among your fellow-lodgera. 

They Ml tell you Phcebus gave his crown, 

Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 
3. 
" Let every other bring his own" 
When coals to Newcastle are earned, 

And owls sent to Athens as wonders, 
From his sji.ni-e wh'-n the Regent's unmarried, 

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blun I 
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrels, 

When Gastlereagh's wife has an heir, 
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, 

And thou shall have plenty to spare. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

WRITTEN THE EVtNINO BEFORE HIS NUT, EH COM- 
PANY WITH LORD 01' RON, TO MR. LEIOH HUNT IM 
COLD BATH FIELDS PRISON, MAV 19, 1813. 

Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town, 
Anacreon, TomTattle, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, — 



POEMS. 



479 



For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, 
Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Twopenny Post Bag ; 

* * * * * * * 

But now to my letter — to yours 't is an answer- 
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, 
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on 
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon — 
Pray Phcebus at length our political malice 
May not get us lodgings within the same palace ! 
I suppose thai to-night you 're engaged with" some 

codgers, 
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers ; 
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, 
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote. 
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, 
And you 'II be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS 
MOORE. 

June, 1S14. 

1. 

" What say 7" ?" — not a syllable further in prose ; 
I *m your man " of all measures," dear Tom, — so, 

here goes ! 
Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, 
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. 
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the 

flood, 
We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, 
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap, 
And Southey's last Psan has pillow'd his sleep ; — 
That " Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey 
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm s^a, 
Singing " Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza, 
The like (since Tom SternhoM was choked) never man 

saw. 



The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, 
The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Rosses, — 
Of his Majesty's suiie, up from coachman to Hetman, — 
And what dignity decks the* fiat fare of the great man. 
I saw him, last week^at two balls and a party, — 
For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty. 
You know, we are used to quite different graces, 



The Czar's look, I own., was much li "ighter and brisker, 
Bit then he is sadly deficient in whisker ; 
And wore but a starless blue coal, and in kersey— 
—mere breeches whisk* d round, in a waltz with the Jersey, 
Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
With majesty's presence as those she invited. 



And," quoth he, " I Ml take a drive. 

I walk'd in the morning, I 'II ride to-night ; 

In darkness my children lake most delight. 

And I 'U see how my favourites thrive. 
2. 

And what shall I ride in '.'" quoth Lucifer, then — 

" If I follow'd my taste, indeed, 
I should mount in a wagon of wounded men, 

And smile to see them bleed. 
But these will be furnish'd again and again, 

And at present my purpose is speed ; 
To see my manor as much as I may, 
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away. 

3. 
" I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 

A chariot in Seymour-place ; 
But they 're lent to two friends, who make me amend* 

By driving my favourite pace : 
And ihey handle their reins with such a grace, 
I have something for both at the end of their race. 

4. 
" So now for the earth to take my chance." 

Then up to the earth sprung he ; 
And making a jump from Moscow to France, 

He siepp'd across the sea, 
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road, 
No very great way from a bishop's abode. 

5 

But first as he flew, I forgot to say, 
That he hoverM a moment upon his way 

To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare 
And so soft to Ins ear was (he cry of despair, 

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain ; 
And lie gazed with delight from its growing height 
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight, 

Nor his work done half as well : 
For the field ran so red wirh the blood of the dead 

That it blushed like the waves of hell ! 
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he; 

Methinks they have here little need of me ! a 



THE DEVIL'S DRIVE. 

Of this etrinee, wil.1 poem, which extend* to ahnut two hundred and 
fifty line*, I he only eopj thai 1 ."rd Rvmn. ( helieve, evtr wmle, hi' 
presented io Lord Holland Tbougll wrih ft e.nod deal of vieo<ir and 
imagination, i' is, for the most Dan, r.itner clumsily e xe cm - I 
the point and conden«aOon of thote clever ver»es of Mr Uoleridee 
whieh I .on l Byron, adopting i notion ton; prevalent, but u 1 1 
Professor Porson. There are. however, some of the sUtuas of " The 
Devils Dn»e'' well worth ureiervitig.] — Moore, 

1. 

The Devil return'd to hell by two, 

And he staid at home till five ; 
When he dined on some homicides done in ragout, 

And a rebel or so in an Irish st-u, 
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew, 
And bethought himself what next to do, 



But the softest note that southed his ear 

Was the sound of a widow sighing : 
And the swo led aighl was the icy tear, 
Which hoiror froze in the blue eye clear 

Of a maid by her lover lying — 
As round her fell her long fair hair : 
And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air 
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there ! 
And, stretchM by the wall of a ruinM hul, 
With its hollow cheek, arid eyes half shut, 

A child of famine dying; 

And the carnage begun when resistance is done, 
And the fall of the vainly flying ! 

* * * * * 

10. 
But the Devil has reach'd our clitTs so while, 

And what did he there, I pray ? 
If Kis eyes were good, he but saw by night 

What we see every day : 
But be made a tour, and kept a journal 
Of all the wondrobfl eights nocturnal, 
And he sold it in shares io ihe JWen of the Row, 
Who bid prettv well— but they cheated him. though : 

11. 
The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail 

Its coachman and his coat ; 
So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail, 

And seized him by the throat : 
" Aha," quoth he, " what have we here ? 
'T is a new barouche, and an ancient peer! 



4S0 



POEMS. 



12. 

So he sat him on his box again, 

And bade him have no fear, 
But be true to his club, and stanch to his ruin, 

His brothel, and his beer ; 
*' Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 

I would rather see him here. ' 

****** 

17. 

The Devil gat next to Westminster, 

And he turn'd " to the room" of tho Commons ; 
But ha heard, as he purposed to enter in there, 
Thai " llie Lords" had received a summons; 
And he thought as a " quondam aristocrat, 
He might peep at the peers, though to hear ibem iwre 

flat; 
And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own, 
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 

18. 
He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise, 
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly, 
And Johnny of Norfolk — a man of some size— 

And Chatham, so lik< his friend Billy; 
And lie saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, 
Because the Catholics would aol 
In spite of his prayers ami his prophecies ; 
And he heard— which set Satan himself a staring— 
A certain chief justice say something like swearing. 
And the Devil was shork'd — and quoth he, " I must go, 
For I find we have much better manners below. 
If thus he harangues when he passes my border, 
I shall hint to friend Moloch locall him to order." 

December, 1813. 



WINDSOR POETICS. 

Lino, composed on the occai™ oTHil ttojal llighnc.i Ihe Pro. 

being aeer, aiandine between thecoma*. of tuarj vlll. and Chailce I. 
In the royal vault ul Windsor. 

March, 1814. 

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, 
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies ; 
Botween them stands another sceptred thing — 
It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king : 

Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, 

— In him the double tyrant staris lo life : 

Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain. 

Each royal vampire wakes to life a?aiu. 

Ah, what can tombs avail !— since these disgorge 

The blood and dust of both — to mould a G — ge. 



ADDITIONAL STANZAS, TO THE ODE TO 
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 

17. 
There was a day — there was an hour, 

While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine — 
When that immeasurable power 

Uosaled to resign 
Had bocn an act of purer fame 
Than gathers round Marengo's name 

And gilded ihy decline, 
Through the long twilight of all time, 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 

18. 
But thou forsooth must be a king 

And don the purple 
As if that foolish robe could wring 

Remembrance from thy breast. 
Whe-e is that faded garment / where 

Tho gewgaws thou wen fond to wear, 

The star — the string — the crest? 
Vain froward child of empire ! say 
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ? 



19. 

Where may the wearied eye repose 

When gazing on the great; 

^lows, 

Nor despicable BIS. 
Yes- one— the first — the last— the best — 
The Ciucinnaius of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 

To make man blush there was but one! 

.ipril, 1814. 



TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 
And say'st thou that I have not felt, 

Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me? 
Nor knows'l how dearly I have dwelt 

On one unbroken dream ol thee ! 
But love like o ire musl m ver be, 

And I will learn to prize thee less 
As thou hast fled, so lei me flee, 

And change the heart thou mayest not bless. 

Thev 'II tell thee, Clara ! I have seem'd, 

i i, late, "is to woo, 

Nor sigh'd, nor frownM, as if I deein'd 

Thai thou wert banish'd from my view. 
Clara ! this struggle — to undo 

"What thou hasi done to i well, fir me 
This mask before the babbling crew — 

This treachery — was truth to thee ! 

I have not wept while thou wert gone, 

Nor worn one look of sullen wo; 
But sought, in many, all that one 

(Ah! need I name her ?) could bestow. 
Ii is a iloiv which I ow r 

To thine — to thee — to man — to God, 
To crush, to quench this guilty glow, 

Ere yet the path of crime be trod. 

But wince my breast is not so pure, 

Since still the vulture tears my heart, 
Let me this aeony endure, 

Not thee — oh ! deaiesl as thou art ! 
In mercy, Clara! let us part. 

And I will seek, ye' know not how, 
To shun, in time, the threatening dart 

Guilt must not aim at such as thou. 

But thou must aid me in the task, 
And nobly thus exert thy power; 

Then spurn me hence — 'I is all I ask — 
Ere lone matuie a guiltier hour ; 

Ere wrath's impending vials shower 
Re rse redoubled on me head; 

Ere lires unquenchnbly devour 

A heart, whose hope has long been dead. 

I leceive no more thyself and me, 

I I aol better hearts than mine ; 

Ah ! shouldst thoo, whither wnuldst thou flee, 

From wo like ours — from shame like thine? 
And, if there be a wrath divine, 

A pang beyond this fleeting breath, 
E'en now all future hope resign. 

Such thoughts are guilt — such guilt is death. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

1. 
I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not ihy name, 
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame: 
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart 
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. 



POEMS. 



4S1 



2. 
Too brief for our passion, ton long for our peace, 
Were [hose hours —can their joy or iheir brterness cease? 
We repent — we abjure — we will break from our chain, — 
We will part, — we will fly to — unite it again I 

3. 

Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! 
Forgive me, adored onr ! — forsake, if thou wilt ; — 
But ihe heart which is thine shall expire undebased, 
And man shall not break it — whatever thou niayst. 

4. 
And sf-rn to the haughty, but humble to thee, 
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be ; 
And ourdavsseemasswifi,and our moments more sweet, 
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 

5. 

One sigh of ihy sorrow, one look of ihy Jove, 
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
And the heardess may wonder at all t resign— 
Thy tip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. 

May 1S14. 



ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT 
THE CALEDONIAN MEETING. 

Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame 
Hath fiVd high Caledon's unconquer'd name ; 
The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain 
And baffled hack the fiery-cresled Dane, 
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand 
No foe could tame — no tyrant could command ? 
That race is gone — but still their children breathe, 
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : 
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, 
And England ! add their stubborn strength to thine. 
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free 
But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee! 
Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, 
But give support — the world hath given him fame ! 

The humbler rank*, the lowly brave, who bled 
While cheerly following where the mighty led 
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, 
To us bequeath — 't is all their fate allows — 
T'e sireless offspring and the lonely spouse : 
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze. 
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose 
The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
The bleeding phantom of each martial form 
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the stonn ; 
While sad, she chants the solitary song, 
The soft lament for him who tarrries long— 
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave. 

*T is Heaven — not man — must charm away the wo 

Which bvirsts when Nature's feelings newly flow ; 

Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 

Of half its bitterness for one so dear ; 

A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 

A thornless pillow for the widow'd head ; 

May lighten well her heart's matt-rnal care, 

And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 

May, 1814. 



What most admired eacn scrutinizing eye 
Of all thai deck'd that passing pageantry ? 
What spread from face to face that wondering air? 
The thought of Brutus — for his was not there ! 
That absence proved his worth - that absence fix'd 
His memory oti the longing mind, unmix'd; 
And more decreed his glory to endure, 
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring guze 
Search f r ihy form, in vain and mute amaze, 
Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness, 
Bright though thev be, thine own had render'd less," 
[f he, thai vain oid man, whom truth admits 
H"ir of hi« father's throne and shatter'd wits, 
If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart 
Could with 'hy gentle image bear depart, 
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief, 
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, 
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 

What ran his vaulted gallery now disclose? 
A garden with all flower*, — except the rose j— 
A fount that only wants its living stream; 
And night with every star, save Dian's beam. 
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be, 
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee; 
And more on thatrecall'd resemblance pause, 
Than all he shall not force on our applause. 

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, 
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine: 
The symmetry of vouth — the grace of mien— 
The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene ; 
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, 
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair 
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 
A spell which will not let our looks repose, 
But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
Some charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright, 
Albeit loo dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
And these must wait till everv charm is gone 
To please the paltry heart (hat pleases none, 
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by ; 
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
Its hate of Freedom 1 s loveliness, and thine. 

July, 1814. 



ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING 
THE PICTURE OF SARAH, COUNTESS OF 
JERSEY, TO MRS. MEE. 
When the vain triumph of the imperial lord, 
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorrM 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, 
That left a likeness of the brave or just ; 
3L 



TO BELSHAZZAR. 

1. 
Belshazzar ! from the banquet turn, 

Nr>r in thy sensual fulness fall : 
Behold ! while yet before thee burn 

The graven words, the glowing wall. 
Many a despot men miscall 

Crown'd and anointed from on high; 
But thou, the weakest, worst of all— 

Is it not written, thou must die ? 

1 
Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 

Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them. 
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, 

More than thy very diadem, 
Where ihou hast tamish'd every gem : — 

Then throw the worthless bauble by, 
Which, worn by thee, ev*n slaves contemn. 

And learn like better men to die. 

3. 

Oh ! early in the balance weigh'd, 
And ever light of word and worth, 

Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd, 
And left thee but a mass of earth. 



482 



POEMS. 



To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : 
But tears in Hope's averted eye 

Lam-'iit that even thou hadst birth— 
Unfit to govern, live, or die. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 

In th» valley of waters we wept o'er the day 
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey ; 
And our heads on our busonis all droopinoly lay, 
And our hearts were so full of the land far away. 

The song they demanded in vain — it lay still 
In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill, 
They called for the harp, but our blood they shall spill, 
Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of their skill. 

All stnnglesslv hung on the willow's sad tree, 
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be, 
Our hands may be fettered, our tears '■till are free, 
For our God and our glory, anJ Sion ! for thee. 

October, 1814. 



They say that Hope is happiness, 

Bui genuine Love must prize the past ; 

And Memory wakes the thoughts thai bless — 
They rose the first, they set the last. 

And all that Memory loves the most 

Was once our only hope to be ; 
And ail that hope adored and lost 

Hath melted into memory. 

Alas ! it is delusion all, 

The future cheats us from afar, 
N»>r can we be what we recall, 

Nor dare we think on what we are. 

October, 1814. 



LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING OF 
"THE SIEGE OF CORINTH." 
In the year since Jesus died for men, 
Eighteen hundred years and ten, 
We were a gallant company, 
Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 
Oh ! but we went merrily ! 
We folded the river and clomb the high hill, 
Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 
Ovir sleep fell s.ifr on the hardest hed ; 
Whether we couchM in our rough capote, 
On the rougher plank of our gliding boat, 
Or slretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread 
As a pillow beneath the resting head, 
Fresh wo woke upon the morrow : 

All our thoughts and our words had scope, 

We had health, and we had liopej 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
We were of all tongues and creeds ;— 
Some were those who counted beads, 
Some of mosque, and some of church, 

And some, or I mis-say, of neither; 
Yet through the wide world might ye search 

Nor find a motlier crew nor blither. 

But some are dead, and some are gone, 
And some are scatter' d and alone, 
And some are rebels on the hills* 



That look along Epirus' valleys, 

Where freedom still at moments rallies, 
And pays in blood oppression's ills : 

And some are in a far count ree, 
And some all restlessly at home; 

Rut never mora, ah ! never we. 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 

But those hardy days flew cheerily, 

And when they now fall drearily, 

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 

And hear :nv spirit back again 

Ov<r the earth, and through the air, 

A wil I bird, and a wanderer. 

'T is this that ever wakes my strain, 

And oft, too oft, implores again 

The few who may endure my lay, 

To follow me so far away. 

Stranger — will thou follow now, 

And sit with me on Aero-Corin'h's brow? 

December, 1815. 



EXTRACT FROM AN UNPUBLISHEDPOEM. 

Cot' 1. 1) I remount the river of my years, 
To the firs' fountain of our smiles and tears 
I would nut trace again the stream of hours 
Between their outworn banks of wiiher'd flowers, 
But bid it flow as now — until it glides 
Into the number of the nameless tides. 
****** 

What is this death ? — a quiet of the heart ? 
The whole of that which wc arc a part.? 
For life is but a vision — what I see 
Of all which lives alone is life to me, 
And being so — the absent are the dead, 
Who haunt us from Iranqutlliiy, and spread 
A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 

The absent are the dead — for thev are cold, 
And ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
And they are changed, and cheerless, — or if yet 
The unforgotten do not all forget, 
Since thus divided — equal must it he 
If the deep harrier be of earth, or sea ; 
It may he both — but one day end it mu-t 
In the dark union of insensate dust. 

The under-earlh inhabitants — are they 
But mingled millions decomposed to clay ? 
The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread? 
Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
Each in his incommunicative cell? 
Or have they their own language ? and a sense 
Of breathless being? — darken'd and intense 
As midnight in her solitude ? — Oh Earth ! 
Where are the past ? — and wherefore had they birth? 
The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
But bubbles on thy sutface; and the key 
Of thy profundity is in the grave, 
The ebon portal of thv peopled cave, 
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
Our elements resolved to things untold, 
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 
The essence of great bosoms now no more. 
***** * 

October, 1816. 



* The leal tidings recently heard of Dervlih (one of the- Arnaouta who 
followed mc) state him to be in revolt upon the raommme, at the heed 
(H t mo ol 'the b*ndj common in that country in time* of trouble. 



TO AUGUSTA. 
I. 

My sister! my sweet sister! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine ; 



POEMS. 



493 



Go where I will, to me thou art the same— 

A ioved regret which I would not resign. 

There yet are two things in my destiny,— 
A world to roam through, and a home with thee. 
ii. 

The first were nothing — had I still the last, 

Ii were the haven of my happiness; 

But other claims and other ties thou hast, 

And mine is not the wish lo make them less. 

A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 

Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 

Reversed for him our grandsire's* fate of yore, — 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 
in. 

If my inheritance of storms hath been 

In other elements, and on the rocks 

Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 

I have sustain'd mv share of worldly* shocks, 

The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 

My errors with defensive paradox; 

I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
The careful pilot of mv proper wo. 

IV. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. 
My whole life was a contest, since the day 
That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd 
The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk'd astray ; 
And I at times have found the struggle hard, 
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay ; 
But now J fatn would for a time survive, 

If but to see what next can well arrive, 
v. 
Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
And when I look on this the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: 
Something — I know not what — does still uphold 
A spirit of tight patience; — not in vain, 

Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 

VI. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Wiihin me, — or perhaps a cold despair, 
Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
(For even to this may change of soul refer, 
And with light armour we may learn to bear,) 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

VII. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 
In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and brooks, 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
Come as of vore upon me, and can melt 
My h**art with recognition of their looks ; 
And even at moments I could think I see 
Some living thing to love — but none like thee, 

VIII. 

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
But sometimes worthier do such scenes inspire : 
Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
Fur much I view which I could most desire, 
And, above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 



• Admiral Byron was remarkable for nVrer making a »oyage without 
ft tempest. He was known to the Bailors by Ihe facetioui nam* of 
" Foul weather Jack." 

" But thou»h it were lempeil-toii, 
Still tm Nark could not In: lost." 
He returned aafely from the wreck of the Waser, fin Anson'* royage.) 
and tuharquently circumnavigated the world, many yeara after, aa cora- 
aiaiider of a limilar expedition. 



Oh that thou wert but wilh me ! — but T grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret; 
There may be others which I less may show:— 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 

And the tide rising in my aller'd eye. 
x. 
I did remind thee of our own dear lake,* 
Bv the old hall which may be mine no more. 
Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore: 
The havoc Time must with my memory make 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 

Resign'd for ever, or divided far, 

XI. 

The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will comply — 
It is but in her summer's sun to baj'k, 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
To see her gentle face without a mask, 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall be 
My sister — till I look again on thee. 

XII. 

I can reduce all feelings but this one : 
And that I would not ; — for at lengih I see 
-Sudi scenes as those wherein my life begtin. 
The earliest — even the only paths for me — 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be; 
The passions which have torn me would have slept, 
/ had not sutfer'd, and thou hadst nut wept. 

XIII. 

With false ambition what had I to do ? 
I ittle with love, and least of all with fame, 
And yet thev came unsought, and with me grew, 
And made rue all which they can make — a name. 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But a'l is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

XIV. 

And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 
I have outlived myself by many a day ; 
Having survived so many things that were ; 
My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
Of life which might have fili'd a century, 

Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 
xv. 
And for the remnant which may be to come 
I am content ; and for the^pasl I feel 
Not thankless, — for within trie crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at limes would steal, 
And for the present I would not benumb 
My feeMngs farther. — Nor shall I conceal 
That with all this I still can look around 

And worship nature with a thought profound. 

XVI. 

For thee, my own sweet aister, in thy heart 
I knew myself secure, as thou in mine; 
\V« were and are— I am, even as thou art- 
Beings who ne'er each o'her can resign ; 
It is the same, together or apart, 
Ft'im life's commencement lo its slow decline 
We are entwined — let death come slow or fast, 
The tie w .ich bound the first endures the last ! 

October, 1816. 



' The lake of Newttaad Abbey. 



4S4 



POEMS. 



ON THE BUST OK HELEN BY CANOVA 

Is this beloved marble view, 

Above the works and thoughts of man, 
What Nature could, but ivoxtld not, do 

And beauty and Canova can ! 
Beyond tularin i lion's power, 

Beyond the bard's dcfeau-d art, 
With immortality tier dower, 

Behold the ihtcn of the heart t 

November, 1816. 



FRAGMENT OF A POEM ON HEARING 
THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.— 1816. 

A*D thou wert sad — yet was I nnt with thee ; 

And thou wert sick — and yet I was not near. 
Me thought that joy and health-alone could b<* 

Where I was not, and pain and sorrow here. 
And is it thus? — It is as I foretold, 

And shall be more so :— &c. &c. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

1. 

Mv boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea ; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here *s a double health to thee ! 
2. 
Here 's a sigh to those who love mo, 

And a smile to those who hate ; 
And, whatever sky '« above me, 

Here 'a a heart for every fate. 

3. 
Though the ocean roar around me, 

Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 
4. 
Were 't the last drop in the well, 

As I gasp'd upon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
'T is to thee that I would drink. 
5. 
With that water as this wine, 

The libation 1 would pour 
Should be — peace with thir.e and mine, 
And a health to ihee, Tom Moore. 

July, 1817. 



• STANZAS TO THE RIVER PO. 

1. 

River, that rollest bv 'he ancient walls, 

Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 
Walks by ihv brink, and there perchance recalls 

A faint and fleeting memory of me ; 
2. 
What if thy deep and ample stream should be 

A mirror of my heart, where she may read 
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, 

Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ! 
3. 
What do I say — a mirror of my heart ? 

Are not thv waters sweepms, dark, and strong ? 
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 

And such as thou art were my passions long. 



Time may have somewhat tamed them,— not for ever, 

Thou overflow's! thy banks, and not for aye 
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river! 

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away, 
6. 
But left long wrecks behind, and now again, 

Borne in our old unchanged career, we move ; 
Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main, 

And 1 — to loving oiirl should not love. 
6. 
The current I behold will sweep beneath 

*Her native walls and murmur at her fret; 
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 

The twilight air, unharni'd by summer's heat. 
7. 
She will look on thee, — I have lookM on ihee, 

Full of that thought ; and, from that moment, ne'er 
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, 

Without the inseparable sigh for her' 
8. 
Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy i-tream,— 

Yes! they will meet the wave 1 raze on now: 
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, 

That happy wave repass me in its flow ! 
9. 
The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 

Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?— 
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, 

1 by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 
10. 
But thai which keepeth us apart is not 

Di>tance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, 
But the distraction of a various lot, 

As various as the climates of our birth. 
11. 
A stranger loves the lady of the land, 

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood 
Is all meridian, as if never fann'd 

By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. 
H. 
My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 

I had not left my clime, nor should 1 be, 
In spite of torlures ne'er to be forgot, 

A slave again of love, — at least of thec. 
13. 
T is vain to struggle — let me perish young- 
Live as I lived, and love as 1 have loved ; 
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 

And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. 

June, 1819. 



SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EPWAHD FITZG KB A LD*S 
FORFEITURE. 

To be the father of the father'ess, 

To stretch the ban i from the throne's height, and raise 

Jffu offspring, who expired in other days 
Tn make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, — 
This is lo be a monarch, and express 

Envy into unutterable praise. 

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, 
Km who would lift a hand, except to bless ? 

Were it not easy, sire ? and is 'l not sweet 

To make thvself beloved? and to be 
Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus 

Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete, 
A despot ihou, and yet thy people free, 

And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 

August, 1819. 



* TU Couoteu fjulecloll. 



POEMS. 



485 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE, 
CANTO FIFTH. 

"The land where I was born sits bv the seas, 
Upon that shore (o which the Po descends. 
With all his followers, in search of peace. 

Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 
Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 

Love, who to none beloved to love again 

Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, 
That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 

Love to one death conducted us along, 

But Caina waits for him our life who ended ;*' 
These were the accents utter'd by her tongue. — - 

Since rirsi I listen'd to these souls offended, 
I bow'd my visage and so kept it lilt — 



( then ) 
J; \ when ^ 



" What ihink'st thou ?" said the bard ; 
unbended, 
And recommenced : " Alas! unto such ill 

How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies 

Led these their evil fortune lo fulfil !" 
And then I lurn'd unto their side my eves, 

And said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 

Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 

By what and how thy love to passion rose, 

So as his dim desires to recognise ?'* 
Then she to me : " The greatest of all woes 
( recall to mind ) 

Is to j remind us of £ our happy days 
( this ) 

In misery, and \ that \ thy teacher knows. 
But if to learn our passion's first root preys 

Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
( m-r elate ) 

I will i do* even £ as he who weeps and says. 

"We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, 

Of Lancilol, how love enchain'd him too. 

We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 
But oft our eve? met, and our cheeks in hue 

All o'er discolour'd by that reading were ; 

i overthrew ) 
us o'erlhrew; j 
( desired > 

When we read the ( long- sighed for ) smiles of her 

{ a fervent ) 
To be thus kiss'd by such \ devoted ) lover, 
He who from me can be divided ne'er 
Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act a'l over. 
Accursed was the book and he who wrote ! 

That day no further leaf we did uncover. 

While thus one spirit told us of their lot, 
The other wept, so that wi:h pity's thralls 
I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote, 
And fell down even as a dead body falls." 

March. 1320. 



THE IRISH AVATAR. | 

1. 

Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, 
And her ashes stdl float to their home o'er the tide, 

Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, 
To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his — 
bride. 



•In iomt of ihe ettUiont.il la, " diro," innlher* " faro;"— an ei«en(inl 
different* betw. en " inyn'e;' and "doing, 1 ' which I knnw not bow to 
decide. Aelc Foicolo Thad — << adiuom drive me wjJ, 

t On tba Kinc'a viailto lraland in 1831. 



True, the great of her bright and brief era are o*one, 
The rainbow- like epoch where Freedom could pause 

For the few liitle years, out of centuries won, 

Which bctray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her 
cause. 



True, the chains of the Catholic clank oVr his raos, 

The castle still stands, and the senate's no more, 
And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags 

Is extending its steps lo her desolate shore. 
4. 
To her desolate shore — where the emigrant stands 

For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth, 
Tears fall on his chain, though it diops from his hands, 

For the dungeuii he quits is the place of his birth. 

5. 

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes ! 

Like a goodly L'-viathan roll'd from the waves! 
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, 

With a legion of cooks and ai army ot slaves ! 

6. 
He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, 

To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part — 
But long live the shamrock which shadow* him o'er ! 
Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart I 
7. 
Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, 

And a new spring of noble affections arise — 
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain, 
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies. 
8. 
Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now ! 

Were he God — as he is but the commonest clay, 
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow — 
Such servile devotion might shame him away. 
9. 

Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 

Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride- 
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 

10. 

Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good ! 

So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest ! 
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, 

And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. 

11. 

Ere Tullv arose in the zenith of Rome, 

Though unequaltM, preceded, the task was begun— 
But Gra^an sprung up like a God from the tomb 

Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one ! 
12. 
With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute ; 

With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind; 
Even Tvrannv listening sate tn*-lied or mute, [mind. 

And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glanceof his 
13. 
But back to our th< me ! Back to despots and slaves 

F*'a<is furni*h'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain ! 
True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still rares t 

When a week's saturnalia hath looseu'd her chain. 

14. 

Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford 
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) 

Gild over the palace. Lo ! Erin, thy lord ! 

Kiss his foot with thy blessing for blessings denied* 



486 



POEMS. 



15. 



Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, 
If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, 

Must what terror or policy wring forth be clnss'd 

Willi what monarchs ne'er (jive, but as wolves yield 
their prey .' 

16. 

Each brute hath its nature, a kino's is to reign, — 
To reign ■' in that word see, ye ages, comprised 
The cause of the curses all annals contain, 

From C:esar the dreaded to George the despised. 
17. 
Wear, Fingal, thy trappings! O'Connell, proclaim 
His accomplishments ! His ! ! ! and thy country con- 
vince 
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, 

And that " Hal is the rascalicst, sweetest t/fftm.g 
prince !" 

18. 
Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall 

The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs? 
Or, has it not hound thee the fastest of all 

The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns ? 
19. 
Ay ! " build him a dwelling !" let each give his mite ! 
Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen I 
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite — 
And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison ! 
20. 
Spread — spread, for Vitellius the royal repast, 

Till the gluttonous despot be stuff d to the gorge ! 
And the roar of his drunkards proclaims him at last 
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd "George !" 
21. 
Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan ! 

Till they grontl like thy people, through ages of wo! 
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, 
Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has 
to flow. 

22. 
But let not his name be thine idol alone — 

On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears ! 
Thine own Casllereagh ! let him still be thine own ! 

A wretch, never named but with curses and jeers, 

23. 
Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth, 

Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil 
Seems proud of the reptile which crawlM from her earth, 

And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile ! 

24. 
Without one single ray of her genius, without 

The fancv, the manhood, thy tire of her race — 
The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt 
If she ever gave birth to a being so base. 
25. 
If she did— let her long-boast, ,1 proverb be hush'd, 

Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile ran spring. 
See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd, 
Still warming its folds in the breast of a king ! 
2G. 
Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! Oh ! Erin, how low 
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till 
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below 
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. 
27. 
My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right, 

My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free, 
This hand, though but feeble, would arm, in thy fight 
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for 
tktel 



28. 
Yes, 1 loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land, 
I have known noble hearis and great souls in thy sons, 
And I wept with the world o'er the patriot hand 

Who are gone, but I weep ihem no longer as once. 
29. 
For happy are they now reposing afar, — 

Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 
Who, for years, wen- the chiefs in the eloquent war, 
And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. 
30. 
Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ! 

Their shades cannot start to thy shoiiis of to-day, — 
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves 
Be stanip'd in the lurfo'cr their fetterless clay. 
31. 
Till now 1 had envied thy sons and their shore, 

Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled 
There was something so warm and sublime in the Core 
Of an Irishman's heart.ihal I envy— thy dead. 
32. 
Or, if aught in mv bosom can quench for an hour 

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, 
Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon 
power, 
'T is the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore. 

September lotA, 1S21. 



STANZAS. 

TO HER WHO CAN BEST UNDERSTAND THEM. 

Be it so ! we part for ever ! 

Let the past as nothing be ; — 
Had I only loved thee, never 

Iladst thou been thus dear to me. 

Had I loved, and thus been slighted, 
That I better could have borne ; — 

Love is quelled, when unrequited, 
By the rising pulse of scorn. 

Pride may cool what passion healed, 
Time will tame the wayward will ; 

But the heart in friendship cheated 

Throbs with wo's most maddening thrill. 

Had I loved, I now might hate thee, 

In that hatred solace seek, 
Might exult to execrate thee, 

And, in words, my vengeance wreak. 

But there is a silent sorrow, 

Which can find no vent in speech, 

Which disdains relief to borrow 

From the heights that song can reach. 

Like a clankless chain enthralling, — 
Like the sleepless dreams that mock, — 

Like the frigid ice-drops Killing 
From the surf-surrounded rock. 

Such the cold and sickening feeling 
Thou hast caused this heart to know, 

Stabbed the deeper by concealing 
From the world its bitter wo. 

Once it fondlv, proudly, deemed thee 
All that fancy's self could paint, 

Once it honoured and esteemed thee, 
As in idol and its saint ! 



POEMS. 



487 



More than woman ihou wast to me ; 

Not as man I looked on thee ; — 
Why like woman then undo me! 

W hy " heap man 's worst curse on me." 

Wast thou but a fiend, assuming 

Friendship's smile, and woman's art, 

And, in borrow'd beaut)- blooming, 
Trilling with a trusted heart! 

By that eye which once could glisten 

With opposing glance to me ; 

By that ear which once could listen 

To each tale I told to thee ; — 

By that lip, its smile bestowing, 

Which could soften sorrow's gush ;— 

By that cheek, once brightly glowing 

Wiih pure friendship's weli-feigned blush; 

By all those false charms united,— 
Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, 

And, without compuncijon, blighted 
What " ihou wouldst not kindly kill." 

Yet I curse th^e not in sadness, 
Si ill, I feel how dear thou wert ; 

Oh ! I could not — e'en in madness — 
Doom t ! »ee to thy just desert ! 

Live! and when my lifr is over, 
Should thine own be lengthened long, 

Thou may'st then, too late, discover, 
By thy feelings, all my wrong 

When thy beauties all are faded, 

When thv flatterers fawn no more,— 

Kre the solemn shroud hath shaded 
Some regardless reptile's store, — 

Ere that hour, false syren, hoar me ! 

Thou may'st feel what I do now, 
"While my spirit, hovering near thee, 

Whispers friendship's broken vow. 

But — 't is useless to upbraid thee 
With thy past or present state ; 
What thou wast, my fancy made thee, 
What thou art, I know loo late. 



There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was blight in my story 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEX FLORENCE AND PISA, 

December, 1821. 

1. 
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

2. 
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 

wrinkled ? 
'T is but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary / 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory ? 

3. 
Oh Fame ! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'T was less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 



IMPROMPTU. 

ON LADT BLESS1NGTON EXPRESSING HER INTENTION OP 

TAKING THE VILLA CALLED *' IL PARADISO," 

NEAR GENOA. 

Beneath Blessington's eyes 

The reclaim'd Paradise 
Should be free as the former from evil; 

But if ihe new Eve 

For an apple should grieve, 
What mortal would not play the Devil ?+ 

Jtpril, 1823. 



TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESS1NGTON. 
1. 

You have ask'd for a verse : — the request 

In a rhymer 'l were strange to deny ; 
But my Hippocrene was but my breast, 

And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 
2. 
Were I now as I was, I had sung 

What Lawrence had painted so well ; 
But the strain would expire on my tongue, 

And the theme is too soft for my shell. 
3. 
I am ashes wnere once I was fire, 

And the bard in my bosom is dead \ 
What I loved I now merely admire, 

And my heart is as gray as my head. 
4. 
My life is not dated by years — 

There are moments which act as a plough, 
And there is not a furrow appears 

But is deep in my soul as my brow, 

5. 

Let the young and the brilliant aspire 

To sing what I gaze on in vain ; 
For sorrow has torn from my lyre 

The string which was worthy the strain. 

April, 1823. 



ON THIS DAY t COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
SIXTH YEAR. 

Miasolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824. 
1. 

*T is time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move! 
Yet, though F cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love ! 
2. 
My days are in the ye'low leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and (he grief 
Are mine alone ! 



* The Genoe«e wita hart already applied ihia thread barejeat to him- 
•elf. Taltine, it inln their head* thai ihu vill* had been filed on for hit 
own residence, the? Mtd, " II Oiavjlu e aucorn eulratu in Pnriuliio." 

Moo-e. 



4S8 



POEMS. 



3. 
The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile ! 
4. 
The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exulted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 
But wear the chain. 

5. 

But 't is not thus — and 'i is not here — 

Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor noif, 
Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
Or binds his brow. 

6. 
The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
Was not more free. 



7. 
Awake, (not Greece — she is awake !) 

Awake, my spirit ! Think through trhotn 
Thy life-blood (racks its parent lake, 
And then strike home! 

8. 
Tread those reviving passions down, 

L T nworthy manhood !— unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

9. 
If thou regrrt'st thy youth, why live : 

The land of honourable death 
Is hero : — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 
10. 
Seek out— less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest. 



THE FOLLOWING POEMS FROM MANUSCRIPTS COLLECTED AFTER THE DEATH 
OF LORD BYRON WERE FIRST PUBLISHED IN LONDON IN 1833. 



TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED THE AU- 
THOR WITH THE VELVET BAND WHICH 
BOUND HER TRESSES. 

This Band, which bound thy yellow hair, 
Is mine, sweet girl ! thy pledge of love ; 

It claims my warmest, dearest care, 
Like relics left of saints above. 

Oh ! I will wear it next my heart, 
'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee ; 

From me again 't will ne'er depart, 
But mingle in the grave with me. 

The dew I gather from thy lip 

Is not so dear to me as this ; 
That I but for a moment sip, 

And banquet on a transient bliss : 

This will recall each youthful scene, 
E'en when our lives are on the wano ; 

The leaves of Love will still be green 
When Memory bids them bud again. 

Oh ! little lock of golden hue, 

In gently waving ringlet curl'd, 
By the dear head on which you grew, 

I would not lose you fur a world. 

Not though a thousand more adom 

The polish'd brow where once you shone, 

Like rays which gild a cloudless mora, 
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. 

1806. 



REMEMBRANCE. 

'T is done ! — I saw it in my dreams: 

No more with Hope the future beams; 
My days of happiness are few: 

Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast, 

My dawn of life is overcast ; 

Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu : — 
Would I could add Remembrance loo. 



1806. 



THE ADIEU. 

WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AU- 
THOR WOULD SOON DIE. 

Adieu, thou Hill!* where early joy 

Spread roses o'er my brow ; 
Where Science seeks enrh loitering boy 

With knowledge to endow. 
Adieu my youthful friends or foes, 
Partners of former bliss or wots ; 

No more through Ida's paths we strays 
Soon must I share the gloomy cell, 
Whose ever slumbering inmates dwell, 

Unconscious of the day. 

Adieti, ye hoary Regal Fanes, 

Ve spires of Granta's vale, 
Where Learning robed in sable reigns, 

And Melancholy pale. 



POEMS. 



489 



Ye comrades of the jovial hour, 
Ye tenants of the classic bower, 

On Cama's verdant margin placed, 
Adieu ! while memory still is mine, 
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine, 

These scenes must be effaced. 

Adieu, ye mountains of the clime 

Where grew my youthful years ; 
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime 

His giant summit rears. 
Why did my childhood wander forth 
From you> ye regions of the North, 

With sons of pride to roam? 
Why did I quit my Highland cave, 
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, 

To seek a Sotheron home? 

Hall of my Sires !* a long farewell- 
Yet why to thee adieu? 

Thy vaults will echo back mv knell, 
Thy towers my lotnb will view : 

The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, 

And former glories of thy H;ill 
Forgets its wonted simple note — 

But yet the Lyre retains the strings, 

And sometimes on ^olian wings 
In dying strains may float. 

Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, 

Whi'e yet I linger here, 
Adieu ! you are not now forgot, 

To retrospection dear. 
Streamlet !| along whose rippling surge, 
My youthful limbs were wont to urge, 

At noontide heat their pliant course ; 
Plunging with ardour from the shore, 
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, 

Deprived of active force. 

And shall I here fbrget the scene, 

Still nearest to my breast ? 
Rocks rise, and rivers roll between 

The spot which passion blest; 
Yet, Mary,}; all thy beauties seem 
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, 

To me in smiles displayed ; 
Till slow disease resigns his prey 
To Death, the parent of decay, 

Thine image cannot fade. 

And thou ! my Friend !§ whose gentle love 

Yet thrills my bosom s chords, 
How much thy friendship was above 

Description's power of words ! 
Still near my breast thy gift I wear, 
Which sparkled once wirh Feeling's tear, 

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem; 
Our souls were equal, and our lot 
In that dear moment quite forgot ; 

Let pride alone condemn ! 

All, all, is dark and cheerless now ! 

No smile of Love's deceit, 
Can warm my veins with wonted glow, 

Can bid Life's pulses beat : 
Not e'en the hope of fumre fame 
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame, 

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. 
Mine is a short inglorious race, — 



• NewMeart. 
tThe riser OreU. 
j Mb ry Huff. 
i Eddlwioot. 

3M 



To humble in the dust my face, 
And mingle with the dead. 

Oh Fame ! thou goddess of my heart ; 

On him who gains tliv praise, 
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, 

Consumed in Glory's blaze \ 
But me she beckons from the earth, 
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth, 

My life a short and vulgar dream : 
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, 
My hopes recline within a shroud, 

My fate is Lethe's stream. 

When I repose beneath the sod, 

Unheeded in the* clav» 
Where unce my playful footsteps trod, 

Where now my head must lay ; 
The meed of Pity will be shed 
In "dew-drops o'er my narrow bed, 

By nightly skies and storms alone; 
No mortal eye will deign to steep 
With tears the dark sepulchral deep 

Which hides a name unknown. 

Forget this world, my restless sprite, 

Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven : 
There must thou soon direct thy flight, 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown, 
Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne J 

To Him address thy trembling prayer 
He, who is merciful and just, 
Will not reject a child of dust, 

Although his meanest car'.. 

Father of Light ! to Thee I call * 

My soul is dark within : 
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, 
Whocalm'st the elemental war, 

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive, 
And since I soon must cease to live, 

Instruct me how to die. 

1S07. 



TO A VAIN LADY. 

Ah, heedless girl, why thus disclose 

What ne'er was meant for other ears f 
Why thus destroy thine own repose 
And dig the source of future tears ; 

Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid, 
While lurking envious foes will smile. 

For all the follies thou hast said 
Of those who spoke but to beguile. 

Vain girl ! thy Hng'ring woes are nigh, 
If thou believ'st what striplings say: 

Oh, from the deep temptation fly, 
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 

Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, 
The words man utters to deceive ? 

Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost 
If thou canst venture To believe. 



Sec Prayer of Suture, page 47?, 



490 



POEMS. 



While now amongst thy female peers 
Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, 
Cansl thou not mark the rising sneers 
Duplicity in vain would veil ? 

These tales in secret silence hush, 
Nor make thyself the public gaze: 

What modest maid without a blush 

Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ? 

Will not the laughing boy despise 
Her who relates ea<*h fond conceit— 

Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, 
Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? 

For she who takes a soft delight 

These amorous nothings in revealing, 

IVIust credit all we say or write, 
While vanity prevents concealing. 

Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign ! 

No jealousy bids me reprove : 
One, who is thus from nature vain, 

I pity, but I cannot love. 

January 15, 1807. 



TO ANNE. 

Oh, Anne ! your offences to me have been grievous ; 

I thought from my wrath no atonement could save 
you ; 
But woman is made to command and deceive us — 

I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. 

I vowed I could ne'er fir a moment respect vou, 
Yet thought that a day's separation was long : 

When we met, I determined again to suspect you— 
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong. 

I swore, in a transport of young indignation, 

With ferveal contempt evermore to disdain you : 

I saw you — my anger became admiration ; 
And now, ali my wish, all my hope, 's to regain you. 

With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention ! 

Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you ;— 
At once to conclude such a fruitless diss.-u-.inii, 

Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore 
you! 

January 16, 1807. 



TO THE SAME. 

Oh say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed 
The heart which adores you should wish to dissevar; 

Such Fates were to mo most unkind ones indeed, — 
To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. 

Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone 
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain ; 

By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown 
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. 

As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, 
The rage of the tempest united must weather 

My love and my life were by nature design'd 
To flourish alike, or to perish together. 



Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have de- 
creed, 
Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu; 
Till Fate can ordain that this bosom shall bleed. 
His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 

1807. 



TO THK AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING, 

"'SAD 19 MY TF.H3E,' YOU SAY, ( A*D YET P(0 TEAR.'" 

Tuv verse is " sad" enough, no doubt ; 
A devilish deal more sad ihon willy ! 

Why we should weep, I can't find out, 
Unless for thee we weep in pity. 

Yet there is one I pity more ; 

And much, alas ! I think he needs it : 
For he, I 'in sure will Buffer sore] 

Who, to hit own misfortune, reads it. 

The rhymes, without the aid of magic, 
May once be read — but never after ; 
Yet their effect's by do means tragic, 

Although by far too dull for laughter. 

But would yon make eur bosoms bleed, 
And of no common pang complain— 

If you would make us weep indeed, 
Tell us, you '11 read them o'er ajjain. 

March 8, 1807. 



ON FINDING A FAN. 

In one who foil as once he felt, 

This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; 
But now no more his heart will melt, 

Because that heart is not the same. 

As when the ebbing flames are low, 

The aid which once improved the light 

And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 
Now quenches all their blaze in nighl, 

Thus lias it been with passion's fires— 

As many a boy and girl remembers— 
While evcrv hope of love expires, 

Extinguished with the dying embers. 

The first though not a spark survive, 
Some careful hand may teach to burn ; 

The last, alas ! can ne'er survive ; 
No toti'h can bid its warmth return. 

Or, if it chance to wake agnin, 

Nol always d ned its heal to smother, 

It Bheds (so wayward fates ordain) 

Its former warmth around another. 

1807. 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 

Thou Power ! who hast ruled me through infancy'i 
davs. 

Young offspring of Fancy, 't is time we should part ; 
Then rise on llifl cale this the last of my lays, 

The coldest effusion which spring* from my heart. 



POEMS. 



49» 



This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, 

Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing ; 

The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, 
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, 
Yet even these themes are departed for ever ; 

No more beam the eves which mv dream could inspire, 
My visions are flown, to return, — alas, never! 

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, 
How vain is the effort delight to prolong! 

When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, 
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song? 

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, 

Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign ? 

Ord*vell with delight on the hours that are flown'/ 
Ah, no ! for those hours can no longer be mine. 

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? 

Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain ! 
But how can my numbers in sympathy move, 

When I scarcely can hope to behold them again ? 

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, 
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires? 

For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone ! 
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires ! 

Untouched then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast — 
'T is hush'd ; and my feeble endeavours are o'er : 

And those who have heard it will pardon the past, 
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no 
mot e. 

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, 
Since early affection and love is o'ercast ; 

Oh ! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, 

Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. 

Farewell, my young Muse ! since we now can ne'er 
meet ; 
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few 
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet — 
The present — which seals our eternal adieu. 

1SG7. 



TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.* 

Youxo Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 

That thv dark-waving branches would flourish around, 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

Such, such wa3 my hope, when, in infancy's years, 
On the land of my fathers I reared ihee with pride ; 

They are past, and I water thy stem wiih my tears, — 
Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. 

1 left thee, my Oak, and since that fatal hour, 
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire ; 

Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power, 
But his whose neglect may have made thee eipire. 

Oh ! hardy thou wert— even now little care 

Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently 
heal ; 

But thou wert not fated affection to share — 

For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel ? 

• 9m Frtcmaot, pt«t 473. 



Ah, droop not, my Oak ! lift thy head for awhile ; 

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, 
The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile. 

When Infancy's years of probation are done, 

Oh, live then, my Oak ! tow'r aloft from the weeds, 
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay 

For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, 

And still may ihy branches their beauty display. 

Oh ! yet. if maturity's years may be thine, 
Though / shall lie low in the cavern of death, 

On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine 
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. 

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave 
O'er the corse of Ihy lord in thy canopy laid ; 

While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, 
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. 

And as he with his boys shall revisit this spot, 
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. 

Oh ! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : 

Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead* 

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, 
Perhaps he has poured forth his young simple lay, 

And here he must sleep, till the moments of time 
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 

1807. 



LINES. 

ON HEARING THAT LADF BVRON WAS ILL.* 

And thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee; 

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near ; 
Methought that joy and health alone could be 

Where I was not — and pain and sorrow here! 
And is it thus ? — it is as I foretold, 

And shall be more so ; for the mind recoils 
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold, 

While heaviness collects the shattered spoils. 
It is not in the storm nor in the strife 

We feel benumb'd and wish to be no more, 

But in the after-silence on the shore, 
When alt is lost, except a little life, 

I am too well avenged ! — but 't was my right ; 

Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent 
To be the Nemesis who should requite — 

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. 

Mercy is for the merciful ! — If thou 

Hast been of such, 't will be accorded now. 

Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep ! — 

Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou must feel 

A hollow agony which will not heal, 
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep ; 
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 

The bitter harvest in a woe as real ! 
I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 

For 'gai" 3 ! lne rest myself I could defend, 

And be avenged, or turn them into friend; 
But thou in safe implacability 

Hadst nought to dread — in thine own weakness shielded, 
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded. 

* Bm Tnpmat, p«fi 481. 



492 



POEMS. 



And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare— 


A formal paction 


And thus upon the world — trust in thy truths — 


That curbs bis reign, 


And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth — 


Obscures his glory, 


On things ttiat were not, and on things that are— 


Despot no more, he 


Kvcn upon such a hasis hast thou built 


Such territory 


A monument, whose cement hath been guilt! 


Quits with disdain. 


The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord, 


Still, still advancing, 


And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, 


With banners glancing, 


Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better life 


His power enhancing, 


Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, 


He must move on — 


Might still have risen from out the grave of strife, 


Repose but cloys him, 


And found a nobler duty than to part. 


Retreat destroys him, 


But of thy virtues didst ihnu make a vice, 


Love brooks not a degraded throne. 


Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, 




For present anger, and for future gold— 


IV. 


AikJ buying other's grief at any price. 


Wait not, fond lover: 


And thus once enter'd into crooked ways, 


Till years are over, 


The early truth, which was thy proper praise. 


And then recover, 


Did not still walk beside thee — but at times, 


As from a dream. 


And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, 


While each bewailing 


Deceit, averments incompatible, 


The other's failing, 


Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 
in Janus-spirits — the significant eye 


With wrath and railing 


All hideous seem— 


Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext 


While first decreasing, 


Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd — 


Yet not quite ceasing, 


The acquiescence in all things which tend, 


Wait not till teasing 


No matter how, to the desired end — 


All passion blight : 


All found a place in thy philosophy. 


If once diminished 


The means were worthy, and the end is won— 


Love's reign is finish'd — 


I would not do by thee as thou hast done ! 


Then part in friendship, — and bid good-night. 


September, 1816. 


T > 




So shall Affection, 






To recollection 


STANZAS. 


The dear connection ; 




Bring back with joy • 


"COULD LOVE FOR EVER." 


You had not waited 




Till, tired or hated, 


1. 


Your passions sated 


Could Love for ever 


Began to cloy. 


Run like a river, 


Your last embraces 


And Time's endeavour 


Leave no cold traces— 


Be tried in vain — 


The same fond faces 


No other pleasure 


As through the past : 


With this could measure ; 


And eyes, the mirrors 


And like a treasure 


Of your sweet errors 


We 'd hug the chain. 


Reflect but rapture — not least though last. 


But since our sighing 




Ends not in dying, 


TI. 


And, forrn'd for flying, 


True, separations 


Love plumes his wing j 


Ask more than patience ; 


Then for this reason 


What desperations 


Let 's love a season 


From such have risen ! 


But let that season be only Spring. 


But yet remaining, 


I la 


What is 't but chaining 




Hearts which, once waning, 


When lovers parted 


Beat 'gainst their priion ? 


Feel broken-hearted 


Time can but cloy love, 


And all hopes are thwarted, 


And use destroy love : 


Expect to die ; 


The winged boy, Love, 


A few years older, 


Is but for boys— 
You'll find it torture 


Ah J how much colder 


They might behold her 


Though sharper, shorter, 


For whom they sigh ! 
When link'd together, 


To wean, and not wear out your joys. 


In every weather, 




They pluck Love's feather 




From out his wing — 


STANZAS. 


He'll stay for ever, 




But sadly shiver 


TO A nilTDOO AIR. 


Without hia plumage, when past the Spring. 




Oh ! — my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow I 


in. 


Where is my lover? where is my lover? 


Like Chiefs of Faction 


Is it his hark which my dreary dreams discovert 


His life is action — 


Far — far away ! and alone along the billow 1 



POEMS. 



493 



Oh ! iny lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow ! 
Why must mv head ache where his gentle brow lay? 
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, 
And my head droops over thee like the willow.— 

Oh ! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow ! 
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, 
In return for the tears [ shed upon ihee waking : 
Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. — 

Then if thou wilt — no more my lonely Pillow, 
In one embrace let these arms again enfold htm, 
And then expire of the joy — but to behold him ! 
Oh ! my lonely bosom ! — oh ! my lonely Pillow ! 



In tho original manuscript of the first Canto of Childe 
Harold's Pilgrimage were the following lines, for which 
those to Inez, page 10, were substituted : 
1. 
Oh never talk ajrain to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies; 
It has not been your lot to see, 

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eyes be not of blue, 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, 
How far its own expressive hue 
The languid azure eye surpasses! 
2. 
Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 

The fire, that through those silken lashes: 
In darkest glances seems to roll, 

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes : 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, 
You *d swear each cluslering lock could feel, 
And curlM to give her neck caresses, 

3. 
Our En jlish maids are long to woo, 

And frigid even in possession ; 
And if their charms be fair to view, 

Their lips are slow at Love's confession : 



But born beneaih a brighter sun, 

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is, 

And who, — when fondly, fairly won,— 
Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ? 

4. 

The Spanish maid is no coquette, 

Nor joys to see a lover tremble, 
And if she love, or if she hate, 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely • 
And, though it will not bend to gold, 

'T will love you long and love you dearly. 



The Spanisn girl that meets your love, 

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, 
For every thought is bent to prove 

Her passion in the hour of trial. 
When thronging foemen menace Spain, 

She dares the deed and shares the danger 
And should her lover press the plain, 

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 

6. 

And when, beneath the evening star, 

She mingles in the gay Bolero, 
Or sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero, 
Or counts her beads with fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper 
Or joins devotion's choral band, 

To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper. 



In each her cha<*ms the heart must move 

Of all who ven'ure to behold her; 
Then let not maids less fair reprove 

Because her bosom is not colder : 
Through many a clime 't is mine to roam 

Where many a soft and meliing maid is, 
But none abroad, and few at home, 

May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz. 



DON JUAN. 



Difficile est proprie lommunia dieere. 

HOR. Epiat. ad. Pison. 

Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no mora 
Calces and Ale ?— Yes. hy Si. Anne ; and Ginger shull be hoi i' the 
mouth, too.— Twelfth ffigkti or What you— Will.— 

SHAKSPEARE. 



CANTO I. 



I wast a hero : — an uncommon want, 

When every year and month sends forth a new one, 
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, 

The age discovers he is not Ihe true one ; 
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 

I 'II therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan ; 
We all have seen him in the pantomime 
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 

ii. 
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, 

Prince Ferdinand, Granbv, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe. 
Evil an>l good, have had their liihe of talk, 

And fill'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now ; 
Each tn iheir turn like Binquo's tnonarchs stalk, 

Followers of fame, " nine farrow'' of that sow: 
France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier, 
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 

in. 
Barnave, Bri'jsot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 

Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, 
Were French, and famous people, as we know ; 

And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Dessaix, Moreau, 

Wiih many of the military set, 
Exceedingly remarkable ai times, 
But nut at all adapted to my rhymes. 

IV. 

Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, 

And still should be so, but the tide is tnrn'd; 
"There *s no more to be said of Trafalgar, 

*T is with «ur hero quietly inurn'd ; 
Because the army 's grown more popular, 

At which the naval people are concern'd : 
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, 
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. 

v. 
Brave men were living before Agamemnon, 1 

And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 
A good deal like him loo, though quite the same none, 

But then they shone not on the poet's page, 
And so have been forgoiten : — I condemn none, 

But can't find any in (he present age 
Fit for my poem, ('hit is, f >r my new one;) 
So, as I said, I 'II take my friend Don Juan. 



Most epic poets plunge in " rpedias res," 

(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road,j 
And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 

What went before — by way of episode, 
While seated after dinner at his ease, 

Beside his mistress in some soft abode, 
Palace or garden, paradise or cavern, 
Which serves the happy couple fur a tavern. 

vn. 
That is the usual method, but not mine — • 

My way is to begin wiih the beginning ; 
The regularity of my design 

Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, 
And therufore I shall open with a line, 

(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning,) 
Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father 
And also of his mother, if you *d rather. 

VIII. 

In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, 

Famous for oranges and women— he 
Who has not seen it will be much to pity, 

So says the proverb — and I quite agree; 
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 

Cadiz perhaps, but that you soon may see :— 
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
A noble stream, and call'd ihe Guadalquivir. 

IX. 

His faiher's name was Jose — Don, of course 

A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 
Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 

Through ihe most Gothic gentlemen of Spain } 
A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse, 

Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 
Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 
Begot — but that 's to come— Well, to renew : 

x. 
His mother was a learned lady, famed 

For every branch of every science known— 
In every Christian language ever named, 

"With viriues equalled by her wit alone, 
She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, 

And even the cood wiih inward envy groan, 
Finding themselves so very much exceeded 
In their own way by all the things that she did. 

XI. 

Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 
AH Caldeton and greater partofLopr*, 

So thai if any actor miss'd his part, 

She could have served him for the prompter's copy 

For her Feinagle's iron an useless art, 

And he himself obliged to shut up shop — ho 

Could never make a memory so hue as 

That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez. 



496 



DON JUAN. 



Cabtto I. 



Her favourite science was the mathematical, 

Her nublest virtue was her magnanimity, 
Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, 

Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity ; 
In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 

A prodigy— her morning dress was dimity, 
Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, 
And other stuffs, which which I wont't stay puzzling. 

xm. 
She knew the Latin — that is, " the Lord's prayer," 

And Greek, the alphabet, I 'm nearly sure \ 
She read some French romances here and there, 

Although her mode of speaking was not pure: 
For native Spanish she had no great care, 

At least her conversation was obscure ; 
Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem, 
As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. 

XI V. 

She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, 

And said there was analogy between 'em; 
She proved it somehow out of sacred song, 

But I must leave the proofs to those who 've seen *eni ; 
But this £ 've heard her say, and can't be wrong, 

And all may think which way their judgments lean *em, 
" 'T is strange — the Hebrew noun which means' lam,' 
The English always use to govern d — n." 

xv. 
Some women use their tongues — she looked a lecture, 

Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, 
An all-in-all sufficient self-director, 

Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly, 
The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector, 

Whose suicide was almost an anomaly — 
One sad example more, that " All is vanity," — 
(The jury brought their verdict in " Insanity,") 

XTI. 

In short, she was a walking calculation, 

Miss Edgeworlh's novels stepping from their covers, 
Or Mrs. Trimmer's hooks on education, 

*'Or Coaleb's Wife" set out in quest of lovers, 
Morality's prim personification, 

In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 
To others' share let "female errors fall," 
For she had not even one — the worst of all. 

XVII. 

Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — 

Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 
So far above the cunning powers of hell, 

Her guardian angel had given up his garrison ; 
Even her minutest motions went as well 

As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison 
In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, 
Save thine " incomparable oil," Macassar !' 

xviii. 
Perfect she was, but as perfection is 

Insipid in this naughty world of ours, 
Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 

Till thi'y were exiled from their earlier bowers, 
Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss, 

(I wonder how they got through the twelve hours,) 
Dm Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, 
Wint plucking various fruit without her leave. 

XIX. 

He was a mortal of the careless kind, 

With no great love for learning, or the learn'd, 

Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, 
And never dream'd his lady was concern'd ; 

The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 

Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two, 

But for domestic quarrels one will do. 



Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
A great opinion of her own good qualities; 

Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it, 
And such indeed she was in her moralities; 

But then she had a devil of a spirit, 

And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities, 

And let few opportunities escape 

Of getting her liege lord into a scraoe. 

XXI. 

This was an easy maiter with a man 

Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 

And even the wisest, do the best they can, 

Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, 

That you might " brain them with their lady's fan," 
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, 

And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, 

And why and wherefore no one understands. 

XXII. 

'T is pity learned virgins ever wed 

With persons of no sort of education, 
Or gentlemen who, though well-born and bred, 

Grow tired of scientific conversation : 
[ do n't choose to say much upnn this head, 

I 'm a plain man, and in a single station, 
But— oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual, 
Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all ! 

XXIIT. 

Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd — ichy 

Not any of the many could divine, 
Though several thousand people chose to try, 

'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine; 
I loathe that low vice curiosity ; 

But if there 's any thing in which I shine, 
'T is in arranging all my friend's affairs, 
Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 

XXIV. 
And so I interfered, and with the best 

Intentions, but their treatment was not kind ; 
I think the foolish people were possess'd, 

For neiiher of them could I ever find, 
Ahhough their porter afterwards confess'd— 

But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind. 
For little Juan o'er mo threw, down stairs, 
A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 

XXV. 4 

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, 

And mischief-making monkey from his birth; 
His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 

Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 
Instead of quarrelling had they been but both in 

Their senses, they 'd have sent young master forth 
To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home, 
To teach him manners for the timo to come, 

xxvi. 
Don Jose and the Donna Inez led 

For some time an unhappy sort of life, 
Wishing each other, notdivorced, but dead; 

They lived respectably as man and wife, 
Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 

Anil gave no outward signs of inward strife, 
I'ntil at length the smother'd fire broko out, 
And put the business past all kind of doubt. 
XXVII. 

For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians, 
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad, 

But as he had some lucid intermissions, 
She next decided he was only bad ; 

Y«-t when they ask'd her for depositions, 
No sort of explanation could be had, 

Save that her duty both to man and God 

Required this conduct— which seem'd very odd. 



Ciirro I. 



DON JUAN. 



497 



XXVIII. 

She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, 
And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, 

All which mi«*ht, if occasion served, be quoted; 
And then she had all Seville for abettors, 

Besides her good old grandmother, (who doted ;) 
The hearers of her case became repeaters, 

Then advocates, inquisitors, ar.d judges, 

Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 

XXIX. 

And then this best and meekest woman bore 
With such serenity her husband's woes, 

Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, 

Who saw their spouses kilt'd, and nobly chose 

Never to say a word about them more— 
Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 

And saw his agonies wiih such sublimity, 

That all the world exclaim'd, " What magnanimity '" 

XXX. 

No doubt, this patience, when the world is damning us, 

Is philosophic in our firmer friends ; 
'T is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous, 

The more so in obtaining our own ends; 
And what the lawyers call a '* main* animus" 

Conduct like this by no means comprehends j 
Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue, 
But then * is not my fault if others hurt you. 

XXXI. 

And if our quarrels should rip up old stories, 
And help them with a lie or two additional, 

/'»n not to blame, as you well know, no more is 
Any one else — they were become traditional; 

Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 

By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all ; 

And science profits by this resurrection — 

Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 

XXXII. 

Their friends had tried a reconciliation, 

Then their relations, who made matters worse; 

('T'were hard to tell upon a like occasion 

To whom it may be best to have recourse — 

[ can't say much for friend or yet relaiion:) 
The lawyers did iheir utmost for divorce, 

But scarce a fee was paid on either side 

Before, unluckjJf , Dun Jose died. 

XXXIII. 

He died : and most unluckily, because, 

According to all hints I could collect 
From counsel learned in those kinds of laws, 

(Although iheir talk's obscure and circumspect,) 
His death contrived to spoil a charming cause ; 

A thousand pities also with respect 
To public feeling, which on this occasion 
Was manifested in a great sensation. 

XXXIV. 

But ah ! he died ; and buried with him lay 

The public feeling and the lawyers' fees: 

His house was sold, his servants sent away, 

A jew took one of his two mistresses, 
A priest the other — at least so they say : 
I ask'd the doctors after his disease- 
He died of the slow fever called the tertian, 
And left his widow to her own aversion. 

XXXV. 

Yet Jose was an honourable man, 

That I must say, who knew him verv well ; 

Therefore his frailties I Ml no further scan, 
Indeed there were not many more to tell ; 

And if his passions now and then outran 
Discretion, and were not so peaceable 

As Noma's, (who was also named Pompilius,) 

He had been ill brought up, and was bilious. 
3N 



xxxvi. 

Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, 
Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound him, 

Let 's own, since it can Ho no good on earth ; 
It was a trying moment thai which found him, 

Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, 

Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round him ; 

No choice was lefi his feelings or his pride 

Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died. 



Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 

To a chancery-suit, and messuages, and lands, 
Which, with a long minority and care, 

Promised to turn out well in proper hands : 
Inez became sole guardian, which was fair, 

And answer'd but to nature's just demands; 
An only son left with an only mother 
Is brought up much more wisely than another. 

XXXVIII. 

Sagest "f women, even of widows, she 

Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon, 

And worthy of the noblest pedigree, 

(His sire was of Castile, his dam from Arragon :) 

Then for accomplishments of chivalry, 

In case our lord the king should go to war again, 

He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, 

And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 

XXXIX. 

But that which D<mna Inez most desired, 

And saw herself each day before all 
The learned tutors whom for him she hired, 

Was that his breeding should be strictly moral ; 
Much into all his studies she inquired, 

And so ihey were submitted first to her, all, 
Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 
To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 

XL. 

The languages, especially the dead, 

The sciences, and most of ail the abstruse, 

The arts, at least all such as could be said 
To be the mo«l remote from common use, 

In all these lie was much and deeply read ; 
But not a page of any thing that's loose, 

Or hints continuation of the species, 

Was ever suffered, lest he should grow vicious* 

XLt. 

His classic studies made a little puzzle, 

Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 

Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, 
But never put on pantaloons or boddices ; 

His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, 

And tor their jEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, 

Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, 

For Donna Inez dreaded the mythology. 

XLII. 

Ovid *s a rake, as half his verses show him ; 

Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample*, 
Catullus scarcely has a decent poem ; 

I do n't think Sappho's Ode a good example, 
Although^ Longinus tells us there is no hymn 

Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample 
But Virgil's songs are pure, except tVr.t horrid one 
Beginning with ,( Formosum pastor Corydo?i" 

XLIII. 

Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 

For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food, 
I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, 

Although no doubt his real intent was good, 
For speaking out so plainly in his song, 

So much indeed as to be downright rude ; 
And ihen what proper person can be partial 
To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial 7 



498 



DON JUAN. 



Cabto I. 



Juan wis taught from out the best edition, 
Expurgated by learned men, who place, 
Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, 
, The grosser parts ; but, fearful to deface 
Too much their modest bard by this omission, 

And pitying sore his mutilated case, 
They only add them all in an appendix,! 
Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index ; 

XLV. 

For there we hive ihem all " at one fell swoop," 
Instead of being scattered through the pases ; 

They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop 
To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 

Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 

To call them buck into their separate cages, 

Instead of standing staling altogether, 

Like garden gods — and nol go decent, either. 
x i. v I 

The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 

Was ornamented in a sort of way 
Whieh ancient mass-books oft. u arc, and ibis all 

Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how they 
Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all, 

Could turn lln-ir optics to the text and pray 
Is more than I know — but Dun Juan's mother 
Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 

x i. v J I 
Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, 

And homilies, and lives of all the saints ; 
To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, 

He did nut lake such studies for restraints ; 
But bow faith is acquired, and then m-ured. 

So w.-H nut une of (ho aforesaid paints 

As Saint Augustine, in his hue Confessions, 
"Which made the reader envy his transgressions. 

xl\ in. 
This, too, was a seal'd book lo little Juan — 

I can'i but say dial his mamma wa3 right, 
If such an education was the true one. 

She scarcely trusted him from out her si<»ht ; 
Her maids were old, and if she took a new no.; 

You might be sure she was a perfrci fright ; 
She did ibis during even her husband's life — 
I recommend as much to every wife. 
XLIX. 

Young Juan wax'd in eoothines* and grace: 
At six a charming child, and at eleven 

Witli all the pr-nrnse of as tine a face 

As e'er to man's maturer growth was given : 

lie studied steadily and grew apace, 

And seeni'd, at least, in the right road to heaven ; 

For half his days were |»ass'«l at church, the other 

Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 

L. 

At six, I said he was a charming child, 
At twelve, he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 

Although in infancy a little wild, 

They tamed him down among them : to destroy 

Hi- natural sprit not in vain they u il'd, 

At least it seeni'd so; and his mother's joy 
Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 
Her young philosopher was grown already. 

LI. 

I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, 
But what I say is neither here nor there; 

I knew his father well, and have some skill 
In character — but it would not be fair 

From sire to son to augur good or ill ; 

He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 

Rut so:ndal 's my aversion — I protest 

Against all evil speaking, even in jest. 



For my part I say nothing — nothing— but 

Thta 1 will say — my reasons are my own- 
That if I had an only son lo put 

To school (as God be praised that I have none) 
T is not with Donna Inez I would shut 
Hun up to learn his cat* chism alone ; 
No — no — I 'd send him out betimes to College, 
For there it was I piek'd up my own knowledge. 

Mil. 

For there one learns — 'i is not for me to boast, 
Tjhough I acquired — but I pass over that t 

As u ell as all the ' • eeh 1 since have lost : 
I say that there's the place— but " Vtrbum sat." 

I think 1 piek'd up, too, as well as most, 
Knowledge of mailers — but. no matter what — 

I never married — hut I think, I know, 

That sons should not be ed in a led so. 
LIV. 

Youno Juan now was sixteen yoars of age, 

Tall, handsome, slender, hut well knit; he seeni'd 
Active, though not soaprightly, a- a \>:><^ ; 

And every body hut Ins mother ueem'd 
Him almo.-t man ; hut she (lew in a ra-e. 

And bit her lips {lot else she might have scream'd) 
If any said so, tor to be precocious 
Was in her eyes a tiling the most atrocious. 

LV. 

Among her numerous acquaintance, all 

Selected for discretion and devotion, 
There was ihe Donna Julia, whom to cnll 

Pretty were but lo give a feeble notion 
Of many charms, in her as natural 

As sweetnesd to the flower, or salt to ocean, 
I lr-r /une to Venus, or his bow to Cupi-I, 
(But this last simile is trite and stupid.) 
LVI. 

The darkness of her oriental eye 

Accorded with her Moorish origin: 
(Her blood was nol all Spanish] by the by ; 

In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) 
When proud Grenada fell, and, forced to fly, 

Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
Her great-great-grandmanima chose to remain. 

LVII. 
She married (I forget the pedigree) 

With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 
His blood less noble than such blood should be: 

At such alliances his sires would frown, 
In that point so precise in each degree 

That ihey bred in and in, as might be shown, 
Marrying their # Cousina — nay, I heir aunts and nieces, 
Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 

LVfli. 
This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 

Kum'd its blood, but much improved Lib flesh ; 
For. from a root, the ugliest in Old Spun, 

Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 
The sons no more were short, the daughters plain: 

But there 's a rumour which I fain would hush— 
'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 
Produced her Don more heirs at love than law 

LIX. 

However this might be, the race went on 
Improving still through every generation, 

Until it center'd in an only son, 

Who lefi an only daughter; my narration 

May have suggested that this single one 
Could be but Julia, (who on this occasion 

1 shall have much to speak about,) and she 

Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. 



Cahto I. 



DON JUAN. 



499 



Her eye ( I 'nf very fond of handsome eyes) 
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 

Until she spoke, then, through its soft disguise 
Fhsh'd an expression more of pride than ire, 

And love than either; and there would arise 
A something in ihem which was not desire, 

But would have been, perhaps, hut for the soul 

Which struggled through and chasten'ddown the whole, 

LXI. 

Her glossy hair was cluster'd oVr a brow 

Brighi with intelligence, and fair and smooth ; 

Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial how, 
Her rhfpk all purple with the beam of youth, 

Mounling at times to a transparent glow, 
As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 

Possess'd an air and grace by no means common : 

Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 

I. xn. 

Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty; 

And yet, I think, instead of such a one, 

'T were better to have two of five-and-twenty, 

Especially in countries near the sun : 

And now T think on *t, " mi vien in mente," 

Ladies, even of the most uneasy virtue, 

Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. 

LXIfl, 

'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose hut say, 

And all the fault ofthat indecent sun 
Whocannof leave alone our helpless clay, 

But will keep baking, broiliirj, burnmc on, 
That, howsoever people fast and prav, 

The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 
What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, 
Is much more common where the climate 's sultry. 

LXIV. 

Happv the nations of the moral north ! 

Where ail is virtue, and ihe winter season 
Sends sin without a rag on, shivering forth, 

('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason ;) 
Where juries cast up what a wife is wonh, 

By laving whatever sum, in mulct, thev please on 
The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
Because it is a marketable vice. 

L X V . 
Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 

A man well looking for his years, and who 
Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd: 

Thev lived together as most people do, 
Suffering each others' foibles by accord, 

And not exactly either one or liro ; 
Y. i he was jealous, though be did not show it, 
Fur jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 

LXVI. 

Julia was — yel I never could see why — 

With Dunna Inez quite a favourite friend; 
Between the r tistes their was small sympathy, 

For nor a line had Julia ever penn'd : 
Some people whisper (but no doubt they lie. 

For malic* still imputes some private end) 
That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, 
Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 

LXVII. 
And thnt, still keeping up the old connexion, 

Which time had lately render'd much more chaste, 
She took his lady also in affection, 

And certainly this course was mur-h the best : 
She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, 

And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ; 
And if she could not (who can ?) silence scandal, 
At least she left it a more slender handle. 



lxvih. 

[ can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 

With other people's eyes, or if her own 
Discoveries made, but none could be aware 

Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown ; 
Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 

Indifferent from the first or callous grown : 
I 'm really puzzled what to think or say, 
She kept her counsel in so close a way. 

LXIX. 
Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 

CaressM him often, such a thing tnight be 
Quite innocently done, and harmless styled 

When she had twenty vears. and thirteen he ; 
But I am not so sure I should have smiled 

When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three: 
These few short years make wondrous alterations, 
Particularly among sun-burnt, nations, 

LXX. 

Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 

Chiinged ; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy ; 

Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, 
And mrch embarrassment in either eve ; 

There surely will be little doubt with some 
That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 

But as for Juan, he had no more notion 

Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 

LXXI. 

Vet Julia's very coldness slill was kind, 
And tremulously gentle her small hand 

Withdrew itself from his, hut left behind 
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 

And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
T was but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand 

Wrought change with all Armida's fiery art 

Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 

LXXII. 

And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 
She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 

As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 
She must not own, but cherish'd more the while, 

For that compression in its burning core; 
Even innocence itself has many a wile, 

And will not dare to trust itself with truth, 

And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

I.XXI1I. 

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 

Eveq by its darkness ,- as the blackest sky 
Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 

Its workings through the vainly-guarded eye. 
And in whatever aspect it arrays 

Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy ■, 
Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate 
Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 

lxxiv. 
Then there were sighs, the deeper fir suppression 

And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, 
And burning blushes, though fur no transgression, 

Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left: 
All these are little preludes to possession, 

Of which young passion cannot be bereft, 
And merely tend to show how greatly love is 
EmbarrassM at first starting with a novice. 

i.xx v. 
Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state : 

She felt it going, and resolved to make 
The noblest efforts for herself and mate, 

For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake : 
Her resolutions were most truly great, 

And almost might have made a Tarquin quake- -• 
She pray'd the Vergin Mary for her grace, 
As being the best judge of a lady'n case. 



5^0 



DON JUAN. 



Cahto I. 



LXXVI. 

Sbc vow'd she never woulil see Juan more. 
And next day paid a visit to his mother, 

And look'd extremely at the opening door, 

Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another ; 

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore- 
Again it opens, il can be no other, 

T is surely Juan now — No ! I 'm afraid 

TVit night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 

LXXVII. 

Sh« now determined that a virtuous woman 

Should railier face and overcome temptation; 
Th.it flight was hase and dastardly, and do man 

Should ever give her heart the least sensation, 
That is to say a thought, beyond the common 

Preference that we must feel upon occasion 
For people who are pleasanter than others, 
H«* then ihey only seem so many brothers. 
LXXTIII. 

And even if by chance — and who can tell ? 

The devil 's so very sly — she should discover 
That all within was not so very well, 

And if, still free, that such or such a lover 
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 

buch thoughts, and be the better when tbey *re over, 
And, if [he man should ask, 't is but denial. 
J rwnmmeDd young ladies to make trial. 

LXXIX. 

And then there are such things as love divine, 
Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, 

Such as the angels think so very line, 

And matrons, who would be no less secure, 

Platonic, perfect, "juSt such love as mine ;" 
Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure, 

And so I M have her think, were I the man 

On whom her reveries celestial ran. 

LXXX. 

£h*-!i love is innocent, and may exist 

Between young persons without any danger ; 

A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd; 
For my part, to such doings I 'in a stranger, 

But hear these freedoms for the utmost list 
Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger: 

If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime, 

But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 

LXXXI. 

Love, then, but love within its proper limits, 

Was Julia's innocent determination 
?.-* young Don Juan's favour, and to him its 

fisertitm might be useful on occasion ; 
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 

Etherial lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
He might be laiiglit, by love and her together — 
I really do n't know what, nor Julia either. 

LXXXU. 

Fraught wiih this fine intention, and well fenced 

In mail of proof — her purity of soul, 
She. for the future, of her strength convinced, 

And that her honour was a rock, or mole, 
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 

With any kind of troublesome control. 
But whether Julia to the task was equal 
Is that which must be mentioned in the sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, 
And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 

Kot scandal's fangs could lix on much that's se'izable ; 
Or, if they did so, satisfied to mean 

Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable— 
A quiet conscience makes one so serene! 

Christians have burned each other, quite persuaded 

Thai all the apostle* would have done as thev did. 



LXXXIV. 

And if, in the mean time, her husband died, 

But heaven forbid that such a thought should cross 
[Irr brain, though in a dream, (and then she sigh'd !) 

Never coidd she survive that common loss ; 
But just suppose that moment should betide, 

I only say suppose il — inter nos 
(This should be entre nous, for Julia thought 
In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.) 

lxxxv. 
I only say suppose this supposition : 

Juan, being then grown up to man's estate, 
Would fully suit a widow of condition ; 

Even seven years hence it would not be too late ; 
And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 

The mischief, afier all, could not be great, 
For he would learn the rudiments of love, 
[ mean the seraph way of those above. 

LXXX VI. 

So much f>r Julia. Now we Ml turn to Juan. 

Poor little fellow '. he had no idea 
Of his own case, and never hit the ttue one ; 

In feelings as Ovid's Miss Medea, 
He puzzled over what he found a new one, 

But not as yet imagined it could be a 
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, 
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. 

LXXXVIJ. 

Silent and pensiv*, idle, restless, slow, 
His home deserted for the lonely wood, 

Tormented with a wound he could not know, 
His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude. 

I 'm fond myself of solitude or so, 
Bui then I beg it may be understood 

By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 

A hermit's, with a harem for a grot. 

LXXXVIIl. 

" Oh love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
Where transport and security entwine, 

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
And here thou art a god indeed divine." 

The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,* 
With the exception of the second line, 

For that same twining" transport and security' 

Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 

To the good sense and senses of mankind, 
The very thing which every body feel*, 

As all have found on trial, or may find, 
That no one likes to be disiurbed at meals 

Or love : — I won't say more about, " entwined" 
Or " transport,* 1 as we know all that before, 
But beg " security" will bolt the door. 

xc. 
Young Juan wandrr'd by the glassy brooks, 

Thinking unutterable things : he threw 
Himself at length within the leafy nooks 

Where ihe wild branch of the cork forest grew; 
There poets find materials fur their books, 

And every now and then we read them through, 
So that their plan and prosody are eligible, 
Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 

XCI. 

He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth,) so pursued 
His self-communion with his own high soul, 

Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, 
Had mitigated part, though not the whole 

Of its disease ; he did the best he could 
With things not very subject to control, 

And iiun'd , without perceiving his condition, 

Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician* 



Canto I. 



DON JUAN. 



501 



He thought about himself; and the whole earth, 

Of man ihe wonderful, and of the stars, 
And how the deuce they ever could have birth ; 

And then he thought of earthquakes and of wars, 
How many miles the moon might have in girth, 

Of air-balloon?, and of the many b*ra 
To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies; 
And then he thought of Doom Julia's eyes. 

xcm. 
In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 

Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 
Which some are born with, bill the most part learn 

To plague themselves withal, they know not why : 
'T was strange that one so young should thus concern 

His brain about the action of the sky ; 
If you think 't was philosophy that this did, 
I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 

xciv. 
He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, 

And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 
He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, 

And how the godnesses come down to men : 
He missM the pathway, he forgot the hours, 

And, when he looked upon his walch again, 
He found how much old Tune had been a winner- 
He also found that he had lost Ins dinner. 

xcv. 
Sometimes he turnM to gaze upon his book 

Boscan, or Garcilasso ; — by the wind 
Even as the page is rustled while we look, 

So by the poesv of his own mind 
Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, 

As if 't were one wherein magicians bind 
Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, 
According to some good old woman's tale, 

XCVI. 

Thus would he while his lonely hours away, 

Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted; 
Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, 

Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, — 
A bosom whereon he his head might lav, 

And hear the heart beat with the love it granted, 
With— several other things, which I forget, 
Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 

xcvir. 
These lonely walks and lengthening reveries 

Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 
She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 

But that which chiefly may and must surprise, 
Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 

Her only son with question or surmise ; 
Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 
Or, like all very clever people, could not. 



This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common ; 

For instance— gentlemen, whose ladies take 
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman 

And break the — which commandment is 't they break? 
(I have forgot the number, and ihink no man 

Should rashly quote, for fvar of a mistake.) 
I say, when these same gen Jemen are jealous, 
They make some blunder, w hich their ladies tell us. 
xcix. 

A real husband always is suspicious, 

But still no less susnects in the wrong place, 

Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, 
Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, 

By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious; 
The last indeed 's infallibly the case : 

And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly, 

He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 



Thus parents also are at times shortsighted; 

Though watchful as the lynx, they n«*er discover, 
The while the wicked world beholds, delighted, 

Yotinc Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover 
Till some confounded escapade has blighted 

The plan of twenty years, and all is over; 
And then the mother cries, the father swears, 
And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 

ci. 
But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 

Of sight, that I must think on this occasion, 
She had some other motive much more near 

For leaving Juan to this new temptation ; 
But what ih.it motive was, I shan't say here; 

Perhaps to finish Juan's education} 
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes, 
In case he thought his wife too great a prize. 

en. 
It was upon a day, a summer's day; 

Summer 's indeed a very dangerous season, 
And so is spring about the end of May ; 

The sun no doubt, is the prevailing reason ; 
But whatso'er the cause is, one may say, 

And stand convicted of more lruth than treason, 
That there are months which nature grows more merry in 
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. 

CHI. 

T was on a summer's day — the sixth of June : 

I like to be particular in dates, 
Not only of the age, and year, but moon , 

They are a sort of posihouse, where the Fates 
Change horses, making history change its tune, 

Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
Leaving at last not much besides chronology, 
Excepting the posl-obiis of theology. 

CIV. 

'T was on the sixth of June, about the hour 

Of half-past six — peihaps still nearer seven, 
When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 

As ere held houri in that heathenish heaven 
Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, 

To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, 
With all the trophies of triumphant song — 
He won them well, and may he wear them long. 

cv. 
She sate, hut not alone : I know not well 

How this same interview had taken place, 
And even if I knew, I should not tell — 

People should hold their tongues in any case 
No matter how or why the thing befell, 

But there were she and Juan face to face — 
When two such faces are so, 't would be wise, 
But ve.-y difficult, to shut their eyes. 

cvi. 
How beautiful she looked ! her conscious heart 

Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong; 
Oh love ! how perfect is thy mystic art, 

Strengthening the weak and trampling" on the strong, 
How self-deceitful is the sagest part 

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along: 
The precipice she stood on was immense — 
So was her creed in her own innocence. 

cvii. 
She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth : 

And of the f >lly of all prudish fears, 
Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, 

And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: 
I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth, 

Because that number rarely much endears, 
And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, 
Sounds ill in love, whale'er it may in money. 



502 



DON JUAN. 



ClSTO I. 



When people Bay, " I 'vc told yw fifty times, 11 

They mean to scold, tnd very often do; 
When poets say, " I 're written JE/lty rhymes/ 1 

They make you dread thai they 'II reci'e them too ; 
In gangs of fifty, thieves commii their crimes; 

Ai fifty t love for love is fare, 't is true ; 
Bui then, no doubt, ii equally as irue is, 
A good deal may be bought for tifly Louis. 
I iv. 

Juli:i had honour, virtue, truth arc! love, 

For I ton Alfonso . and Bhe inly swore, 
Bv all ihe vows below to powers above, 

Shu never would disgrace the ring she wore, 
Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove : 

And while she ponder'd this, besides much more, 
One hand on .loan's carelessly was thrown, 
(iuite by mistake — she thought it was her own ; 

ex. 
Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other, 

Whicli play'd within the tangles of her hair; 
An.) lo contend with [I ghts she could not smother, 

She seenVd, by the distraction of her air. 
*T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother 

To leave together this imprudent pair, 

She who f»r many y< .us had wuich'd her son so — 
I 'm very certain mine would nol have done so. 

CXI. 

Thf hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 

Gently, but palpably, confirmed its grasp, 
As if it said " detain me, if you please j" 

Vet there e no doubt sheonlj meanl lo clasp 
His tin^'-rs with a pure Platonic squeeze: 

She would have shrunk as from a toad or asp, 
Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 
A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 

CXII. 
I cannot know what Juan thought of this, 

But what he did is much what you would do ; 
His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss, 

And then, ubashM at his own joy, withdrew 
In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, 

Love is so very timid when 'i is new : 
She blush'd and Irown'd not, but she strove to speak 
And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 

c x i n . 
The sun Bet, and up rose the yellow moon. 

The devil 's in the moon lor mischief; they 
Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon 

Tln-ir nomenclature : there is not a day, 
The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 

Sees half the business in a wicked way 
On which three single hours of moonshine smile— 
And then sin- looks so modest all the white. 

CXIV. 

There is a dangerous stillness in that hour, 

A stillness winch leaves room for the. full soul 

To open all itself, without the power 

Of calling wholly back if - Bel&contr 1; 
The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, 

Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, 
Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 
A loving languor, which is not repo.se. 
cxv. 

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced, 

And half retiring from the glowing am, 
Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed : 

Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, 
Or else 't were easy lo withdraw her waist ; 

But then the situation had its charm. 
And then God knows what next — 1 can't goon; 
I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 



c x v i . 
Oh, Plato ! Plato I you have paved lbs way, 

With your confounded fantasies, to more 
Immoral conduct bv the fancied sway 

Your system feigns oar the contmlless core 
Of human hearts, than all the long array 

Of ports tnd romancers '■ — You 're a bore, 
A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been, 
At best, no better than a go-between. 

CXYXX. 

And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, 

Until too late for useful conversation; 
The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 

1 wish, indeed, they had nol had occasion; 
Bui who, alas! can love, and then be w jge I 

Not thai remorse did not oppose temptation, 
A liule still she strove, and much repented, 
And whispering " I will near consent," — consented. 

C xv in. 
'T is said lhal Xerxes offer 'd a reward 

To those who could invent him a new pleasure; 
Methinks the requisition 's raiher hard, 

And must have cost his majesty a treasure ; 
For mv part, I 'in a moderate-minded bard. 

Fond of a little love, (which I call leisure;) 
I care not f >r new pleasures, as the old 
Are quite enough for DM, so they but hold. 

cxix. 

Oh Pleasure ! you 're indeed a pleasant thing, 

Although one must be dainn'd for you, no doubt ; 
I make a resolution every spring 

Of reformat ion ere ihe year run out, 
Bui, somehow, this mv vestal vow lakes wing, 

Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 
I 'm very sorry, very much ashamed, 
And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 

cxx. 
Here my chaste muse a liberty must take — 

Start not ! still chaster reader, — she 'II he nice hence- 
Forward, and there is no great cause to quake : 

This liberty is a poetic license 
Which some irregularity may make 

In the design, and as 1 have a high sense 
Of Aristotle and the Rules, »j j s ft 
To beg his pardon when 1 err a bit. 

CXXI. 

This license is to hope the reader will 

Suppose from June the sixth, (the fatal day, 

Without whose epoch my poetic skill, 

For want of facts, would all be thrown away,) 

But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 

In sight, that several months have pass'd ; we '11 say 

' T was in November, but I'm not so sure 

About the day — the era \s more obscure. 

CXXII. 

We 'II talk of thai anon. — 'T is sweet lo hear, 

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, 
Thfl song sod oar of Adna's gondolier, 

Hv distance mellow d, o'er the waters sweep; 
'T is sweet lo see the evening star appear ; 

*T is sweet to listen as the nighuwinds creep 
From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweel to view on high 
The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky ; 

exxm. 
'T is sweet lo iiear the watch-dog's honest bark 

Bay deep-mouih'd welcome as we draw dear home : 
*T is sweet lo know there is an eye will mark 

Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 
'T is sweet to bo awsken'd by the lark, 

Or luil'd by falling waters; sweet the hum 
Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 
The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 



Canto I. 



DON JUAN. 



503 



CXXIV. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earih 
Purple arii) gushing ; sweut ate our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to (lit* miser are his glittering heaps ; 

Sweet to the father is his first-bom's birth ; 
Sweet is revenge — especially to women] 
Pillage to soldiers Drize-muney to seamen. 

CX XV. 

Sweet is a legacy ; and passing sweet 
The unexpected death of some old lady 

Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 

Who 've made " usyouiii" wait too — too long already 

For an estate, or cash, or country-seat, 
Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 

That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 

Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits. 

exxvt. 

*T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels 
Bv blood or ink ; 't is sweet to put an end 

To strife ; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; 
Dear is the helpless creature we defend 

Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy spot 

We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

CXXVII. 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 

Is first and passionate love — il stands alone, 
Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; 

The tree of knowledge has been pluek'd— all 's known — 
And life yield-* nothing further to recall 

Worthy of this ambrosial sin so shown, 
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 
Fire which Prometheus fitch'd for us from heaven. 

exxvm. 
Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use 

Of bis own nature and the various arts, 
And likes particularly to produce 

Some new experiment to show his parts : 
This is the age of oddities let loose, 

Where different talents find their different marts ; 
You 'd best be^m n t li truth, and when you've lost your 
La' , there 's a sure market for imposture. 

CXXIX. 

What opposite discoveries we have seen ! 

(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets : ) 
On** makes new noses, one a guillotine, 

One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets ; 
But vaccination certainly has been 
A kind anliihesis toCongreve's rockets, 

* * " * * * 



exxx. 

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes, 
And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, 

But has not answer'd like the apparatus 
Of the Humane Society's beginning, 

By which men are unsuffbeated gratis ;— 

What wondrous new machines have late been spinning 



CXXXII. 

This is the patent age of new inventions 

For killing bodies and for saving souls, 
All propagated with the best intentions : 

Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals 
Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions; 

Timbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles 
Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, 
Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 

CXXXI1I. 

Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what, 
And wonderful bevond all wondrous measure; 

'T i* pity though, in this sublime world, that 

Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure; 

Few mortals know what end they would be at, 
But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, 

The path is through perplexing ways, and when 

The goal is gain'd, we die, you know — and then— 

CXXXIV. 

What then 1 — I do not know, no more do you — 
And so good night. — Return we to our story : 

'T was in November, when fine days are few, 
And the far mountains wax a litile hoary, * 

And clap a white cap on their mantles blue ; 
And the sea dashes round the promontory, 

And the loud breaker boils against the rock, 

And sober suns must set at livo o'clo.k. 

exxxv. 

'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night ; 

No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
By t-usis, and many a sparkling hearth was bright 

Wilh (he piled wood, round which the family crowd ; 
There *s something cheerful in thai sort of light, 

Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud: 
I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. 

cxxxvi. 
'T was midnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 

Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 
Arose a clatter might awake the dead, 

If they had never been awoke before — 
And that they have been so we all have read, 

And are to he so, at the least, once more — 
The door was fasten'd, but, with voice and fist, 
First knocks were heard, then "Madam — Madam — hist ; 

CXXXVII. 

w For God's sake, Madam, — Madam — here 's my master 

With more than half ihe city at his back- 
Was ever heard of such a cursed disaster? 

'T is tiot my fault — I kept good watch — Alack? 
Do, pray, undo the bolt a litt'e faster — 

They 're on the stair just now, and in a ciack 
Will all be here ; perhaps he yet may fly — 

Surely the window 's not so very high I'' 

CXXXVIII. 

By this time Don Alfonso was arrived", 

With torches, friends, and servants in great number, 
The major part of them had long b<-en wived, 

And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber 
Of any wicked woman, who contrived 

By stealth her husband's temples to encumber : 
Examples of this kind are so contagious, 
Were one not punished, all would be outrageous. 

exxxix. 
I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion 

Could enter into Don Alfonso's head, 
But for a cavalier of his condition 

It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, 
Without a word of previous admonition, 

To hold a levee round his lady's bed, 
And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword, 
To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. 



604 



DON JUAN. 



Cawto I. 



Poor Donna Julia! starting as from sleep, 

(Mind — that I do not say— she had not slept,) 

Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep ; 
Her maid Antonia, who was r.n adept] 

Contrived to fling the bedclothes in aheap, 
As if she had just now from out them crept : 

I can't tell why she should take all this trouble 

To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 

CZLI. 

But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 
Appeared like two poor harmless woman, who 

Of goblins, but still moie of men, afraid, 

Had thought one man might be deierr'd by two, 

And therefore side by side were g--ntly laid, 

Until ihe h'.urs of ah.-u-nce should run through, 

And truant husband should return and sav, 

" My dear, I was the hrst who came away. 1 ' 

CXLIX. 

Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 

*' In Heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean? 

Has madness seized you? would thai I had died 
Ero such a monster's victim I had been ! 

What may this midnight violence bolide, 
A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen ? 

Dare you suspect me, whom ihe thought would kill ? 

Search, then, the room!" — Alfonso said, " I will." 

CXLII. 

lie search'd, they search'd, and rumaged every where 
Closet and clothes'-press, chest and window-seat, 

And found much linen, lace, and several pair 

Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, 

With other articles of ladies fair, 

To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat. 

Arras ihey priek'd and curtains with their swords, 

And wounded several shutters, and some boards. 

CXLIV. 

Under the bed they search'd, and there they found 
No matter what — it was not that they sought, 

They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 

Had signs or fool-marks, but the earth said naught : 

And ihen they stared each other's faces round : 
'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought, 

And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, 

Of looking in the bed as well as under. 

CXLV. 

During this inquisition Julia's tongue 

Was not asleep — " Yes, search and search," she cried, 
" Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong! 

It was for this that I became a bride ! 
For this in silence I have sufTer'd long 

A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 
But now I 'II bear no more, nor here remain, 
If there be law, or lawyers, in alt Spain. 

CXLVI. 

11 Yes, Don Alfonso, husband now no more, 

If ever you indeed deserved the name, 
Is 't worthy for your years ? — you have threescore, 

Fifty, or sixty — it is .ill ihe same- 
Is 't wise or fitting causeless to explore 

For facts against a virtuous woman's fame ? 
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso! 
How dare you think your lady would go on so ? 

CXLVII, 

" Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 

The common privileges of my sex ? 
That I have chosen a confessor so old 

And deaf, that any other it would vex, 
And never once he has had cause to scold, 

But found my very innocence perplex 
So much, he always doubted I was married — 
How sorry you will be when I 've miscarried ! 



CXLVIII. 

'■ Was it for this that no Cortejo ere 

I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville? 
Is ii for this I scarce wenl any where, 

Except to bull-fights, mass, |>lay, roul, and revel 7 
Is it for this, whate'er mv suitors were, 

I fatour'd none — nay, was almost uncivil? 
Is it for this that General Count 0'R.eillv, 
Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely? - 

CXLIX. 

" Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 

Sing at my heart six months at lea^t in vain ? 
Did ii"' Ins countryman, Count Comiani, 

Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain ? 
Were there not also Russians, English, many? 

The Count StrongstroganofTI put in pain, 
And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, 
Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. 

CL. 

" Have I not had two bishops al mv feet, 

The Duke of [char, and Don Fernan Nunez? 

And is it thus a faithful wife you treat? 

I wonder in what quarter now the moon is: 

I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 
Me also since the time so opportune is— 

Oh. valiant man ! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger, 

Now, tell me, do n't you cut a pretty figuro 1 

CLI. 

" Was it for this you took your sudden journey, 
Under pretence of business indispensable, 

With that sublime of rascals your attorney, 

Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible 

Of having nlay'd the fool ? though both I spurn, he 
Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible, 

Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty feo 

And not for any love to you or me. 

CLII. 

i( If he comes here to take a deposition, 
By all means let the genileman proceed ; 

You 've made ihe apartment in a fit condition. 
There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need— 

Let every thing be noted with precision, 

I would not yon for nothing should be fee'd — 

But, as my maid 's undress'd, pray 'urn your spies out 

* Oh !" sobb'd Antonia, ■ I could tear their eyes out." 

CLIII. 

" There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
The antechamber - search them under, over : 

There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair, 
The chimney — which would really hold a lover. 

I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
And make no further noise till you discover 

The secret cavern of this lurking treasure — 

And, when 'l is found, let me, too, have that pleasure. 

Cl.1V, 

* And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrown 

Douhl upon me, confusion over all, 
Pray have the courtesy to make it known 

Who is the man you search for ? how d* ye call 
Him ? whal 's his lineage ? let him but be shown — 

I hope he *e young and handsome — is he tall? 
Tell me — and be assured, that since you stain 
My honour thus, it shall not be in vain. 

CLT. 

41 At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years — 
At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 

Or for so young a husband's jealous fears,— 
(Antonia ! let me have a glass of water.) 

I am ashamed of having shed these tears, 
They are unworthy of my father's daughter ; 

My mother dream'd not in my natal hour 

That I should fall into a monster's power. 



Carto I. 



DON JUAN. 



60-5 



CLVI. 

" Perhaps 't is of Antnnia you are jealous, 

You saw that she was sleeping bv my sido 
When you broke in upon us with your fellows : 

Look where you please — we 've nothing, sir, to hide 
Only another time, t trust, yo:i 'II tell us, 

Or for the sake of decency abide 
A moment at the door, that we may be 
Dress'd to receive so much good company. 

clvif. 
11 And now, sir, I have dour, and say no more ; 

The little I have said may serve to show 
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 

The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow : — 
I leave you to your conscience as before, 

*T will one day ask you why you used me so ? 
God grant von feel not then the bitterest grief! — 
Automa! where 's my pocket-handkerchief?" 

CLVltE. 

She ceased, and turnM upon her pillow ; pale 

She lay, her dark eyes Hashing through their tears, 

Like skies that rain and lighten • as a veil 

Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 

Her steaming hair ; the black curls strive, but fail, 
To hide ihe glossy shoulder which uprears 

Its snow through all -.—her soft lips He apart, 

And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 

CLIX. 

The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 

Antonio bustled round the ransack'd room, 
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 

Her master, and his mvrmidons, of whom 
Not one, except the attorney, was amused ; 

He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb, 
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause 
Knowing they must be settled by the laws* 

CLX. 

With prving snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, 
following Antonia's motions here and there, 

With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
For r pulation he had little care ; 

So ihir a suit or action wejrp made good, 
Small pity bad he for the young and fair, 

And ne'er believM in negatives, till these 

Wei e proved by competent false witnesses. 

CLXI. 

But L*m Alfonso stood with downcast looks, 
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure ; 

When, after searching in five hundred nooks, 
And treating a young wife with So much rigour, 

He gain'd no point, except some self rebukes, 
Added to those his lady with such vigour 

Had pourM upon him for the last half hour, 

Q,uick, thick, and heavy — as a thunder-shower. 

CLXII. 

At first he tried to hammer an excuse, 

To which the sole reply were tears and sobs, 
And indications of hysterics, whose 

Prologue is always certain throes and throbs, 
Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose : — 

Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's; 
He saw, too, in perspective, her relations, 
And then he tried to muster all his patience. 

clxhi. 
He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer, 

But sage Antonia cut him short before 
The anvil of his speech received the hammer, 

With " Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more, 
Or madam dies.*' — Alfonso mutter'd " D— n her'* 

But nothing else, the time of words was o'er ; 
He cast a rueful look or two, and did, 
Ho knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 
30 



CLXI V. 

With him retir'd bis "posse comitatus" 

The attorney last, who linptr'd nrar the door, 

Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 
Antonia let him — not a little sore 

At this mosl strange and unexplained " hiatus" 
In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 

An awkward look \ as he revolved the ca-se, 

The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 

CLXV. 

No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame ! 

Oh sin ! oh sorrow ! and womankind \ 
How can you do such things and keep your fame, 

Unless this world, and t other too, be blind? 
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 

But to proceed — for there is more behind : 
With much heart-felt reluctance be it said, 
Young Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd, from the bed. 

CLXVt. 

He had been hid — I do n't pretend to say 

How, nor can I indeed describe the where— 

Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay, 
No duuht, in little compass, round or square ; 

But pitv him I neither must nor may 
His suffocation by that pretty pair ; 

'Twere better, sure, to die so, than be shut, 

With maudlin Clarence, in his Malmsey butt. 

CLXVII. 

And, secondly, I pity not, because 

He had no business to commit a sin, 
Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws,— 

At least 't was rather early to begin ; 
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 

So much as when we call our old debts in 
At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, 
And find a deuced balance with the devil, 

CLXVIII. 

Of his position I can give no notion : 
'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 

How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, 
Prescribed, bv way of blister, a young belle, 

When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, 
And that the medicine answer'd very well: 

Perhaps 't was in a different way applied, 

For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 

CLXIX. 

What 's to be done ? Alfonso will be back 
The moment he has sent his fools away. 

Antonia's skill was put upon '.he rack, 

But no device could be brought into p!ay— 

And how to parry the renew'd attack ? 

Besides, it wanted but few hours of the day : 

Antonia puzzled: Julia did not speak, 

But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 

CLXX. 

He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair; 

Even then their love they could not all command, 
And half forgot their danger and despair : 

Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 

1 Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there," 

She wruVper'd in iirt-at wraih — " I must deposit 

This pretty gentleman within the closet: 

CLXXI. 

Pray keep your nonsense for some luckier night— 

Who can have put mv master in this mood ? 
What will become on 't ? — I 'm in such a fright! 

The devil 's in the urchin, and no good — 
Is this a time for giggling ? this a plight ? 

Why, do n't you know that it mav end in blood? 
You Ml lose your life, and I shall lose my place, 
My mistress all, for that half girlish face. 



506 



DON JUAN. 



Canto I. 



CLXXIX, 

11 Had it but been for a stout cavalier 

Of twenty-five or thirty — (come, make haste) 

But for a chilil, what piece "I" work is here ! 
I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 

(Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near. 
There, for the present at the leas! lie's fist, 

And, if we can but till the morning keep 

Our counsel — (Juan, mind you must not sleep.) 1 ' 

C L X X III . 

Now, Don Alfonso entering, bin alone, 
Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 

She loilerM, and he told her to be gone, 
An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ; 

However, present remedy was none, 

And no great good soeuiM answer'd if she stayM : 

Regarding both with slow and sidelong view, 

She snulf'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 

CLXXIV. 

Alfonso paused a minute — then began 
Some strange excuses fur his late proceeding; 

He would not justify what he had dune, 

To say the best, il was extreme ill-breeding: 

But there were ample reasons for it, none 
Of which he specified in this his pleading : 

IIis speech was a line sample, on the whole, 

Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call " rigmarole ." 

CLX XV. 

Julia said naught ; though all the while there rose 
A ready answer, which at once enables 

A matron, who her husband's foible knows, 
By a few timely words to turn the tables, 

Which, if it does not silence, still inusi pose, 

Even if it should comprise b pack of fables ; 
'T is to retort with firmness, and when he 
Suspects willitmt. do you reproach with t!att. 

CLX X. V|. 

Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, 

Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known; 

But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds — 
But that can't be, as has been often shown; 

A lady with apologies abounds : 

It might be that her silence sprang alone 

From delicacy to Don Juan's ear, 

To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 

CLXXVII. 

There might be one more motive, which makes two : 

Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, 
Menlimi'd his jealousy, but never who 

Had been tin; happy lover, he concluded, 
Conceal'd aiimng his premises; 'l is true, 

His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded j 
To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 
Like throwing Juan in Allbnso'a way. 

CLXXVIII. 

A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 

Silence is best, besides there is a tact 
(That modern phrase appears to ni« sad stuff, 

But it will servo to keep my verse compact) 
Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough, 

A lady always distant from the fact — 
The charming creatures lie with such a grace, 
There 's nothing so becoming to the face. 

ct.xxtx. 
They blush, and we believe ihein ; al least I 

Have always done so ; 't is of no great use, 
In any case, attempting a reply, 

For then their eloquence grows quite profuse ; 
An J when at length they're out of breath, they sigh, 

And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose 
A tear or two, and then we make it up ; 
And then— and then — and then — sit down and sup. 



CLX XX. 

Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon, 
Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted. 

And laid conditions, he thought wry hard on, 
Denying several little things he wanted : 

He stood, like Adam, lingering near bis garden, 
With useless penitence perplea'd and haunted, 
■ do furthej would n I 

When lo! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 

CI. XXXI. 

A pair of shoes! — what then? not much, if they 
Are such as fit with lady's feet, but these 

(No "ii^ can tell how much I grieve io say) 
Were masculine : i<> see ibem and to seize 

Was boi a moment's act. — Ah! wel!-a-day 
My teeth begin lo chatter, my veins freeze— 

Alfonso first examined well their fashion, 

And then flew out into another passion. 

CLXXXII. 

He left the room for his relinquished sword, 

And Julia instant t.. the closet flew ; 
" Ply, Juan, fly I for Heaven's sake — not a word 

The doOf is open — you may vet slip through 

The passage you so often have explored — 

Here is [he garden-key — fly — fly — adieu ! 
Haste — haste ! — I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet — 
Day has not broke — there '■ no one in the street.™ 

Cl.XXXIII. 

None can say that this was not good advice, 
The <mly mischief was, ii came too late ' 

Of all experience 'i is the usual price, 
A sort of inc Hlai la d on by fate, 

Juan had reauh'd the room-door in a li ice, 

And might have done so by the garden-gate, 
But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown, 
Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd him down. 

( J. XXXIV. 

Dire was the scuflle, and out went the light, 

Antonia cried out " Rape !" and Julia " Fire !" 
Bui not a servant stin'd to aid the fight. 

Alfonso, pornmell'd lo his heart's desire, 
Swore lustily he M be revenged this nigni ; 
And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher; 

His blood was up ; though young, he was a Tartar, 
And not at alt disposed lo prove a martyr. 

CLXXXV. 

Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw' it, 
And they continued battling hand to hand, 

Fo* Juan very luckily ne'er saw it ; 

His temper not h-'iii; under great command, 
If at thai moment he had chanced to claw it, 

Alfonso's davs hid not been in the land 
Much longer. — Think of husbands'] lovers' lives, 
And how you may be doubly widows — vrivei ' 

CLX XX VI. 

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, 

And Juan throttled him to get away, 
And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow; 

At last, as they more family wrestling lay, 

Juan contrived la give an awkward blow, 

Anil then his only garment quite gave way; 
He fled like Joseph, leaving u*-but there, 

I doulu, all likeness ends between the pair. 

CI.XXXVII. 

Lights came at length, and men and maids, who found 
An awkward spectacle their eyes before; 

Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 

Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door ; 

Some half-torn drapery scatter'.! on the ground, 
Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more j 

Juan the gate gain'd, tum'd the key about, 

And, liking not the inside, lock'd ihe out. 



UlVTO I. 



DON JUAN. 



507 



CLXXXYIII. 

Here ends this canto.— Need I sing or say, 
How Juan, naked, favoured by the night, 

(Who favours what she should not,) found his way, 
And reach'd his home in an unseemly plighl? 

The pleasant scandal which arose next day, 

The nine days' wonder which was brought to li^ht, 

And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 

Were in the English newspapers, of course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If you wou'd like to see the whole proceedings, 

The depositions, and the cause at full, 
The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 

Of counsel to nonsuit or to annul, 
There 's more ihan one edition, and the readings 

Are various, but they none of them are dull, 
The best is that in shorthand, ta'en by Gurney, 
Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey, 

cxc. 
B-it Donna Tnez, to divert the train 

Of one of the most circulating scandals 
That had for centuries been known in Spain, 

At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 
First vow'd (and never hod she vow'd in vain) 

To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles; 
And then, by the advice of some old ladies, 
She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 

CXCI. 

She had resolved that he should travel through 

All European climes by land or sea, 
To mend his former morals, and get new, 

Especially in France and Italy, 
(At least this is the thing most people do.) 

Julia was sent into a convent ; she 
Grieved, but perhaps, her feelings may be better 
Shown in the following copy of her letter : 

CXCII. 

" They tell me 't is decided, you depart : 

'T i> wise — 't is well, but not the less a pain : 
I have no further claim on your young heart, 

Mine is the victim, and would be again: 
To love too much has been the only art 

I mud ; — I write in haste, and if a stain 
Be on this sheet, 'i is not what ii appears — 
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 

exenr. 
" I loved, I love you ; for this love have lost 

Stale, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, 
And yet cannot regret what it hath cost, 

So dear is still ihe memory of that dream ; 
Yet, if I nam'* my S"ilt, * l ' 3 nf)I lu boast, — 

None can deem harehiicr of me than I deem : 
1 fiace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
I 've nothing to reproach or to request. 

cxciv. 
" Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 

'T is woman's whole existence; man mav range 
The court, camp, church, the vessel, and ihe mart ; 

Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, 

And few there arc whom these cannot estrange : 
Men have all these resources, we but one — 
To love again, and be again undone. 

exev. 
'* You will proceed in pleasure and in pride, 

Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 
For me on earth, except some years to hide 

My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core: 
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 

The passion, which still rages as before, 
And so farewell — forgive me, love mc — No, 
That word is idle now — but let it go. 



cxc VI. 

"My breast has been all weakness, is 50 yet; 

But still, I think, I can collect my mind ; 
My blood still rushes where my spirit's set, 

As roll the waves before the settled wind ; 
My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 

To all, except one image, madly blind : 
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul. 

exevn. 
" I have no more to say, but linger still, 

And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 
And yet I may as well the task fulfil, 

Mv misery can scarce be more complete : 
I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; 

Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet. 
And I must even survive this last adieu, 
And hear with life, to love and pray for you !'* 

CXC VIII. 

This note was written upon gilt-edyed paper, 
"With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new: 

Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, 
It trembled as magnetic needles do, 

And yet she did not let one tear escape her ; 

The seal a sunflower ; " Elle vous suit par tout ,** 

The motto cut upon a white cornelian, 

The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 

CXCIX. 

This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but whether 

I shall proceed with his adventure is 
Dependent nn the public altogeUier: 

We 'II see, however, what they say to this, 
{Their favour in an author's cap's a feather, 

And no great mischief's done by their caprice;) 
And, if their approbation we experience, 
Perhaps they 'II have some more about a year hence. 

cc. 

Mv poem 's epic, and is meant to be 

Divided in twelve books J. each book containing, 
With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 

A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, 

New characters ; the episodes are three : 

A panorama view of hell 's in training, 

Afier the style of Virgil and of Homer, 

So that my name of epic 's no misnomer. 

cci. 
All these things will be specified in lime, 
With strict regard to Aristoile's Rules, 
The rade intcum of ihe true sublime, 

Which makes so many poets and some fools ; 
Prose poets like blank-verse — £ 'm fi>nd of rhyme- 
Good workmen never quarrel with their tools ; 
\ 've got new mythological machinery, 
And very handsome supernatural scenery. 

ecu. 
There's only one slight difference between 

Me and my e|dc brethren gone before, 
And here the advantage is my own, I ween, 

(Not that 1 have not several merits more ;) 
But this will more peculiarly be seen ; 

They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore 
Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, 
Whereas this story 's actually true. 

CCIII. 

If any person doubt it, I appeal 
To history, tradition, ami to facts, /* 

To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, 
To plays in five, and operas in three acts; 

All these confirm my Statement a good deal, 
But that which more completely faith exacts 

Is, that myself, and several now in Seville. 

Sate Juan's last elopement with thu devil. 



60S 



DON JUAN. 



Cakto r. 



If ever I ihould condescend to prose, 
I Ml write poetical commandmenis, which 

fthall supersede beyond all doubt all those 
That went before ; in these I shall enrich 

My text with many things thai no one knows, 
And carry precept lo the highest pilch : 

I 'II call the work] ll Longinus o'er a Bottle, 

Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle." 

ccv. 
Thou shall believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope: 

Thou shall not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey; 
Bi'iMUM- tlie iirsl is crazed beyond all hop**, 

The second drunk, the third bo quaint and moutliey : 
With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, 

And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy : 
Thou shall nut steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 
Commit — flirtation with the muse of Aloore. 

CCTI* 

Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 

His Pegasus, nor any thing thai ; s hi- : 
Thou shalt not bear false witness, like u the Blues," 

(There 's one, at least, is very fond of this:) 
Thou shalt not write, in short, bui what I choose : 

This is Iniii criticism, and you may kis3— 
Exactly as you please, or not — the rod, 
Hoi if you don't, I '11 lay it on, by G — d ! 

CCV 1 1. 

If any person should presume to assert 

The story is n it moral, first, I pray, 
That they will not cry out before they 're hurt ; 

Then thai they Ml read il o'er again, and say 
(But, doubtless, nobody will be bo perl) 

That this is not a moral tale, though gay, 
Besides, in canto twelfth, I mean to show 
The very place where wicked people go. 

CCTIXX. 

If, after all, there should be some so blind 
To their own good this warning to despise, 

Led by some tortuosity of mind, 

Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, 

And cry that they " the moral cannot tind," 
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies — 

Should captains the remark, or critics, make, 

They also lie loo — under a mistake. 

CC1X. 

The public approbation I expect, 

And beg ihey 'II take my word about ihe moral, 
Which I with their amusement will connect, 

(So children culling teeth receive a coral;) 
Meanti , Ihey '11 doubtless please to recollect 

My epical pretension* to the laurel : 
For fear some prudish reader should grow skittish, 
fiVe bribed my grandmother's review — the British. 

cox. 

I sent il in a letter to the editor, 

Who ihank'd me duly by return of post — 
I 'm for a handsome ai tide Ids creditor : 

V«t, if my gentle Muse be please to roast, 
And break a promise after having made it her, 

Denying the receipt of what it cost, 
And smear his page with gall instead of hone 
Ail I can say is — that he had the money. 

cexx. 
I think that wiih this holy new alliance 

I may insure ihe public, and defy 
All other magazines of art or science, 

Daily, or monthly, or three-mmthly ; I 
Have not essay'd to multiply their client^ 

Because they tell 'twere in vain to try, 
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly 
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 



CCXII. 

" A" n tgo hoc fervem calida juventa 
Consult Ptanco^ Horace said, and so 

Say [| by which quotation ihere is meant a 
Hint that some six or seven good years ago, 

(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenla,) 

I was most ready to return a blow, 

And would not brook ai all i his sort of thing 

In my hot youth — when George the Third was King. 

ccxin. 

But now, at thirty years, my hair is gray, — 

(I wonder what il will be like at forty ? 
I thought of a peruke the other day,) 

My hejirl is not much greener ; and, in short, I 
Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May, 

And feel no more ihe spirit to retort • [ 
Have spent my life, both interest and principal, 
And deem t:ot, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. 

CCXIV. 

No more — no more — Oh ! never more on me 
The freshness of the heart con fall like dew, 

Which out of all the lovely things we see 
Extracts emotions beautiful and new, 

Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' ihe bee : 

Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew ? 

Alls ! 'twas not in them, hut in thy power, 

To double even the sweetness of a flower. 

cexv. 
No more — no more — Oh ! never more, my heart, 

Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 
Oncn all in all, but now a thing apart, 

Thou canst noi be my blessing or my curse : 
The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art 

Insensible, I trust, but none the worse ; 
And in thy stead 1 've gol a deal of judgment, 
Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment. 

cexn. 
My days of love are over — me no more' 

The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, 
Can make ihe fool of which they made before— 

In short, I must nol lead the life 1 did do : 
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er ; 

The copious use of claret is forbid, too ; 
So, for a good old gentlemanly vico, 
I think I most tako up with avarice. 

CCXTII. 

Ambition was my idol, which was broken 

Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure , 

And the two last have lefi me many a token 
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 

Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 'vo spoken, 

II Time is, time was, time's past,*' a chymic treasure 
Is glittering youth, which I have spent beiimes — 

My hear! in passion, and my head on rhyme*. 

CCXVIII. 

What is the end of fame ? 't is but to fill 

A certain portion of uncertain paper ; 
Some liken it to climbing up a hill, 

Whose summit, tike all hills, is lost in vapour f 
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill ; 

And bards burn what they call their '■ midnight lapei " 
To have, when ihe original is dust, 
A name, a wretched picture, and worst bust, 

CCXIX, 

What are the hopes of man ? old F.gypt's king, 

Cheops, erected the first pyramid 
And largest, thinking it was just the ihing 

To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid ; 
But somebody or other, rummaging, 

Burglariously broke his coffin's lid , 
Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 



Canto FT. 



DON JUAV. 



509 



ccxx. 
But I, being fond of true philosophy, 
Say very often lo myself) " Alas! 
All things that have heen born vtcre born to die, 

And flesh (which death mows down lo hay) is grass 
You 've pass'd vour youth not su unpleasantly) 
And if you had it o'er again — *t would pa?s — 
ink your stars that matiers are no worse, 
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse." 

CCXXI. 

But for the present, gentle reader ! and 

Still greater purchaser! the bard — that's I — 

Must, wnli permission, shake you by the hand, 
And so your humble servant, and good bye ! 

\W meet again, if we should understand 
Each other ; and if not, I shall not try 

Your patience further than by this short sample — 

T were well if others follow'd my example. 

CCXXII. 

" Go, little book, from this my solitude! 

I cast thee on the. waters, go thy wavs ! 
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, 

The world will find ihee after many days." 
When Soutln-y's read, and Wordsworth understood, 

I can't help pulling in my claim to praise — 
The four first rhymes are South**)' s. every line : 
For God's sake, reader ! take them not tor mine. 



CANTO II. 



Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, 

Holland, Fiance, England, Germany, or Spain, 
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, 

h mends their morals: never mind the pain: 
The best of mothers and of educations, 

In Juan's cause, were but employed in vain, 
Since in a way, that 's rather of the oddest, he 
Became divested of his native modesty. 

II. 
Had he but been placed at a public school, 

In the third form, or even in the fourth, 
His daily task hid kept hU fancy cool, 

At least had he been nyrtured in the north; 
Spain may prove an exception to the rule, 

But then exceptions always prove its worth— 
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. 

III. 

I can 1 ! say that it puzzles me at all, 

If all things be consider'd : first, there was 

His lady mother, mathematical, 

A • never mind; his tutor, an old an ; 

A pretty woman, — (that's quite natural, 

Or else the thing had hardly come to pass ;) 

A husband rather old, not much in unity 

With his young wife — a time, and opportunity. 

IV. 

Well— well, the world must turn upon its axis, 
And all mankind turn out with it, heads or tails, 

And live and die, make love, and pay our taxes, 
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails; 

The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, 
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales. 

A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, 

Fighting, devotion, dust — perhaps a name. 



I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz— 

A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is, 

(Or was, before Pefu leam'd tu rebel ;) 
And such sweet girls — I mean such graceful ladies, 

Their very walk we-iild make your bosom swell ; 
T can't describe jt, though so much it strike, 
Nor liken it — I never saw the like: 

VI. 

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 

New bioke, a cameleopaid, a gazelle, 
No — none of these will do; — and ihen their garb! 

Their veil and petticoat — Alas ! to dwell 
Upon such things would very near absorb 

A canto — then their feet and ancles ! — well, 
Thank Heaven I 've got no metaphor quite ready, 
(And so, my sober Muse — come let 's be steady— 

VII. 

Chaste Muse ! — well, if you must, you must) — the veil 

Thrown back a moment, with the glancing hand, 
While (he o'erpowenng eye, trial turns you pale, 

Flashes into the heart : — all sunnv land 
Of love! when I forget you, may I fail 

To say niy prayers — but never was there plannM 

A dress through which the eyes give such a volley 
Excepting the. Venetian Fazzioli. 

vm. 
But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 

Her son to Cadiz only to embark ,* 
To stay there had not answer'd her intent, 

Bui why 3 — we leave the reader in the dark — 
*T was for a voyage that the young man was meant. 

As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, 
To wean him from the wickedness of earth, 
And send him like a dove of promise forth. 

IX. 

Don Juan bade his valet pack his things 

According to direction, then received 
A lecture and some money : for four springs 

He was to travel ; and, though Inez grieved, 
(As every kind of parting has its stings,) 

She hoped he would improve — perhaps believed; 
A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 
Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 

x. 

In the mean time, to pass her hours away, 
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday-school 

For naughty children, who would rather play 
(Like truant rogUi s} the devil or the fool ; 

Infants of three years old were taught that day, 
Dunces were whipp'd or set upon a stool : 

The great success of Juan's education 

Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 

XI. 

Juan embark'd — the ship got under weigh, 
The wind was fair, the water passing rough ; 

A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, 

As 1, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough : 

And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray 

Flies in one's face, and makes it wealher-tough. 

And there he stood to lake, and take again, 

His first — perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 
XII. 

I can't but sav it is an awkward sight 

To see one's native land receding through 

The growing waters — it unmans one quite ; 
Especially when life is rather new : 

I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white, 
But almost every oilier country's blue, 

When, gazing on them, mystified by distance 

We enter on our nautical existence. 



510 



DON JUAN. 



Cakto IT. 



xiii. 
So J-ian stood bewilder'd on the deck : 

The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore, 
And the ship creakVl, the town became a Speck, 

From which away so far and fast they bore. 
Tlit* best of remedied is a bcf-steak 

Againsl seasickness ; iry it, sir, before 
Vou sneer, and I assure you this is true, 
For I have Pound it answer — so may you. 

XIV. 

Dm Juan stood, and, gazing from the Mem, 

Beheld his native Spain needing far : 
Firsi partings form a lesson hard to learn, 

Kven nations feel this when they go to war ; 
There is a sort of unexpressed concern) 

A kind of shock thai seis one's heart ajar : 
At leaving even the must unpleasant people 
Anil places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 

XV. 

But Juan had got m.inv things to have — 

His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, 
Si. that be had much better cause to grieve 

Than manv persons more advanced in life ; 
And, if we now and then a sigh must heave 
At quilting even those we quit in strife, 

No doubt we weep for those ihe heart endears — 
That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 

XVI. 

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 

By Babel's waters, still remembering Sinn : 
I M weep, hut mine is not a weeping muse, 

And such light griefs are not a thing to die on ; 
Young men should travel, if hut to amuse 

Themselves ; and the next time their servants tie on 
Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, 
Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 

xvii. 
And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd, and thought, 

While his salt tears dropf into the salt sea, 
" Sweets to the sweet ;*' (T like so much to quote : 

You must excuse this extract, 'I is where she, 
The Queen of Denmark, fir Ophelia brought 

Flowers to the grave,) and sobbing often, he 
Reflected on his present situation, 
And seriously resolved on reformation. 

xvur. 
" Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell !" he Cried, 

" Perhaps F may revisit thet no more, 
But die, as many an exiled heart haih died, 

Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters elide ! 

Farewell, my mother! and. since all is o'er, 
Farewell, too, dearest Julia !"— (here he drew 
Her letter out again, and read it through.) 

XIX'. 

" And c.h ! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 

But that 's impossible, and cannot be — 
Sooner shall this blue ocean null to air, 

Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, 
Than I resign thine image, oh! my fair! 

Or think of any thing, eiceptina thee ; 
A mind diseased no remedy can pb.vsic'*— 
(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew seasick.) 

xx. 
" Sooner shall heaven kiss earth — (here he fell sicker) 

Oh, Julia ! what is every other wo ! — 
(For God's sake, let me have a glass of liquor — 

Pedro! Batiista! help me down below.) 
Julia, my love! — (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) 

Oh, Julia ! — (this cursed vessel pitches so)- 
Beloved Julia ! hear me still heseechin""— 
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.) 



He felt that chliting heaviness of heart, 
Or rather stomach, which, ala3l allends, 

Beyond the besi apothecary's art, 
The los* of love, ihe treachery of friends, 

I >r death of those «<* doai on, when a part 
( m us dies with them, as each fond hope ends : 

X.. .1 lubl he would have been milch mure pathetic, 

But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 
XXII. 

Love 's a capricious power; I 've known it hold 
Out through a fever caused by Us own heat. 

But be much puzzled bv a COUgh and cold, 
And find a quinsy very hard to treat ; 

V' imst all noble maladies he 'a bold, 
But vulgar illnesses don'i like to meet, 

Nor thai a sneeze should interrupt his sigh : 

Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. 
XXIII. 

Hut worst nf all its nausea, or a pain 

About the lower regions of the bowels; 

I. ove. «ho heroically breaths a vein, 

Shrinks from ihe application of hot towels, 

And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, 
Seasickness death : his love was perfect, how else 

Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar, 

Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before? 

XXIV. 

The ship, called the most holy " Trinidada," 
Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 

For there the Spanish family Moncada 

Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born : 

They were relations, and for them he hou &. 
Letter of introduction, which ihe morn 

Of his departure had been sent him by 

His Spanish friends for those m Iialy. 

XXV. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
Who several languages did understand, 

Bui now lay sirk and speechless on his pillow, 
And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, 

His headach being increased by every billow; 
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made 
His berth a little damp, and him afraid. 

XXVI. 

'T was not wiihoiit some reason, for the wind 
[ncreased at night, until it blew a gale; 

And though 't was not much to a naval mind, 
Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, 

For sailors are, in fact, a different kind: 
At sunset they hegiu to take in sail, 

For the skv show'd it would come on to blow 

And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 

XXVII. 

At one o'clock, the wind with sudden shift 

Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, 

Whi< h siruck her aft, and made an awkward rilt, 
Start (I (he stern-post, also shatter'd the 

Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift 
Herself from out her preseni jeopardy, 

The rudder tore away : 't was time to sound 

The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 

XXVIII. 

One gang of people instantly Mas put 
Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 

To get up part of the cargo, ami what not, 
Bui they could not come nt the leak as yet ■ 

At last they did gel at it really, but 
Still ihetr salvation was an even bet: 

The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling, 

While they thrust shee s, shirts, jackels,bales of muslin, 



Casio II. 



DON JUAN. 



511 



Into ihe opening; but all such ingredients 

Would have hern vaui,and they must have gone down, 
Despite of ail their efforts and expedients, 

Bui for th*" pumps: I 'in glad to make ihem known 
To all the brother-tars who may have need hence, 

Fur fifty tons of water were uplnrown 
By them per hour, and they hud been all undone 
But f«*r the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 

x*:x. 
As day advanced, the weather seemM to abate, 

And then the l»-ak they reckon'd to redone, 
And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 

Kept two hand anil one chain pump still in use. 
The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 

A squall came on, and, while some guns broke loose, 
A gusl — which all descriptive power transcends — ■ 
Laid with one biast the ship on her beam-ends. 

XXXI. 

There she lay motionless, and seemM upset : 

The water left the hold, and wash'd ihe decks, 
And made a scene men do not soon forget ; 

For they remember battles, tires, and wrecks, 
Or any oiher thing that brings regret, 

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks : 
Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers 
And swimmers who may chance lo be survivors. 

XXXII. 
Immediately the masts were cut away, 

Both main and mizen ; first the mizen went, 
The main-mast follow' d ; but the ship still lay 

Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 
Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 

Eased her at last, (although we never meant 
To part with all till every hope was blighted,) 
And then with violence the old ship righted. 
XXXI 11. 

It may be easily supposed, while this 

Was going on, some people were unquiet; 

That passengers would find it mu<h amiss 
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet ; 

That even the able seamen, deeming his 
Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, 

As upon such occasions tars will ask 

For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 

XXXIV. 

There 's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms 

As rum and true religion ; thus it was, 
Some plunder'd, some drank spiriis, some sung psalms, 

The high wind made the treble, anil as bass 
The hoarse harsh waves kept time, fright cured thequalms 

Of ail the luckless landsmen's seasick maws : 
Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 
Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 
XXXV. 

Perhaps more mischief hail been done, but for 
Our Joan, who, with sense beyond his years, 

Got to the spirit -room, and stood before 
It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears, 

As if Death were more dreadful by his door 
Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, 

Kept siill aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, 

Thought it would be becoming to die drunk . 
xxxvi. 

" Give us more grog," they cried, " for it will be 
All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd, " No! 

*T is true that death awaits both you and mc, 
But let us die like men, not sink below 

Like brutes :" — and thus his dangerous post kept he, 
And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 

And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 

Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 



XX XVII. 

The good old gentleman was quite aghast: 
And made a loud and pious lamentation J 

Repented all his sins, and made a last 
Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 

Nothing should tempt him mure (this peril pasO 
To quit his academic occupation, 

In clois ersuf the classic Salamanca, 

To follow Juan's wake like Sancho Panca. 

XXXVIII. 

But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 

Day broke, ami the wind lullM : the masts wire gone, 
The leak increased ; shoal> round her, but no shore, 

The vessel swam, yet siill she held her own. 
They iried the pumps again, and though before 

Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, 
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale— 
The stronger puinpM,the weaker thrumm'd a sail. 

XXXIX. 

Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd, 

And for the moment it had some effect ; 
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast 

Nor rag of canvass, what could ihey expect ? 
But still 't is best to struggle to the last, 

'T is never too late to be wholly wreek'd : 
And though *t is true that man can only die once, 
'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf or Lyons. 

XL. 
There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence 

Without their will, they carried them away; 
For they were forced with steering to dispense, 

And never had as yel a quiet day 
On which they might repose, or even commence 

A jury-mast or rudder, or could say 
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck, 
Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 

XI. I. 

The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, 

But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hopo 

To vvea'her out much longer ; the distress 
Was also great with which they had to cope 

For want of water, and their solid mess 
Was scant enough ; in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, 

Naught but the heavy sea, and coming night, 

XLII. 

Again the weather threatened, — again blew 

A gale, and in the fore and after hold 
Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew 

All this, the most were patient, and some bold, 
Until the chains and leathers were worn through 

Of all our pumps : — a wreck complete she roll'd, 
At morcy of the waves, whose mercies are 
Like human beings during civil war. 



Then came the carpenter, at lasl, with tears 

In his rough eyes, and told the captain he 
Could do no more ; he was a man in years, 

And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, 
And if he wept at length, ihey were not fears 

That made his eyelids as a woman's bo, 
But he, poor fellow, had a wile and children, 
Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 

XLIV. 
The ship was evidently settling now 

Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone, 
Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 

Of candles to their saints — but there were none 
To pay ihem with ; and some look'd o'er the bow, 

Some hoisted out the boats : and there was one 
That begg'd Pedrillo fbr an absolution, 
Who told him to be damn'd — in his confusun. 



512 



DON JUAN. 



Canto II. 



Some lash'd them in their hammocks, some put on 
Their best clothes as if going to a fair ; 

S >m • cursed the day on which ihey saw the sun, 
And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair 

And others went on, as they had begun, 
Gelling the boats out, being well aware 

That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, 

Unloss wilh breakers close beneath her lee. 

XI.VI. 

The worst of all was, that in their condition, 
Having been several days in greal distress, 

'T was difficult to get out such provision 

As now might render their long suffering less: 

Men, even when dying, dislike inanition 

Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress : 

Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter 

Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 

XLVII. 

But in the long boat they contrived to stow 
Some pounds of bread, though injured by the 

Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so; 

Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get 

A portion of their beef up from below, 

And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 

But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon ; 

Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. 

XLVIII. 

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
Been stove in the beginning of the gale; 

And the long-boat's condition was bin bad, 
As there were but two blankets for a sail, 

And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail ; 

And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, 

To save one half the people then on board. 

MIX. 

'T was twilioh!, for the sunless day went down 

Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, 
Which, if withdrawn, would hut disclose the frown 

Of one whose hate is masked but to assad ; 
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown 

And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale 
Ati'l the dim desolate deep— twelve days had Fear 
Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 

L. 
Some trial bad been making at a raft, 

With little hope in such a rolling sea, 
A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd, 

If any laughter at such limes could be, 
Unless with people who too much have quafVM, 

And have a kind of wild and horrid glee 
Half epileptica), and half hysterical: 
Their preservation would have been a miracle. 

LI. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars, 
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, 

That slill could keep afloat the struggling turs, 
For pel they strove, although of no great use: 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars ; 
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews ; 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 

And, going down head-foremost — sunk, in short. 

LII. 

ThtMi rose from sea to sky the wild farewell 

Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave ; 

Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, 
As eager to anticipate their grave ; 

And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, 

And down she suckM with her the whirling wave, 

Like one who grapples with his enemy, 

And strives to strangle him before he die. 



And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd, 
Save the wild wind and the reniorseles dash 

Of billows ; hul at intervals ihere gush'd, 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 

A solitary shriek — the bubbling cry 

Of soiivj strong swimmer in his agony. 

Liv. 
The boats, as stated, had got off" before, 

And in them crowded several ofihe crew; 
And vet lion present hope was hardly more 

Than what it had been, for so strong it blew, 
There was slight chance of reaching any shore, 

And then they were loo many, though so few- 
Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, 
Were counted in them when they got afloat. 

LV. 

All the r*-st perish'd ; near two hundred souls 
Had left their bodies ; and, what 's worse, alas! 

When over Catholics the ocean rolls, 

They must wail several weeks, before a mass 

Takes off* one peck of purgatorial coals, 

Because, till people know what 's come to pass, 

They won't lay out their money on the dead — 
It costs three fiaucs for every mass that's said. 

LVI. 

Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place; 

It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, 
For Juan wore the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor IVdrillo's pair 
Of eyes were crving for their owner's case; 

Battista (though s name call'd shortly Tita) 

Was tost by getting at some aqua-vita. 

I-vii. 

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save ; 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss, 
Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave, 

As o'er the cutler's edge he tried to cross, 
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave : 

They could not rescue him, although so close, 
Because the sea ran higher every minute, 
And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 

LVIII. 

A small old spaniel, — which had been Dun Jose's, 
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, 

For on such things the memorv reposes 

With tenderness — stood howling on the brink, 

Knowing, (dogs have BUCh intellectual noses!) 
No doubt the vessel was about to sink ; 

And Juan CWDghl him up, and, ere he stepp'd 

Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 

ux. 

He also stuff M his monev where he could 
About his person, and Pedrillo's too, 

Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, 
Not knowing what himself to say or do, 

As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 

But Juan, triis'ing they might still get through, 

And deeming there were remedies lor any ill, 

Thus re-embark'd bis tutor and bis spaniel. 

LX. 

'T was a rough night, and blew M Stiffly yet, 
That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, 

Though on the wave's high top loo much to set, 
They dared no! take it in for all the breeze; 

Each sea eurl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet, 
And made them bale without a moment's ease, 

So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 

And the poor little culter quickly swamp'd. 



Cajito If. 



DON JUAN. 



513 



Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat still 
Kept above water, with an oar for mast, 

Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill 
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast; 

Though every wave roll'd menacing to nil, 
And present peril all before surpass'd, 

They griev'd for those who perish'd with the cutter, 

And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 

LXIX, 

The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 

Of the continuance of the gale: to run 
Before the. sea. until it should grow fine, 

Was all that for the present could be done: 
A few tea-spnonfuls of their rum and wine 

Was sltvM out to the people, who begun 
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, 
And most of them had little clothes but rags. 

Lxnr. 
Tliev counted thirty, crowded in a space 

Which left scarce room for motion or exertion: 
They did their best to modify their case, 

One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion, 
While t' other half were laid down in their place, 

At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the tertian 
Ague in its cold fit, they fiUM their boat, 
With nothing but the sky for a great-coat. 

LXIV. 

*T is very certain the desire of life 

Prolongs it ; this is obvious to physicians, 

When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife, 
Survive through very desperate conditions, 

Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions: 

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, 

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 

LXV. 

*T is said that persons living on annuities 

Are longer lived than others, — God knows why, 

Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is 
That some, I really think, do never die 

Of anv creditors the worst a Jew it is, 

And that 's their mode of furnishing supplv : 

In my young days they lent me cash that way, 

Which I found very troublesome to pay. 

LXVI. 

'T is thus with people in an open boat, 

They live upon the love of life, and bear 
More than can be believed, or even thought, 

And stand, like rocks, the tempest's wear and tear; 
And hardships still has been the sailor's lot, 

Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there- 
She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 
Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 

LXVII. 

But man is a carnivorous production, 

And must have meals, at least one meal a day ; 

He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, 
Rut, like the shark and tiger, must have prey: 

Although his anatomical construction 
Bears vegetables in a grumbling way, 

Your labouring people think, beyond all question, 

Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 

X.XVIII. 

And thus it was with this our hapless crew; 

For on the third day there came on a calm, 
And though at first their strength it might renew, 

And, lying on their weariness like balm, 
Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 

Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm 
And f.-lt all ravenously on their provision, 
Instead of hording it with due precision. 
3 P 



LXIX. 

The consequence was easily foreseen — 

They alt up all they had, and drank their wine 

In spite of ill remonstrances, and then 

On what, in fact, next day were they to dine? 

They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men 
And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine, 

But, as they had but one oar, and that brittle, 

It would have been more wise to save their victual. 

LXX. 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, 
And ocean slurnber'd like an unwean'd child: 

The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, 
The sea and skv were blue, and clear, and mild- • 

With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
What could they do ? and hunger's rage grew wild 

So Juan's spaniel, spile of his entreating, 

Was kiil'd and portion'd out for present eating. 

LXXI. 

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, 
And Juan, who had still refused, because 

The creature was his father's dog that died, 
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, 

With some remorse received, (though first denied,) 
As a great favour, one of the fore-paws, 

Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 

Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 

LXXII. 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 
Blister'd and scorch'd ; and stagnant on die sea. 

They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none, 
Save in the breeze that came not ; savagely 

They glared upon each other — all "was done, 
Water, and wine, and food, — and you might see 

The longings of the cannibal arise 

(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 

LXXIJI. 

At length one whisper'd his companion,' who 
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, 

And then into a hoarser murmur grew, 

An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 

And when his comrade's thoughts each sutferer knew 
'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found. 

And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, 

And who should die to be his fellows' food. 

LXXIV. 

But ere they came to this, they that day shared 

Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes * 
And then they lookM around them, and despair'd, 

And none to be the sacrifice would choose; 
At length the lots were torn up and prepared, 

But of materials that must shock the muse- 
Having no paper, for die want of better, 
They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. 

LXXV. 

The lots were made, and mark'd. and mix'd, and hantod 

In silent horror, and their distribution 
LulIM even the savage hunger which demanded, 

Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; 
None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 

'T waa nature gnawM them to this resolution, 
By which. Done were permitted to be neuter— 
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 

LXXVI. 

He hut requested to be bled to death : 

The surgeon had his instruments and bled 

Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath, 

You hardly could perceive when he was dead. 

He died as born, a Catholic in faith, 

Like most in the belief in which they're bred, 

And first a little crucifix he kiss'd, 

Aud then held >m his jugular and wrist. 



(U 



DON JUAN. 



Tamo J I. 



I- XX VI I. 

The surgeon, as there was no other fee, 
Had his first choice of morsels for his pains ; 

Hut being thirstiest at the moment, he 

Prefcrr'd a draught from the fast-Mowing veins : 

Pari was divided, part thrown in the KH, 

And such things as the entrails and the brains 

Regaied two sharks, who follow M o'er the billow — 

The sailors ate die rest of poor Pedrilio. 

I. XXVIII. 

The sailors ate him. all save three or four, 
Who wen; not quite bo fond of animal food 

To these was added Juan, who, before 
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 

Feel now Ins appetite increased much more; 
T was nut to be expected thai he should, 

Even Ni extremity of their disaster, 

Dine with them on his pastor and liis master. 

lxxix. 

'T was better that he did not ; for, in fart, 
The consequence was awful in the extreme ; 

For they, who were most ravenous in the act, 

Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did blaspheme! 

And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd, 
Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream, 

Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, 

And, with hyaena laughter, died despairing. 

LXXX. 

Their numbers were much ihinn'd by this infliction, 
And all the rest were thin enough, heaven knows; 

And some of them had lost their recollection, 

Happier than they who si ill perceived their woes ; 

Bui others pondered on b new dissection, 

As if not wam'd sufficiently by those 
Who had already perish'd. Buffering madly, 
For having used their appetites BO sadly. 

Lxxxr. 
And next they thought upon the master's mate, 

As fattest ; but he saved himself because, 
Besides being much averse from such a fate, 

There were some other reasons: the first was, 
He had been rather indisposed of late, 

And that which chiefly proved his saving -lause, 
Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 
By general subscription of the ladies. 

LXXXII. 

Of poor Pedrilio something still remain'd, 
But it was used sparingly, — some were afraid, 

And others still their appetites constrained, 
Or hut at times a little supper made ; 

All except Juan, who throughout nhstain'd. 
Chewing a piece of bamhoo. and some lead: 

At length they caught two boobies and a noddy 

And then they left off eating the dead body. 

LXXXIII. 

And ifPedriuoVfatfl should shocking be, 
Remember rjgolino condescends 

To eat the head of his arch-enemy 

The moment after he politely ends 
Jlis tale ; if foes be food in hell, at sea 

'T is surely fair In dine upon our friends, 

When shipwreck's short allow anoe grows too scanty, 

Without being much more horrible than Dante. 

t \ \ m v . 
And the same night there tell a shower of rain, 

For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth 
When dried to summer dust ; till taught by pain, 

Men really know not what good water 's worth ; 
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 

Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your birth, 
Or in the desert ht^ard the camel's bell, 
You'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a well. 



LXXXT. 

It pour'd down torrents, hut they were no richer, 

Until they found a nagged piece of 
Which served them as i sorl of spongy i itcher, 

And when they deeni'd its moisture was complete, 
They wrung it out, and, though a thirsty ditcher 

Might nol have thought the scanty draught so sweet 
As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 
They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 

I.XXXVI. 

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 
Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream's) , 

Their throats were ovens, thi Lies were Mars 

As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd 

To beg the beggar, who could not, rainbai k 
A drop of dew, when ever} drop had seetn'd 

To taste of heaven — if this be true, ind< i d, 
Some ( 'hristiana have a comfortable creed. 

t XXXVII. 

There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 
And with diem their two sons, of whom the one 

Was more robust and hardy to the view. 
But he died early ; and when be was gone, 

lli- nearest m his sire, who threw 

( me glance on him, and said, " Heaven's will be done 

I can do nothing!" nndhe saw him thrown 

Ento the deep, without a tear or groan. 

LXXXVMI. 

The other father had a weaklier child, 

Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate; 
Bui the boy bore up long, and w ith a mild 

And patient spirit, held aloofhis fate; 
Little he said, and now and then he smiled, 

As if to win apart from "tithe weight 
He saw increasing on his father's heart, 

With the deep deadly thought, that they must part 

I..VXXIX. 
And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 

His eyes from off his i\iro t but wiped the foam 
From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed ; 

And when the wish'd-fbr shower at length was come, 
And the boy's eves, which the dull tilr-i half glased, 

Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd t" roam, 
He squeezed from nul a rag some drops of rain 
Into his dying child's mouth — hut in vain. 

xc. 
The boy expired — the father held the clav, 

And look'd upon it long, and when at last 
1 )eath I' ft no doubt, and the dead burden lay 

StuTon his heart, and pulse and hope were past, 
lb- watched it wistfully, until away 

'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 't was cast, 
Then he himself sunk down, all dumb and shivering, 
And gave no signs of life, save his limbs quivering* 

\< i. 
Now over-head a rainbow, bursting through 

The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea. 
Resting its bright base on the quivering blue; 

And all within its arch appeared to he 
Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 

WaxM broad and waving like a banner tree, 
Then changed like t-> a bow thai 's bent, and then 
Forsook tile dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 

sen. 

It changed, of coup"' ; a heavenly chameleon, 

The airv child of vapour and the sun, 
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 

Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun, 
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, 

And blending every colour into one, 
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle, 
(For sometimes we must box without the muffle.) 



Casto 11. 



DON JUAN. 



615 



xciii. 

Our shipwrerk'd seamen thought it a good omen — 

It is as well to think so, now and then ; 
'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 

And may become of great advantage when 
Folks are discouraged; and most surely no men 

Had greater need to nerve themselves again 
Than these, ami so this rainbow look'd like hope- 
Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. 

xciv. 
About this lime, a beautiful white bird, 

Webfooied, not unlike a dove in size 
And plumage, (probably it mi^ht have err'd 

Upon its course,) pass'd oft before their eyes, 
And tried to perch', although it saw and heard 

The men within the boat, and in this guise 
It came and went, and rlutter'd round them till 
Night fell : — tins seem'd a better omen still. 

XCV.' 

But in this case I also must remark, 

'T was well this bird of promise did not perch, 

Because the tackle of our shatter' d bark 
Was not so safe f »r roosting as a church ; 

An I I. el it been the dove from Noah's ark, 
Reluming there from her successful search, 

Winch in their way that moment chanced to fall, 

They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 

XCVI. 

With twilight it a^ain came on to blow, 
But not with violence ; the stars shone out, 

The boat made way ; yet now they were so low, 
They knew not where nor what they were about; 

Some fancied they saw land, and some said " No!" 
The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt— 

S une swore that they heard breakers, others guns, 

And all mistook about the latter once. 

XCVII. 

As morning broke, the light wind died awav, 

When he who had the watch sung out, and swore 

If *t was not land that rose with the sun's ray 
He wish'd that land he never might see more: 

And the rest rnbb'd their eyes, and saw a bay, 

Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore 

For shore it was, and gradually grew 

Distinct and high, and palpable to view. 

XCVIII. 

And then of these some part burst into tears, 
And others, looking with a stupid stare, 

Could no) vet --fparate their hopes from fears, 
And seem'd as if they had no further care; 

Wlnle a few pray'd — (the first time for some years) — 
And at the bottom of the boat three were 

Asleep; thev shook them bv the hand and head, 

And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 

xrix. 

The dav befi >re, fast sleeping on the water, 
They found a turtle of the hawks-bill kind, 

And by wood fortune, gliding sofily, caught her, 
Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 

Proved even still a more nutritious matter, 
Be sause it left encouragement behind: 

Thev (nought that in such perils, more than chance 

Had sent them this for their deliverance. 

c. 

The land appear'd, a high and rocky coast, 
And higher grew the mountains as they drew, 

Set bv a current, toward it: they were lost 
In various conjectures, for none knew 

To what part of the earth they had been toss'd, 
So changeable had been the winds that blew; 

Some thought it was Mount ./Etna, some the highlands 

OfCandia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 



Meantime the current, with a rising gale, 
Still set i hem onwards to the welcome shore, 

Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale: 
Their living freight was now reduced to four ; 

And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
To heave into the deep with those before, 

Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd 

The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 

cir. 

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat had done 
Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 

Such things, a mother had not known her son 
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; 

By night chill'd, by dav scorch'd, thus one by one 
They perish'd, until wilher'd to these few, 

But chieHv bv a species of self-slaughter, 

In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. 

cm. 

As they drew nit>h the land, which now was seen, 

Unequal in its aspect h<-re and there, 
They felt the freshness of its growing green, 

That waved in forest tops, and smooth'd the air, 
And fell upon their glazed eyes as a screen 

From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare- 
Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 

civ. 
The shore look'd wild, without the trace of man, 

And ^irt by formidable waves; but they 
Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, 

Though right ahead the roaring breakers iay: 
A reef between them also now began 

To show its boiling surf and bounding spray, 
But, finding no place for their landing better, 
They ran the boat for shore, and overset her. 

cv. 

But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; 

And. having learn'd to swim in that sweet river, 
Had often turn'd die art to some account. 

A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, 
He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 

As once, (a feat on which ourselves we prided,) 

Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 

cvi. 
So, here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 

He bnoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 
With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark 

The beach which lay before him, high and dry : 
The greatest danger here was from a shark, 

That carried orf* his neighbour by the thigh; 
As for the other two, they could not swim, 
So nobody arrived on shore but him. 

cvu. 

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, 

Which, providentially for him. was wash'd 
Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, 

And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 't was dashM 
Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore 

The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 
At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 
Roll'don the beach, half senseless, from the sea: 

cvm. 
There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung 

Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 
From whose rehicr.int roar his life he wrung 

Should suck him back to her insa'iate grave : 
And there he lay. full-length, where he was flung, 

Bef ire the entrance of a cliff-wom cave, 
With just enough of life to feel its pain, 
And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain. 



BIG 



DON JUAN. 



Canto II. 



With slow and staggering eHort. he arose, 
Bui sunk again upon his blending knee 

And quivering hand; and then he look'd for those 
Who long had been his mates upon the sea, 

But none of them appeared to share his woes, 
Save one, a corpse from oul the famish*d three, 

Who died fwo days before, and now had found 

An unknown harren beach for burial ground. 

ex. 
And, as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, 

And down he sunk, and, a-^ he sunk, the sand 
Swain round and round, and all his senses pass'd: 

He fell upon his side, and Ins stretch'd hand 
"Iroop'd dripping on the our, (their jury-mast,) 

And, like a wilher'd lily, on the land 
His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, 
As fair a thing as e'er was fonnM of clay. 

CXI. 

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, 

And time had nothing more of night nor day 
For his ron.jealiiii; bW>d, and senses dim 

And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, 

And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life, 

For Death, though vanquished, still retir'd with strife. 

exit. 
His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed, 

For all was doubt and dizziness: he thought 
He still was in the boat, and bad but dozed, 

And felt asain with his despair o'erwrought, 
And wish'd it death in which he had reposed; 

And then once more his feelings back were brought, 
And slowly bv his swimming eves was seen 
A lovely female face of seventeen. 

CXIII. 

'T was bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
Seern'd almost prying into bis for breath ; 

And chafing him, the soft warm band of youth 
Recall'd his answering spirits back from death: 

And, bathing bis chill temples, tried to sooth 
Each pulse to animation, till beneath 

Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 

To these kind etforts made a low reply. 
CXIT. 

Then was the cordial pour*d, and mantle flung 
Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm 

Rais'd higher the faint head which o'er it hung; 
And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 

Pillow'd his death-like (ori-licad ; then she wrung 
His dewy curls] long drenched by every storm; 

And watch'd with eagerness each ihrob that drew 

A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers too. 

(XV. 

And lifting him With care into the cave, 

The gentle girl, and her attendant, — one 
Young yet her elder, and of brow less grave, 

And more robust offigure, — then 
To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 

Light to the rocks that roofd ihem, which the sun 
Had never seen, the maid, or whatso'er 
She was, appearM distinct, and tall, and fair. 

CXVI. 

Her brow was overhung with coin« of gold, 
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 

Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll* J 
In braids behind, and though her stature were 

Even of the highest for a fomale mould, 

They nearlv peach'd her heel ; and in her air 

There was a something which bespoke command, 

Ah one who was a lady in the land. 



;xvn. 

Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 

Were blurk as death, their lashes the same hue, 

Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
I teepest attraction, for when to the view 

Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
Ne'er with such fotce ih** swiftest arrow flew; 

'T is as the snake, late coil'd, who pours his length, 

And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 

CXVIII. 

Her brow was white and low, her cheeks' pure dyo 
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 

Short upper lip — sweet lips! that make us sigh 
Ever to have Been such ; for she was one 

Fit for the model of a statuary, 

(A race of mere impostors, when all *s done 

1 've sees much finer women) ripe and real, 

Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal.) 

CXIX, 

I Ml tell you why I say so, for 't is just 
One should not rail without a decent cause: 

There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 

A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 

Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, 

They will destroy a face which mortal thought 

Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. 

cxx. 

And such was she, the lady of the cave: 

Her dress was very different from the Spanish, 

Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave; 

For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 

Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave 
Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 

The basquina and the mantilla, they 

Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

CXXI. 

But with our damsel this was not the ease: 
Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spun ; 

Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, 

But through them gold and gems profusely shone, 

Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 

Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 

Flash'd on ht-r little hand ; hut, what was shocking, 

Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. 

CXXIX. 

The other female's dress was not unlike, 

But of inferior materials: she 
Had not so manv ornaments to strike: 

Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike, 

Was coarser ; and her air, though firm, less tree ; 
Her hair was thicker, bnt less long; her eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 

exxni. 

And these two tended him, and cheerd him hoth 

With food and raiment, and those soft attentions, 
Which are (as I nuist own) offemale growth, 

And have ten thousand delicate inventions; 
They made a most superior mess of broth, 

A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, 
But the best dish that e'er was eook'd since Homer's 
Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 

cxxiv. 
I '11 tell you who they were, this female pair, 

Lest they should seem princesses in disguise ; 
Besides I hate all mystery, and that air 

Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize; 
And so, in short, the girls they really were 

They shall appear before your curious eyes, 
Mistress and maid ; the first was only daughter 
Of an old man who lived upon the water 



OlSTO II. 



DON JUAtf. 



517 



cvxr. 
A fisherman he had been in Ills youth; 
Ar.'l still a sort of fisherman was he; 

Bui other speculations were, in sooth, 
Added io his connexion with the sea, 

Perhaps, mn so respectable, in truth : 

A Utile smug^iiiiii, and sunn' piracv, 
Left him, af last, the soli- of many masters 
Of in ill-got en million of piastres. 

CXXVI. 

A fisher, therefore, was he — though of men, 

Like Peter the Apostle, — and he fish'd 
For wandering merchant vessels, now and then, 

And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd ; 
The cargoes he confi-cated, and gain 

He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 
Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, 
By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 

cxxvu. 
He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 

(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 
A very handsome house from out his guilt, 

And there he lived exceedingly at ease ; 
Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, 

A sad old fellow was he, if vou please, 
But this I know, it was a spacious building, 
Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 

CXXVIII. 

He had an only daughter calFd Haidee, 
The grealest heiress of the Eastern isles ; 

Besides so very beautiful was she, 

Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles: 

S'till in her teens, and like a lovely tree 

She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 

Rejected several suitors, just to learn 

How to accept a better in his turn. 

CXMX. 

An 1 walking out upon the beach below 

The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, 

Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 

Don Juan, almost farnish'd. and halfdrown'd; 

But. being naked, she was shockM, you know, 
Yet deemM herself in common pity bound, 

As far as in her lay, " to take him in, 

A stranger," dying, with so white a skin. 

exxx. 

But taking him into her father's house 

Was not exactly the best way to save, 
But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 

Or people in a trance into their grave ; 
Because the good old man had so much " vou;," 

Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, 
He would have hospitably cured the stranger, 
And sold him instantly when out of danger. 

CXXXI. 

And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best 

(A virgin always on her maid relies) 
To place him in the cave for present rest : 

And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, 
Their charity increased about their guest: 

And their compassion grew to such a size, 
It open'd half the turnpike gates to heaven — 
(Saint Paul says 'i is the toll which must be given.) 

CXXXII. 

They made a fire, but such a fire as they 
Upon the moment could contrive with such 

Materials as were cast up round the bay, 

Some broken planks and oars, that to the touch 

Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay, 
A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; 

But, bv God's «race, here wrecks were in such plenty, 

That there was fuel to have furnished twenty. 



CXXXUI, 

He had a bed of furs and a pelisse. 

For Haidee stripp'd tier sables off to make 

His couch ; and that he might be more at ease, 
And warm, in case by chance he should awake 

They also gave a petticoat apiece, 

She and her maid, and promis'd by daybreak 

To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish, 

For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 

CXXXIV 

And thus ihev left him to his lone repose 

Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, 
Who sleep at last, perhaps, (God only knows,) 

Just for the present, and in his lull'd head 
Not even a vision of nis former woes 

Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread 
Unwelcome visions of our former years, 
Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 

exxxv. 
Young Juan slept all dreamless : — but the maid 

Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den, 
Look'd back upon him, and a moment stav'd, 

And turn'd, believing that he call'd a^ain. 
He slumber'd ; yet she thought, at least she said, 

(The heart will slip even as the tongue and pen,) 
He had pronounced her name — but she furgot 
That at this moment Juan knew it not. 

CXXXVI. 

And pensive to her father's house she went, 

Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 
Better than she knew what, in fact, she meant, 

She being wiser by a year or two: 
A year or two 's an age when rightly spent, 

And Zoe spent hers as most women do, 
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
Which is acquired in nature's good old college. 

cxxxvii. 
The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still 

Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 
His rest ; the rushing of the neighbouring rill, 

And the young beams of the excluded sun. 
Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill ; 

And need he had of slumber yet, for none 
Had surfer'd more —his hardships were comparative 
To those related in my grand-dad's narrative. 

cxxxvin. 

Not so Haidee; she sadly toss'd and tumbled, 
And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, 

Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled, 
And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore ; 

And woke her maid so early that she grumbled, 
And calld her father's old slaves up, who swore 

In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek, — * 

They kuew not what to think of such a freak. 

exxxix. 

But up she got, and up she made them get, 

With some pretence about the sun, that makes 

Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set; 

And 't is, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks 

Bright Pho-bus, while tin- mountains Btill are wet 
With mist, and every bird with him awakes, 

And night is flung otf like a mourning suit 

Worn for a husband, or some other brute. 

CXL. 

I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 

I Ve seen him rise full oft. indeed of late 
I have set upon purpose all the night, 

Whjch hastens, as phvsirians say, one's fate ; 
And so all ye, who would be in the right 

In health and purse, begin your day to date 
From day-break, and when coffin'd at fourscore, 
Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four 



1*18 



DON JUAN. 



Canto II. 



And Haidee me! the morning face to face ; 

Her own was freshest, though :i feverish flush 
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 

From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush. 
Like to a torrent which a mountain's base, 

That overpowers some AJpine river's rush, 
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spreadj 
Or the Kid Sea — but the sea Is no) red. 

CXUTJ, 

And down the clirT the island virgin came, 
And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, 

While the sun smiled on her with his lirst llamo, 
And young Aurora iriss'd her lips with dew, 

Taking her f >r a sister ; just the same 
Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, 

Although the mortal] quite as fresh and fair, 

Had ail the advantage too of not being air. 

cxi. in. 
And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd, 

All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
Thai like an infant .limn sweell) slept : 

And then she gtoppM, and stood as if in awe, 
(For sleep is awful.) and on tiptoe crept 

And wrapp'd him closer, lest the air, too raw, 
Should reach his blood : then o'er him, still as death, 
Bent with hush'd lips that drank his scarce-drawn breath. 

CXLIV. 

And thus, like to an angel o'er the dying 

Who die in righteousness, she ieatvd ; and there 

All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying, 
As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air: 

But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying, 
Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 

Must breakfast, and betimes — lest they should ask it, 

She drew out her provision from the basket. 

cxi-v. 
She knew that the best feelings must have victual, 

And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be; 
Besides, being Less in love, she yawn'd a little, 

And fell her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea ; 
And so, she cook'd their breakfasl t<> a tittle ; 

I can't say that she gave them any tea, 
But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, 
With Scio wine,— and all for love, not money. 

CXl.VI. 

And Zofi, when the eggs were ready, and 
The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan; 

But Haidee stopp'd her w ith her quick small hand, 
And without word, a sign her linger drew on 

Her lip, which Zoo needs must understand; 

And, the tirsi breakfast Bpoil'd, prepared a new one, 

Because her mistress would not let her break 

That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake. 

C x i. v 1 1 . 

For still he lay. and on his thm worn cheek, 

A purple hectic play'd, like dyiiq 
On [he snow tops of distant hills ; the streak 

Of sufferance yel upon his forehead lay. 
Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and weak ; 

And his black curls were dewy with the spray. 
Which weigh'd upon them yel all damp and salt, 
Mbc'd wuh the stony vapours of the vault. 

I VI.VIII. 

And she bent o'er him, and he l.iv beneath, 
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 

Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, 
Lult'd like the depth of ^ocoon when at rest, 

Fuir as the crowning ruse of the whole wreath, 

Soft as the callow cygnet in its nesl ; 
In short, he was a very pretty fellow, 
Although his woes had lurn'd him rather yellow. 



CXLIX. 

He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, 
But the fair face which met his t-vi-s, forbade 

Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 
Had further Bleep a further pleasure made ; 

For woman's face was never form'd in vain 
For Juan, so that even when he pra\M, 

He turn'd from grist) saints, and mar yn hairy, 

To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 

CL. 

And thus Upon his elbow he arose, 

And look'd upon the lady in whose cheek 

The paie contended with the purple raaSj 
As with an effort she began io speak; 

II. r . \ es were eloquent, her words would pose, 
A. hough she toM him m good modern Greek 

With an Ionian accent, low and sweoL 

That he was faint, and must not talk, but cat. 

CXI. 

Now Juan could not understand a word, 
t !t-iiii» r r. ri. in ; hut he had an i ar, 

And her voice was the warble of a bin!, 
So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, 

That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard; 
The sort of sound we echo with a tear, 

Without knowing why — an overpowering tone, 

Whence melody descends, as from a throne. 

CLir. 

And Juan gazed, as one who is awoke 

By a distant organ, doubting if he be 
Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 

By the watchman, or some such reality, 
Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 

At least it is a heavy sound to me, 
Who like a morning slumber — f >r the night 
Shows stars and women in a better light. 

CLIII. 

And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream, 
Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling 

A most prodigious appetite: the steam 
Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 

Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 
Of tin- new fire which Zoe" kept up, kneeling 

To stir her viands, made him quite awake 

And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak. 

CLIV. 

But beef is rare within these oxless isles; 

Goats' llesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, 
And when a holiday upon them smiles, 

A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on : 
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, 

For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on, 
Others are fair and ferule, among which, 
This, though not large, was one of the most rich. 

CLV. 

I sav that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 
That the old fable of llie Mnmlaur — 

From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking, 

< 'undi tun the royal lady's taste who wore 
A c tw's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 

The allegory) a mere type, no more, 
That Pasiphae* promoted breeding cattle. 

To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 

CLVI. 

For we all know that English people are 
Fed U|H>n beef — I won't say much of beer, 

Because 't is liquor only, and being far 

From this my subject, has no business here:— 

We know, too, they are very fund ol warj 
A pleasure — like all pleasures — rather dear ; 

So were the Cretans — from which I infer 

Thai beef and battles both were owing to her. 



Canto II. 



DON JUAN. 



519 



CLYIf. 

Bui to resume. The lansuid Juan raised 

His head upon his elbow, and he saw 
A sight on which he had not lately gazed, 

As all his latter meals had been quite raw, 
Three or four things f_>r winch the Lord he praised, 

And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw, 
He fell upon whale'er was olTer'd, like 
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 

CLVIII. 

He ate, and he was well supplied ; and she, 

Who watrh'd him like a mother, would have fed 

Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see 
Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead : 

But Zoe, being older than Haidee, 

Knew (hv tradition, for she ne'er had read) 

That famish'd people must be slowly nursed, 

And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 

CLIX. 

And so she took the liberty to state, 

Rather by deeds than words, because the case 

Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 
Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 

The seashore at this hour, must leave his plate, 
Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 

She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel, 

Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill. 

CLX. 

Next thev — he being naked, save a tatter'd 
Pair of scarce decent trousers — went tu work, 

And in the fire his recent rags they scattered, 
And dress'd him, f tr the present, like a Turk, 

Or Greek — that is, although it not much matter'd, 
Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 

They funiish'd him, entire except some stitches, 

With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 

CLXI. 

And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking, 
But not a word could Juan comprehend, 

Although he listcn'd so that the young Greek in 
Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end; 

'Vnd, as he interrupted not, went eking 
Her speech out to her protege and friend, 

Till, pausing at the last her breath to take, 

She saw he did not understand Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And then she had recourse to nods, and signs, 
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, 

And read (the only book she could) the lines 
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, 

The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 

And thus in every look she saw express'd 

A world of words, and things at which see guess'd. 

CLXIII. 

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 

And words repeated after her, he took 
A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise, 

No doubt, less of her language than her look : 
As he who studies fervently the skies 

Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, 
Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better 
From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 

CX. XXV. 

*T is pleasin? to be sohool'd in a strange tongue 
By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean, 

When both the teacher and the taught are young, 
As was the case, at least where I have been ; 

Thev smile so when one 's right, and when one 's wrong 
They smile still more, and then there intervene 

Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss ;— 

I leara'd the little that I know by this: 



That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, or Greek, 
Italian not at all, having no teachers, 

Much English I cannot pretend to speak, 

Learning that language chiefly from its preachers, 

Barrow, South, Tillotson. whom every week 
I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 

Of eloquence in pietv and prose — 

I hate your poets, so read none of those. 

CLXVt. 

As for the ladies, I have naught to say, 

A wanderer from the British world of fashion, 
Where T, like other " dogs, have had my day," 

Like other men, too, may have had my passion- 
But that, like other things, has pass'd away: 

And all her fools whom I could lav the lash on, 
Foes, Iriends, men, women, now are naught to me 
But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 

CLX VII. 

Return we to Don Juan. He begun 
To hear new words, and to repeat them ; but 

Some feelings, universal as the sun, 

Were such as could not in his breast be shut 

More than within the bosom of a nun : 

He was in love — as you would be, no doubt, 

With a young benefactress, — so was she 

Just in the way we very often see. 

CLXVIII. 

And every day by daybreak — rather early 
For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest — 

She came into the cave, but it was merely 
To see her bird reposing in his nest; 

And she would softly stir his locks so curly, 
Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest, 

Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, 

As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 

clxix. 

And every morn his colour freshlier came, 
And every day help'd on his convalescence, 

'Twas well, because health in the human frame 
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence, 

For health and idleness to passion's flame 

Are oil and gunpowder ; and some good lessons 

Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 

Without whom Venus will not long attack us. 

CLXX. 

While Venus fills the heart, {without heart really 
Love, though good always, is not quite so good,) 

Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, 

For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood.— 

While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly ; 
Eggs, oysters loo, are amatory food; 

But who is their purveyor from above 

Heaven knows, — it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. 

CLXXI. 

When Juan woke, he found some good things ready, 
A hath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 

That ever made a youthful heart less steady, 
Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size; 

But I have spoken of all this already — 

And repetition 's tiresome and unwise, — 

Well — Juan, after bathing in the sea, 

Came always back to coffee and Haidee. 

CLXXII. 

Both were so young, and one so innocent, 
That bathing ithing; Juan seem'd 

To her, as y t were the kind of being sent. 
Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, 

A something to be loved, a creature mean) 
To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd 

To render happy ; all who joy would win 

Must share it, — happiness was born a twin. 



520 



DON JUAN. 



Ca^to II. 



CLXXIII. 

Jt was Buch pleasure to behold him, such 
Enlargement of existence to partake 

Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, 
To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake. 

To live wilh him forever were too mud) ; 

But then ihe thought of parting made her quake : 

He was her own, her ocean treasure, cast 

Like a rich wreck — her first love and her last. 

CI.XXIV. 

And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee 

Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
Such plentiful precautions, that still he 

Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook: 
At last her father's prows put out to sea, 

For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
Not as of yore to carry olfan Io, 
But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Then came her freedom, f » r she had no mother, 
So that, her father being at sea, she was 

Free as a married woman, or such other 
Female, as where she likes may freely pass, 

Without even the encumbrance of a brother, 
The freest she that ever gazed on glass: 

I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, 

Wnere wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk, 

{For they must talk,) and he had learnt to say 

So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
For little had he wanderM since the day 

On which, like a young Bower snapp'd from the stalk, 
Drooping am! dewy on the beach he lay, — 

And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, 

And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 

CLXXVII. 

It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, 

With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, 

Guarded bv shoals and rocks as by a host, 

With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 

A better welcome to the tempest-toss'd ; 
And rarely erased the haughty billows' roar, 

Save on the dead long summer days, which make 

The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 

CI. XXVIII. 

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 

Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, 

When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, 
That springdew of the spirit ! the heart's rain ! 

Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach 
Who please, — the more because they preach in vain,- 

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter. 

Sermons and soda-water the day after. 

CLXXIX. 

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; 

The best of life is but intoxication: 
Glory, ill ■ ^rap<\ love, gold, in these are sunk 

The hopes of all men, and of every nation ; 
Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk 

Of life's strange tree, bo fruitful on occasion 
But to return, — gel Very drunk ; and when 
You wake with headaeh, you shall see what then* 

CLXXX. 

Ring for your valet — bid him quickly bring 
Some hock and soda-water, then you Ml know 

A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king; 

For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with snow 

Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring, 
Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow 

After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter. 

Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water. 



CLXXXI. 

The coast — I think it was the coast that I 

Was just describing — Yes, it was the coast- 
Lav at tiiis period quiet as the akj, 

The sands untumbled, the blue wares untoss'd, 
And all was stillness, save the sea-bird ■ cry, 

And dolphin's leap, and tittle Billow cross'd 
By some low rock or shelve that made it fret 
Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 

CLXXXII. 

And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 

As I have said, upon an expedition; 
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, 

Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
She waited on her lady with the sun, 

Though da iU service was lu-r only mission, 
Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses, 
And asking now and then t">r cast-off df eases. 

II XXXIII. 

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, 

Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded, 
Girding all nature, hush'd, and dim. and still, 

With the far mountain-crescent, ha If surrounded 
On one side, and the dot p sea calm and chill 

Upon the other, and the rosy sky. 

With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 

CLXXXIV. 

And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand, 

Over the shining pebbles and the shells, 
Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand, 

And in the worn and wild receptacles 
WorVd by the storms, yet work'd as it were ptann'd, 

In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, 
They tum'd to rest; and, each clasped by an arm, 
Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 

CLXXX v. 

They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright; 

They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 
Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight ; 

They heard the waves splash, and the wind so low, 
And saw eaeh other's dark eyes darling light 

Into each other — and, beholding this, 

Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss; 

CI.XXXVI. 

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and lore, 
And beauty, all concentrating, like rays 

Into one focus kindled from above ; 
Such kisses as belong to early days, 

Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, 
And the blood's lava, and the pulse n blaze, 

Each kiss a heart-quake.— for a kiss's strength, 

1 think it must be reckon'd by its length. 

CLXXX VII. 

Bv length I mean duration; theirs endured 
Heaven knows how long — no doubt they never reckon J 

And if they had, they could not have secured 
The sum oftheit sensations to a second: 

They had not spoken ; bul they fell allured, 
As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, 

Which, bring joiu'd, li. <- •warming bees tbey clung — 
Their hearts the flowes, trorn whence the honey sprung. 

CLxxxvni. 
They were alone, yet not alone as they 

Who, shut in chambers, think it loneliness; 
The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, 

The twilight glow, which momently grew less, 
The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay 

Around them, made them to each other press, 
As if there were no life beiie&ih the sky 
Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 



Canto It. 



DON JUAN. 



621 



CLXXXIX, 

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, 
They felt no terrors from the night, they were 

All in all to each other: though their speech 

Was broken words, they thought a language there,— 

And all the burning tongues the passions teach 
Found in one sigh the best interpreter 

Of nature's oracle — first love, — that all 

Which Eve has left her (laughters since her fall. 

cxc. 

Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, 

Nor orier'd any ; she had never heard 
Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 

Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd; 
She was all which pure ignorance allows, 

And flew to her young mate like a young bird ; 
And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 
Had not one word to say of constancy. 

CXCI. 

She loved, and was beloved — she adored, 

And she was worshipp'd ; after nature's fashion, 

Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, 

If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,— 

But by degrees their senses were restored, 
Again to be o'ercome, a«ain to dash on ; 

And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidce's heart 

Felt as if never more to beat apart, 

cxcn. 

Alas ! they were so young, bo beautiful, 
So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 

Was that in which die heart is always full, 
And, having o'er itself no further power, 

Prompts deeds eternity cannot annul, 

But pays off moments in an endless shower 

Of hell-fire — all prepared for people giving 

Pleasure or pain to one another living. 

exem. 

Alas! for Juan and Haidee! they were 
So loving and so lov ly — till then never, 

Excepting our first parents, such a pair 
Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever ; 

And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, 

Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, 

And hell and purgatory — but. forgot 

Just in the very crisis she should not. 

cxciv. 
They look upon each other, and their eyes 

Gleam in the moonlight; and her white arm clasps 
Round Juan's head, and his around hers lies 

Half buried in the tresses which it grasps; 
She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, 

He hers until they end in broken gasps ; 
And thus they form a group that 's quite antique, 
Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 

exev. 
And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, 

And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, 
SIk slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 

Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms, 
And now and then her eye to heaven is cast, 

And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, 
Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants 
With all it granted, and with all it grants. 

CXCTX. 

An infant when it gazes on a light, 

A child the moment when it drains the breast, 

A devotee when soars the host in sight, 
An Arab widi a stranger for a guest, 

A sailor, when the pr»»* has struck in fight, 
A miser filling his most hoarded chest, 

Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 

As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping. 
3d 



CXCVII. 

For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, 

All that it hath of life with lis is living ; 
So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, 

And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving, 
All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 

HusliM into depths beyon 1 the watcher's diving; 
There lies the thing we love with all its errors, 
And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 

exevm. 
The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 

Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, 
O'erflow'd her soul with their united power; 

Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude 
She and her wave-worn love had made their bower, 

Where naught upon their passion could intrude, 
And all the stars that crowded the blue space 
Saw nothing happier than her glowing face 

CXCIX. 

Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 

To be a lovely and a fearful thing; 
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 

And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring 
To them hut mockeries of the past alone, 

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, 
Deadly, and quick, and crushing: yet as real 
Torture is theirs — what they inflict they feel. 

cc. 
They 're right ; for man, to man so oft unjust, 

Is always so to women ; one sole bond 
Awaits them, treachery is all their trust; 

Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond 
Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 

Buys them in marriage — and what rests beyond 
A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, 
Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over. 

ccr. 

Some take a lover, some take drams or pravers, 
Some mind their household, others dissipation, 

Some run away, and but exchange their cares, 
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station; 

Few changes e'er can belter their affairs, 
Theirs being an unnatural situation, 

From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 

Some play the devil, and then write a novel 

ecu. 

Haidee was nature's bride, and knew not this ; 

Haidee was passion's child, horn where the sun 
Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss 

Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was one 
Made but to love, to feel that she was his 

Who was her chosen : what was said or done 
Elsewhere was nothing— She had naught to fear, 
Hope, care, nor love beyond, her heart beat here. 

cciir. 
And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat! 

How much it costs us, yet each rising throb 
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, 

That wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat 

Fine truths ; even conscience, too, has a tough job 
To make us understand each good old maxim, 
So good — I wonder Castlcreagh do n't tax 'em. 

CCIV. 

And now 't was done — on the lone shore were plighted 
Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed 

Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : 

Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, 

By their own feelings hallow'd and united, 

Their priest was solitude, and they were wed: 

And they were happy, for to their young eyes 

Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 



522 



DON JUAN. 



t ihto nr. 



Oh love ! of whom great C»sar was the suitor, 

Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 

Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave 
All those may leap who rather would be neuter— 

(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) — 
Oh Love ! thou ari the very god of evil, 
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 

ccvi. 

Thou makest the chaste connubial slate precarious, 
Andjeslest with the brows of mightiest men: 

Ciesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 

Have much employed the muse of history's pen ; 

Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, — 
Such worthies time will never see again : — 

Vet to these four in threw things the same luck holds, 

They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. 

(.XV II. 

Thou makes t philosophers: there 's Epicurus 

And Aristippus, a material crew! 
"Who to immoral courses would allure us 

By theories, quite practicable too ; 
If only from the devil they would insure us 

How pleasant were the maxim, (not quite new,) 
" Eat, drink, and love, what can the res! avail us?" 
So said the royal sage, Sardanapalus. 

CCVII1. 

But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia? 

And should be have forgotten her so soon ? 
I can't but say it seems to me most truly a 

Perplexing question; but, tin doubt, the moon 
Does these tilings for us, and whenever newly a 

Palpitation rises, 'tis her boon, 
Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
Have such a charm for us poof human creatures7 

cnx. 
I hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest, 

Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal mado 
Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast 

No permanent foundation can be laid ; 
Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, 

And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 
I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 
Which gave me some sensations like a villain. 

ccx. 

But soon philosophy came to my aid, 

And whisper'd " think of every sacred tie!" 
" I will, my dear philosophy !" I said, 

H But then her teeth, and then, oh heaven! bur eye! 
I Ml just inquire if she be wife or maid, 

Or neither — out of curiosity." 
" Slop !" cried philosophy, with air so Grecian 
(Though she was mask'd then as a fair Venetian)— 

CCXl. 

" Step!" so I stopp'd. — But to return: that which 

Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
Than admiration due where nature 's rich 

Profusion with young beauty covers o'ejf 
Some favour' d ohject ; and as in the niche 

A lovely statue we almost adore, 
This sort of admiration of the real 
Is but a heightening of the " beau ideal." 

CCX1I. 

T is the perception of the beautiful, 

A fine extension of the faculties, 
Platonic, universal, wonderful, 

Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies, 
Without which life would be extremely dull ; 

In shc-rt, it is the use of our own eyes, 
With one or two small senses added, just 
To hint that nVsh is form'd of fiery dust. 



cexm. 

Yet *l is a painful feeling, and unwilling, 
For surely if we always could perceive 

In the same object graces quite as killing 
As n ben she rose upon us lik<- an I 

'T would save us many a hea/taich, many a shilling, 
(For we musi gel thi m an} how, of grieve,) 

Whereas, if • ■ lad | pli ■ ■ ■ ■■ I >i ever, 

How pleasant for the heart, as well aa liver! 

CCXIT. 

The heart is tike : sky, apart ol 

I Eul changes night and day too, like the sky ; 

Nun o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 
And darkness and destruction as on high ; 

But when it hath id, and pi<rced, and riven, 

r I. ■ lire in water-drops j tl 

Pours forth at last die heart's blood turn'd to tears, 

Which make the Sag if our years 

CCX v. 
The liver is the lazaret of bile, 

Hut very i art its function, 

For the first passion stays thore such a while 

That all the rest creep in and form a junction, 
Liko knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil, 

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, 
So licit all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, 
Like earthquakes from the hidden lirecali'd "central.*' 

CI XVI. 

In the mean time, without proceeding moro 

Iii tins anatomy, I 've fintsh'd now 
Two hundred and odd stanzas as bell ire, 

That being about the number I 'II allow 
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four; 

And, laying down my pen. I make my bow, 
Leaving I ton Juan and I Eaidee, to plead 
For thein and theirs with all who deign to read. 



CANTO III. 



Haw., Muse ! rt catena. — We left Juan sleeping, 

Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, 
And wateli'd by eyes that never vet Knew weeping, 

And loved by n young heart too deeply blessM 
To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, 

( it ItDOW who rested there ; a toe to res! 
Had BOil'd the current of her sinless years, 
And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to team. 

II. 
Oh, love! what is it in tin- world of ours 

Which makes it fatal to be loved ' Ah, why 
\Vnii cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers. 

And made thy best interpreter a sigh . ; 
As those who doal on odours pluck the dowers, 

And place mem on their breast — but place to die- 
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 
Are laid within 'our bosoms but to perish. 

in. 

In her first passion woman loves her lovor, 

In all the others all she loves is love, 
Which crows a habit she can ne'er get over, 

And fits her loosely — like an easy glove, 
As you may find whene'er you like to prove her: 

One man alone at first her heart can move; 
She then prefers him in the plural number, 
Not finding that the addition* much cucumber. 






Casto III. 



DON JUAN. 



523 



I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 

But one thing 's pretty sure ; a woman planted, 
(Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers,) 

After a decent time must be gallanted ; 
Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs 

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted ; 
Yet there are soma, they say, who have had none, 
But those who have ne'er end with only one, 

v. 

'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign 

Of human frailty, folly, also crime, 
That love and marriage rarely can combine, 

Although they both are oorn in the same clime ; 
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine — 

A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 
Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour 
Down to a very homely household savour. 

vi. 

There 's something of antipathy, as 't were, 
Between their present and their future state ; 

A kind of flattery that's hardly fair 

Isused, until the truth arrives too late — 

Vet what can people do, except despair? 

The same things change their names at such a rate 

For instance — passion in a lover 's glorious, 

But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 

VII. 

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ; 

They sometimes also get a little tired, 
(But that, of course, is rare.) and then despond : 

The same things cannot always be admired, 
Yet 'l is " so nominated in the bond," 

That both are tied till one shall have expired. 
Sad thought! to lose die spouse that was adorning 
Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 

Till. 

There 's doubtless something in domestic doings 
Which forms, in fact, true lover's antithesis ; 

Romances paint at full length peoples wooings, 
But only give a bust of marriages; 

For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, 
There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss: 

Think you, if Laura had bsen Petrarch's wife, 

He would have written sonnets all his life? 

IX. 

All tragedies are finish'd by a death, 

All comedies are ended by a marriage ; 
The future states of both are left to faith, 

For authors fear description might disparage 
The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, 

And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage, 
So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, 
They say no more of Death or of the Lady. 

x. 

The only two that in my recollection 

Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are 

Dante and Milton, and of both the affection 
Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 

Of fault or temper ruin'd the connexion, — 

(Such thinss. in fact, it do n't ask much to mar ;) 

But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 

Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive. 

XI. 

Some persons say that Dante meant theology 

Bv Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
Although my opinion may require apology, 

Deem this a commentator's phantasy, 
Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he 

Decided thus, and show'd good reason why ; 
I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
Meant to personify the mathematics. 



Haidee and Juan were not married, but 

The fault was theirs, not mine: it is not fair, 

Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 

The blame on me, unless you wish they were ; 

Then, if you 'd have them wedded, please to shut 
The book which treats of this erroneous pair, 

Before the consequences grow too awful— 

'T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 

XIII. 

Yet they were happy, — happy in the illicit 

Indulgence of their innocent desires ; 
But, more imprudent grown with every visit, 

Haidee forgot the island was her sire's ; 
When we have what we like, 't is hard to miss i 

At least in the beginning, ere one tires; 
Thus she came often, not a moment losing, 
Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 

xiv. 
Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 

Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, 
For into a prime minister but change 

His title, and 't is nothing but taxation 
But he, more modest, took an humbler range 

Of life, and in an honester vocation 
Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, 
And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 

XT. 

The good old gentleman had been detain'd 

By winds and waves, and some important captures 
And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd, 

Although a squall or two had damped his raptures 
By swamping one of the prizes; he had chain'd 

His prisoners, dividing them like chapters, 

In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars, 

And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. 

xvi. 
Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, 

Among his friends the Mainols ; some he soH 
To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 

Toss'd overboard unsaleable, (being old ;) 
The rest — save here and there some richer one, 

Reserved for future ransom in the hold, — 
Were link'd alike; as for the common people, ho 
Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 

XVII. 

The merchandise was served in the same way, 
Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 

Except some certain portions of the prey, 
Light classic articles of female want, 

French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot tray, 
Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 

All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 

Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 

XVIII. 

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw, 

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, 

He chose from several animals he saw — 

A terrier too, which once had been a Briton's, 

Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, 

The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance; 

These to secure in this strong blowing weather, 

He caged in one huge hamper altogether. 

XIX. 

Then having settled his marine affairs, 

Despatching single cruisers here and there, 

His vessel having need of some repairs, 

Ho shaped his course to where his daughter fair 

Continued still her hospitable cares; 

But that part of the coast being shoal and bare, 

And rough with reefs which ran out many a miU, 
! His port lay on the other side o' the ide 



524 



DON JUAN. 



Canto III. 



And there he went ashore without delay, 

Having no custom-house or quarantine 
To ask him awkward questions on the way 

About the time and place where he had been : 
He left hia ship to be hove down next day, 

With orders to the people to careen ; 
So that all hands were busy beyond measure, 
In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 

XXI. 

Arriving at the summit of a hill 

Which overlook'd the white walls of his home, 
He stopped. — What singular emotions till 

Their bosoms who have been induced to roam! 
With fluttering doubts if all he well or ill — 

Willi love for many, and with fears for some ; 
All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost, 
And bring our hearts back to their starling-post. 

x 1 1 1 . 
The approach of home to husbands and to sires, 

After long travelling by land or water, 
Most naturally some small doubt inspires— 

A female family's a serious matter ; 
(None trusts the sex more, or so much admires 

But they hale flattery, so I never flatter;) 
Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, 
And daughters sometimes run off with the butler. 

XXIII. 

An honest gentleman at his return 

May not have the good fortune of Ulysses : 

Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, 
Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses ; 

The odds are that he finds a handsome urn 

To his memory, and two or three young misses 

Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches, 

And that his argus bites him by — the breeches. 

XXIV. 

If single, probably his plighted fair 

Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; 

But all the better, f! jr the happy pair 

May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, 

He may resume his amatory care 
As cavalier servente, or despise her; 

And, that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 

Write odes on the inconstancy of woman. 

XXV. 

And oh! ye gentlemen who have already 
Some chaste liaison of the kind — I mean 

An honest friendship with a married lady— 
The only thing of this sort ever seen 

To last — of all connexions the most steady 

And the true Hymen, (the first 's but a screen) — 

Vet for all that keep not too long away ; 

I 'vo known the absent wrong'd four times a-day. 

XXVI. 

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 

Much less experience of dry land than ocean, 

On seeing his own chimney smoke, felt glad ; 
But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 

Of the true reason of his not being sad, 
Or that of any other strong emotion ; 

He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her, 

But knew the cause no inure than a philosopher. 

XXVII. 

He saw his white walls shining in the sun, 
His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 

He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run, 

The distant dog-bark ; ami perceived between 

The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun, 
The moving figures and the sparkling sheen 

Of arms, (in the East all arm.) and various dyes 

Of colour'd garbs as bright as butterflies. 



XXVIII. 

And as the spot where they appear he nears, 
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, 

He hears — alas ! no music of the spheres, 
But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling! 

A melody winch made him doubt his ears, 

The cause being past his guessing or unriddling , 

A pipe too and a drum, and, shortly after, 

A most uuorienlal roar of laughter. 

XXIX. 

And still more nearly to the place advancing, 
Descending rather quickly the declivity, 

Thro' the waved branches, o'er the greensward glancing, 
'Midst other indications of festivity 

Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 

Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, 

To which" the Levantines are very partial. 

XXX. 

And further on a group of Grecian girls, 

The first and tallest her white kerchief waring, 

Were strung together like a row of pearls ; 

LinkM hand in hand, and dancing ; each too having 

Down her white neck long floating aubum curls — 
(The least of which would set ten poets raving,) 

Their leader sang — and bounded to her song, 

With coral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

XXXI. 

And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays, 

Small social parties just begun to dine ; 
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 

And flasks of Samian andofGhian wine, 
And sherbet cooling in the porous vase ; 

Above them their desert grew on its vine, 
The orange and pomegranate, nodding o'er, 
Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store, 

XXXII. 

A band of children, round a snow-white ram, 
There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers ; 

While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb, 
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 

His sober head majestically tame, 

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 

His brow as if in act to butt, and then, 

Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 

xxxin. 

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, 
Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, 

Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, 
The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, 

The innocence which happy childhood blesses, 
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 

So that the philosophical beholder 

Sigh'd for their sokes — that they should e'er grow older 

XXXIV. 

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 

To a sedate gray circle of old smokers, 
Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 

Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers. 
Of charm* to make gixni gold and cure bad ails, 

Of rocks bewitched that open to the knockers, 
Of magic ladies, who, by one sole act, 
Transform'd their lords to beasts, (but that 'a a fact.) 

XXXV 

Here was no lack of innocent diversion 

Kor the imagination or the BerjSSS, 
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 

All pretty pastime in which no offence is; 
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, 

Perceiving in his absence such expenses, 
Dreading that climax of all human ills, 
The inflammation of his woekly bills. 






CaNtu III. 



DON JUAN. 



525 



XXXVI. 

Ah! what is man ? what perils still environ 
The happiest mortals even after dinner — 

A day of gold from out an age of iron 
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner ; 

Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren, 
That lures to flay alive the young beginner; 

Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 

Was such as lire accords to a wet blanket. 

XXXVII. 

He — being a man who seldom used a word 
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 

(In general he surprised men with the sword) 
His daughter — had not sent before to advise 

Of his arrival, so tnai do one stirr'd ; 

And long he paused to reassure his eves, 

In fact much more astonish'd than delighted 

To tind so much good company invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He did not know — (alas! how men will lie) — 
That a report — (especially the Greeks) — 

Avouch'd his death, (such people never die,) 
And put his house in mourning several weeks. 

But now their eves and also lips were dry; 

The bloom too had relurn'd to Haidee's cheeks ; 

Her tears too being return'd into their fount, 

She now kept house upon her own account. 

XXXIX, 

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, win?, and fiddling, 
Which lurn'd the isle into a place of pleasure; 

The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
A life which made them happy beyond measure. 

Her father's hospitality seem'd middling. 

Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure ; 

*T was wonderful how things went on improving, 

While she had not one hour to spare from loving. 

XL. 

Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast 

He flew into a passion, and in fact 
There was no mighty reason to be pleased; 

Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, 
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 

To teach his people to be more exact, 
And that, proceeding at a very high rate, 
He show'd the royal penchants of a pirate. 

XLT. 

You're wronj. — He was the mildest manner'dman 

That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; 
With such true breeding of a gentleman, 

You never could divine his real thought ; 
No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 

Gird more deceit within a petticoat ; 
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 
He was so great a loss to good society. 

XI,II. 

Advancing to the nearest dinner-tray, 

Tapping the shoulder of the niftiest guest, 

With a peculiar smile, which, by the way, 
Boded no good, whatever it express'd, 

He ask'd the meaning of this holiday? 

The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd 

His question, much too merry to divine 

The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine, 

XI.III. 

And. without turning his facetious head, 

Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, 
Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 

'* Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare." 
A second hiccupM, "Our old master's dead, 

You 'd better ask our mistress, who 's his heir." 
11 Our mistress !"— quoth a third : "Our mistress ! — pooh ! 
You mean our master — not the old, but new " 



These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 
They thus address'd — and Lambro's visage fell— 

And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 

Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 

rhe expression, and, endeavouring to resume 
His smile, requested one of them to tell 

The name and quality of his new patron, 

Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron. 

XLV. 

" I know not," quoth the fellow, " who or what 
He is, nor whence he came — and little care ; 

But this I know, that this roast capon 's fat, 

And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare 

And if you are not satisfied with that, 

Direct your questions to my neighbour there ; 

He 'II answer all fi >r better or for worse, 

Fur none likes more to hear himself converse." * 

XLVI. 

I said that Lambro was a man of patience, 
And certainly he show'd the best of breeding, 

Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations 
E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding; • 

He bore these sneers against his near relations, 
His own anxiety, his heart too bleeding, 

The insults too of every senile glutton, 

Who ail the time were eating up his mutton. 

XL VII. 

Now in a person used to much command- 
To bid men come, and go, and come again — 
To see his orders done too out of hand — 

Whether the word was death, or but the chain- 
It may seem strange to find his manners bland ; 
Yet such things are, which I cannot explain, 
Though doubtless he who can command himself 
Is good to govern — almost as a Guelf. 

XLVIII. 

Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, 
But never in his real and serious mood ; 

Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, 
He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood; 

W T ith him it never was a word and blow. 
His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood, 

But in his silence there was much to rue, 

And his one blow left little work for two. 

XLIX. 

He as* d no further questions, and proceeded 
On to the house, but by a private way, 

So that the few who met him hardly heeded, 
So little the/ expected him that day ; 

If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 

For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say, 

But certainly to one, deem'd dead, returning, 

This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 

L. 

If all the dead could now return to life, 

(Which God forbid !) or some, or a great many; 

For instance, if a husband or his wife, 
(Nuptial examples are as good as any,) 

No doubt whate'er might be their former strife, 
The present weather would be much more rainy^ 

Tears shed into the grave of the connexion 

Would share most probably its resurrection. 

LI. 

He enter'd in the house, no more his home, 
A thing to human feelings the most trying, 

And harder for the heart to overcome 

Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying; 

To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb, 

And round its once warm precincts palely lying 

The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, 

i Beyoud a single gentleman's belief. 



526 



DON JUAN. 



Canto III. 



He enterM in the house — his home no more, 
For without hearts there is no home — and felt 

The solitude of passing his own door 

Without a welcome; ttun he long had dwelt, 

There Ins few peaceful days Time had swept o'er, 
There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt 

Over the innocence of that sweet child, 

His only shrine of feelings undcfiled. 

tin. 

He was a man of a strange temperament, 
Of mild demeanour though of savage mood, 

Moderate in all his habiis, ami content 
With temperance in pleasure as in food, 

Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant 
For something belter, if not wholly good; 

His country's wrongs ami his despair to save her 

Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 

LIT. 

The love of power, and rapid gain of gold, 
The hardness by long habitude produced, 

The dangerous life in which be had grown old, 
The mercy he had granted ofl abus< d, 

The sights he was accustom'd i" behold, 

The wild seas and wild men with whom he cruised, 

Had cost his enemies a long repentance) 

And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance. 

LV. 

But something of the spirit of old Greece 
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 

Such as lit onward to the golden fleece 
His predecessors in the < !oli hian days: 

*T is true he had no ardent love lor peace; 
Alas! his country show'd no path to praise: 

Hate to the world and war with every nation 

He wagM, in vengeance of her degradation. 

LVI. 

Still o'er his mind the influence of the elirne 
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 

Its power unconsciously full many a time, — 
A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 

A love of music and of scenes sublime, 
A pleasure in the gentle stream that llow'd 

Past him in crystals, and a joy in flowers, 

Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 

LVII. 

But whatso'er he had of love, reposed • 

On that beloved daughter ; she had been 

The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen, 

A lonely pure affection unopposed: 

There wanted but the loss of this to wean 

His feelings from all milk of human kindness, 

And turn turn, like the Cyclops, mad with blindness. 

LVIII. 

The cubless tigress in her jungle raging 

Is dreadful to the shepherd and the Bock; 

The ocean when its yeasty war is waging 

Is awful to the vessel near the rock: 
But violent things will sooner bear assuaging — 

Their fury being spent by its own shock, — 
Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire 
Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 

LIX. 

It is a hard, although a common case, 

To find our children running restive — they 

In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 
Our little selves refbrm'd in finer clay ; 

Just as old age is creeping on apace, 

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, 

Thev kindly leave us, though not quite alone, 

But in good company — the gout and stone. 



Yet a fine family is a fine thing, 

(Provided they don't come in after dinner;) 
'T is beautiful to see a matron bring 

Her children up, (if nursing them don't thinner;) 
Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 

To the tin-side, {a sight to touch a sinner.) 
A ladv « ith her daughter or her m<-> ee 
Shine like a guinea and seven shilling pieces. 

L3CI. 

Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate, 

And si i within his hall al eventide; 

M< am ime the lady and her lover sate 

At wassail in their beauty and their pride: 
An ivory inlaid table spread with s'ale 

Before them, and fair staves on every side ; 
i iemS] gold, and silver, fbrm'd the sen ice mostly, 
Mother-of-pearl and coral the less cosily. 

LXII. 

The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 

Lamb and pistaehii-nuts — m short, all meats, 
And saffron soups, and sweetbreads; and the fishes 

Were of the finest thai e'er fiounced in nets, 
Uress'd to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes; 
The beverage was various sherbi ts 

Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, 

Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use 

LXXIT. 

These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, 

And fruits and date-bread loaves closed the repast, 
And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, 

In small fine China cups came in at last- 
Gold cups of filigree, made to secure 

The hand from burning, underneath them placed; 
Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too, were boil'd 
Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. 

LXIV. 

The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 

Of velvet panels, each of different hue, 
And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid: 

And round them ran a yellow border too ; 
The upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 

Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue, 
Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 
From poets, or the moralists their belters. 

LXV. 

These oriental writings un the wall, 

Quite common in those countries, are a kind 

Of monitors, adapted to recall, 

Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind 

The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall, 
And took his kingdom from him. — Yon will find, 

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, 

There is no sterner moralist than pleasure. 

I. XVI. 

A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
A genius who has drunk himself to death, 

A rake turn'd uiethodistic or eclectic — 

(For that's the name they like to pray beneath)— 

But most, an alderman Struck apoplectic, 
Are tilings that really take away the breath, 

And show that late hours, wine, and love, are able 

To do not much less damage than die table. 

LXVll. 

Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 

On crimson satin, bordcr'd with pale blue ; 

Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
Of the apartment — and appeared quite new; 

The velvet cushions — {for a throne more meet)— 
Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew 

A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, 

Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue 



Uabto III. 



DON JUAN. 



527 



LXVIII. 

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, 

Had done their work of splendour, Indian mats 

And Persian carpels, the heart bled to stain, 
Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and cats, 

And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gain 
Their bread as ministers and favourites — (that 's 

To say, by degradation)— mingled there 

As plentiful as in a court or fair. 

LXIX. 

There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 

The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
With mother-of-pearl or ivory, stood at hand, 

Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, 
Fretted with gold or silver: bv command, 

The greater part of these were ready spread 
With viands, and sherbets in ice, and wine- 
Kept fur all comers, at all hours to dine. 

LXX. 

Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 

She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yellow ; 

Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise — 

'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow ; 

With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas, 
All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, 

And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, 

Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. 

LXXI. 

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 

Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold 
That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm, 

The limb which it adornM its only mould ; 
So beautiful — its very shape would charm, 

And clinging as if loth to lose its hold, 
The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin 
That e'er by precious metal was held in. 2 

Lxxri. 
Around, as princess of her father's land, 

A like gold bar, above her instep roll'd, 3 
Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her hand ; 

Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine fold 
Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ; 
Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl'd 
About the prettiest ankle in the world. 

LXXIII. 

Her hair's long auburn waves down to hpr heel 
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun 

Dyes with his morning light, — and would conceal 
Her person* if allow'd at large to run ; 

And still thev seem resentfully to feel 

Thi- silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 

Their bonds whene'er some zephvr caught began 

To offer his young pinion as her fan. 

LXXIV. 

Round her she made an atmosphere of life. 
The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
With all we can imagine of the skies, 

And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 

Her overpowering presence made you feel 

It would not be idolatry to kneel. 

LXXV. 

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged, 
(It is tho country's custom,) but in vain; 

F^r those large black eyes were so blackly fringed, 
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain, 

And in their native beauty stood avenged : 
Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again 

The power of art was tuni'd to nothing, fir 

Th*»y eould not look more rosy than V-fore. 



LXXVI. 

The henna should be deeply dyed to make 
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair: 

She had no need of this — day ne'er will break 
On mountain Tops more heavenly white than her: 

The eye might doubt if it were well awake, 
She was so like a vision ; I might err, 

But Shakspeaie also says 'i is very silly 

" To gild refined gold, or pa nt the lily." 

I. XX VII. 

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, 

But a white baracan, and so transparent. 
The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, 

Like small stars through the milky way apparent ; 
His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold, 

An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't 
Surmounted as its clasp — a glowing crescent, 
Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. 

Lxxvnr. 
And now they were diverted by their suite, 

Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, 
Which made their new establishment complete 

The last was of great fame, and liked to show it 
His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 

And for his theme — 'he seldom sung below it, 
He being paid to satirize or flatter, 
As the psalm says, " inditing a good matter." 

LXXIX. 

He praised the present and abused the past, 
Reversing the good custom of old days, 

An eastern anti-jacobin at last 

He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise— 

For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 
By his seeming independent in his lays, 

But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha, 

With truth tike Soulhey, and with verse like Crashaw 

LXXX. 

He was a man who had seen many changes, 
And always changed as true as anv needle, 

His polar star being one which rather ranges, 
And not the tix'd — he knew the way to wheedle. 

So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges , 
And being fluent, (save indeed when fise'd ill,) 

He lied with such a fervour of intention — 

There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension. 

LXXXI. 

But he had genius — when a turncoat has it 

The " vates irritabilis" takes care 
That without notice few full moons shall pass it ; 

Even good men like to make the public stare : — 
But to my subject — let me see — what was it ? 

Oh ! — the third canro — and the pretty pair— 
Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode 
Of living in their insular abode. 

LXXXII. 

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less 

In company a very pleasant fellow, 
Had been the favourite of full manv a mess 

Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow; 
And though his meaning they could rarely guess, 

Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow 
The glorious meed nf popular applause, 
Of which the first ne'tr knows the second cause. 

LXXXTII. 

But now being lifted into high society, 
And having pick'd up several odds and end 

Of free thoughts in his travels, for variety, 

He deem'd, being in a lone isle among friends, 

That without any danger of a riot, he 

Might for long lying make himself amends ; 

And, -mging as he sung in his warm voulb, 

Agree to a short armistice with truth. 



628 



DON JUAN. 



Ca«to FIT. 



LXXXIV. 

He had travell'd 'mong the Arabs, Turks, and Franks, 
And knew the self-loves of the different nations; 

And, having lived with people of all ranks, 
Had something ready upon most occasions — 

Which got him a few presents and some thanks. 
He varied with some skill his adulations; 

To " do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 

Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus, usually, when he was aslt'd to sing, 

He gave the different nations something national; 

'T was all the same to him — " God save the Kin u ," 
Or " Ca ira" according to the fashion ail ; 

His muse made increment of any thing, 
From the high lyrical to the low rational : 

If Pindar sang horseraces, what should hinder 

Himself from being as pliable as Pindar ? 

LXXXVT. 

In France, for instance, he would write a chanson; 

In England, a six-canto quarto tale ; 
In Spain, he M make a ballad or romance on 

The last war — much the same in Portugal; 
In Germany, the Pegasus he 'd prance on 

Would be olo Goethe's — (see what says de Star! ;) 
In Italy, he 'd ape the " Trecentisti ;" 
In Greece, he 'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye. 

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — 
W'here grew the arts of war and peace, — 

W r here Delos rose and Phcebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' " Islands of the Bless'd." 

The mountains look on Marathon — 

And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free, 
For, standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 
W r hich looks o'er sea-horn Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations ; — all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set, where were they? 

And where are they? and where art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The" heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a felter'd race, 

To feel a', least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Mu*t we but weep oYr davs more blessM ? 

Must we but blush ?— Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grunt but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae. 



What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ali ! no ; — the voices of tn<; dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one arise, — we come, we come!" 
'T is but the living who are dumb. 

In vain— in vain: strike other chords; 

Fill high the cup with Saurian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold bacchanal! 
You have tin- Pyrrhic dnnre as yet, 

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone 7 
Of two such lessons, why forget 

The nobler an. I the manlier one'' 
You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
Think ye he meant iheni for a slave? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these. 
It made Anaeretin's snn« divine; 

He served- — bul served Polycrales— 
A tyrant ; but our masters thru 
Were still, ui least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant or the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend , 
That tyrant was Miltiades! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
Fill high tne bowl with Samian wino ! 

On Suli's rrw-k, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the 1 >oric mothers bore ; 

And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 

The Heradeidan Wood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks— 
They have a king who buys and sells. 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of Courage duells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the howl with Samian wine ! 
Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 

I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
But. gazing on each glowing maid, 

My own the burning tear-drop laves, 

To think such brt asis mug) suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep- 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die ■ 

A land of slaves shall ne'er he mine— 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 

LXXXV II. 

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, 
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ; 

If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, 
Yet in these times he miu'ht have done much worse 

His strain displayed some feeling — right or wrong ; 
And feeling, in a poet, is the source 

Of others' feeling ; but they are such liars, 

And lake all colours — like the hands of dyers. 

I.XXXVIII. 

But words are things, aud a small drop of ink 
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces 

That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think , 
*T is strange, the shortes) letter which man i.ses, 

Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 
Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces 

Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, 

Survives hmiaelf, his tomb, and all that 's his. 



C'KTOIII. 



DON JUAN. 



529 



LXXXlX. 

Ana wnen his bones arc* dust, his grave a blank, 
His station, generation, even his nation, 

Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 
In chronological commemoration, 

Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 

Or graven stone found in a barrack's station, 

In digging the foundation of a closet, 

May turn his name up as a rare deposit. 

xc. 
And glory long has made the sages smile ; 

*T is something, nothing, words, illusion, wind- 
Depending more upon the historian's style 

Than on the name a person leaves behind: 
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle ; 

The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, 
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 

xci. 

Milton's the prince of poets — so we say ; 

A little heavy, but no less divine ; 
An independent being in his day — 

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine ; 
But his life falling into Johnson's way, 

We 're told this great high priest of all the Nine 
Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, 
For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 

xcn. 
All these are, certes. entertaining facts, 

Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes 
Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts ; 

Like Burns, (whom Doctor Carrie well describes ;) 
Like Cromwell's pranks ; — but although truth exacts 

These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 
As most essential to their hero's story, 
They do not much contribute to his glory. 

XCI EX. 

All are not moralists like Southey, when 
He prated to the world of " Pantisocracy ;" 

Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy ; 

Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy ; 

When he and Southey, following the same path, 

Espoused two partners, (milliners of Bath.) 

XCIV. 

Such names at present cut a convict figure, 
The very Botany Bay in moral geography ; 

Their loyal treason, renegado vigour, 

Are good manure for their more bare biography. 

Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
Than any since the birthday of typography : 

A clumsy frowzy poem, call'd the " Excursion " 

Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

xcv. 

He there builds up a formidable dyke 

Between his own and others' intellect ; 
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 

Joanna Southcote's Shiloh and her sect, 
Arc things which in this century do n't strike 

The public mind, so few are the elect ; 
And the new births of both their stale virginities 
Have proved but dropsies taken for divinities. 

XCVI. 

But let me to my story: I must own, 

If I have any fault, it is digression ; 
Leaving my people to proceed alone, 

While I soliloquize beyond expression ; 
But these are my addresses from the throne, 

Which put off business to the ensuing session : 
Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 
3 R 



xcvn. 
t know that what our neighbours call " longueurs* 

(We 've not so good a ward, but have the tiling 
In that complete perfection which ensures 

An epic from Bob Southey every spring)— 
Form not the true temptation which allures 

The reader ; but 't would not be hard to bring 
Some fine examples of the epopee, 
'To prove its grand ingredient is emiui* 

XCVIII. 

We learn from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps 
We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes waves, 

To show with what complacency he creeps, 
With his dear " IVagoners" around his lake* ; 

He wishes for " a boat" to sail the deeps — 
Of ocean ? — no, of air ; and then he makes 

Another outcry for " a little boat," 

And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 

XCIX. 

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, 
And Pegasus runs restive in his " wagon," 

Could he not beg the loan of Charles's wain 11 
Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 

Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain, 

Hefear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 

And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, 

Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? 

c. 

" Pedlars," and " boats," and " wagons !" Oh ! ye shades 

Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? 
That trash of such sort not alone evades 

Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 
Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades 

Of sense and song above your graves may hiss— 
The " little boatman" and his " Peter Bell" 
Can sneer at him whodrew " Achitophel !" 

ci. 
T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone, 

The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired; 
The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 

And every sound of revelry expired ; 
The lady and her lover, left alone, 

The rosy flood of twilight sky admired ; — 
Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea, 
That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee ! 

cir. 
Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so ofl 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, 

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
And yet the forest leaves seem stirr'd with praver 

cm. 

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer! 

Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
Ave Maria! oh that face so fair ! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty dove-*» 
What though *t is but a pictured image strike — 
That painting is no idol, 'tis too like. 

civ. 
Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 

In nameless print — that I have no devotion ; 
But set those persons down with me to pray, 

And you shall see who has the properest notion 
Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 

My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 
Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the great whole, 
Who hath produced, and will receive the soul 



530 



DON JUAN. 



Canto iV. 



Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 

Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, 
To where the last Cesarean fortress stood, 

Ever-green forest! which Boccaccio's lore 
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground bo me, 
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee! 

rvr. 
The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 

And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along; 
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's lint-, 

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, 
Which learn'd from tins example not to lly 
From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye. 

cvn. 
Oh Hesperus!* thou bringesl all good things — 

Home to the wearv, to die hungry cheer, 
To ill'' young bird the parent's brooding wings, 

The welcome stall to the o'erlabouVd steer ; 

Whate'er of peart aUnit ..ur hearthstone clings, 
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 

cVxxx. 

Soft hour! c which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 

When they from their sweet friends are torn apart; 
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, 

As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
Seeming to weep the d\ ing day's decay ; 

Is this a fancy which ouj reason scorns? 

Alt ! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! 

I IX. 

When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy 'd 

Amid the roar of liberated Rome, 

Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd, 

Some hands unseen strew'd (lowers upon his tomb:' 
Perhaps die weakness of a heart not void 

Of feeling for some kindness done, whim power 

Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 

ex. 

But I Mn digressing: what on earth has Nero, 

Or any Bttoh like sovereign hufTbons, 
To do with the transactions of mv hero, 

More than such roadmen's fellow-man — the moon's? 
Sun- mv invention must be down at zero, 

And I grown one of many " wooden spoons" 
Of verse, (the Dime with which we Cantabs please 
To dub the last of honours in degrees.) 

CXI. 

I feel this tediousness will never do— 

'T is being too epic, and I must cut down 

(In copying) this long canto into two: 
They Ml never find it out, unless I own 

Tin- fact, excepting smnr experienced few ; 
And then as an improvement 't will be shown: 

I Ml prove that such the "pinion of tho critic is, 

From Aristotle passim.— See nomrurr/f. 



CANTO IV. 



Nothing so difficult as a beginning 

In poesy, unless perhaps the end : 
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 

The race, Ik- sprains a wing, and down we tend, 
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning , 

( Mm sin the same, and hard as his to mend, 
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, 
i own weakness shows us what we are* 

ii. 
But time, which brings all beings to their level, 

And sharp adversity, will teach at last 
Man, — and. as we would hope,— •perhaps the devil, 

That neither of their intellects are \ast: 
While youth's' hoi wishes in our red veins revel] 

\\ <■ know not this— the blood flows on loo fast ; 
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, 
We ponder deepl) on each past emotion. 

Hi. 

As boy, 1 thoughi myself a clever fellow, 

And wish'd that others held I lie same opinion. 

They took it up when my days grew more mellow, 

And other minds acknowledged my dominion: 

Now mv sere fancy " fails into the yellow 
Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion, 

And 'In- sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 

Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 

IV. 

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 

'T is Uiat 1 may not weep ; and if I weep, 

'T is that our nature cannot always bring 
Itself to apathy, which vie must steep 

First in the lev depths of 1 .elhe's spring. 

Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep ; 

Thetis hapti/ed her mortal son in Styx; 

A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 

v. 

Some have accused me of a strange design 
Against the creed and morals of the land, 

And trai ■»• it in this poem every line: 
I do n't pretend that I quite understand 

My own meaning when I would be very fine , 

But the fact is that I have nothing piuun'd, 
Unless it was to be a moment merry, 
A novel word in my vocabulary. 

vi. 
To the kind reader of our sober climo 

This way of writing will appear exotic; 
Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, 

Who sung when chivalry was more Quixotic, 
And revell'd in the fancies of the time, 

True knights, eliListedamcs, hugogiants,kingsdespoihi 
But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 
I chose a modern subject as more meet. 

VII. 

How I have treated it, I do not know- 
Perhaps no better than they have treated me 

Who have imputed such designs as show, 
Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see; 

But if it gives them pleasure, be it so, — 
This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free: 

Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 

And tells me io resume ray story here. 



Canto IV. 



DON JUAN. 



531 



Voting Juan and his lady-love were left 
To their own heart's most sweet society; 

EvL-n Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 

With his rude scythe such senile bosoms; he 

Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft, 
Though foe to love; and yet they could not be 

Meant to grow old, bur die in happy spring, 

Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 

IX. 

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 

Pure blood t s jtagnatc, their great hearts to fail; 
The blank gnj was not made to blast their hair, 

But, like t'.e climes tha! know nor snow nor hail, 
They were .'J', summer: lightning might assail 

And sbivrr tlieni to ashes, but to trail 
A long and f.r-ake-Hke life oi' dull d 
"Was not frr them — they had too little clay. 

x. 
They were alone once more ; for them to be 

Thtto was another Eden; they were never 
Weary, unless when separate : the tree 

Cut from its forest root of years — the river 
I i-.nm'd from its fountain — the child from the knee 

An I breast maternal wvan'd at once for ever, 
V ould wither less than these two torn apart; 
A las! there is no instinct like the heart — 

xt. 
The heart — which may be broken: happy they! 

Thrice fortunate '. who, of that fragile mould, 
The precious porcelain of human clay. 

Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold 
The long year link'd with heavy day on day, 

And all which must be borne, and never told ; 
While life's strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 

XII. 

1 Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore,' 
And many deaths do they escape by this: 

The death of frier) Is, and, (hat which slays even more — 
The death of frienship, love, youth, all that is, 

Except mere breath; and since the silent shore 
A wails al last even those whom longest miss 

The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 

Which men weep over may be meant to save. 

XIII. 

Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead ; 

The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them: 
The\ found no fault with time, save that he fled; 

They saw not in themselves aught to condemn: 
Each was the other's mirror, and but read 

J \ sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, 
And kiK-w si.icli brightness was but the reflection 
Of their exchanging glances of affection. 

XIV. 

The gen Ic pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
The least glance better understood than words, 

Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much; 
A language, too, but like to that of birds, 

Known but to them, at least appearing such 
As but to lovers a true sense alfords; 

Sweet plavful phrases, which would seem absurd 

To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard: 

XV. 

All these were theirs, for they were children still, 
An I children still they should have ever been; 

They were not made in the real world to till 
A busy character in the dull scene; 

But like two beings born from out a rill, 
A nvmph and her beloved, all unseen 

To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, 

And never know the weight of human hours. 



Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found 
Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys 

As rarely they beheld throughout their round : 

And these were not of the vain kind which cloys; 

For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
By the mere senses ; and that which destroys 

Most love, possession, unto them appear'd 

A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 

XVII. 

Oh beautiful ! and rare as beautiful ! 

But theirs was love in which the mind delights 
To lose itself, when the whole world grows dull, 

And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, 
Intrigues, adventures of the common school, 

Its petty passions, marriages, and flights, 
Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet moie, 
Whose husband only knows her not a wh — re. 

xvm. 
Hard words ; harsh truth ; a truth which many know. 

Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair, 
Who never found a single hour too slow, 

What was it made them thus exempt from care? 
Youns innate feelings all have felt below, 

Which perish in the rest, but in them were 
Inherent; what we mortals call romantic, 
And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 

XIX. 

This is in others a factitious state, 

An opium dream of too much youth and reading, 
But was in them their nature or their fate ; 

No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding, 
For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great, 

And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding, 
So that there was no reason for their loves, 
More than for those of nightingales or doves 

XX. 

They gazed upon the sunset; *t is an hour 

Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 
For it had made them what they were: the power 

Of love had first o'crwhelm'd them from such skies, 
When happiness had been their only dower, 

And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties ; 
Charm 1 d with each other, all things charm'd thatbrough 
The past still welcome as the present thought. 

XXI. 

I know not why, but in that hour to-night, 
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, 

And swept, as 'twere, across their hearts' delight, 
Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame, 

When one is shook in sound, and one in sight ; 
And thus some boding tlash'd through either frame, 

And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 

While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 

XXII. 

That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate 

And follow far the disappearing sun, 
As if their last day of a happy date 

With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone 
Juan gazed on her a^ to ask his fate — 

He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, 
His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 
For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 

XXTII. 

She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort 

Which makes not others smile ; then turn'd asiae 

Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride; 

When Juan spoke, too — it might be in spor*-» 
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied — 

" If it should be so, — but — it cannot be— 

Or I at least shall not survive to Bee." 



532 



DON JUAN. 



Caxto IV. 



Juan would question further, but she pressM 
His lips to hers, and silenced bim with this, 

And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, 
Defying augury with that fond kiss; 

Ami no doubt of all methods *t is th<; best: 
Some peopk- prefer wine — 't is not amiss: 

I have tried both ; so those who would a part take 

May choose between the hr-ad-ach and the heart-ach. 

XXV. 

One of the two, according to your choice, 
Women or wine, you '11 have to undergo; 

Both maladies are taxes on our joys: 

But which to choose I really hardly know; 

And if I had to give a casting voice, 

For both sides I could many reasons show, 

And men decide, without great wrong to either, 

It were much better to have both than neither. 

XXVI. 

Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other, 
With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, 

Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother, 
All that the best can mingle and express. 

When two pure hearts are pourM in one another, 
And love too much, and yet can not love less; 

But almost sanctify the sweet excess 

By the immortal wish and power to bless. 

XXVII. 

MixM in each other's arms, and heart in heart, 

Why did they not then die ? — they had lived too long 

Should an hour corne to bid them breathe apart ; 
Years could not bring them cruel things or wrong, 

The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
For beings passionate as Sappho's song ; 

Love was born with them, i/i them, so intense, 

It was their very spirit — not a sense. 

XXVIII. 

They should have lived together deep in woods, 
Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 

Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 

Call'd social, where alt vice and hatred are: 

How lonely every freehorn creature broods! 
The sweetest song-birds nesile in a pair; 

The eagle soars alone ; the gull and crow 

Flock o'er their carrion, just as mortals do. 

XXIX. 

Now pillow'd, cheek to check, in loving sleep, 

Haidee and Juan their siesta took, 
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 

For ever and anon a something shook 
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep; 

And Haidce's sweet lips munnur'd like a brook 
A wordless music, and her face so fair 
StirrM with her dream as rose-leaves with the air: 

XXX. 

Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 

Walks over it. Was she shaken by the dream, 

The mystical usurper of the mind — 
O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem 

Good to the soul which we no more can bind ; 
Strange state of being ! (for 't is still to be) 
Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 

XXXI. 

She dreamM of being alone on the seashore, 
Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not how, but stir 

She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her; 

And o'er her upper lip they seera'd l«» pour, 

Until she sobbd for breath, and soon they were 

Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high 

Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 



XXXII. 

Anon— she was released, and then she stray'd 
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 

And stumbled almost every step she made; 
And something roll'd before her in a sheet, 

Which she must still pursue ImneYr afraid; 
T T was while und indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet 

Her glance nor grasp, for si ill she gazed and grasp'd, 

And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 

XXXIII. 

The dream changed : in a cave she stood, its walls 
Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 

Of ayes on its water-fretted halls, [lurk* 

Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and 

Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 
Of her black eves seem'd tora'd to tsara, and murk 

The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, 

Which froze to marble as it fell, she thought. 

XXXIT. 

And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, 

Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 

Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet 
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!) 

Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 

Of his qnench'd heart ; and the sea-dirges low 

Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, 

And that brief dream appear'd a life too long. 

XXXV. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 

Faded, or alierM into something new- 
Like to her father's features, till each trace 

More like and like to Lambm's aspect grew— 
Witfi all his keen worn look ami Grecian grace ; 

And starting', she awoke, and what to view ! 
Oh ! Powers of Heaven ! what dark eve meets she there * 
*T is — 't is her father's — fix'd upon the pair ! 

XXXVI. 

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, 
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 

Him whom shedeem'd a habitant where dwell 
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 

Perchance the death of one she loved too well ; 
Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 

It was a moment of that awful kind 

I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 

xxxvii. 
Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek, 

And caught her falling, and from off the wall 
Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 

Vengeance on him who was the cause of all: 
Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, 

Smiled scornfully, and said, " Within my call 
A thousand scimitars await the word : 
Put up, young man, put up your silly sword." 

XXXVIII. 

And Haidee clung around him ; " Juan, 't is — 
"1' is Lambro— 't is my father! Kneel with 

He will forgive us — yes — it must be — yes. 
Oh ! dearest father, in this agony 

Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 

That doubt should mingle with my filial joy? 

Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 

XXXIX. 

High and inscrutable the old man stood, 

Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye- 
Not always signs with him of calmest mood: 

He look'd upon her, but gave no reply ; 
Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 
Oft came and went, as there resolved to die 
In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 
On tiie first foe whom Lambro's call might bring. 



Canto IV. 



DON JUAN. 



533 



" Young man, your sword ;" so Lanibro once more said 
Juan replied, " Not while this arm is free," 

The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread, 
And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 

Replied, " Your blood be ihen on your own head." 
Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 

*T was fresh — for he had lately used the lock— 

And next proceeded quietly to cock. 

XL.I. 

It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, 
Tha: cocking of a pistol, when vou know 

A moment more will bring the sight to bear 
Upon your person, twelve yards olT, or so ; 

A gentlemanly distance, not too near, 
It you have got a former friend for foe ; 

But af;cr being fired at once or twice, 

The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 

XLFI. 

Lambro presenied, and one instant more 

Had slopp'd this canto, and Don Juan's breath, 

"When Haidee threw herself her boy before, 

Stern as her sire: " On me,'' she cried, " let death 

Descend — the fault is mine ; this fatal shore 

He found — but sought not. I have pledged my faith ; 

I love him — I will die with him : I knew 

Your nature's firmness — know your daughter's too." 

XLIII. 

A minute past, and she had been all tears, 

And tenderness, and infancv: but now 
She stood as one who champion'd human fears — 

Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow; 
And tall beyond her sex and their compeers, 

She drew up to her height, as if to show 
A fairer mark; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 
Her father's face — but never stopp'd his hand. 

XLIV. 

He gazed on her, and she on him ; 't was strange 

How like they look'd ! the expression was the same ; 

Serenely savage, with a little change 

In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame ; 

For she too was as one who could avenge, 

If cause should be — a lioness, though tame : 

Her Cither's blood before her father's face 

E"ii'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 

XLV. 

I said tney were alike, their features and 

Their stature differing but in sex and years; 
Even to the delicacy of their hands 

There was resemblance, such as true blood wears ; 
And now to ^ee them, thus divided, stand 

In fix'd ferocity, when jovous tears, 
And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both, 
Show what die passions are in their full growth. 

XLVI. 

The father paused a moment, then withdrew 
His weapon, and replaced it ; but stood still, 

And looking r,n her, as to look her through, 

" Not /," he said, " have sought this stranger's ill ; 

Not / have made this desolation: few 

Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill ; 

But 1 must do my duty — how thou hast 

Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 

XLVII. 

II Let him disarm ; or. by my father's head, 

His own shall roll before you like a ball !" 
He raised his whistle, as the word he said, 

And blew ; another answer'd to the call, 
And mshing in disorderly, though led, 

And ann'd from boot to turban, one and all, 
Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank; 
lie gave the word, " Arrest or slay the Frank." 



XLVIII. 

Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
His daughter; while compress'd within his grasp, 

' T w i\t her and Juan interposed the crew ; 
In vain she struggled in her father's grasp, — 

His arms were like a serpent's coil ; then flew 
Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp, 

The tile of pirates; save the foremost, who 

Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through. 

XLIX. 

The second had his cheek laid open ; but 
The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 

The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 

His own well in: so well, ere vou could look, 

His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot, 
With the blood running like a little brook 

From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 

One on the arm, the other on the head. 

L. 

And Ihen they bound him where he fell, and bore 

Juan from the apartment : with a sign 
Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, 

Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine. 
They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 

Until they reachM some galliots, placed in line; 
On board of one of these, and under hatches, 
They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches. 

LI. 

The world is full of strange vicissitudes, 
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant: 

A gentleman so rich in the world's goods, 

Handsome and young, enjoying all the present, 

Just at the very time when he least broods 
On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, 

bounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, 

And all because a lady fell in love. 

MI. 

Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, 

Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea! 

Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic ; 
For if my pure libations exceed three, 

I feel my heart become so svmpathetic, 
That I must have recourse to black Bohea 

'T is pity wine should be so de.eterious, 

For tea and cotVee leave us much more serious. 

LUX, 

Unless when qualified with thee, Cognac! 

Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethonlic rill ! 
Ah ! why the liver wilt thou thus attack, 

And make, like other nymphs, thv lovers ill? 
I would take refuge in weak punch but ruck, 

(In each sense of the word,) whene'er I fill 
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, 
Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 

LIV. 

I leave Don Juan for the present safe — 

Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded ; 
Yet could his Corporal pangs amount to half 

Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded? 
She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, 

And then give way, subdued because surrounded; 
Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 
Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 

lv. 
There the large olive rains its amber store 

In marble fonts | there grain, and flower, and fruit, 
Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er ; 

But there too many a poison-tree has root, 
And midnight listens to the lion's roar, 

And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, 
Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan, 
And a* the soil is, so the heart of man. 



634 



DON JUAN. 



Ca.tto IV. 



Attic is all the sun's, and as her earth 
Her human clay is kindled: full of power 

For good or evil, burning from its birth, 

The Moorish blood partakes the planer's hour, 

And lik*- the Boil beneath it will bring forth: 

Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower: 

Rut her large dark eye sh ow'd deep passion's force, 

Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 

I. VII. 

Hit daughter, tempered with a milder ray, •- 
Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth] and fair, 

Till slowly charged wuh thunder they display 
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air, 

Had held till now her soft and milky waj ; 
Hut, overwrought w Lth passion and despair, 

The fire burst forth from her Numidtan reins, 

Even as the simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 

I. VIII. 

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, 
And he himself o'ermasler'd and cut down ; 

His blood was running on the very Boor 
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own: 

Tims mueh she view'd an iusiaut and no more, — 
Her slrui.'L'b's erased wuh one convulsive groan; 

On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 

Her writhing, fell she like a cedar feli'd. 

LIX. 

A vein had burst ,- and her sweel lips' pure dyes 
Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er; 

And her head droop'd as when the lily lies 
Overcharged w it J i rani : her summon'd handmaids bore 

Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 
Of herbs and cordials the} produced their store, 

But she defied all means they could employ, 

Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 

LX. 

Days lay she in that sla'e unchanged, though chill 
With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 

She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 
No hideous sign proelami'd her surely dead ; 

Corruption came oot in each mind too kill 
All hope ; to look upon her sweel face bred 

New thoughts of life, for it seenVd full of soul, 

She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 

I,XI. 

The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there 

But ti.v'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
O'er the fair Venus, hul for ever fair; 

O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, 
And ever-dying Gladiator's air, 

Their energy like life forms all their fame, 

Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. 

LXZX. 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new, 

A strange sensation which sin- must pirial 
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 

Struck not on memory , though a heavy ache 
Lay a' her heart; whose curliest beat si ill true 

Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, 

For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 

Lxin. 

She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, 
On many a token without knowing what ; 

She saw them watch her without asking why, 
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat; 

Not speechless, though she spoke not: not a sigh 
Ueveal'd her thoughts; dull silence and Cjuick chat 

Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 

No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 



LXIV. 
H< r handmaids ten led, but she heeded not. 

Her father watch'd, she tum'd hw eyes away ; 
She recognised no being, and no spot, 

However dear orcherish'd in their day; 
They changed from room to room, but all forgot, 

G e, but without mem iry, she Say ; 
.\n. i yel those Byes, which the* would fain be weaning 
Back to old thoughts, seem'd full or fearful meaning. 

LXV. 

At last a slave bethought her of a harp , 

The harper came, and timed bis instrument; 

At the in - notes, irregular and sharp, 
On him her Bashing eyes a moment bent, 

Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp 

1 for thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent, 

And he began a lung low island song 

1 'i anew nt ■ ■. ranny grew strong. 

I.W[, 

Anon her thin wan fingers bi at the wall 
In time to his old tune ; he changed the theme, 

And suns of love — the fierce name struck through all 

Her n a Uection ; on her flash'd the dream 
Of what she was. and is, if ye could C&Q 

To beso being; in a gushing stream 
The tears rush'd forth from her overclouded hrain, 
Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 

l.XVII. 

Short solace, vain relief! — thought came too quick, 
And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she arose 

As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, 
And flew at all she met, as on hei foes ; 

But no one ever heard her Speak or shriek, 

Although her paroxj -tn drew towards its close: 
Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave, 
Even when they .smote her, in the hope to save. 

LXVIII. 

Yet she betrayM at times a gleam of sense ; 

Nothing could make her meet her father's face, 
Though on all other things with looks intense 

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; 
Food she refused) and raimenl ; no pretence 

Avail'd fir either ; neither change of place, 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for ever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; at last, 
Without a groan, or sith, or glance, to show 

A parting pang, the Spirit from her pass'd: 

And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 

The very instant, till the change that cast 
1 ler sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, 

Glazed o'er her eyes; — the beautiful, the black — 

Oh ! to posses such lustre — and then lack ! 

LXXII. 

She died, but not alone; she held within 
A second principle of life, which might 

Have dawn'd s fair and sinless child of sin: 
But closed its little being without li;;ht, 

And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
Blossom and bough Lie w ither'd with one blight; 

In vain the dews of heaven descend above 
The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 

LXXX. 

Thus lived — thus died she : never more on her, 
Shall sorrow light or shame. She was not made 

Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, 
Which colder hearts endure till ihev are laid 

By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were 
Brief, but delightful — such as had not stay'd 

Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 

By die seashore whereon she loved to dwell. 



Canto IV. 



DON JUAN. 



535 



LXXII. 

That isle is now all desolate and bare, 

Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away; 

None but her own and father's grave is^here, 
And nothing outward tells of human clay: 

Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 

What was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 

LXXIII. 

But many a Greek maid in a loving song 
Sighs o'er her name, and many an islander 

Willi her sire's story makes the night less long ; 
Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her; 

If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong— 
A heavy price must all pay who thus err, 

In some shape; let none think to fly the danger, 

For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But let me change this theme, which grows too sad, 
And lay this sheet of sorrow on the shelf; 

I do n't much like describing people mad, 
For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself— 

Besides, I 've no more on this head to add: 
And as my Muse is a capricious elf, 

We 'II put about and try another tack 

With Juan, left half-kill' d some stanzas back. 

LXXV. 

Wounded and fetter'd, " cabin'd, cribb'd, confined," 
Some days and nights elapsed before that he 

Could altogether call the past to mind; 
And when he did, he found himself at sea, 

Sailing six knots an hour before the wind ; 
The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee— 

Another time he might have liked to see 'em, 

But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigaeum. 

LXXVI. 

There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 
(Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea) 

En'omb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles: 
They say so — {Bryant says the contrary:) 

And further downward, tall and towering, still is 
The tumulus -of whom ? Heaven knows ; 't may be 

Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilans", — ■ 

AH heroes, who if living still would slay us. 

LXXVII. 

High barrows, without marble or a name, 
A vast, untill'd, and mountain skirled plain, 

And Ida in the distance, still the same, 
And old Scamander (if 't is he) remain ; 

The situation seems still form'd for fame — 
A hundred thousand men might fight again 

With ease ; but where I sought f,»r Ilion's walls, 

The auiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls ; 

LXXVIII. 

Troops of untended horses ; here and there 

Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth; 

Some shepherds, (unlike Paris,) led to stare 
A moment at the European youth 

Whom to the spot their schoolboy feelings bear ; 
A Turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth, 

Extremely taken with his own religion, 

Are what I found there — but the devil a Phrygian. 

LXXIX. 

Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 
From his dull cabin, found himself a slave ; 

Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave : 

Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge 
A few brief questions ; and the answers gave 

No very satisfactory information 

About his past or present situation. 



LXXX. 

He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd 

To be Italians — as they were, in fact; 
From them, at least, their destiny he heard, 

Which was an odd one ; a troop going to act 
In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 

In their vocation, — had not been attack'd, 
In sailing from Livorno, by the pirate. 
But sold by the impresario at no high rate.' 

LXXXI. 

By one of these, Uie buffo of the partv, 
Juan was tn!d about their curious case ; 

For, although destined to the Turkish mart, he 
Still kept his spirits up — at least his face ; 

The little fellow really look'd quite hearty, 
And bore him with some gayety and grace, 

Showing a much more reconciled demeanour 

Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 

LXXXII. 

In a few words he told their hapless story, 
Saying, " Our Machiavelian impresario, 

Making a signal off" some promontory, 

Hail'd a strange brig ; Corpo di Caio Mario! 

We were transfeir'd on board her in a hurry, 
Without a single scudo of salario; 

But, if the sultan has a taste for song, 

We will revive our fortunes before long. 

Lxxxnr. 

" The prima donna, though a little old, 

And haggard with a dissipated life, 
And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, 

Has some good notes ; and then the tenor's wife, 
With no great voice, is pleasing to behold ; 

Last carnival she made a deal of strife, 
By carrying off* Count Caasare Cicogna, 
From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 

LXXXIV. 

" And then there are the dancers : there *s the Nini. 

With more than one profession, gains by all ; 
Then there 's that laughing slut, the Pellegrini, 

She too was fortunate last carnival, - 
And made at least five hundred good zecchini, 

But spends so fast, she has not now a paul ; 
And then there 's the Grotesca — such a dancer ! 
Where men have souls or bodies, she must answer, 

LXXXT. 

" As for the figuranti, they are like 

The rest of all that tribe ; with here and there 
A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 

The rest are hardly fitted for a fair; 
There 's one, though tall, and stiffer than a pike, 

Yet has a sentimental .kind of air, 
Which might go far. but she don't dance with vigour, 
The more 's the pity, with her face and figure. 

L XXXVI. 

(t As for the men, they, are a middling set ; 

The Musico is but a crack'd old basin, 
But, being qualified in one way yet, 

May the seraglio do to set his face in, 
And as a servant some preferment get; 

His singing I no further trust can place in 
From all the pope* makes yearly, 't would perplex 
To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. 

LXXXVII. 

" The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, 
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow 

In fact, he had no singing education, 

An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow, 

But being the prima donna's near relation, 

Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, 

They hired him, though to hear him you 'd believ* 

An ass was practising recitative. 



636 



DON JUAN. 



Canto IV. 



t-XXXVIII. 

m *T would not become myself to dwell upon 

My own merits, and though young — I see, sir — you 

Have got a travell'd air, which shows you one 
To whom the opera is bv no means new: 

You Ve heard of Kaucocanti ? — I 'm the man; 
The lime may come when you may hear me too; 

You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 

But next, when I 'm engaged to sing there — do go. 

LXXXIX. 

11 Our barytone I almost had forgot, 
A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit 

With graceful action, science not a jot, 

A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, 

He always is complaining of his lot, 

Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street ; 

In lovers' parts, his passion more to breathe, 

Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth." 

xc. 
Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 

Was interrupted by the pirate crew, 
Who came at stated moments to invite all 

The captives back to their sad berths ; each threw 
A rueful glance upon the waves, (which bright all, 

From the blue skies derived a double blue, 
Dancing all free and happy in the sun,) 
And then went down the hatchway one by one. 

XCI. 

They heard, next day, that in the Dardanelles, 

Waiting for his sublimity's firman — 
The most imperative of sovereign spells, 

Which every body does without who can,— 
More to secure them in their naval cells, 

Lady to lady, well as man to man, 
Were to be chained and lotted out per couple 
For the slave-market of Constantinople. 

XCI I. 

It seems when this allotment was made out, 

There chanced to be an odd male and odd female, 

Who (after some discussion and some doubt 
If the soprano might be deem'd to be male, 

They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 
Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male 

Was Juan, who — an awkward thing at his age— 

Pair'd off with a Bacchante's blooming visage. 

XCIII. 

With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 
The tenor; these two hated with a hate 

Found only on the stage, and each more painM 
With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate ; 

Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd, 
Instead of bearing up without debate, 

That each pull'd different ways with many an oath, 

" Arcades ambo," id est — blackguards both. 

XCIV. 

Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 

But bred within the March of old Ancono, 

With eyes that look'd into the very soul, 

(Ami other thief points of a " belladonna,") 

Bright — and as black and burning as a coal ; 

And through her clear brunette complexion shone a 

Great wish to please — a most attractive dower, 

Kspecially when added to the power. 

xcv. 
But all that power was wasted ujKin him, 

For sorrow o*er each sense held stern command ; 
Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim ; 

And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 
Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 

(And she had some not easy to withstand) 
Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle ; 
Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 



No matter ; we should ne'er too much inquire, 
But facts are facts, — no knight could be more true, 

And firmer faith, no ladye-love desire ; 
We will omit the proofs, save one or two. 

'T is said no one in hand " can hold a fire 
Bv thought of frosty Caucasus," but few 

I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 

Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 

Xi'VII. 

Here I might enter on a chaste description, 

Having withstood temptation in my youth, 
But Ix-ar that several people take exception 

At the first two hooks having to^ much truth, 
Therefore I 'II make Don Juan leave the ship soon, 

Because the publisher declares, insooth, 
Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is 
To pass, than tho<e two cantos into families. 

xcvnr. 
'T is all the same to me, I 'm fund of yielding, 

And therefore leave them to the purer pago 
Of Smollet, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 

Who say strange tilings for so correct an age ; 
I once had great alacrity in wielding 

IVIy pen, and liked poetic war to wage, 
And recollect the time when all this cant 
Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't. 

XCIX. 

As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble; 

But at this hour I v. ish to part in peace, 
Leaving such to the literary rabble. 

Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease 
While the right hand which wrote it still is able 

Or of some centuries to take a lease, 
The grass upon my grave will grow as long, 
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. 

c. 

Of poets, who come down to us through distanco 
Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of fame, 

Life seems the smallest portion of existence; 
Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 

'T is as a snowball which derives assistance 
From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, 

Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow,— 

But after all 't is nothing but cold snow. 

ci. 

And so great names are nothing more than nominal, 

And love of glory *s but an airv lust, 
Too often in its fury overcoming all 

Who would, as 't were, identify their dust 
From out the wide destruction, which, entombing nil, 

Leaves nothing till the coming of t lie just — 
Save change; I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb, 
And heard Troy doubted ; time will doubt of Rome. 

CII. 

The very generations of the dead 

Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, 

Until the memory of an age is fled, 
And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom: 

Where :ir<- the epitaphs our fathers read ? 
Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom, 

Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, 

And lose their own in universal death. 

cm, 
I canter by tho spot each afternoon 

Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy, 
Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 

For human vanity, the young Do Foix! 
A broken pillar not uncouthly hewn, 

But which neglect is hastening to destroy, 
Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, 
While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.* 



Camto V. 



DON JUAN. 



537 



f pass each day where Dante's bones are laid ; 

A little cupola, more neat than solemn, 
Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid 

To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column : 
The time must come when both alike decay'd, 

The chieftain's trophy and the poet's volume, 
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, 
Before Pelides' death or Homer's birth. 

cv. 
With human blood that column was cemented, 

With human filth that column is denied, 
As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented 

To show his loathing of the spot he spoil'd ; 
Thus is the trophy used and thus lamented 

Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild 
Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 
Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. 

cvi. 
Yet there will still be bards ; though fame is smoke, 

Its fumes are frankincense to human thought ; 
And the unquiet feelings which first woke 

Son° in the world, will seek what then they sought; 
As on die beach the waves at last are broke, 

Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought, 
Dash into poetry, which is but passion, 
i >r at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 

evir. 
If in the course of such a life as was 

At once adventurous and contemplative, 
Men who partake all passions as they pass, 

Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 
Their images again, as in a glass, 

And in such colours that they seem to live ; 
You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, 
But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 

cvul. 
Oh '. ye , who make the fortunes of all books ! 

Benign ceruleans of the second sex ! 
Who advertise new poems by your looks, 

Your " imprimatur" will ye not annex ? — 
What, must I go to the oblivious cooks, — 

Those Comish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks '! 
Ah ! must I then the only minstrel be 
Proscribed from tasting your Caslalian tea? 

cix. 
What, can I prove " a lion" then no more ? 

A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling, 
To bear the compliments of many a bore, 

And sigh " I can't get out," like Yorick's starling, 
Why then I 'U swear, as poet Wordy swore, 

(Because the world won't read him, always snarling,) 
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, 
Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie. 

ex. 
Oh! " darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 

As some one somewhere sings about the sky, 
And I. ye learned ladies, say of you ; 

Thev say your stockings are so, (Heaven knows why, 
I have examined few pair of that hue ;) 
Blue as the garters which serenely lie 
Round the patrician left-legs, which adorn 
The festal midnight and the levee morn. 

CXI. 

Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures— 
But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover, 

You read my stanzas, and I read your features : 
And— but no matter, all those things are over; 

Still I have no dislike to learned natures, 

For sometimes such a world of virtues cover; 

I know one woman of that purple school, 

The loveiest, chastest, best, but— quite a fool. 
3 S 



Humboldt, " the first of travellers," but not 

The last, if late accounts be accurate, 
Invented, by some name I have forgot, 

As well as the sublime discovery's date, 
An airy instrument, with which he sought 

To ascertain the atmospheric state, 
By measuring " the intensity of blue ,-" 
Oh ! Lady Daphne ! let me measure you '. 

CXIII. 

But to the narrative. — The vessel bound 

With slaves to sell off in the capital, 
After the usual process, might be found 

At anchor under the seraglio wall ; 
Her car<*o, from the plague being safe and sound 

Were landed in the market, one and all, 
And there, with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, 
Bought up for different purposes and passions. 

CXIV. 

Some went off dearly: fifteen hundred dollars 

For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, 
Warranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colours 

Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven : 
Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers, 

Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven ; 
But when the offer went beyond, they knew 
'T was for the sultan, and at once withdrew. 

cxv. 
Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 

Which the West Indian market scarce would bring 
Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 

What 't was ere abolition ; and the thing 
Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 

Is alwavs much more splendid than a king 
The virtues, even the most exalted, charity, 
Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 

CXVI. 

But for the destiny of this young troop, 

How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews 
How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 

And others rose to the command of crews 
As renegadoes ; while in hapless group, 

Hoping no verv old vizier might choose, 
The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em, 
To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim. 

cxvn 
AU this must be reserved for further song ; 

A.so our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant, 
(Because this canto has become too long,) 

Must be postponed discreetly for the present '. 
I 'm sensible redundancy is wrong, 

But could not for the muse of me put less in 't; 
And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
Till what is call'd in Ossian, the fifth Duan. 



CANTO V. 



When amatory poets sing their loves 

In liquid lines mellifluously bland, 
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves 

They little think what mischief is in hand ; 
The greater their success the worse it proves, 

As Ovid's verse may make you understand ; 
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity 
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity. 



538 



DON JUAN. 



Cvxto \\ 



I therefore do denounce all amorous writing, 
Except in such a way as not to attract ; 

Plain — simple — short, and by no means inviting, 
But with a moral to each error tack'd, 

Fonn'd rather for instructing than delighting, 
And with all passions in their turn attack'd ; 

Now, if my Pegasus should 1" Bhod ill, 

This poem will become a moral model. 

IIT. 

The European with the Asian shore 
Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream, 

Here and there studded with a sevi utv-1">ur; 
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; 

The cypress groves ; Olympus high and hoar ; 

The twelve isles, and the more ihau I could dream, 

Far less describe, present the very view 

Which charm'd the charming Mary Montague. 

IV. 

1 have a passion for the name of " Mary," 

For once it was a magic sound to me, 
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, 

Where 1 beheld what never was to be ; 
All feelings change, but this was last to varv, 

A spell from which even yei 1 am not quite free ; ' 
But I grow sad — and Lei a tale grow cold, 
Which must not be pathetically told. 

v. 

The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave 
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades, 

'T is a grand si Mir, |V ti" ,L the < riant's Grave," 2 

To wateh the progress of those rolling seas 

Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 
Europe and Asja, you being quite al - ase; 

There 's not a sea the passenger e\-r pukes in 

Turns up mure dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 

VI. 

'T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning, 
"When nights are equal, but not so the days ; 

The Parcae thon cut short the further spinning 
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 

The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
In all who o'er the great deep take their ways: 

They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't ; 

Because if drown'd, they can't — if spared they won't. 

VII. 

A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation, 
And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ; 

Each bevy with the merchant in his station: 

Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly changed. 

All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation, 

From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged, 

The negroes more philosophy display'.! — 

Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 

VIII. 

Juan was juvenile, and thus was full, 
As most at his age are, of hope, and health ; 

l'et I must own he look'd a little dull, 
And now and then a tear stole down by stealth ; 

Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
His spirit down ; and then the loss of wealth, 

A mistress, ami such comfortable quarters, 

To be put up for auction among Tartars, 

IX. 

•Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless, 
Upon the whole his carriage was serene: 

His figure, and the splenduur of his dress, 

Of which some gilded remnants still were seen, 

Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 

And then, though pale, he was so very handsome ; 

And then — they calculated on his ransom 



Like a baek gammon-board the place was dotted 
With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale* 

Though rather more irregularis spotted : 

Snme bought the jet, while others chose the pale. 

It chanced, among the other people a ed, 
A man of thirty, rather stoul and I 

With resolutio his 

Next Juan stood, till some mi [hi choose to buy. 

XI. 

lie had an English look; that is, was square 
In make, ofa complexion white and noddy, 

Grood teeth, with curling rather dark-brown hair, 
.Ami, it might I"- from thought, or toil, or study, 

An <|i> ii brow . ■' bi d with care : 
t Ine arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 

And there he Btood with such sangfroid, that greater 

Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. 

XII. 

But seeing al hi - elbow b mi 1 1 

Ofa high spirit < n idently, tb< Ugh 
Ai pre-, ut wcigh'd down by a doom which had 

Overthrown even men, he soon began to show 

A kind i .1" M i iu compassion for the sad 
Lot of so young s partner in Ehe wo, 
Vv hich fjr himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 

XIII. 

" My hoy!" — said he, " amid this ni itiey crew 
Of Georgians, Russian-, Nubians, and what not, 

All ragamuffins differing but in hue, 
With whom ii is our luck to cast our lot, 

The oijlv L 'cii! ,ni ( ii <, .ru I and you. 

So let us be acquainted, as we ought ; 
If I could yield yon anj con 
'T would give me pleasure. — 1\ ay, what is your nation?" 

MV. 

When Juan ahswcr'd " Spanish !" he replied, 
•• I thought, in fart, you eo;ild not he a Greek ; 

Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed: 
Fortune has play'd you hen- a pretty freak. 

But that's the way with all men till they 're tried: 
But never mind, — [he 'U turn, perhaps, next week , 

She has served me also much the same as you, 

Iixcept thai I have found it nothing new." 

xv. 

" Tray, sir," said Juan, " if I may presume, 

lllvtt brought yon here .'" — •• ( Jh ! nothing very rare — 

Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — " To this doom 

But what conducted, if the question's fair, 

Is that which I would learn."—" I served for some 
Months with the Russian arm] hen- and there, 

And taking lately, by Suwarrow 's bidding, 

A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widin." 

XVI. 

" I lav-- you no friends ?" — "I had — but, by God's blessing, 
Have not been troubled with them lately. Now 

I have answered all your questions without pressing, 
And you an equal courtesy should show." 

" Alas !" said Juan, 't were a tale distressing, 
And long besides." — " Oh! if 't is really so, 

You 're right on both accounts 'o hold your tongue, 

A sad tale saddens doubly when 't is long. 

XVII. 

•' But droop not : Fortune, at your time of life, 

Although a female moderately fickle, 
Will hardly leave you (as she *S not your wife) 

For any length of days in such a pickle. 
To strive too with our fate were such a strife 

As if the corn-sheaf should oppose he sickle. 
Men are the sport of circumstances, when 
The circumstances seem die spurt of men." 



Canto V. 



DON JUAN. 



539 



** ? T is not," said Juan, " for my present doom 
I mourn, but fur the past ; — I loved a maid:" 

He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom ; 
A sin_'ie liar upon Ins eyelash stay'd 

A moment, and then dropp'd ; '' but to resume, 
"I' is iii>* my presenl lot, as I have said, 

Which [ deplore so much ; for I have borne 

Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 

xtx. 
" On the rough deep. But this last blow — " and nere 

II'- 5tOpp 1 d again] and turn'd away lus fare. 
" Ay," quoth his lip ad, " I thought it would appear 

That there had been a lady in the case; 
And these are things which a-k a tender tear, 

Such as I loo would shed, if in your place : 
I cried upon my first wife's dwngday, 
And also when my sccmid ran away : 

XX. 

" Mv third'' — " Your third !" quoth Juan, turrring round ; 

'• You scarcely can be thirty : have you three ?" 
" No — only two at present above ground : 

Surely 'l is no'.hing wonderful to see 
One person thrice in holy wedlock bound !" 

'• Wellj then, your third,"' said Juan ; " what did she? 
She did not run away, too, did s!;e, sir ?" 
*■ No, Ludi.'— - \\ hat then?" u Iran away from her." 

XXI. 

" You take tilings coolly, sir," said Juan. " Why," 
Replied the other, " what can a man do ? 

There still are many rainbows in your sky, 

But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new, 

Commenee w nh feelings warm and prospects high ; 
But time strips our illusions of their hue, 

And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 

Casts otf its bright skin yearly, like the snake. 

XXII. 

" *T is true, n nets another bright and fresh, 

Or fresher, brighter; but, the year gone through, 

This skin must s" the way too of all lleih, 
Or sometimes onlv wear a week or two; — . 

Love 's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh ; 
Ambition, avarice, vengeance, glory, glue 

The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days. 

"Where still we flutter on for pence or praise." 

XXIII. 

" AH this is very fine, and may be true," 
Said J:ian ; *' but I really don't see how 

It betters present times with me or you." 

■• No '" qu rth the other; " yet you will allow, 

By setting things m their right point of view, 
Knowli Ige, b li ist, <- gain'd; for instance, now, 

We knjw what slavery is, and our disasters 

May leach us better to behave when masters." 

XXIV. 

*■ W 'iid we were masters now, if but to try 

Their present less ii- on our pagan friends here," 

Said Juan — swallowing a heart-burning sigh : 

• 11 -,>v'n help the scholar whom his fortune sends here !" 

« Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by/' 

Rejoin'd the uther, " when our bad luck mends here, 

Meantime (von old black eunuch seems to eye vis) 

I wish io G-^l Utat somebody would buy us! 

xxr. 
" But after all, what is our present state? 

'T is bad, and may be better — all men's lot : 
Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, 

To their own-whiun and passions, and what not: 
Society itself, which should create 

Kindness, destroys what little we had got : 
To feel for none is the true social art 
Of the world's stoics — men without a heart." 



XXVI. 

Just now a black old neutral perscnage 

Of the third sex stepp'd up, and peering over 

The captives, seem'd to mark their looks, and ago, 
And capabilities, as to discover 

If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 

Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 

Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, 

XXVII. 

As is a slave by his intended bidder. 

'T is pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures, 
And all are to be sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and are dext'rous ; some by features 
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 

Some by a place — as tend their years or natures ; 
The most by ready cash — but all have prices, 
From crowns lo kicks, according to their vices. 

XXVIII 

The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care, 
Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid 

First but for one, and after fur the pair; 

They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so they did! 

As though tiiey were in a mere Christian fair, 
Cheapening an ox, as ass, a lamb, or kid; 

So that their bargain suunded like a battle 

For this superior yoke of human cattle. 

XXIX. 

At last they settled into simple grumbling, 

And pulling out reluctant purses, and 
Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 

Some down, and weighing others in their hand, 
And by mistake seijuins with paras jumbling, 

Until the sum was accurately scann'd, 
And then the merchant, giving change and signing 
Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 

XXX. 

I wonder if his appetite was good; 

Or. if it were, if also his digestion. 
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts mieht intrude 

And conscience ask a curious sort of question, 
About the right divine how far we should 

Sell riesh and blood. When dinner has oppress'd one 
I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 

XXXI. 

Voltaire savs " No;" he tells you that Candide 

Found life most tolerable after meals ; 
He 's wrong — unless man was a pig, indeed, 

Repletion rather adds to what he feels; 
Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's freed 

From +iis own brain's oppression while it reels. 
Of [bod I think with Philip's son, or rather 
Amnion's (ill pleased with one world and one father;i 

XXXII. 

I think with Alexander, that the act 

Of eating, with another act or two, 
Makes us feel our mortality in fact 

Redoubled ; when a roast and a ragout, 
And fish and soup, by some side-dishes back'd, 

Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 
Would piijue himself 'in intellects, whose use 
Depends so much upon the gastric juice? 

XXXIII. 

The other evening ('t was on Friday last) — 

This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
Just as my great coat was about me cast, 

My hat and "loves still lying on the table,* 
I heard a shot — 't was eight o'clock scarce past— 

And running out as fast as I was able, 1 
T (bund the military commandant 
Slretch'd in tho street, and able scarce to pant. 



640 



DON JUAN. 



Canto V. 



XXXIV. 

Poor follow ! for some reason, surely bad, 

They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there 

To perish on I ho pavement: so I had 

Him borne into the house and up the stair, 

And stripp'd, and look'd to Hut why should I add 

More circumstances ? vain was every cart' ; 

The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel 

KiU'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.* 

xxxv. 
I gazed upon him. for I knew him well ; 

And, though I have seen many corpses, never 
Saw one, whom such an accident befell, [liver, 

So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and 
He seeni'd to sleep, for you could scarcely tell 

(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
Of goro divulged the cause) that he was dead: — 
So as I gazed on him, 1 thought or said — 

XXXVI. 

" Can this be death ? then what is life or death ? 

Speak !" but he spoke not : " wake !" but still he slept : 
But yesterday, and who had mightier breath ? 

A thousand warriors bv his word were kept 
In awe : he said, as the centurion saith, 

' Go,' and he goeth ; ' come,' and forth he stepp'd. 
The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb — 
And now nought left him but the muffled drum." 

XX XVII. 

And they who waited once and worshipp'd — they 
With their rough fares throng'd about the bed, 

To gaze once more on the commanding clay 

Which for the last though not the first time bled ; 

And such an end ! that he who many a day 
Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled,— 

The foremost in the charge or in the sally, 

Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley. 

XXXVIII. 

The scars of his old wounds were near his new, 
Those honourable scars which brought him fame; 

And horrid was the contrast to the view — 

But let me quit the theme, as such things claim 

Perhaps even mote attention than is due 

From me : I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) 

To try if I could wrench aught out of death, 

Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; 

XXXIX. 

But it was all a mystcrv. Here we are, 

And there we go: — hut where ? five bits of lead, 

Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! 

And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed? 

Can every element our elements mar? 

And air — earth — water — fire live — and we dead ? 

JVe, whose minds comprehend all things? No more : 

But let us to the story as before. 

XL. 

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 

Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, 
Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence 

As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 
They look'd like persons being led to sentence, 

Wondering what next, till the caique was brought 
Up in a little creek below a wall 
O'ertopp'd with cypresses dark-green and tall. 

XI.I. 

Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 

Of a small iron door, t' was open'd, and 
He led them onward, first through a low thicket 

Flank'd by large groves which tower'd on either hand; 
They almost lost their way, and had to pick it — 

For night was closing ere they came to land. 
fhe eunuch made a sign to those on board, 
Who row'd off, leaving them without a word 



As they were plodding on their winding way, 

Through orange bovvers, and jasmine, and so forth, 

(Of which I might have a good deal to say, 
There being no such profusion in the North 

Of oriental plants, "etcaEtera," 

But that of late your scribblers think it worth 

Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works, 

Because one poet travcll'd 'mongst the Turks:) 

xz.ni. 

As they were threading on their way, there came 
Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 

Whisper'd to his companion : — 't was the same 
Which might have then occurr'd to you or me. 

" Me thinks,"— said he — " it would be no great shamo 
If we should strike a stroke to set us free; 

Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head 

And march away — 't were easier done than said." 

XLIV. 

11 Yes," said the other, " and when done, what then ** 
How get out ? how the devil got we in ? 

And when we once were fairly out, and when 

From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin, 

To-morrow 'd see us in some other den, 
And worse off than we hitherto have been ; 

Besides, I'm hungry, and just now would take, 

Like Esau, for my birthright, a beef-steak. 

XLV. 

11 We must be near some place of man's abode , 
For the old negro's confidence in creeping, 

With his two captives, by so queer a road, 
Shows th^t lie thinks his friends have not been sleeping; 

A single cry would bring them all abroad: 

'T is therefore better looking before leaping— 

And there, you see, this turn has brought us through 

By Jove, a noble palace ! — lighted too." 

XL VI. 

U was indeed a wide extensive building 
Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front 

There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 
And various hues, as is theTurkish wont,— 

A gaudv taste; for thev are little skill'd in 

The arts of which these lands were once the font < 

Each villa on the Boaphorua looks a screen 

New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 

XLVII. 

And nearer as they came, a genial savour 

Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus, 
Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour, 

Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, 
And put himself upon his good behaviour: 

His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, 
Said, " In Heaven's name let's get some supper now, 

And then I'm with you, if you're for a row." 

XXVIII. 

Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, 

Some to nun's f.. lings, others to their reason ; 

The last of theae waa never much the fashion, 
For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 

Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 
But more or less continue still to tease on, 

Willi arguments according to their " forte ;" 

But no one ever dreams of being short. 

XXIX. 

But I digress: of all appeals, — although 
I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 

Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, — no 
Method 's more sure at moments to take hold 

Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 
More tender, as we every day behold, 

Than that all-softening, o'erpowering knell, 

The tocsin of the soul—the dinner-bell. 



Canto V. 



DON J TAN. 



641 



Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine: 
And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 

No Christian knoll to table, saw no line 
Of lacqueys usher to the feast prepared, 

Yet smelt ruast-mcat, beheld a huge tire shine, 
And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, 

And gazed aruund them to the left and right 

With the prophetic eye of appetite. 

LI. 

And sivinj up all notions of resistance, 

They foilow'd close behind their sable guide, 

W ho little thought that his own crackM existence 
Was on the point of being set aside: 

He moiion'd thera to stop at some small distance, 
And knocking at the gate, 't was open'd wide, 

And a magnificent large hall display'd 

The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 

MI. 

I won't describe ; description is my forte, 
But every fool describes in these bright days 

His wond'rous journey to some foreign court, 

And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise — 

Death to his publisher, to him 'l is sporty 

While nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, 

Resigns herself with exemplary patience 

To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations. 

LIII. 

Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted 
Upon their hams, were occupied at chess; 

Others in monosyllable talk chatted, 

And some seem'd much in love with their own dress; 

And divers smoked superb pipes decorated 
With amber mouths of greater price or less ; 

And several strutted, others slept, and some 

Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. b 

LIV. 

As the black eunuch entered with his brace 
Of purchased infidels, some raised their eyes 

A moment without slackening from their pace ; 
But those who sate ne'er stirr'd in any wise: 

One or two stared the captives in the face, 
Just as one views a horse to guess his price ; 

Some nodded to the negro from their station, 

But no one troubled him with conversation. 

LV. 

He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, 
On through a farther range of goodly rooms, 

Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping,* 
A marble fountain echoes through the glooms 

Of night, which robe the chamber, or where popping 
Some female head most curiously presumes 

To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, 

As wondering what the devil noise that is. 

LVI. 

Some faint tamps gleaming from the lofty walls 
Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 

But not enough to show the imperial halls 
In all the Hashing of their full array ; 

Perhaps there 's nothing — I '11 not say appals, 
But saddens more by night as well as day, 

Than an enormous room without a soul 

To break the lifeless splendour of the whole. 

I. VII, 

Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing: 
In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, 

There solitude, we know, has her full growth in 
The spots which were her realms for ever more : 

But in u mighty hall or gallery, both in 

More modern buildings UkJ those built of yore, 

A kind of death comes o'er us all alone, 

Seeing what *s meant for many with but one. 



lvih. 

A neat, snug study on a winter's ni"ht, 

A book, friend, single ladv, or a glass 
Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, 

Are things which make an English evening pass ; 
Though ccrtes by no means so grand a sight 

As is a theatre lit up by gas. 
I pass my evenings in long naileries solely, 
And that 's the reason I 'm so melancholy. 

LIX. 

Alas ! man makes that great which makes him little: 

I grant you in a church 't is very well; 
What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, 

But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell 
Their names who rearVl it ; but huge houses fit ill — 

And huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam fell 
Methinks the story of the tower of Babel 
Alight teach them this much better than I 'm able 

LS. 

Babel was Nimrod's hunting-seat, and then 
A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, 

Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, 
Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing, 

And Daniel tamed the lions in their den, 
The people's awe and admiration raising; 

'T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Py ramus, 

And the calumniated Queen Semiramis. 



But to resume, — should there be, (what may not 
Be in these days ?) some infidels, who don't, 

Because they can't find out the very spot 
Of that same Babel, or because they won't, 

(Though Claudius Rich, esquire, some bricks has got 
And written lately two memoirs upon 't,) 

Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 

Must be believed, though they believe not you:- 

Lxnx. 

Yet let them think that Horace has expressM 

Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 
Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, 

Who give themselves to architecture wholly < 
We know where things and men must end at last , 

A moral (like ail morals) melancholy, 
And " Et sepulcri immemor struis domos" 
Shows that we build when we should but entomb us. 

LXIV. 

At last they reach'd a quarter most retired, 
Where echo woke as if from a long slumber: 

Though full of all things which could be desired, 
One wonder'd what to do with such a number 

Of articles which nobody required ; 

Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 

With furniture an exquisite apartment, 

Which puzzled nature much to know what art meant, 

I. xv. 
It seem'd however, but to open on 

A range or suit of further chambers, which 
Might lead to heaven knows where ; but in this one 

The moveables were prodigally rich ; ' 

Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon 

So costly were they ; carpets every stitch 
Of workmanship so rare, that made you wish 
You could glide o'er thera like a golden fish 



542 



DON JUAN. 



Caxto V. 



I.XVI. 

The black, however, without hardly deigning 

A glance at that which rapt the staves in wonder, 

Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, 
As if the milky way their feet was under 

With .ill its stars: and with a stretch attaining 
A certain press or cupboard, niched in yonder 

In that remote recess which you may see^ — 

(Jr if you do n't, the fault is not in me : 

i. \ v 1 1 . 
I wish to be perspicuous: and the black, 
I iv. unlocking the recess, pull'd forth 

A ipiantily of clothes fit tor the bark 

Of any Mussulman, whate'erhis worth; 

And of variety there was no lack — 

And yet, though I have said there was no dearth, 
He chose himself to point out what he thought 
Most proper for trie Christians he had bought. 

i.xviii. 
The suit he thought raosl suitable to each 

\\ as, tiir die cider and the stouter, first 
A < .null. lie clonk, which to the knee might reach, 

And trowsers not so tight that they would burst, 
But such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 

A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, 
Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handv; 
In short, all things which form a Turkish dandy. 

LXIX. 

While be was dressing, Baba, their black friend, 

Ihntcd the vast advantages which they 
Might probably attain both in the end, 

If they would but pursue the proper way 
Which fortune plainly stem'd to recommend ; 

And then he added, that he needs must say, 
" 'T would greatly tend to better their condition, 
It they would condescend to circumcision. 

LXX. 

" For his own part, he really should rejoice 

To see them true believers, but no less 
Would leave his proposition to their choice." 

The other, thanking him for this excess 
Of goodness in thus leaving" them a voice 

In such a trifle, scarcely could express 
" Sufficiently (he said) his approbation 
Of all the customs of this polish d nation. 

LXXI. 

" For his own share — he saw but small objection 

To so respectable an ancient rite, 
And ufter swallowing down a slight reflection, 

For which he own'd a present appetite, 
He doubted not a few hours of reflection 

Would reconcile him to the business quite." — 
w Will it ?" said Juan, sharply ; " Strike me dead, 
But they as soon shall circumcise my head — 

i.xxit. 
"Cut off a thousand heads, before " — " Now pray," 

Replied the other, "do not interrupt: 
You put me out in what I h:id to say. 

Sir! — as I said, as soon as I have supp'd 
I shall perpend if your proposals may 

Be such as I can properly accept ; 

Provided always your yrrat - loess still 

Remits Uie matter to our own freew ill." 

I.XXIII. 

Baba eyed Juan, and said " Be so good 
As dress yourself—" and pointed out a suit 

In which a princess with grcal pleasure would 
Array her limbs ; but Juan standing mute, 

As not being in a masquerading mood, 
Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot; 

And when the old negro told him to " Get ready." 

Replied, " Old gentleman, I 'm not a lady." 



LXXtV. 
"What you may be, I neither know nor can;,* 

Said Baba, " but pray do as I desire, 
I have no more time nor manv words to spare." 

'■ At least," said Juan, "sure I niav inquire 
Tie- cause of this odd travesty?" — * Forbear/ 1 

Said Baba, " to be curious : 'l will transpire, 
No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season. 
I have no authority to tell the reason." 

LXXV. 
"Then if I do," said Juan, « I 'II he " "Hold!" 

Rejoin'd the negro, u pray be not provoking; 

Tin-; spiril *s well, but it may wax too bold, 
And you will find os nol too fond uf joking." 

'• What, sir," said Juan, " shall it e'er be told 
That I unsex'd my dress '/" But Baba, stroking 

The tiling down, '-aid — " Incense me, and I call 

Those who will ka\ e you of no sex at all. 
I. XX VI. 

"I offer you a handsome suit of clothes: 

A woman's, true ; but then there is a cause [kmfhM 
Why yon should wear them," — " What, though inv soul 

The effeminate sarb .'" — Thus, after a short pause, 
SighM Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 

" What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?" 
Thus he profanely tenn'd the finest lace 
Which e'er setoff a marriage-morning face. 

LXXVII. 

And then he swore ; and, sighing, on he; slippM 
A pair of trowsers of flesh-colour' d silk; 

Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd, 

Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk; 

But, tuning on his petticoat, he tripp'd, 

Which — as we say — or as the Scotch sav, uhilk, 

(The rhyme obliges me to this: — sometimes 

Kings are nol more imperative than rhymes)— 

I. XXVIII. 

Whilk, which (or what you please) was owing fo 
His garment's novelty, and his being awkward ; 

And yet at last he managed to get through 
His toilet, though no doubt a little backward; 

The negro Baba help'd a little too, 

When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard , 

And, wrestling both his arms into a gown, 

He paused and took a survey up and down. 

I.XXIX. 

One difficulty still remain'd, — his hair 

Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 

So manv false long tresses all to spare, 

That soon his head was most completely crown'd, 

After the manner then in fashion there ■ 

And this addition with such gems was bound 

As suited the ensemble of his toilet, 

While Baba made hint comb his head and oil it. 

I.XXX. 

And now being femininely all arrav'd, 

With some small aid from scissors, paint, and tweeter*, 
Hi- look'd in almost all respects a maid, 

And Bah. i smilingly BXclainVd, "Von soe, sirs, 

A perfect transformation here display'd ; 

And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs, 
That is — the lady . — '.'lapping his hands twice, 
Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 

LXX XI. 

" You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
" Will please (o accompany those gentlemen 

To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun, 
Will follow me: no tritlitiL'. sir: for when 

I sav a "hing, it mtisl at once be done. 

What fear von ? think vou this a lion's den t 

Why 't is a palace, where the truly wise 

Anticipate the Prophet's paradise 



»: «vro V- 



DON JUAN. 



543 



LXXXII. 

1 You tool! I tell you no one means yon harm." 
"So much the better," Juan said, "for them: 

Kht uic/ snail feel the weight of this my arm, 
Whi~h is not quite so light r.« van mav deem. 

I yield thus far ; hut soon will break the charm, 
If anv take me fur that which I seem ; 

So that I trust, for every body's sake, 

That tnis disguise may (cad to no mistake." 

L XXXIII. 

" Blockhead ! come on, and see," quoth Baba; while 

Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who, 
Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile 

Upon the metamorphosis in view, 
"Farewell!" they mutually exclaim'd: "this soil 

Seems fertile in adventures strange and new ; 
One 's lurn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid, 
By this old black enchanter's unsought aid." 

LXXXIV. 

" Farewell !" said Juan ; " should we meet no more, 
I wish you a good appetite." — " Farewell!" 

Replied the other ; " though it grieves me sore ; 
When we next meet we Ml have a tale to tell ; 

We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 
Keep your good name ; though Eve herself once fell." 

*' Nay," quoth the maid, " the Sultan's self shan't carry 

Unless his highness promises to marry me." [me, 

LXXXV. 

And tiius they parted, each by separate doors; 

Baba led Juan onward, room by room, 
Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors, 

Till a gigantic portal through the gloom, 
Haughty and huge, along the distance towers ; 

And wafted far arose a rich perfume : 
It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine, 
For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 

LXXXVI. 

The giant door was broad, and bright and high, 
Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise ; 

Warriors thereon were battling furiously ; 

Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies; 

There captives led in triumph droop the eye, 
And in perspective many a squadron flies: 

It seems the work of times before the line 

Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. 

LXXXVH. 

This massv portal stood at the wide close 

Of a huge hall, and on its either side 
Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, 

Were sate, like uglv imps, as if allied 
In mockery to the enormous gate which rose 

O'er them in almost pyramidic pride: 
The gate so splendid was in all its features,'' 
You never thought about these little creatures, 

lxxxviii. 

Until you nearly trod on them, and then 

You started back in horror to survey 
The wondrous hideousness of those small men, 

Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor gray, 
But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 

Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may ; 
They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb — 
Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 

LXXXIX. 

Their duty was — for they were strong, and though 
They look'd so little, did strong things at times— 

To ope this door, which they could really do, 
The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes; 

And now and then, with tough strings of the bow, 
As is the custom of those eastern climes, 

To give some rebel Pacha a cravat ; 

For mutes are generally used for that. 



They spoke by signs — that is. not spoke at all: 
And, looking like two incubi, they glared 

As Baba with his fingers made them fall 
To heaving hack the portal folds: it scared 

Juan a moment, as this pair so small 

With shrinking serpent optics on him stared ; 

It was as if their little looks could poison 

Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on, 

XCI. 

Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint 
To Juan some slight lessons as his guide: 

" If you could just contrive," he said, " to stint 

That somewhat manly majesty of stride, [in 't)— 
T would be as well, and — (though there 's not much 
To swing a little less from side to side, 

Vi hich has at times an aspect of the oddest; 

And also, could you look a little modest, 

XCII. 

'T would be convenient ; for these mutes have eyes 
Like needles, which might pierce those petticoats ; 

And if they should discover your disguise, 

You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats ; 

And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, 
To find our way to Marmora without boats, 

Stitch'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 

A good deal practised here upon occasion." 

XCIII. 

With this encouragement, he led the way 

Into a room still nobler than the last ; 
A rich confusion form'd a disarray 

In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
Could hardly carry any thing away, 

Object on object flash'd so bright and fast; 
A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter 
Magnificently mingled in a litter. 

XCIV. 

Wealth had done wonders — taste not much ; such things 

Occur in orient palaces, and even 
In the more chasten'd domes of western kings, 

(Of which I 've also seen some six or seven,) 
Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 

Much lustre, there is much to be forgiven ; 
Groups of had statues, tables, chairs, and pictures. 
On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 

xcv. 
In this imperial hall, at distance lay 

Under a canopy, and there reclined 
0«,uite in a confidential queenly way, 

A lady. Baba stopp'd, and kneeling, sign'd 
To Juan, who, though not much used to pray, 

Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind 
What all this meant: while Baba bow'd and bended 1 
His head, until the ceremony ended. 

XCVI. 

The lady, rising up with such an air 

As Venus rose with from the wave, on them 

Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair 
Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem 

And, raising up an arm as moonlight fair, 
She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem 

Of her deep-purple robe, and, speaking low 

Pointed to Juan, who remain'd below. 

xcvu. 
Her presence was as lofty as her state ; 

Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 
Whose force description only would abate: 

I 'd rather leave it much to your* own mind, 
Than lessen it by what I could relate 

Of forms and features ; it would strike vou blind. 
Could I do justice to the full detail ; 
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 



544 



DON JUAN. 



CtiTM V 



xcvur. 

This much however I may add — her years 

Were ripe, they might make six and twenty springs, 

But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, 
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, 

Such as was Mary's, Queen of Scots ; true — tears 
And love destroy ; and sapping sorrow wrings 

Charms from the charmer — yet some never grow 

Ugly ; for instance — Ninon de l'Enclos. 

XCIX. 

She spake some words to her attendants, who 
Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 

And were all clad alike ; like Juan, too, 
Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen: 

They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew, 

Which might have calPd Diana's chorus " cousin," 

As far as outward show mav correspond ; 

I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 

c. 
They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring, 

But not by the same door through which came in 
Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring, 

At some small distance, all he saw within 
This strange saloon, much fitted fur inspiring 

Marvel and praise : for both or none things win ; 
And I must say 1 ne'er could see the very 
Great happiness of the " Nil admirari." 

ci. 

" Not to admire is all the art I know 

(Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speech) 
To make men happy, or to keep them so ;" 

(So take it in the very words of Creech.) 
Thus Horace wrote, we all know, long ago; 

And thus Pope quotes the precept, to re-teach 
From his translation; but had none admired, 
Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ? 

en. 

Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 

Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 
A second time desired him to kneel down 

And kiss the lady's foot, which maxim when 
He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 

Drew himself up to his full height again, 
And said " It grieved him, but he could not stoop 
To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." 

cm. 
Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, 

Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 
He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 

About a bowstring — quite in vain ; not yet 
Would Juan stoop, though 't were to Mahomet's bride : 

There 's nothing in the world like etxqtieUe t 
In kingly chambers or imperial halls, 
As also at the race and county balls. 

CIV. 

He stood like Atlas, with a world of words, 
About his ears, and nathless would not bend ; 

The blond of all his line's Castilian lords 
Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend 

To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords 
A thousand times of him had made an end ; 

At length perceiving the "foot" could not stand, 

Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 

cv. 

Here was an honourable compromise, 

A half-way house of diplomatic rest, 
Where they might meet in much more peaceful guiso; 

And Juan now his willingness express'd 
To use all fit and proper courtesies, 

Adding, that this was commonest and best, 
For through the South the custom still commands 
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 



And he advanced, though with but a bad gra^ 
Though on more thorough-bred* or fairer nngars 

No ltps ere left (heir transitory trace; 
On such as these the lip loo fondly lingers, 

And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace, 
As you will see, if she you love will bring hen 

In contact ; and sometimes even a fair Stranger*! 

An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 

cvn. 
The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 

Baba retire, which he obeyM in style, 
As if well used to th* retreating trade ; 

And taking hints in good part all the while, 
He whispered Juan not to be afraid, 

And, looking on him with a sort of 5inile, 
Took leave with such a face of satisfaction, 
As goon men wear who have done a virtuous action 

CVIII. 

When he was gone, there was a sudden change 

I know not what might be the; lady's thought, 
But o'er her bright brow tlash'd a tumult strange, 

And into her clear cheek the blood was brought, 
Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 

The verge of heaven ; and in her large eyes wrought 
A mixture of sensations might be scann'd, 
Of half voluptuousness and half command. 

Cix. 
Her form had all the softness of her sex, 

Her features all the sweetness of the devil, 
When he put on the cherub to perplex 

Eve, and paved (God knuws how) the road to evil; 
The sun himself was scarce more free from specks 

Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil; 
Yet somehow there was something somewhere wanting, 
As if she rather ordered than was granting^— 

ex. 

Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
A chain o'er all she did ; that is, a chain 

Was thrown, as 't were, about the neck of you, — 
And rapture's self will seem almost a pain 

With aught which looks like despotism in view . 
Our souls at least are free, and 't is in vain 

We would against them make the flesh obey— 

The spirit in the end will have its wav. 

CXI. 

Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet , 

Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
There was a self-will even in her small feet, 

As though they were quite conscious of her station— 
They trod as upon necks ; and to complete 

Her state, (it is the custom of her nation,) 
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
Sho was a sultan's bride, (thank Hcavrn, not mine.) 

cxn. 
" To hear and to obey" had been from birth 

The law of all around her ; to fulfil 
All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth, 

Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will; 
Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth: 

Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still; 
Had she but been a Christian, I 've a notion 
We should have found out the H perpetual motion." 

CXIII. 

Wnate'er she saw- and coveted was brought ; 

Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed 
Ii might be seen, with diligence was sought, 

And when *t was found straightway the bargain closed : 
There was no end unto the things she bought, 

Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, 
The women pardon'd all except her face 



Cisro V. 



DON JUAN. 



645 



CXIV. 

Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 

Her eye in passing on his way to sale ; 
She order'd him directly to be bought, 

And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fa.il 
In any kind of mischief to be wrought, 

Had his instructions where and how to deal: 
She had no prudence, but he had ; and this 
Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 

cxv. 

His youth and features favour'd the disguise, 
And should you ask how she, a sultan's bride, 

Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, 
This I must leave sultanas to decide : 

Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes. 
And kings and consorts oft are mystified, 

As we may ascertain with due precision, 

Some by experience, others by tradition. 

cxvr. 
But to the main point, where we have been tending: — 

She now conceived all difficulties past, 
And deem'd herself extremely condescending 

When being made her property at last, 
Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 

Passion and power, a glance on him she cast, 
And merely saying, " Christian, canst thou love? 1 * 
Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. 

CXVXI. 

And so it was, in proper time and place 

But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing 

With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face, 

Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing, 

Rush back upon his heart, which fiUM apace, 

And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing: 

These words went through his soul like Arab spears, 

So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 

cxvur. 

She was a good deal shock'd ; not shock'd at tears, 
For women shed and use them at their liking; 

But there is something when man's eye appears 
Wet, still more disagreeable and striking: 

A woman's tear-drop melts, a man half sears, 
Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 

His heart, to force it out, for (to be shorter) 

To them 't is a relief, to us a torture. 

CXIX. 

And she would have consoled, but knew not how; 

Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
Infected her with sympathy till now, 

And never having dreamt what 'twas to bear 
Aught of a serious sorrowing kind, although 

There might arise some pouting petty care 
To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near 
Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear. 

cxx. 

But nature teaches more than power can spoil, 
And when a strong although a strange sensation 

Moves — female hearts are such a genial soil 
For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, 

They naturally pour the " wine and oil," 
Samaritans in every situation; 

And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why 

Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 

exxr. 

But tears must stop like all things else; and soon 
Juan, who for an instant had been moved 

To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 

Of one who dared to ask if " he had loved,** 

Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 
Bright with the very weakness he reproved ; 

And although sensitive to beauty, he 

Felt moat indignant still at not being free. 
3 T 



CXXII. 

Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days, 

A\ as much embarrass'd, never having met 
In all her life with aught save prayers and praise 

And as she also risk'd her life to get 
Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 

Into a coinfortahle tftte-a-l$te, 
To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, 
And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 

exxur. 
I also would suggest the fitting time, 

To gentlemen in any such like case, 
That is to say — in a meridian clime ; 

With us there is more law given to the case, 
But here a small delay forms a great crime: 

So recollect that the extremest grace 
Is just twe minutes for your declaration — 
A moment more would hurt your reputation. 

C XXXV 

Juan's was good ; and might have been still better. 
But he had got Haidee into his head : 

However strange, he could not yet forget her, 
Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred 

Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 
For having had him to the palace led, 

Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 

Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again. 

exxv. 

At length, in an imperial way, she laid 
Her hand on his, and bending on his eyes, 

Which needed not an empire to persuade, 
Look'd into his for love, where none repHes: 

Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, 
That being the last thing a proud woman tries; 

She rose, and, pausing one chaste moment, threw 

Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 

CXXVI. 

This was an awkward test, as Juan found, 

But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and nride , 
With gentle force her white arms he unwound, 

And seated her all drooping by his side. 
Then rising haughtily he glanced around, 

And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 
" The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor 1 
Serve a sultana's sensual phantasy. 

exxvrr. 
" Thou ask'st if I can love? be this ihe proof 

How much I have loved — that I love not thee. 
In this vile garb, the distaff's web and woof 

Were fitter for me: love is for the free I 
I am not dazzled by this splendid roof. 

Whate'er thv power, and great it seems lobe- 
Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne, 
And hands obey — our hearts are still our own." 

CX XVII I. 

This was a truth to us extremely trite, 

Not so to her who ne'er had heard such things, 

She deem'd her least command must yield delight, 
Earth being only made for queens and kings. 

If hearts lay on the left side or the right 
She hardly knew, to such perfection brings 

Legitimacy its born votaries, when 

Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. 

CXXIX. 

Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 
As even in a much humbler lot had made 

A kingdom or confusion any where ; 
And also, as may be presumed, she laid 

Some stress upon those charms which seldom are 
By the possessors thrown into the shade ;— 

She thought hers gave a double " right divine," 

And half of that opinion '9 also mine. 



646 



DON JUAN. 



Canto T. 



cxxx. 

Remember, or (if you cannot) imagine, 

Ye ! who have kept your chastity when young, 

While some more desperate dowager has been waging 
Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung 

Ey your refusal, recollect her raging! 
Or recollect all that was said or sung 

On such a subject; then suppose the face 

Of a young downright beauty in this case. 

CXXXI. 

Suppose, but you already have supposed, 
The spouse of Poliphar, the Lady Booby, 

riicdra, and all which slory has disclosed 
Of good examples; pity that so few by 

Poets and private tutors are exposed, 

To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by ! 

But when you have supposed the few we know, 

v ou can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 

CXXX1I. 

A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, 

Or anv interesting beast of prey, 
Are similes at hand far the distress 

Of ladies who cannot have their own wav ; 
But though my turn will nut he served with less, 

These do n't express one half what I should say : 
For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
To cutting short their hopes of having any ? 

CXXXIII. 

The love of offspring *s nature's general law, 

From tigresses and cubs lo ducks and ducklings ; 

There 's nothing whets the beak or arms the claw 
Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings ; 

And all who have seen a human nursery, saw 

How mothers love their children's squalls and chicklings 

This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 

Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger. 

CXXXIV. 

If I said fire flash' d from Gulbeyaz* eyes, 

*T were nothing — for her eyes flash'd always fire ; 

Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 
I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, 

So supernatural was her passion's rise ; 

For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire: 

Even you who know what a check'd woman is, 

(Enough, God knows !) would much fall short of this. 

exxxv. 

Her rage was hut a minute's, and 't was well — 
A moment's more had slain her ; but the while 

It lasted, 't was like a short glimpse of hell: 
Naught 's more sublime than energetic bile, 

rhough horrible to see yet grand to tell, 
Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle ; 

And the deep passions flashing through her form 

Made hei a beautiful embodied storm. 

CXXXVI. 

A vulgar tempest 't were to a Typhoon 

To match a common fury with he.r rage, 
And yet she did not want lo reach the moon, 

Like moderate Hotspur 00 the immortal page; 
Her anger pitched into a lower tune, 

Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age— 
Her wish was but to " kill, kill, kill," like Lear's, 
And then her thirst of blood was queneb'd in tears. 

cxxxvir. 
A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, 

PassM without words — in fact she could not speak ; 
And then her sex's shame broke in at last, 

A sentiment till then in her but weak, 
But now it flow'd in natural and fast, 

As water through an unexpected leak, 
For she felt humbled — and humiliation 
Is sometimes good for people in hor station. 



exxxvm. 

It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, 

It also gently hints to them that others, 
Although of clay, are not vet quite of mud; 

That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 
And works nf the same pottery, bad or good. 

Though nol all born of the same sires and mothers 
ft teaches — Heaven knows only what it teai 
But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. 

CXXXIX. 

Her first thought was to cut off Joan's head ; 

Her second, to cut only Ins — acquaintance ; 
Her third, '" ask him where he had been bred; 

Her fourth, to rally him into repentance ; 
Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed ; 

Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence 
The lash to Huba ; — but her grand resource 
Was to sil down again, and cry of c 

cxi,. 
She thought to stab herself, but then she had 
The dagger close at hand, which made it awkwaru , 

For eastern stays arc little ma !<■ to j ad, 

So that a poinard pierces if 't is stuck hard 
She thought of killing Juan — but. poor lad ! 

Though he desc •■■ d it well for being so backward. 
The cutting off his head was not the art 

Must likely to attain her aim — his heart 

CXLI. 

Juan was moved: lie bad made up his mind 

To be impaled, or quartered as a dish 
For dogs, or to be slam with pangs refined, 

Or throw ii to lions, or made da its for fish, 

And thus heroically stood resigned] 

Rather than sin — except to his own wish 
But all his great preparatives for dying 
1 lissoived like snow before a woman crying. 

CXZ.II. 

As through his palms Boo lores' valour oozed 

So Juan's virtue ebh'd, I know not how ; 
And first he wonder'd why he had refused 

And then, if matters could be made up now , 
And next his savage virtue he accused] 

Just as a friar may accuse his vow, 
Or as a dame repents her of her oath, 
Which mostly ends in some small breach of both 

CXLIIt. 

So he began to stammer some excuses ; 

But words are not enough in such a matter, 
Although you borrow'd all that e'er the mtlBM 

Have sung, or even a dandy's dandiest chattef, 
Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses j 

Just as a languid smile began to flatter 
His peace was making, but before he vt ntured 
Further, old Bans rather briskly enter'd. 

<XI, IV. 

"Bride of the Sun! and Sister of the Moon!" 

('T was thus he spake) •' anil Empress of the Earth 

Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune. 

Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth, 
Your slave brings tidings — he hopes nol too soon— 

Which your sublime attention mav be worth; 
The Son himself has sent me like a rav 
To hint that he is coming up this wav."' 

CXLV. 

" Is it," ex-laim'd Gulbevaz, " as vou sav ? 

I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning ! 
But bid my women form the milky wav. 

Hence, my old comet! give the stars due warning— 
And, Christian ! mingle with them as you may ; 

And. as vou 'd have me pardon your past scorning — * 
Here thev were interrupted by a humming 
Sound, and then by a cry, u the Sultan 'b coming " 



Canto V. 



DON JUAN. 



647 



CXLVI. 

First came her damsels, a decorous file, 

And then his highness' eunuchs, black and white ; 

The train might reach a quarter of a mile ; 
His majesty was always so polite 

As to announce his visiis a long while 
Before he came, especially at night; 

For being the last wife of ihe emperor, 

She was of course the favourite of the four. 

CXLTXX. 

His highness was a man of solemn port, 

ShawIM to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 

Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court, 

His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise ; 

Ho was as good a sovereign of the sort 
As any mention'd in the histories 

Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine 

Save Solyman, the glory of their line. 9 

CXLVIII. 

He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers 
With more than "' oriental scrupulosity;" 

He left to his vizier all state affairs, 
And show'd but little royal curiosity 

I know not if he had domestic cares — 
No process proved connubial animosity; 

Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, 

Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen. 

CXLIX. 

If now and then there happen'd a slight slip, 
Little was heard of criminal or crime ; 

The storv scarcely pass'd a single lip— 
The sack and sea had settled all in time, 

From which the secret nobody could rip : 

The public knew no more than does this rhyme 

No scandals made the daily press a curse — 

Morals were better, and the fish no worse. 

CL. 

He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, 
Was also certain that the earth was square, 

Because he had journey 'd fifty miles, and found 
No si°n that it was circular any where ; 

His empire also was without a hound: 
J T is true, a little troubled here and there, 

By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, 

But then they never came to " the Seven Towers ;" 

CLI. 

Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 

To lodge there when a war broke out, according 

To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant 
Those scoundrels who have never had a sword in 

Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 

Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording 

Their lies, yclept despatches, without risk or 

The singeing of a single inky whisker. 

CLII. 

He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons, 
Of whom all such as came ef age were stow'd, 

The former in a palace, where like nuns 

Thev lived till some bashaw was sent abroad, 

When she, whose turn it was, wedded at once, 

Sometimes at six years old — though this seems odd, 

? T is true ; the reason is, that the bashaw 

Must make a present to his sire in law. 

CLiir. 
His sons were kept in prison till they grew 

Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, 
One or the other, but which of the two 

Could yet be known unto the fates alone ; 
Meantime the education they went through 

Was princely, as the proofs have always shown: 
So that the heir apparent still was found 
No less deserving to be hang'd than croWd. 



CLIV. 

His majesty saluted his fourth spouse 

With all the ceremonies of his rank, 
Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd her brows, 

As suits a matron who has play'd a prank: 
These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, 

To save the credit of their breaking bank; 
To no men are such cordial greetings given 
As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven. 

CLV. 

His highness cast around his great black eyes, 
And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 

Juan among the damsels in disguise, 

At which he seem'd no whit surprised, nor grieved, 

But just remark'd with air sedate and wise, 
While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 

" I see you 've bought another girl ; 't is pity 

That a mere Christian should be half so pretty." 

CI- VI. 

This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 

The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake 

Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone i 
Oh, Mahomet! that his majesty should take 

Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 
Of them his lips imperial ever spake ! 

There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, 

But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 

CLVII. 

The Turks do well to shut — at least, sometimes — 

The women up — because, in sad reality, 
Their chastity in these unhappy climes 

Is not a tiling of that astringent quality, 
Which in the north prevents precocious crimes, 

And makes our snow less pure than our morality ; 
The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, 
Has quite the contrary effect on vice. 

cLviir. 
Thus far our chronicle ; and now we pause, 

Though not for want of matter ; but 't is time, 
According to the ancient epic laws, 

To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. 
Let this fifth canto meet with due applause, 

The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime , 
Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 
You '11 pardon to my muse a few short naps. 



PREFACE 



CANTOS VI. VII. vnr. 



The details of the siege of Ismail in two of the fol- 
lowing cantos (i. e. the 7th and 8th) are taken from a 
French work, entitled " Histoire de la Nouvelle Russie." 
Some of the incidents attributed to Don Juan really 
occurred, particularly the circumstance of his saving 
the infant, which was the actual case of the late Due 
de Richelieu, then a young volunteer in the Russian 

rvice, and afterwards the founder and benefactor of 
Odessa, where his name and memory can never cease 
to be regarded with reverence. In the course of these 
cantos, a stanza or two will be found relative to the 
late Marquis of Londonderry, but written some time 
before his decease. Had that person's oligarchy died 
with him, they would have been suppressed ; as it is, I 
am aware of nothing in the manner of his death or of 
his life to prevent the free expression of the opinions 
of all whom his whole existence was consumed in en- 
deavouring to enslave. That he was an amiable man 
in private life, may or may not be true ; but with this 



543 



DON JUAN. 



Canto VI. 



the public have nothing to do: and as to lamenting his 
death, it will he time enough when Ireland bat 
to mourn for Ins birth. As a minister, I, for one of 
Millions, looked Upon him as the most despotic in inteu- 
tfcti^aodthe weakest in intellect, that ever tyrannized 
over a country. It is the first time indeed since the 
Normans, that England has been insulted by ^ minister 
(at least) who could not speak English, and that Parlia- 
ment permitted itself to be dictated to in the language 
of Mrs. Molaprop. 

Of the manner of his death little need be said, except 
that if a poor radical, such as Waddington or Watson, 
had cut his throat, he would have been hurled in a cross- 
toad, with the usual appurtenances of the- stake and 
mallet. But the minister was ail elegant lunatic — a sen- 
timental suicide — he merely cut the "carotid artery" 
(bl'-s^ings on their learning!) — and lo ! the pageant, and 
the abbey, and " the syllubles of dolour yelled forth" by 
the newspapers — and the harangue of the coroner in an 
eulogy over the bleeding body of the deceased — (an 
Antony worthy of such a Ca-sar) — and the nauseous 
and atrocious cant of a degraded crew of conspirators 
against ail that is sincere or honourable. In his death 
he was necessarily one of two things by the law — a felon 
or u madman — and in either case no great subject for 
panegyric* In his life he was — what all the world 
knows, and half of it will feel for years to come, unless 
his death prove a "moral lesson" to the surviving Sejanif 
of Europe. It may at least serve as some consolation 
U> the nations, that their oppressors are not happy, and 
in some instances judge so justly of their own actionsos 
to anticipate the sentence of mankind. — Let us hear no 
more of this man, and lot Ireland remove the ashes of 
tsr Grattan from 'lie sanctuary of Westminster. Shall 
the Patriot of Humanity repose by the Werlher of Po- 
litics!!! 

With regard to the objections which have been made 
3n another M-ore to the already published cantos «,f this 
poem, I shall content myself with two quotations from 
Voltaire : — 

" La pudeur s'est enfuite des cocurs, et s'est refugiee 
but lea Iftvreo." 

" Plus lea mcrurs sont depravees, plus !es expressions 
deviennent mesurees; on croit regagner en langage ce 
qu'on a perdu en vertu." 

This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded and 
hypocritical mass which leavens the present English 
generation, and is the onlv answer they deserve. The 
hackneyed and lavished title of blasphemer — which with 
radical, liberal, jacobin, reformer, &C. are the changes 
which the hirelings are daily ringing in the ears of those 
who will listen — should he welcome to all who recollect 
on xaf.om it was originally bestowed. Socrates and Jesus 
Christ were put to death publicly as blasphemers, and so 
have been and may be many who dare to oppose the 
most notorious abuses of the name of God and the 
mind of man. But persecution is not refutation, nor 
even triumph: the wretched infidel, as he is called, is 
pj-n|i;ililv bappi*-r in his prison than the proudest of his 
assailants. \\ ith his opinions I have nothing to do — 
they may be right or wrong — but he has suffered for 
them, and that very suffering for conscience* sake will 
make more proselytes to Deism than the example of 
heterodox} prelates to Christianity, suicide statesmen to 



' oppression, or over-pensioned homicides to the impious 
alliance which insults the world with the name of " Holy !" 
i I have no wish to trample on the dishonoured or the 
' dead ; but it would be well if the adherents lo the classei 
J from whence those persons sprung should abate a littU 
(.1" the cant which is the crying sin of this double-dealing 
and false-speaking time of sellish spoilers, and — but 
enough for the present. 



CANTO VI. 






• I suy by Hie Into of the land— the lawi of Immunity Judge more 

gently ; but n* the legitimate* have alway* the law in their l tha, 

let litem her* innke the OOM "I it. 

t Prom tlii* number mint lie excepted Canning, Canning If a genlm, 
■Jtnoit a unrwml out i an orator, a wll, n poet,i ttataeinn ; and no 
m in i>i in lent can long piireue the path of hi« late predi-cemor, Luid C. 

If e*er ntantavart htaeounlry, Ctuolog can; but will her 1 1, Bfi 

hoi e 

I \\ hi m Lord Sandwich inid "he did not know the difTerwKelxMween 
BrUiodon v ami heterodox?,"— Warburton, the bishop, replied,*' Ortho- 
doxy, my l..-il. i» i/n/ dosu t and heterodoxy is another man'* doxy " — 
A prelate of the prnent rlnv hu» dltco«arM, it fee ma, a third kind if 
doxy, which hat ma greatly exalted in theeyef of (he elect, Lbal which 
DciiUuud caiU " Gaurcii-ol-LuslAudiSiu," 



11 There \s a tide in the affairs of men 

Which, taken at the flood" — you know the rest, 

And most of us have found it, now and then ; 
At least we think so, though but few have guessM 

The moment, till too late to come again. 
But no doubt every thing is for the best— 

Of which the surest sign is in the end : 

When tilings are at the worst, they sometimes mend. 

ii. 
There is a lide in the affairs of women 

" Which , lakenar the Hood, leads" — God knows where 
Those navigators must be able seamen 

Wnose charts lay down its currents to a hair; 
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen 

With its strange whirls and eddies can compare : 
Men, with their heads, reflect on this and that — 
But women, with their hearts, on heaven knows what. 

in. 
And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, 

Young, beautiful, and daring — who would risk 
A throne, the world, the universe, to be 

Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk 
The stars from out the skv, than not be free 

As are the billows when the breeze is brisks 
Though such a she 's a devil, (if that there be one,) 
Yet she would make full many a IVIanichean. 

IV. 

Thrones, worlds, st cetera, are so oft upset 

By commonest ambition, that when passion 
O'erthrows the same, we readily forget, 

Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 
If Antony be well reinember'd yet, 

J T is not his conquests keep his name in fashion, 
But Aclium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 
Outbalance all the Caesars' victories. 

v. 
He died at fifty for a queen of forty ; 

I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, 
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds, are but a sport— I 

Remember when, thoogb I had no great plenty 
Of worlds to lose, yet still, lo pay my court, I 

Gave what I had — a heart: as the world went, I 
Gave what was worth a world ; for worlds could never 
Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever. 

VI. 

'T was the boy's " mite," and like the " widow's," mas 
Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now ; 

But whether such things do, or do not, weigh, 
All who have loved, or love, will still allow 

Life has naught like it. God is love, they say, 
And Love 's a god, or was before the brow 

Of Earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 

Of— but chronology best knows the yean. 



Canto VI. 



DON JUAN. 



649 



We left our liero and third heroine in 
A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, 

For gendemen must sometimes risk their skin 
For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman: 

Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, 

And do n't agree at all with the wise Roman, 

Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious, 

Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. 

VIII. 

I Imow Gulbevaz was extremely wrong ; 

I own it, 1 deplore it, I condemn it ; 
But I detest all fiction, even in song, 

And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it. 
Her reason being weak, her passions strong, 

She thought that her lord's heart (even could she claim it) 
"Was scarce enough; for he had fifty-nine 
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 

IX. 

I am not, like Cassio, "an arithmetician," 

But by "the bookish iheoric" it appears, 
If 't is summ'd up with feminine precision, 

That, adding to the account his Highness' years, 
The fair Sultana err'd from inanition ; 

For, were the Sultan just io all his dears, 
She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part 
Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 

x. 
Jt is observed that ladies are litigious 

Upon all legal objects of possession, 
And not the least so when they are religious, 

Winch doubles what they think of the transgression. 
With suits and prosecution they besiege us, 

As the tribunals show through many a session, 
When they suspect that any one goes shares 
In that to which the law makes them sole heirs. 

XI. 

Now, if this holds good in a Christian land, 
The heathens also, though with lesser latitude, 

Are apt to carry things with a high hand, 

And take what kings call " an imposing attitude;" 

And for their rights connubial make a stand, 

When their liege husbands treat them with ingratitude : 

And as four wives must have quadruple claims, 

The Tigris has its jealousies like Thames. 

xir. 
Gulbevaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 

The favourite ; but what 'a favour among four ? 
Polygamy may well be held in dread, 

Not only as a sin, but as a bore: 
Mosl B ise men, with one moderate woman wed, 

Will scarcely find philosophy fir more; 
And all (except Mahometans) fir bear 
To make the nuptial couch a " Bed of Ware." 

XIII. 

His highness, the sublimest of mankind, — 

So styled according to the usual firms 
Of every monarch, till they are consigned 

To those sad hungry jacobins, the worms, 
Who on the very loftiest kings have dined,— 

H's highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms, 
Expecting all the" welcome of a lover, 
(A " Highland welcome" all the wide world over.) 

xiv. 
Now here we should distinguish ; for howe'er 

Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, 
May look like what is — neither here nor there: 

They are put on as easily as a hat, 
Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 

Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate, 
Which form an ornament, but no more part 
Of heads, than their caresses of tin- heart. 



A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 
Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 

More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 
Rather to hide what pleases most unknown, 

Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 

Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 

A sincere woman's breast, — for over ivirm 

Or over cold, annihilates the charm. 

xvi. 

For over warmth, if false, is worse than truth , 
If true, 't is no great lease of its own fire ; 

For no one, save in very early jouth, 

Would like (1 think) to trust all to desire, 

Which is but a precarious bund, in sooth, 
And apt to he transferr'd to the first buyer 

At a sad discount: while your over chilly 

Women, on t' other hand, seem somewhat silly.— 

XVII. 

That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, 
For so it seems to lovers swift or slow, 

Who fain would have a mutual fiame confess'd, 
And see a sentimental passion glow, 

Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest, 
In his Monastic Concubine of Snow ; — 

In slmi't, the maxim for the amorous tribe is 

Horatian, " Medio tu tutissimus ibis." 

XV 71 1. 

The " tu" 's ton much, — but let it stand— the verse 
Requires it. that 's to say, the English rhyme, 

And not the pink of old Hexameters ; 

But, after all, there's neither tune nor tin p 

In the last line, which cannot well be worse, 
And was thrust in to close the octave's chime : 

I own no prosodv can ever rate it 

As a rule, but IVuth may, if you translate it, 

XIX. 

If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 

I know not — it succeeded, and success 

Is much in most things, not less in the heart 
Than other articles of female dress. 

Self-love in man too beats all female art ; 
They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less : 

And no one virtue yet, except starvation, 

Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 

XX. 

We leave this royal couple to repose ; 

A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, 
Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes; 

Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep 
As any man's clay mixture undergoes. 

Our least of sorrows are such as we weep ; 
'T is the vile daily drop on drop which wears 
The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. 

xxr. 

A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 

To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 

At a per-centage ; a child cross, dog ill, 

A favourite horse fallen lame just as he 's mounted 

A bad old woman making a worse will, 

Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted 

As certain; — these are pahrv things, and yet 

I've rarely seen the man they did not fret. 

xxn. 

I'm a philosopher ; confound them all! 

Bills, beasts, and men, and — no! not womankind 
With one good hearty curse I vent my eall, 

And then my stoicism leaves naught behind 
Which it can either pain or evil call, 

And I can give my whole soul up to mind ; 
Though what i» soul or mind, their birth or growth, 
Is more than I know — the deuce take them both. 



550 



DON JUAN. 



Canto VI. 



XXIII. 

So now all things are d — n'd, one feels at ease, 

A* after reading Athanasius' curse, 
Which doth your true believer bo much please: 

I doubt if any now could make il worse 
O'er his worst enemy when at his ■■ 

'Tis so benlenlious, pM,ii ( v..-, ;m>l ter-<-, 
And decorates the book off 'ommon I'rayer, 
As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 

XMV. 

Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or 
Al least one of them — Oh the heavy night! 

When wicked wives who low some bachelor 
Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 

Dfthe gray morning, and look vainly for 
Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite, 

To toss, i" tumble, doze, revive, and quake, 

Lest their loo lawful bedfellow should wake. 

XXV. 

These are beneath the canopy of heaven, 
Also beneath the canopy of beds, 

Four-posted and silk-curtain'd, which are given 

For rich men and their brides to lay their heads 
Upon, in sheets white as what bards call " driven 

Show." Well ! 't is all hap-hazard when one weds. 
Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
Perhaps as wretched if & peasants quean* 

XXV!. 

Don Juan, in his feminine disguise, 
With all the damsels in their long array, 

Had bow'd themselvi 1 before the imperial eyes, 
And, at the usual signal, la'en their way 

Back to their chambei >, those long galleries 
In the seraglio, where 'In- ladies lay 

Their delicate limbs; a thousand bosoms there 

Beating for love, as the ea^-'d bird's for air. 

xxvir. 
I love the sex, anaVsometimes would reverse 

The tyrant's wish " that mankind only had 
One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce :" 

My wish is quite a^ \\ ide, but not so bad, 
And much more tender "ii the whole than fierce: 

It being (not nouj t but only while a lad) 
That womankind had but one rosy m 
To kiss them all at once from North to South. 

wvni. 
Oh enviable Brinreus! with thy hands 

And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied 
u such proportion ! — But my muse withstands 

Tin- giant thought of being a Titan's bride, 
Or travelling in Patagonian lands; 

So let us buck to Lillipnt, and guide 
Our hero through the labyrinth oflove 
In which we left him several lines above. 

XXI X, 

He went forth wjili the lovely Odalisques, 

At the given signal join'd to their array ; 
And though he certainly ran many risks, 

Yei lie could n"i in i imes keep by the way, 
(Although the consequences of such frisks 

Are worse than the worst damages men pay 
In moral England, where the thing 'a a ta 1 
From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. 

XXX. 

Still he forgot not his disguise: — along 

The galleries from room to room they walkM, 

A virgin-like and edifying liming. 
By eunuchs flank'd ; while at their head there stalk'd 

A dame who kept up discipline among 

The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd 

"Without her sanction on their she-parades: 

Her tide was " the Mother of the Maids." 



XXXI. 

Whether she was a " mother," I know not, 

Or whether they were " maids" whocall'd hei mother, 

But this is her seraglio title, got 
I know not how, but good as any other; 

Bo ■ 'antemir can tell you. or I >e Tot! : 
Her office was to keep aloof or smother 

All had propensities in fifteen hundred 

Young women, and correct them when they blunder'd. 

XXXII. 

A - . ,! \ sinecure, no doubt ! but made 

More easy by the absence of all men 
Excepl Ins Majesty, who, with her aid, 

And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then 
A slight example, just to cast a shade 

Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 
Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 
Where all (he passions have, alas ! but one vent. 

XXXIII. 

And what is that ? Devotion, doubtless — how 
Could you ask such a question ' — but we will 

1 ml inie. As I said, this goodly row 

Of ladies of all countries at the will 

"id man, with stately march and slow, 

Like water-lilies floating down a rill. 
Or rather lake — for riUs do not run slowly,— • 
Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. 

xxxiv. 
But when they reach'd their own apartments, there, 

Like birds, or hoys, or bedlamites broke loose, 
Waves at spring-tide, or women any where 

When freed from bonds, {which are of no great use, 
Afier all.) or tike Irish at a fair. 

Their guards being gone, and, as it were, a truce 
, h*d I" iwi en thi m and bondage, they 
Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 

WW. 

Their talk of course ran most on the new comer, 
1 1< r shape, her air, her hair, her every thing : 

Some thought her dress did not so much become her, 

Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring; 
Some said her years were getting nigh their summer, 

Others contended they were hut in spring; 
Some thought her rather masculine in height, 
While odiers w ish'd that she had been so quite. 
XXXVI. 

But no one doubted, on the whole, that she 

Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, 

And fresh, and "beautiful exceedingly, 1 ' 
Who with tin- brightest Georgians might compare 

They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz too could be 
So silly as to huv slaves who might share 

(If that his Highness wearied of his bride) 

Her throne and power, and every thing beside* 

XXXVII. 

But what was strangest in this virgin crew, 

Altlmngh her beauty was enough to vex, 
After die first investigating view, 

They all found onl as few, or fewer, specks, 
In the fair form of their companion new, 

Than is the custom of the gentle sex, 
When they Burvey, w iih < christian eyes or Heathen 
In a ii- w face " the ugliest creature breathing." 

XXXVIII. 

And fti they had their little jealousies, 

Like all the rest ; hut upon this or. 
\Y hether there are such things as sympathies 

Without our knowledge or our approbation, 
Although thev could not see through his di^uise 

All fell a soft kind of concatenation, 
Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 
Yuu please — we will not quarrel about that: 



Casto VI. 



DON JUAN. 



551 



XXXIX. 

But certain *t is, they all fell for their new 
Companion something newer still, as 'i were 

A sentimental friendship through and through, 
Extremely pure, which made them all concur 

In wishing her their sister, save a few 

Who wish'd they had a brother just like her, 

Whom if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 

They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. 

XL. 

Of those who had most genius for this sort 
Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 

Lolah, Katinka. and Dudu ; — in short, 
(To save description,) fair as fair can be 

"\\ ere they according to the best report, 
Though differing in stature and degree, 

And clime and time, and country and complexion ; 

They all alike admired their new connexion. 

XLI. 

Lolah was dusk as India, and as warm ; 

Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, 
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 

And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread, 
But rather skim the earth ; while Dudu's form 

Look'd more adapted to be put to bed, 
Being somewhat large and languishing and lazy, 
Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 

XX.II. 

A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, 
Yet very fit to " murder sleep" in those 

Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, 
Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 

Few angle? were there in her form, 't is true, 

Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose ; 

Yet, after all, *t would puzzle to say where 

It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. 

xliii. 

She was not violently lively, but 

Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking; 
Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half shut, 

They put beholders in a tender taking; 
She Iook*d (this simile's quite new) just cut 

From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking, 
The mortal and the marble still at strife, 
And timidly expanding into life. 

XLIV. 

Lolah demanded the new damsel's name— 
"Juanna." — Well, a pretty name enough. 

Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — [such stuff*. 
u From Spain." — '■ But where is Spain?" — " Do'ntask 

Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for shame !" 
Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 

To poor Katinka : " Spain 's an island near 

Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 

XLV. 

Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside 

Juanna, playing with her veil of hair; 
And looking at her steadfastly she sigh'd, 

As if she pitied her for being there, 
A pretty stranger, without friend or guide, 

And all abash'd too at the general stare 
Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, 
With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. 

XL VI. 

But here the Mother of the Maids drew near, 

With " Ladies it is time to go to rest. 
I *m puzzled what to do with you, my dear," 

She added, to Juanna. their new guest: 
u Your coming has been unexpected here, 

ArA every couch is occupied; you had best 
Partake of mine ; but by to-morrow early 
We will have all things settled for you fairly." 



XLVII. 

Here Lolah interposed — " Mamma, you know 

You do'nt sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 
That any body should disturb you ; so 

I '11 take Juanna ; we 're a slenderer pair 
Than you would make the half of; — don't say no, 

And I of your young charge will take due care." 
But here Katinka interfered and said, 

" She also had compassion and a bed." 

XLVIII. 

" Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she, 

The matron frown'd : " Why so ?"— "For fear of ghosts. 

Replied Katinka ; "lam sure I see 
A phantom upon each of the four posts ; 

And then I have the worst dreams that can be, 

Ot Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts. 

The dame replied, " Between your dreams and you, 

I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few. 

XLIX. 

" You, Lolah, must continue still to lie 

Alone, for reasons which don't matter; you 

The same, Katinka, until by and by ; 
And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, 

Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, 

And will not toss and chatter the night through. 

What say you, child ?" — Dudii said nothing, as 

Her talents were of the more silent class ; 

L. 

But she rose up and kiss'd the matron's brow 
Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, 

Katinka too, and with a gentle bow, 

(Curtsies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks,) 

She took Juanna by the hand to show 

Their place of rest, and left to both their piques, 

The others pouting at the matron's preference 

Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deference* 

LI. 

It was a spacious chamber, (Oda is 

The Turkish title,) and ranged round the wall 

Were couches, toilets — and much more than this 
I might describe, as I have seen it all. 

But it suffices — Utile was amiss; 

'T was on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall, 

With all things ladies want save one or two, 

And even those were nearer than they knew. 

LIT. 

Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, 
Not very dashing, but extremely winning, 

With the most regulated charms of feature, 
Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning 

Against proportion — the wild strokes of nature 
Which they hit offat once in the beginning, 

Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, 

And, pleasing or unpleasing, still are like. 

lih. 

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, 
Where ail was harmony and calm and quiet, 

Luxuriant, budding: cheerful without mirth, 
Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it 

Than are your mighty passions and so forth, 
Which some call "thi I wish they 'd try ft 

I 've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, 

And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 

LIV. 

But she was pensive more than melancholy, 
And serious more than pensive, aril serene 

It may be more than either — not unholy 
Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have 1-eea. 

The strangest thing was, b was whoilf 

Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen, 

That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tail , 

She never thought about herself at all. 



552 



DON JUAN 



Cajtto VI, 



And therefore was she kind and gentle as 

The Ape of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, 

By which its nomenclature came to pass ; 
Thus most appropriately has been shown 

" Lucus a iwn Lucendo," nut what v;as t 

But what was not ; a sort of style that *s grown 

Extremely common in this age, whose metal 

The devil may decompose hut never settle: 

LVI. 

I think it may be of "Corinthian Brass," 
Which was a mixture of all metals, but 

The brazeti uppermost.) Kind reader! pass 
This long parenthesis: I could not shut 

It sooner f >r the soul of me, and class 

My faults even with your own ! which meancth, put 

A kind construction upon them and me: 

But tJuU you won't — then don't — I am not less free. 

LTir. 

T is time we should return to plain narration, 
And thus my narrative proceeds: — Dudu 

With every kindness short of ostentation, 

ShowM Juan, or Juanna, through and through 

This labyrinth of females, and each station 

Described — what 's strange, in words extremely few: 

I have but one simile, and that's a blunder, 

For wordless women, which is silent thunder. 

LVIII. 

And next she gave her (I say her, because 

The gender still was epicene, at least 
In outward show, which is a saving clause) 

Aw outline of the customs of the East, 
With all their chaste integrity of laws, 

By which the more a haram is increased, 
The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 
Of any supernumerary beauties. 

LIX. 

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 
Dudu was fond of kissing — which I 'in sure 

That nobody can ever take amiss, 

Because 't is pleasant, so that it be pure, 

And between females means no more than this — 
That they have nothing better near, or newer. 

" K iss" rhymes to u bliss" in fact as well as verse— 

I wish it never led to something worse, 

LX. 

In perfect innocence Bhe then unmade 

Her toilet, which cost Utile, for she was 
A child of nature, carelessly array M ; 

If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 

'T was like the fawn which, in the lake display'd, 

Beholds her own shy shadowy image pass, 
When first she starts, and then returns to peep, 
Admiring this new native of the deep. 

LXI. 

And one by one her articles of dress 

Were laid aside ; hut not before she oflerM 

Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 
Of modesty declined tho assistance pjpoffer'd — 

Which pass'd well off— as sin- could d > no less: 
Though by this politesse she rather sufferM, 

Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, 

Which surely were invented for our sins, — 

LXII. 

Making a woman like a porcupine, 

Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread 

Oh ye. ! whose fate it is, as once 't was mine, 
lr> early youth to turn a lady's maid ;— 

I did my very boyish best to shine 
In tricking her out for a masquerade: 

Tie- pins were placed sufficiently, but not 

Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 



txtn. 

But these are foolish things to all the wise — 
And [ love Wisdom more than she loves me , 

My tendency is to philosophize 
On most things, from a tyrant to a tree ; 

But still the spouseli ss virgin KhmaUdgt Hies. 

\\ iiii are we '.' and whence came «>■ / what shall bo 

Our ultimate existence ? what 's our present ? 

Are ipiustiurts auswerless, and yet incessant. 

LXIT. 

There was deep silence in the chamber: dim 
And distant from each other burn'd the lights, 

And Slumber hover'd o'er each lovely Limb 
Of the fair occupants : if there be sp rite s! 

They should have walk'd there in their sprileliest trim, 
By way of change from their sepulchral sites, 

And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste, 

Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 

LXV. 

Many and beautiful lav those around. 
Like flowers of different hue and clime and root, 

In some exotic garden sometimes found, 

With cost and care and warmth induced to shoot. 

I hie with her auburn tresses lightly hound. 
And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit 

Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath 

And lips apart, which show'd (he pearls beneath. 

i. \ v i . 
One, with her flush*d cheek laid on her white arm 

And raven ringlets gathered in dark crowd 
Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ; 

And, smiling through her dream, as through a cloud 
The moon breaks, half unvcil'd each further charm, 

As, slightly slirring in her snowy shroud. 
Her beauties Beized the unconscious hour of night 
All bashfully to struggle into light. 

I.XVII. 

This is no hull, although it sounds so; for 

'T was night, but there were lamps, as hath been sai(L 

A third's all-pallid aspect ofFer'd more 

The traits of sleeping Sorrow, and betray'd 

Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shoie 
Beloved and deplored : while slowly strav'd 

(As night dew, on the cypress glittering, tinges 

The black bough) tear-drops thro' her eyes' dark fringe* 

Lxvur. 

A fourth, as marble, statue-like and still, 

Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep ; 

White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill, 
Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep, 

Or Lot's wife done in salt, — or what you will , — 
My similes are gather'd in a heap, 

So pick and choose — perhaps you 'II be content 

With a carved lady on a monument. 

And lo! a fifth appears ;— and what is she? 

A lady of " a certain age," which means 
I 'ertainly aged — what her years might bo 

I know not, never counting past their teens 
But there she slept, nut quite so fair to see 

As ere thai awful period intervenes, 
Which lays both men and women on the shelf, 
To meditate upon their sins and self. 

LXX. 

But all this time how slept or dream'd Dudu, 
With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover, 

And scorn to add a syllable untrue; 

But ere the middle watch was hardly over, 

Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue. 
And phantoms hover'd or might seem to hover, 

To those who like their company, about 

The apartment, on a sudden she scrcam'd out, 



Canto VI. 



DON JUAN. 



6j3 



LXXI. 

And that so loudly, that upstarted all 

The Oda, in a general commo;ion : 
Matron and maids, and those, whom vou may call 

Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, 
One on the other, throughout the whole hall, 

All trembling, wondering, without the least notion, 
More than I have myself, of what could make 
The calm Dudu so lui'bulenily wake. 

LX VII. 

But wide awake she was, and round her bed, 
Wiih floating draperies and with flying hair, 

With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, 
Awl bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare, 

An 1 bright as anv meteor ever bred 

By the North Pole, — they sought her cause of care, 

Pot she seem'd agitated. flusVd, and frighten'd, 

Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd. 

Lxxrii. 
But what is strange— and a strong proof how great 

A blessing is sound sleep, Juanna lay 
As fast as ever husband by his mate 

In liolv matrimony snores away. 
Not all the clamour broke her happy state 

Of slumber, ere they shook her, — so they say, 
At least, — and then she too unclosed her eyes, 
And y&wn'd a good deal with discreet surprise. 

LXXIV. 

And now commenced a strict investigation, 

Which, as all spoke at once, and more than once 

Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, 
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 

To answer in a very clear oration. 

Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense, 

But, being " no orator, as Brutus is," 

Could not at first expound what was amiss. 

LXXV. 

At length she said, that, in a slumber sound, 
She dream'd a dream of walking in a wood — 

A " wood obscure," like that where Dante found ! 
Himself in at the age when all grow good; 

Life's half- way house, where dames with virtue crown'd 
Run much less risk of lovers turning rude ; — 

And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, 

And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots ; 

LXXVI. 

And in the midst a golden apple grew, — 

A most prodigious pippin — but it hung 
Rather too high and distant ; that she threw 

Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 
Stones, and whatever she could pick up, to 

Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung 
To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, 
But always at a most provoking height :— 

LXXVII. 

That on a sudden, when she least had hope, 

Lt fell down of its own accord, before 
Hit feet ; that her first movement was to stoop 

And 'flick it up, and bite it to the core; 
That just as her young lip began to ope 

Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 
A bee flew out and stung her to the heart, 
And so — she awoke with a great scream and start. 

LXXVIH. 

All this she told with some confusion and 
Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams 

Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 
To expound their vain and visionary gleam*. 

I \e known some odd ones which seem'd really plann'd 
Prophetically, or that which one deems 

" A strange coincidence," to use a phrase 

By which such thino<* are settled n^w-a-aay«. 
3 



LXXIX. 

The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm, 

Began, as is the consequence of fear, 
To scold a li: lie at the false alarm 

That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear. 
The matron too was wroth to leave her warm 

Bed fir the dream she had been obliged to hear, 
And chafed al poor Dudu, who only sigh'd, 
And said that she was sorry she had cued. 

LXXX. 

;t I.'ve heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 

Biit visions of an apple and a bee, 
To take us from our natural rest, and pull 

The whole Oda from tneir beds at half-past three, 
Would make us think the moon is at its full. 

You surely are unwell, child ! we must see, 
To-morrow, what his highness's physician 
Will say to this hysteric of a vision. 

LXXXI. 

" And poor Juanna, too ! the child's first nignt 
Within these walls, to be broke in upon 

With such a clamour — I had thought it right 
That the young stranger should not lie alone, 

And, as the quietest of all, she might 

With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known , 

But now I must transfer her to the charge 

Of Lolah — though her couch is not sc large." 

LXXXII. 

Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition ; 

But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own, 
Resulting from the scolding or the vision, 

Implored that present pardon might be shown 
For this first fault, and that on no condition 

(She added in a soft and piteous tone,) 
Juanna should be taken from her, and 
Her future dreams should all be kept in hand. 

Lxxxirr. 

She promised never more to have a dream, 
At least to dream so loudly as just now; 

She wonder' d at herself how she could scream — 
'T was foolish, nervous, as she must allow 

A fond hallucination, and a theme 

For laughter — but she felt her spirits low, 

And begg*d they would excuse her; she 'd get over 

This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 

LXXXIV. 

And here Juanna kindly interposed, 
And said she felt herself extremely well 

Where she thtn was, as her sound sleep disclosed 
When all around rang like a tocsin-bell: 

She did not find herself the least disposed 
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 

Apart from one who had no sin to show, 

Save that of dreaming once " mal-a-oropos." 

LXXXV. 

As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu tum'd round, 
And hid her face within Juanna's breast 

Her neck alune was seen, but that was found 
The colour of a budding rose's crest. 

F can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound 
The mystery of this rupture of their rest; 

All thai I know is, that the facts I state 

Are true as truth has ever been of late. 

I.XXXVI. 

And so good night to them, — or, if you will 
Good morrow — for the cock had crown, and light 

Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, 
And the mosque crescenj struggled into sight 

Of the long caravan, which in the chill 

Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each hsight 

That stretches to the stony belt which girds 

Asia, where KafT looks down upon the Kurds. 



654 



DON JUAN 



LVifo VI 



I.XXXVII, 

With the first ray, or rather gray of morn, 
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness ; and pale 

As Passion rise?, with its bosofll worn, 

Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil: 

"The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, 
Which fable places in her breast of wail, 

Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 

W hose headlong passions form their proper woes. 

I .XXXVIII. 

And that *a the moral of this composition, 
If people would but sec its real drift;— 

But that they will not do without suspicion, 
Because all gentle readers have the gift 

Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision ; 
While gentle writers also love to lift 

Their voices 'gainst each oilier, which is natural— 

The numbers are too great for them to Hatter all. 

LXXXIX. 

Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour, — 
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 

Aloud because his feelings were loo tender 
To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side,— 

So beautiful that art could little mend her, 

Though pale with conflicts between love and pride:- 

So agitated was she with her error, 

She did not even look into the mirror. 



Also arose about the self-same time, 

Perhaps a little later, her great lord, 
Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime, 

And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd ; 
A thing of much less import in that cb'nu — 

At least to those of incomes which afford 
The filling up their whole connubial cargo- 
Thau where two wives are under an embargo. 

zcz. 

He did not think much on the matter, nor 

Indeed on any other: as a man, 
lie liked to have a handsome paramour 

At hand, as one may like to have a fan, 
And therefore of Circassians had good store, 

As an amusement after the Divan; 
Thougii an unusual fit of love, or duty, 
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. 

XCII. 

And now he rose: and after due ablutions, 

Exacted by the customs of the East, 
And prayers, and other pious evolutions, 

He drank six cups of coffee at the least, 
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 

Whose victories had recently increased, 
In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores 
As greatest of all sovereigns and w s. 

Xrlll. 
But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander! 

Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend 
Thine ear, if it should reach. — and now rh vines wander 

Almost as far as Petersburgh, and lend 
A dreadful impulse to each loud meandi t 

Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend 
Their roar even with the Baltic's, — -*o vou be 
Your father's son, 't is quite enough for me. 

XCIV. 

To call men love -be gotten, or proclaim 
Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 

That hater of mankind, would be a shame, 
A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on: 

But people's ancostors are history's game; 
And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 

All generations, I should like to know 

What pedigree the best would have to show? 



XCV. 

Had Catherine and the sultan understood 
Their own true interest] which kin^s rarely know, 

Until 't is taught by lessons rather rude, 

There was a way to end their strife, although 
■ precarious, had they but thought good, 
Without the aid of ptince or plenipo : 

She to dismiss her guards, and he his haraip, 

And for their other matters, meet and share 'em. 

EC VI, 

But as it was, his Highness had to hold 

His daily council upon ways and n 
How to encounter with ibis martial scold, 

This modern Amazon and Queen of queans ; 

And the p uld not be told 

Of all the pillars of the State, which leans 
Sometimes a little heavy on the backs 
Of those who cannot lay on a new lax. 

xevn. 
Meantime Gulbeyaz, when ber king was gone, 

Retired into her boudoir, a sweel 
For love or breakfast ; private, pleasing, lone, 

And rich with all contrivances which grace 
Those gay recesses: — main' a precious stone 

Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 
Of porcelain held in the fetter'd Mowers, 
Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 

ECTIIX, 

Mother-of-pearl and porphyry, and marble, 
Y ied with each other on tins costly spot ; 

And singing-birds without were heard to warble; 
And the staiu'd -lass which lighted this fair grot 

Vai i I each ray ; — but all descriptions garble 
The true effect, and BO We had better not 

Be too minute; an outline is the best, — 

A lively reader's fain . » the re>t. 

xcix. 

And here she summon'd Bah:!, and required 
Don Juan at his hands, and information 

Of what had passu since all the slaves retired, 
And whether he had occupied fheir station; 

If matters had been managed as desired, 
And his disguise with due consideration 

Kept up; and. above all, the where and how 

He had nass'd the night, was what she wish'd to know 

c. 
Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 
To this long catechism of questions asVd 

More easily than answer'd, — that he had tried 

His best to obey in what he bad been la-k'd; 
But there seem'd Something thai he wish'd to hide, 

H'lwJt hesitation more betray*d than mask'd; 
lie icratch'd his ear. the infallible re-source 
To which embarrass'd people have recourse. 
ci, 

Gulbeyaz was no model of true patienee, 
Nor much disposed to wait in word r>r deed ; 

She liked quick answers in all conversations; 
And when she saw bun stumbling like a steed 

Iii his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones ; 
And as his speech grew si ill more broken-knee'd, 

Her cheek began to flush, her eves to sparkle, 

And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darklo 

Gil. 

When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew 
To bode him no great good, he deprecated 

Her anger and beeoech'd she 'd hear him through- 
He could not help the thing wbnch he related : 

Then out it came at length, that to Dudu 

Juan was given in charge, as bath heen stated, 

But not b\ Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 

The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 



Canto VI. 



DON JUAN. 



The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 
The discipline of the whole haram bore, 

As soon as they reenler'd their own room, 
For Baba's function stopp'd short at the door, 

Had settled all ; nor could he then presume 
(The aforesaid Baba) just then tu do more, 

A\ ithout exciting such suspicion as 

Might make tlie matter still worse tlian it was. 

civ. 
He hoped, indeed he thought he could be sure, 

Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact, 
*T was certain lliat his conduct had been pure, 

Because a foolish or imprudent act 
Would not alone have made him insecure, 

But ended in his being found out and sack'd 
Am i thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke 
01 all save Dudu's dream, winch was no joke. 

cv. 
This he discreetly kept in the back ground, 

And talk'd away — and might have talk'd tilt now, 
For any further answer that he found, 

So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow ; 
Her cheek tum'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirlM round, 

As if she had received a sudden blow, 
And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly 
O'er her fair front, like morning's on a lily. 

cvi. 
Although she was not of the fainting sort, 

Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd — 
It was but a convulsion, which, though short, 

Can never be described; we all have heard, 
And some of us have felt thus " all amort," 

When things beyond the common have occurrM; 
Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony 
What she could ne'er express — then how should [ ? 

CTII. 

She stood a moment, as a Pythoness 

Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full 
Of inspiration gaiher'd from distress, 

When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull 
The heart asunder ; — then, as more or less 

Their speed abated, or their strength grew dull, 
She sunk down on her seal by slow degrees, 
And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees. 

CTIII. 
Her face declined, and was unseen ; her hair 

Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, 
Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, 

Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow,— 
A low, soft ottoman,) and black despair 

Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow, 
W Inch rushes to some shore, whose shingles check 
lis farther course, but must receive its wreck. 

crx. 

Her head hung down, and her Ion? hair in stooping 
Conceal'd her features better than a veil; 

And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping, 
White, waxen, and as alabaster pale ; 

Would tlial I were a painter! to be grouping 
All that a poet drags into detail ! 

Oil that my words were colours ! but their tints 

May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. 

ex. 

Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 
And when to bold his tongue, now held it till 

This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk 
Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 

At length she rose up, and began to walk 
Slowly along the room, but silent still, 

And her brow clcar'd, but not her troubled eye — 

The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 



555 



She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak — but paused. 

And then moved on again with rapid pace; 
Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused 

By deep emotion: — you may sometimes tracp 
A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 

By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 
By all the demons of all passions, show'd 
Their work even by the way in winch he trode 

cxir. 

Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba: — "Slave: 
Bring the two slaves!" she said, in a low tone, 

But one which Baba did not like to brave, 

And yet he shudder'd, and seenVd rather prone 

To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave 

(Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown 

What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate, 

For fear of any error like the late. 

cxni. 

" The Georgian and her paramour," replied 

The imperial bride — and added, " Let the boat 
Be ready by the secret portal's side: 

You know the rest." The words stuck in her throat, 
Despite her injured love and fiery pride ; 

And of this Baba willingly took note, 
An I begg'd, by every hair of Mahomet's beard, 
She would revoke the order he had heard. 

cxiv. 
" To hear is to obey," he said ; " but still, 

Sultana, think upon the consequence: 
It is not that I shall not all fulfil 

Your orders, even in their severest sense, 
But such precipitation rnav end ill, 

Even at your own imperative expense; 
I do not mean destruction and exposure, 
In case of any premature disclosure; 

cxv. 
" But your own feelings. — Even should all the rest 

Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide 
Already many a once love-beaten breast 

1 >eep iu the caverns of the deadly tide — 
You love this boyish, new seraglio guest, 

And — if this violent remedy be tried — 
Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, 
That killing him is not the way to cure you." 

ex VI. 
" What dost thou know of love or feeling? — wretch* 

Begone 1" she cried, with kindling eyes, " and ip 
My bidding !" Baba vanish'd ; for to stretch 

His own remonstrance further, lit* well knew, 
Might end in acting as his own "Jack Ketch;" 

And, though he wish'd extremely to get through 
This awkward business without harm to others, 
He still preferred his own neck tu another's. 

CXTXI. 

Away he went then upon his commission, 

Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase 

Against all women, of whate'er condition, 
Especially sultanas and their ways ; 

Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision, 

Their never knowing their own mind two days, 

The trouble thai they gave, their immorality, 

Which made him ilaily bless his own neutrality. 

twin. 
And then he call'd his brelhren to his aid, 

And sent one on a summons to the pair, 
That they must instantly be well array'd, 

And, above ali, be comb'd even to a hair, 
And hrought before the empress, who had made 

Inquiries after them with kindest care: 
At which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan silly ; 
But go ihoy must at once, and will I — nill I. 



f>3C 



DON JUAN. 



r.wn vrr. 



And ..ere I leave them at their preparation 

For the imperial presence, wherein whether 
Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration, 
■ Or got rid of the parties altogether- 
Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 

Are things the turning of a hair or feather 
May settle; bul far he 'i from me to anticipate 
In what way feminine caprice may dissipate. 

c x x . 
I leave them for the present, with wood wishes, 

rhontili doubts of their well-doing, to arrange 
Another par' of history , for the dishes 

Of this our banquet we must sometimes change: 
And, trusting Juan may escape the Babes, 

Although his situation now seems strange 
And scarce secure, as such digressions art fair, 
The muse will take a little touch at warfare. 



CANTO VII. 



On love! Oh glory! what are ye? who fly 

Around us ever, rarely to alight : 
There 's not a meteor in the polar sky 

Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight. 
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high 

Our eyes in search of either loveh light; 
/ thousand and a thousand colours they 
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 

II. 

And such as they are, such my present tale is, 
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, 

A versified Aurora Boreulis, 

Which flashes o'er a wast.- and icy clime. 

When we know what all are, we must bewail us, 
But ne'ertheless, I hope it is no crime 

To laugh at nil things: f>r I wish to know 

What, after all, are all things — but a show'* 

m. 
They accuse me — me — tin- present writer of 

The present poem, of— I know not what, — 
A tendency to underrate and scoff 

At human power and virtue, and all that ; 
And this they say in language rather rough. 

Good God! I wonder what thev would he at? 
I say no more than has been said in Dante's 
Verse, and by Solomon, and by Cervantes ; 

iv. 
By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefotieault, 

.By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato; 
By Tillotson, and Wesley] and Rousseau, 

Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 
*T is not their fault, nor mine, if this he so— 

I- 'or my part, I pretend Dot to be Cato, 
Nor even Diogenes. — We live and die, 
But which is best, you know no more than I. 

v. 
Socrates said, our only knowledge was, 

u To know that nothing could be known ;" a pleasant 
Science enough, which levels to an ass 

Eanh man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 
Newton, (that proverb of the mind,) alas! 

Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, 
That he himself felt only " like a vouth 
Picking up shells by the sreat ocean— truth." 



EcclesiaMcs said, that all is vanity — 

Most modern preachers say the same, or show it 
By their examples of true Christianity ; 

In short, all know, or very soon may know it: 
And in this scene of all-conjess'd inanity, 

By saint, by sa<_"-, by preacher, and hv poet, 
Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, 
From holding up the nothingness ol 

vn. 
Dogs, or men! (for I flatter you in saying 
That ye are dogs — your betters far) ye may 

Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 
To show ye what ve are in every way. 

As little as the moon stops for I he ha\ ing 
Of wolves, will the bright Muse withdraw one ray 

Prom out her skies ; — then howl your idle wrath ! 

While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 

Till. 

" Fierce lores and faithless wars" — I am not sure 

If this be the right reading — 't is no matter; 
The fact 's about the same ; \ am secure ; — 

I sing them both, and am about to batter 
A town which did a famous BJegS endure, 

And was beh ainier'd both bv land and water 
Bv SuvarofT, or angliee Suwarrow, 
Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow, 

IX. " 

The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 
Upon the Danube's lift (. ranch and left bank, 

With buildings in the oriental taste, 
But still a fortress ofthe fore mo st rank, 

Or was at least, unless 'i is since defaced, 

Which with youi conquerors is a common prank: 
It stands some eighty versls from the high sea, 
And measures round of toises thousands three. 

x. 

Within the extent of this fortification 

A borough is comprised, along the height 

Upon the left, which, from its loftier station, 
Commands the city, and upon its Bite 

A Greek had raised around this elevation 
A quantity of palisades upright, 

Sn placed as to impede the fire of those 
Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. 

M. 

This circumstance may serve to give a notion 
Ofthe high talents of this new v'auban ; 

But the town ditch below was deep as ocean, 
The rampart night r than yon VI wish to hang: 

Btit then there was a great want of precaution, 
(Prithee, excust this en pneermg slang.) 

Nor work a Ivanced, nor coverM way was mere, 

To hint at least " Here is no thoroughfare." 

XII. 

Hut a Stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, 
And walls as thick as mosl skulls born as yet ; 

Two batteries, cap-b-pie), as our Sainl I ieorge, 
Case-mated one, and 't other a " barbette," 

t )f 1 numbers bank look formidable charge ; 

While tWO-and-twentV cannon, duly set, 
Rose o'er the town's right side, in bristling tier 
Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. 

XIII. 

But from the river the town 'a open quite, 

Because the Turks could never he persuaded 

A Russian vessel e'er would heave in Bight ; 

And such their creed was, till they were invaded. 

When it grew rather late lo set things right. 
But as the Danube could not wsB be waded, 

They look'd upon the Muscovite tiotilia. 

And only shouted, "Alia!" and " Bio Mtllah !" 



Ci:.T.i vir. 



DOS JUAN'. 



557 



The Russians now were ready to attack; 

Bui oh. ye goddesses of war and glory ! 
How shall I spell the name of each Cossack 

Who were immortal, could one tell their story? 
Ala> ! what to their memory can lack? 

Achilles' self was not more prim and gory 
Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation, 
Whose names want nothing but — pronunciation. 

- xv. 
Still I '11 record a few, if but to increase 

Our euphony — ihere was Strongenoff, and Strokonoff, 
Meknop, Serge Lwdw, Arseniew of modern Greece, 

And TschiusshakofF, and RiouenoiF, and ChokenofF, 
And others of twelve consonants apiece: 

And more might be found out, if I could poke enough 
Into gazettes : but Fame, (capricious strumpet !) 
It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet, 

XVI. 

And cannot tune those discords of narration, 
Which may be names at Moscow, into rhvme. 

Yet thjre were several worth commemoration, 
As e*er was virgin of a nuptial chime ; 

Soft words too, fried for the peroration 
Of Londonderry, drawling against time, 

Ending in " ischskin," "ousckin," " iffskchy," "ouski," 

Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski, 

XVII. 

ScherematofTand ChrematofF. Koklophti, 
Koclobski, Kourakin. and Mouskm Pouskin 

All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoff*' d high 
A.*a;nst a foe, or ran a sabre through skin: 

Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, 

Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin 

Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, 

And no more handy substitute been near. 

XVIII. 

Then there were foreigners of much renown, 

Of various nations, and all volunteers; 
Not lighting for their country or its crown, 

But wishing to be one dav brigadiers ; 
Abo to have the sacking of a town — 

A pleasant thing to young men at their years. 
'M n; i ihem were several Englishmen of pith, 
Sixti en cali'd Thompson, and nineteen named Smith. 

xrx. 
Jack Thompson and Bill Thompson ; — all the rest 

Had been cali'd " Jemmy.' 1 '' after the great bard ; 
I J i n't know whether they had arms or crest, 

But sueh a godfather 's as sood a card. 
Throe of the Smi'hs were Peters ; but the best 

Among them all, hard blows to inflict or ward, 
Was he, since so renown'd " in country quarters 
At Halifax ;" but now he served the Tartars. 

xx. 

The rest were Jacks and Gills, and Wills and Bills; 

But when 1 Ve added that the elder Jack Smith 
Wa li >rn in Cumberland among the hills, 

And that Ins father was an honest blacksmith, 
I 've said all / know of a name that fills 

Three lines of the despatch in taking " Schmacsmith," 
A village of Moldavia's wa<=te, wherein 
He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 

XXI 

I wonder (although Mars no doubt *s a god I 

Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 
Mav make up fur a bullet in his body? 

I hope this tittle question is no sin, 
Because, though I am but a simple noddy, 

I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in 
The mouth of some one in his plavs sodoating, 
Which many people pass for wits by quoting. 



Then i here were Frenchmen, gal'ant, vnung, and gay 

Bui I 'm loo greati a pa' riot to record 
Their gallic names upon a glorious day ; 

I \J rather tell ten lies than sav a word 
Of truth ; — such truths are treason : they betray 

Their country, and. as trai'ors are abhorr'd, 
Who name the French and English, save to show 
How peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe. 

xxni. 

The Russians, having built two batteries on 
An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view ; 

The first was to bombard it, and knock down 
The public buildings, and the private too, 

No matter what poor souls miu'ht be undone. 
The city's shape suogested this, 't is true ; 

Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 

Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 

XXIV. 

The second object was to profit bv 

Tile moment of the general consternation, 

To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay ni?h, 
Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station 

But a third motive was as probably 
To frighten them into capitulation ; 

A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, 

Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers; 

XXV. 

A habit rather blameable, which is 

That of despising those we combat with, 

Common in many cases, was in (his 

The cause of killing Tchitclntzkofl" and Smith; 

One of the valorous " Smiths" whom we shall miss 
Out of those nineteen who late rhvmed to " pith ;" 

But 't is a name so spread o'er " Sir" and " Madam," 

That one would think the first who bore it " Adam." 

XXVI. 

The Russian batteries were incomplete, 
Because they were construe'ed in a hurry. 

Thus, the same cause which makes a verse want feet, 
And throws a cloud o'er Lonsman and John Murray*, 

When the sale of new books is not so fleet 
As they who print them think is necessary, 

May likewise put off* for a time what story 

Sometimes calls " murder," and at others " glory." 

XXVII. 

Whether it was their engineers' stupidity, 

Their haste, or waste, I neiiher know- nor care 

Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 

Of homicide; but there was no solidity 
In the new batteries erected there ; 

They either miss'd, or they were never missM, 

And added greatly to the missing list. 

XXVIII. 

A sad miscalculation about distance 

Made all their naval matters incorrect ; 
Three fire-ships Inst their amiable existence, 

Before they reach'd a spot to take effect : 
The match was lit too soon, and no assistance 

Could remedy this lubberly defect ; 
Thev blew up in the middle of the river, 
While, though 'l was dawn, the Turks slept fast as evvt. 

XXIX. 

At seven thev rose, however, and surveyed 

The Russ flotilla getting under way ; 
*T was nine, when still advancing undismayed, 

Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, 

Which was return'd with interest, I may say, 
And bv a fire of musketry and grape, 
And shells and shot of every size and shape. 



658 



DON JUAN. 



Cakto VII. 



For six hours bore they without intermission 
The Turkish tire; and, aided by their own 

Land batteries, work'd their guns with great precision: 
At Length the\ ti>imd ui'-M- cannonade alone 

By no means would produce the town's submission, 
And made a signal to retreat at one. 

One bark blew up ; a second, near ihe works 

1< uniting aground, was taken by the Turks. 

\\ \i. 
The Moslem too had losl boll) ships and men ; 

Bui when they saw the enemy retire, 
Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again, 

And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire, 
And tried to make a landing on the main. 

Kul here the effect fell short of their desire: 
fount Daroaa drove them back into the water 
Pi (1-iin-ll, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. 

XXXII. 

" If" (says the historian here) "I could report 
All that the Russians did upon this day, 

1 think that several volumes would fall short, 
And I should still have many things to say j M 

And si) he says no more — but pays his eourt 

To some distinguished strangers in that fray, 
The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, 
Names great as any that the roll of fame has. 

XXXIII. 

This being (he case, may show us what fame is: 
For out of three t; preux chevaliers, 1 ' how 

Many of common readers give a guess 

That such existed ? (and they may live now 

For augl t we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss; 

There \s fortune even in fame, we must allow, 

'T is true the Alemmrs of the Prilier de I dime 

Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's skreen. 
xxxiv. 

But here are men who fbughl in gallant actions 

As gallantly as ever heroes fought. 
But buried in the heap of such transactions — 

Their names are seldom found, nor often sought. 
Thus even good fame m ty suffer sad contractions, 

And is extinguished sooner than she ought: 
Of all our modern battles, I will bet 
You can't repeat nine names from each gazelle. 
XXXV. 

Ill short, this last attack, though rich in glory, 
Show'd thai somewhere } somehow y there was a fault; 

And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
.Most strongly recommended an assault ; 

In which he was opposed by young and ho try, 
Which made a long debate: — but I must halt; 

For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 

I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 

XXXVI. 

There was a man, if thai he was a man, — 

Not that his manhood could be call'd in question. 

For, had he not been Hercules, his Bpan 
Had been as short in youth as indigestion 

Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, 

lie -hni beneath a tree, as much unlit- 

The soil of the green province he had wasted, 

As e'er was locust on the laud it blasted ; — 

XXXVII. 

This was Potemkin — a great thing in days 
When homicide and harlotry made great, 

If stars and lilies could entail long pi 
His glory might half equal his estate. 

This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
A kind of phantasy proportionate 

In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 

Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 



XXXVIII. 

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 

In ordering matters after his own bent. 

I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 

But shortly he had cause to be content. 
In the mean time the batteries proceeded, 

And fourscore cannon on tin Imrdcr 

Were briskly fired and answerM in due order. 

XXXIX. 

But on the thirteenth, when already part 
Of the troops were emhaik'd, the siege to raise, 

A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
Into all pant-rs for newspaper praise, 

As well as dilettanti in war's art, 
By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase, 

Announcing the appointment of that lover of 

iiimaud, Field-Marshal Suvaroff. 

XI,. 

The letter of the prince to die same marshal 
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 

Been one to which a good heart could be partial,— 
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws ; 

But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
With iis prouil brow, it merits slignt applause, 

Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 

" You wnl take Ismail, at whatever price." 

XI. I. 

" Lei there be light !" said God, " and there was light" 
" Let there be blood !'' says man. and there 's a sea'! 

The fiat of this spoiPd child of the night 
(For day ne'er saw bis merits) could decree 

More evil in an hour, than thirty bright 
Bummers could renovate, though they should be 

Lovely as tho-e which ripenM Eden's fruit — 

Pol war cuts up not only branch but root. 

XLII. 

Our friends the Turks, who with loud " Alias" now 

Began to signalize the Russ retreat, 
Were damnably mistaken ; feu are slow 

In thinking that their enemy is beat, 

(Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though 

I never think about it in a heat ;) 
But here I say the Turks were much mistaken, 
Who, hating hogs, yet wishM lo save their bacon. 

XLIII. 

For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop drew 
In Bight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacks 

For some time, nil ihey came in nearer view. 
They had but little baggage at their backs, 

For there were but thrtc shuts between the two; 
But on they rode upon two Ukraine hai ks, 

Till, in approaching] were at length descried 

In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 

XI.IV. 

" Great joy to London now !" savs some great fool, 

When London had a grand illumination, 

Which, to thai battle-conjuror; John Bull, 

Is of all dreams the first hallucination ; 
So that the sheets of colour'd lamps are full, 

That sage [taid John) surrenders at discretion 
His purse. Ins soul, his sense, and even his nonsense 
To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 

XLV. 

"!' is strange iIiju he should further " damn his eves," 
For [hey are damn'd: that once all-famous oath 

Is to the devil now no further prize, 

Since John has lately lost the use of both. 

Debt he calls wealth, and taxes, paradise ; 
And famine, with her gauni and bony growth, 

Which stares him in the face, he won't examine, 

Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famina. 



Canto VII. 



DON JUAN. 



559 



ZZ.TI. 

But to the tale. Great joy unto the camp! 

To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossack, 
O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas-lamp, 

Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
Or, like a wisp along the marsh so damp, 

Which leads beholders on a boggy walk, 
He flitted to and fro, a dancing light, 
"Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right. 

XLVir. 
But, ceries, matters took a different face ; 

There was enthusiasm and much applause, 
The fleet and camp saluted with great grace, 

And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
"Within a cannon-shot length of the place 

They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws 
In former works, made new, prepared fascines, 
And all kinds of benevolent machines. 

XLVIII. 

*T is thus the spirit of a single mind 

Makes that of multitudes take one direction, 

As roll the waters to the breathing wind, 

Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection: 

Or as a little dog will lead the blind, 

Or a bellweather fijrra the flocks connexion 

By tinkling sounds when they go forth to victual : 

Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 

XLIX. 

The whole camp rung with joy; you would have thought 
That they were going to a marriage- feast 

(This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught, 
Since there is discord after both at least,) 

There was not now a luggage-boy but sought 
Danger and spoil with ardour much increased ; 

And why ? because a little, odd, old man, 

Stripl to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 

L. 

But so it was ; and every preparation 

Was made with all alacrity; the first 
Detachment of three columns took its station, 

And waited but the signal's voice to burst 
Hpon the foe: the second's ordination 

Was also in three columns, with a thirst 
For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter: 
The third, in columns two, altack'd by water. 

LI. 

New batteries were erected ; and was held 

A general council, in which unanimity, 
That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd, 

As sometimes happens in a great extremity ; 
And, every difficulty being expell'd, 

Glory began to dawn with due sublimity, 
While SuvarofF, determined to obtain it, 
Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. 1 

LII. 

It is an actual fact, that he, commander- 
in-chief, in proper person deign'd to drill 

The awkward squad, and could afford to squander 
His time, a corporal's duties to fulfil: 

Just as you 'd break a sucking salamander 
To swallow flame, and never take it ill ; 

He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which 

Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 

Lilt. 

Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 
Like men, with turbans, scimitars, and dirks, 

And made them charge with bayonets these machines, 
By way of lesson against actual Turks. 

And, when well practised in these mimic scenes, 
He judged them proper to assail the works ; 

At which your wise men sneer'd, in phrases witty:— 

He made no answer ; but he took the city. 



Most things were in this posture on the eve 

Of the assault, and all the camp was in 
A stern repose ; which you would scarce conceive 

Yet men, resolved to dash through thick and this 
Are very silent when they once believe 

That all is settled : — there was little din, 
For some were thinking of their home and friends, 
And others of themselves and latter ends. 

LT. 

Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert, 

Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering - 
For the man was, we safely mav assert, 

A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering; 
Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half dirt, 

Praying, instructing, desolating, blundering; 
Now Mars, now Momus ; and when bent to storm 
A fortress, Harlequin in uniform. 

LTI. 

The day before the assault, while upon drill — 

For this great conqueror play'd the corporal- 
Some Cossacks, hovering like hawks round a hill, 

Had met a party, towards the twilight's fall, 
One of whom spoke their tongue, or well or ill— 

'T was much that he was understood at all ; 
But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner, 
They found that he had fought beneath their banner 

LVII. 

Whereon, immediately al his request, 

They brought him and his comrades to headquarters 
Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd 

That these were merely masquerading Tartars, 
And that beneath each Turkish-fashioned vest 

Lurk'd Christianity ; who sometimes barters 
Her inward grace for outward show, and makes 
It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. 

LVIII. 

Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt, 
Before a company of Calmucks, drilling, 

Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert, 
And lecturing on the noble art of killing,- 

For, deeming human clay but common dirt, 
This great philosopher was thus instilling 

His maxims, which, to martial comprehension, 

Proved death in battle equal to a pension ; — 

LIX. 

Suwarrow, when he saw this company 

Of Cossacks and their prey, turn'd round and cast 

Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye : — 

" Whence come ye ?" — " From Constantinople last, 

Captives just now escaped," was the reply. 

" What are ye ?" — " What you see us." Briefly past 

This dialogue ; for he who answer'd knew 

To whom he spoke, and made his words but (ew. 

lx. [Juan, 

" Your names ?" — "Mine 's Johnson, and my comrade's 

The other two are women, and the third 
Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw on 

The party a slight glance, then said: " I have heard 
Your name before, the second is a new one ; 

To bring the other three here was absurd ; 
But let that pass ; — I think I 've heard your name 
In the Nikolaiew regiment?" — ■" The same." — 

lxi. 

"You served at Widin ?" " Yes." " You led the attack ?" 
" I did."—" What next ?"— •■ I really hardly know." 

" You were the first i' the breach /" — - 1 was not slack, 
At least, to follow those who might be so." — 

" What follow'd?" — " A shot laid me on my back 
And I became a prisoner to the foe." — 

" You shall have vengeance, for the town surrounded 

Is twice as strung as that where you were wounded. 



£G0 



DON JUAN. 



C ivti vn. 



" Where will you serve?" — " Where'er you please." — 
You like to be the hope of the forlorn, [" I know 

And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 
After the hardships you 've already borne. 

And this young fellow* say what can he do? — 
He with the beardless chin, and garments torn." 

" ^' n y, general, if he hath no greater fault 

In war than love, he had better lead the assault." 

I. XIII. 

" He shall, if that he dare." Here Juan bow'd 
Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 

Continued: " Your old regiment 's allow'd, 
By special providence, to lead to-morrow, 

Or it may be to-night, the assault : I 've vow'd 
To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow 

Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 

Bo unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 

LXIV. 

11 So now, my lads, for glory !" — Here he turn'd, 
And drill'd away in the most classic Russian, 

Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 
For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 

A preacher had held forth, (who nobly spurnM 

All earthly goods save tithes,) and hade them push on 

To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering 

The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine. 

LXV. 

Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy 

Himself a favourite, ventured to address 
Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high 

In his resumed amusement. " I confess 
My debt, in being thus allow'd to die 

Among the foremost ; but if you 'd express 
Explicitly our several posts, my friend 
And self would know what duty to attend."— 

I. XVI. 

" Right ! I was busy, and forgot. "Why, you 
Will join your former regiment, which should be 

Now under arms. Ho ! Katskotf, take him to — 
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) — 

His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew. 
The stranger stripling may rerftain with me; 

He's a fine boy. The women may be sent 

To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 

LXVII. 

But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 

The ladies, — who by no means had been bred 
To be disposed of in a way so new, 

Although their haram education led 
Doubtless to that of doclrines the most true, 

Passive obedience, — now raised up the head, 
With Mashing eyes and starting tears, and flung 
Their arms, as hens their wings about their young, 

LXVIII. 

O er the promoted couple of brave men 

Who wen thus honour'd by the greatest chief 

That ever peopled hell witli heroes slain, 
Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 

Oh, foolish mortals! always taught in vain! 
Oh, glorious laurel ! since fur one sole leaf 

Of thine imaginary deathless tree, 

Of blood and tears must (low the unebbing sea ! 

txxz. 

Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears, 
And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd 

The women with their hair about their ears, 
And natural agonies, with a slight shade 

Of feeling; for, however habit sears 

Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade 

Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 

Will touch even heroes — and such was Suwarrow. 



LXX. 

He said — and in the kindest Calmuc tone — 

** Why, Jol neon, what the devil do yon mean 
By bringing women here ? They shall be shown 

All 'he attention possible, and seen 
In safety to the wagons, when 

In fact they can be safe; You should have been 
Aware this kind of baggage never thrives: 
Save wed a yar, I hate recruits with wives." 

i. \xi. 
u May it please year excellency," thus replied 

Our British friend, " these are the wives of others, 
And not our own. 1 am too qualified 

By service with my military brothers, 
To break the rules by bringing one's own bride 

Into a camp ; I know that naught so bother 
The hearts of the heroic on a charge, 
As leaving a small family at large. 

I AMI. 

11 But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 
With their attendant aided our escape, 

And afterwards accompanied us through 
A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 

To me this kind of life is not so new ; 

To them, poor things ! it is an awkward step ; 

I therefore, if you wish me to fighl frei 

Request that they may both be used genteelly." 

LXXIII. 

Meantime, these two pool girls, with swimming eyes, 

Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 
Their own protectors ; nor was their surprise 

Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 
To see an old man. rather wild than wise 

In aspect, plainly clad, besmeared with dust, 
Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, 
More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen. 

LXX IV. 

For every thing seem'd resting on his nod, 
As they could read in all eyes. Now, to them, 

Who were aCGUSlOnVd, BS B sort of god, 
To see the sultan, rich in many a gt m. 

Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad, 
(That royal bird, whose tail *s a diadem,) 

With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt 

How power could condescend to do without. 

I.XXV. 

John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, 
Though little versed in feelings oriental] 

Suggested some slight comfort in his way, 
Don Juan, who was RlUCh more sentimental, 

Swore they should see him by the dawn "I 
Or that the Russian army should repent all : 

And, strange to say, they found some consolation 

In this — for females like exaggeration. 

LXXVI. 

And then, with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses. 
They parted for the present — these to await, 

According to the artillery's Ion or ra 

What sa'_"'s call Chance, Providence, or Fate — 

(Uncertainly is one of many blisses, 
A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 

Wliile their beloved friends began to arm. 

To burn a town which never did them harm. 

LXXVII. 

Suwarrow, who but saw things in the gross— 
Being much too gross to see ihem in detail ; 

Who calculated life as so much dross, 
And as the wind a widow*d nation's wail, 

And cared as little for his army's loss 

(So that their efforts should at length prevail) 

As wife and friends did for the boils of Job; — 

What was *t to him to hear two women *»b.' 



Canto \ lit. 



DON JUAN. 



6S1 



i xxvin. 

Nothing. Tlie work of glory still went on, 

In preparations for a cannonade 
As terrible as that ofllion, 

If Homer had found mortars ready made ; 
But now, instead of slaving Priam's son, 

W e only can but talk of escalade, 
Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, bullets. 
Hard words which slick in the sof, Muses' gullets. 

lxxix. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! who couldst charm 
All ears, though long — all ages, though so short, 

Bv merely wielding with poetic arm 

Arms to which men will never more resort, 

Pnless gunpowder should be found to harm 
Much less than is the hope of every court, 

Which now is leagued voting Freedom to annoy; — 

Bui they will not find Liberty a. Troy: 

LXXX. 

Oh. thou eternal Homer! I have now 

To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain, 

"With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, 
Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign ; 

And yet, like all men efep, I must allow, 
To vie with thee would be about as vain 

As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood ; 

But still we moderns equal you in blood— 

LX3CXI. 

If not in poetry, at least in fact: 

And fact is truth, the grand desideratum ! 

Of which, howtA-r the Muse describes each act, 
There should be, ne'erdieless, a Blight substratum. 

But now the town is going to be attack'd ; 

Great deeds are doing — how shall I relate 'em ? 

Souls of immortal generals ! Phcebus watches 

To colour up his rays frum your despatches. 

Lxxxri. 

Oh, ye great bulletins of Buonaparte! 

Oh, ye less grand long lists ofkill'd and wounded! 
Shade of Leor.idas ! who fought so hearty, 

When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded! 
Oh, Caesar's Commentaries! now impart ye, 

Shadows of glory ! (lest I be confounded J 
A portion of your fading twilight hues, 
So beautiful, so fleeting to the Muse. 

LXXX1II. 

When I call " fading" martial immortality, 

I mean, that every age and every year, 
And almost every day, in sad reality, 

Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear, 
Who, when we come to sum up the totality 

Of deeds to human happiness most dear. 
Turns out to be a butcher in great business, 
Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 

LXXXIT. 

Medals, ranks, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet, 

Are tilings immortal to immortal man, 
As purple to the Babylonian harlot: 

An uniform to boys is like a fan 
To women ; there is scarce a crimson varlet, 

But deems himself the first in glory's van. 
But glory 's glory ; and if you would find 
What that is — ask the pig who sees the wind ! 

LXXXV. 

At least hefcrhi it, and some say he sees, 

Be> ause he runs before it like a pig ; 
Or. if that simple sentence should displease, 

Say that he scuds before it like a brig, 
A schooner, or — but it is time to ease 

This canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. 
The nert shall ring a peal to shake all people, 
Like a bob-major from a village»3teeple. 
3 V 



I.XXXVI. 

Hark ! through the silence of the cold dull night, 
The hum of armies gathering rank on rank! 

Lo! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 
Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank 

Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light 
The siars peep ihrough the vapours dim and dank, 

Which curl in curious wreaths— Mow soon the smoke 

Of hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak! 

LXXXV1I. 

Here pairac we for the present— as even then 
That awful pause, dividing life from death, 

Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, 

Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath! 

A moment — and all will be life again! 

The march ! tile charge! the shouts of either faith! 

Hurra ! and Allah ! and — one moment more— 

The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar. 



CANTO VIII. 



Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds! 

These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deeni| 
Too gentle reader ! and most shocking sounds: 

And so thev are ; yet thus is Glory's dream 
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 

At present such things, since they are her theme, 
So be thev her inspirers ! Call them Mars, 
Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. 

ii. 
All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 

To wield them in their terrible array. 
The army, like a lion from his kU^h, 

March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay— 
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen 

To breathe destruction on its winding way, 
Whose heads were heroes, which, cut off in vain, 
Immediately in others grew again. 

m. 
History can only take things in the gross; 

But could we know 'hem in detail, perchance 
In balancing the profit and the loss, 

War's merit it by no means might enhance, 
To waste so much gold lor a little dross, 

As hath been done, mere conquest to advance 
The drying up a single tear has more 
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 

IV. 

And why? because it brings self-approbation, 

Whereas the other, after all its glare, 
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation— 

Which (it may be) has not much left to spare— 
A higher title, or a loftier station. 

Though thev may make corruption gape or stare, 
Yet, in the end, except in freedom's battles, 
Are nothing but a child of murder's rattles. 

v. 

And such thev are — and such they will be found. 

Not so Leonidasand Washington, 
Whose every battle-field is holy ground, 

Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone. 
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound! 

While the rn*re victors may appal or stun 
The servile and the vain, such names will be 
A watchword till the future shall be free. 



662 



DON JUAN. 



Canto Vlff. 



The night was dark, and the thick mist allowM 
Naught to be seen save the artillery's flame, 

Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, 
And in the Danube's waters shone the BUM, 

A niirror'd hell ! The volleying roar, and loud 
Long booming of each peal on peal, overcame 

The ear far more than thunder; for i haven's tin 

Spare, or smite rarely — Man's make millions ashes! 

vir. 
The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 

Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, 
When up the bristling Mosli m rose al last, 

Answering the Christian thunders with like voices; 
Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraci d. 

Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noises; 
While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when 
The restless Titan hiccups in his den. 

VIII. 

And one enormous shout of " Allah !" rose 
In the same moment, loud as even the roar 

Of war's most mortal engine?, to their foes 
Hurling defiance : city, stream, and shore 

Rebounded " Allah !" and the clouds, which close 
With thickening canopy the conflict o'er, 

Vibrate to the Eternal Name. Hark ! through 

All sounds it pierceth, u Allah! Allah! Hu !" ' 

IX. 

The columns were in movement, one and all : 
Hut, of the portion which atlankM by water, 

Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall, 

Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaughter, 

As brave as ever faced both boom and ball. [ter;" a 

" Carnage {so Wordsworth tells you) is God's daugh- 

If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 

Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 

x. 

The Prince de Ligne was wounded in die knee ; 

fount Chapeau-Bras too had a hall between 
Ilis cap and head, which proves the head to be 

Aristocratic as was ever seen. 
Because it then received no injury 

More than the cap ; in fiict the ball could mean 
No harm unto a right legitimate head : 
" Ashes to ashes" — why not lead to lead. 

XI. 

Also the General MaiUow, Brigadier, 

Insisting on removal of the prince, 
Amid some groaning thousands dying near. — ■ 

AH common fellows, who might writhe and wince, 
And shriek for water into a deaf ear, — 

The General Markow, win. could thus evince 
His sympathy for rank, by the same to! i n, 
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken, 

XII. 

Three hundred cannon threw op their emetic. 
And thirty ihoosand muskets Buns their pills 

Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 
Mortality ! thou hast thy m >nthlv bills ; 

Thy plagues, thy famines, tin* physicians, yet tick, 
Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills 

Past, present, ant to come ; — but a-ll may yield 

To the true portrait of one battle-field. 

XIII. 

There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
Until their very number makes men hard 

By the infinities of agony, 

Which meet the gaze, whatever it may regard— 

The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
Turn'd back within its socket, — these reward 

Your rank and file by thousand?, while the rest 

May win, perhaps, a riband at the breast ! 



Vet I love glory ; glory 's a great thing; 

Think whal it is to he in your old age 
Maintained at the expense of tout svkk! king: 

A moderate pension shakes full man} a sage, 
. ~ are but made- For bards to sing, 

\\ null is stii! belter ; thus in verse to wage 

Four \% » r - eternally, besides enjoying 

Half-pay for life, makes mankind worth destroying. 

xv. 
The troops already diseml ark'd push'd on 

'l' ( . take i batter} on the ri^'ht ; the others, 
Who landed I >wi i down their landing done, 

Had set lo work as briskly as their brothers: 
Being g i j m unted . one by one, 

Cheerful as childi o elimii the breasts "f moth« 
O'er tbe entrenchmenl an. I tie' palidsde, 
i fcuite. orderly, as it' upon pai 



And this was admirable ; f <r 

Tin- tire was. thai were red Vesuvius loaded, 
Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 

And shells or In-IIs, it could no) more have goaded 
< <f officers a third f -!1 on the spot, 

A thing which victory by no means boded 
'I'm gentlemen engaged in il"' assault: 
Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault. 

XVII. 

Bui here I leave the general concern, 

To track our her ion his path of fame: 
lie must his laurels separately earn ; 

For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, 
Though all deserving equall) to turn 

A couplet, in 1 an elegy to cl m, 
W ■ p: ■ 1 1 1 form a lengthy lexicon of i;lory, 
And, what is worse still, a much lunger story: 

XVIII. 

And therefore we must give the greater number 
To the gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt 

By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 
In ditches, !: 'Ms, or wheresoe'er they felt 

Their clay for the last time their souls encumber ;— * 
Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt 

In the despatch \ I knew a man whose loss 

Was printed Grove, although bis name was Grose. 3 

XIV. 

Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps, 

And fought awaj with might and main, not knowing 
The way which they had never trod before, 

And still less guessing where they might be going; 
Bm on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er, 

firing, ami thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing, 
But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win. 

To their tWO selves, one whole bright bulletin. 
XX. 

Thus on they w'allowM m the bloody mire 

Of dead and dying thousan Is,- -sometimes gaining 
A vard or two of ground, which brought them nigher 

To some ml I aiiL-le fir which all were straining; 
At mher times, repulsed by the close tire, 

Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining, 
Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er 
A wounded comrade, sprawling in his g. re. 

x\j. 

Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though 
The nightly muster and the silent march 

In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 
So much as under a triumphal arch, 

Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw 
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, 

Which stiffen'd heav-n) as if he wish'd for day;— 

Vet for all this he did not run away. 






Canto VIU. 



DON JUAN. 



563 



XXII. 

Indeed he could not. But what if he had ? 

There have been and fire heroes who begun 
Willi something no! much belter, or as bad : 

Frederic the Great from MolwitZ dcign'd to run, 
For til'' first ami las! timr; for, like a pad, 

Or hawk, or bride, most mortals, after one 
Warm bout, are broken into their new tricks, 
And right like fiends for pay or politics. 

XXIII. 

He was what Erin calls, m hei sublime 

i Hd Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic t 
(The antiquarians who can settle time, 

Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic, 
Swear that Pal's language sprung from the same clime 

W iih Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic 
Oi Dido's alphabet ; and this is rational 
As any other notion, and not national ;) — * 

XXIV. 

Bui Juan was quite u a btoih of a boy," 
A thing of impulse and a child uf song : 

Now swimming in die sentiment of joy, 

Or the sensutitm, (if that phrase seem wrong, 

And afcrwards. if he must needs destroy, 
In surii good company as always throng 

To battled, sieges, and thai kind of pleasure, 

No less delighted to employ his leisure ; 

XXV. 

But always without malice. If he warr'd 
Or loved, it was with what we call " the best 

Intentions," which form all mankind's trump-card, 
To he produced when brought up to the test. 

The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 
OtT each attack when people are in quest 

i ■:' iheir designs, by Baying they meant ueU; 

'T is pity " that such meaning should pave hell." 5 

XXVI. 

£ almost lately have begun to doubt 

Whether belt's pavement — if it b** so paved— 

Must not have latterly been quite worn out, 
Not by the numbers good intent haih saved, 

But by the mass who go below without 

Tho-e ancient go >d intentions, which once shaved 

And smomh'd the brimstone of that street of hell 

Which bears ihe greatest likeness to Pull Mall. 

XXVII. 

Juan, by some stran2e chance, which oft divides 
Warrior from warrior in their grim career, 

Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides, 
Ju^tai the close uf the rirst bridal year, 

By one of those odd turns of fortune's tides, 
Was on a sudden raiher puzzled here, 

W . 'i after a good deal of heavy firing, 

He fjuud himself alone, and friends retiring. 

XXVIII. 

I do n't know how th? thing u< cur'd — it might 
Hi- thai the greater part were kill 7 J or wounded, 

An 1 that the rest ha l faced unto the right 

About; a circumstance which has confounded 
C<esar himself, who, in the vrv sirdil 

Of his whole army, which so much abounded 
In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield 
And rally back his Romans to the field. 

XXIX. 

Ji.an. who had no shield to sna'oh, and was 
No C;esar, but a fine young lad, who fought 

XI. knew no; why, arriving at this pass, 
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought 

For a much longer lime ; then, like an ass— 

(Start no', kind reader; since great Homer thought 

This simile enough fjr Ajax, Juan 

Perhaps mav find it be;ter than a new one :) — 



XXX. 

Then, like an ass, he went upon his way, 

And, what was stranger, never look'd behind; 

But seeing. Hashing forward, like the day 
Over the hills, a fire enough to blind 

Those who dislike to look upon a fray, 
He stumbled on, to try if he could find 

A path, to add his own slight arm and forces 

To corps, the greater part of which were corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving then no more the commandant 

Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had 

Quite disappear'd — the gods know how ! {I can't 
Account for every tiling which may look bad 

In history ; but we at least may grant 
It was not marvellous that a mere lad, 

In search of glory, should look on before, 

Nor care a pinch of snufl" about his corps;) — 

XXXII. 

Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, 
And left at large, like a young heir, to make 

His way to — where he knew not — single-handed; 
As travellers follow over bo<r and brake 

An " ignis fatuus." or as sailors stranded 
Unto the nearest hut themselves betake, 

So Juan, following honour and his nose, 

Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes. 

XXXIII. 

He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, 

For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 
Fill'd as with lightning — for his spirit shared 

The hour, as is the case with lively brains 
And, where the hottest fire was seen and heard, 

And the loud cannon pealed its hoarsest strains, 
He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken 
By thy humane discovery, friar Bacon I s 

XXXIV. 

And, as hf* rush'd along, it came to pass he 
Fell in with what was late the second column, 

Under the orders of the general Lascy, 
But now reduced, as is- a bulky volume, 

Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 
Of heroism, and look his place with solemn 

Air, 'mid the rest, who kept their valiant faces, 

And Levell'd weapons, still against the glacis. 

XXXV. 

Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, 

Who had " retreated," as the phrase is, wficn 

Men run away much rather than go through 
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den; 

But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 

Kin w when and how " to cut and come again," 

And never ran away, except when running 

Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 

XXXVI. 

And so, when all his corps were dead or dying, 
Except Don Juan — a mere novice, whose 

More virgin valour never dreamt of Hyin;*, 
From ignorance of danger, which indues 

Its votaries, like innocence relying 

On its own strength, with careless nerves and thews,— 

Johnson retired a little, just to rally 

Those who catch cold in " shadows of death's valley." 

XXXVII. 

And ihere, a little shelter'd from the shwt, 
Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet, 

Rampart, wall, casement, house — for there was not 
In this extensive city, sore beset 

By Christian soldiery, a single spot 

Which did not combat like the devil as yet. 

He f< *uud a number of chasseurs, all scattered 

By the resistance of the diase they battor'd. 



564 



DON JUAN. 



Casto VIII. 



XXX* I II. 

And these he call'd on ; and, what 's strange, they came 

Unto his Call, unlike " the spirits from 
The vasty deep," to whom von may exclaim, 

Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home. 
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 

At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, 
A id that odd impulse, which, in wan or enwdtfj 
JM ikes men, like cattle, tbllow hiin who leads. 

XXXIX. 

B Jove! he was* a noble fellow, Johosoir, 
And though Ins name than Ajax or Achilles 

Sounds I'-ss harmonious, underneath the sun soon 
We shall not see his Likeness: he could kill his 
Mail quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 

Hersleady breath, (which some months ihesamestiffi*;) 
Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, 
Ami could be very busy without bustle. 

# XL. 

And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 

Upon reflection, knowing that behind 
He would find others who would fain be rid so 

Of idle apprehensions, which, like wind, 

Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so 

Ofl are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, 
But when they light upon immediate death, 
Retire a little, merely to take breath. 

XI. I. 

But Johnson orriv ran off to return 

With many other warriors, as we said 1 , 
Unto that rather somewhat misty boum, 

Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread, 
To Jack, howeYr, this gave but slight cona rn : 

His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 
Acted upon the living as on wire, 
And lid them back into the heaviest fire. 

XM1. 

Egad ! they found the second time what they 
The first lime thought quite terrible enough 

To il. fmm, mal^re all which people say 
' If _ lory, and all that immortal stuff* 

A\ bicfi fills a regiment, (besides their pay, 
That daily shilling which makes warriors tough) — 

They found on their return the self-same welcome, 

Which made some thhik, and others know a hell come. 

XLIIf. 

They fell as thick as harvests beneath haft, 
( trass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, 

Proving that trite old truth, that life's as frail 
As any other boot) for which men stickle. 

The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail, 
Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle 

Putting the very bravest, who were kt.ocVd 

Upon live head before their guns were coekM. 

XI. IV, 

The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks 
Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, 

And swept, as gales sweep foam awav, whole ranks: 
However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels 

Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks, 
So otder*d it, amid these sulphury revets, 

That Johnson, and some few who had not scampcr'd, 
ReacuM the interior talus of the rampart. 

XLT. 

First fine or two, then five. six. and a dozen, 
Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 

All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin 

Flame was shower'd forth above as well *s belo <, 

So that you scarce could say who best had chosen - 
The gentlemen that were the first to show 

Their martial faces on the parapet, 

Or uWv who thought it brave to wait as yet. 



XLTI. 

But those who scaled found out that their advance 
Was fivonr'd by an accident or blunder: 

The < ireekor Turkish Cohot n's ignorance 
Had palisadoed in a way you'd wonder 

To see in Ibrts of Netherlands or France— 

(Though these 10 our Gibraltar must knock under)— 

Right in the middle of the parapet 

Just named, these palisades were primly set : 
XLVII. 

So that on either side some nine or ten 

Paces were left, whereon yon could contrive 

To march ; a great convenience to our men, 
At least to ail those who were lefl alive, 

Who thus could form a line and fight again ; 
And that which Rirther aided them to strive 

V\ as, that they couid kick down the palisades), 

Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.* 

X L V 1 1 1 . 

Among the fust. — T will not say the 

For such precedence noon such occasions 

Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst 
i 'ii' between friends as well as allied nations; 

The Briton must be t»- . I* I who really durst 

Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience, 

As say thai W ellington at Waterloo 

Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so too;— 

XLIX. 

And that if Blucher, Butow, Gneisenau, 

' And God* knows who besides in " an" and " ou," 
H?d not come up in time to cast an awe 

In!i> the hearts of those who (bughl till now 
As tigers combal with an empty craw, 

The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 
His orders, also to receive his pent i 
Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. 

L. 

But never mind ; — '* God save the king !" and kings' 
For if he do n't. I doubt if mrn will longer.— 

I think I hear a little bird, who sings, 
The people by and by will be the stronger: 

The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings 
So much into the raw as quite to wrong her 

I V\ on I the rules ^^ posting, — and the mob 

At last fall skk of imitating Job. 

M. 

At first it grumble-*, then it swears, and then. 
Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant r 

At hist r takes to weapons, such as men 

Snatch when despair makes human hearts tess pliant t 

Then -'comes die tug of war ;" — T t will come again, 
! rather doubl ; an I I would fain say " fie on 't," 

If I had ii"i perceived thai revolution 

Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. 

LII. 

Bat i" continue : — I say not the first, 

Hut of die first, our little fiend I ton Juan 

Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed 

Amid such scene — hough this was quite a new one 

To him, and 1 should hope to mosL The thirst 
Of glory, which so pierces through and through one, 

Pervaded him— although a generous creature, 

As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 

LIU. 

And here he was — who, upon woman's breast, 
Even from a child, felt like a child ; howe'er 

The man in all the rest might be confess'd; 
To him it was Elysium to be there ; 

And he could even withstand that awkward test 
Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair, 

" Observe your lover when he leaves your arms ;" 

But Juan never left them while they 'ii cltarma. 









Casio VIII. 



DOK JUAN. 



565 



Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind, 
Or near relations, who are much the same. 

But ftere lie was! — where each tie [hat can bind 
Humanity must yield to steel and flame: 

And he, whose very body was ail mind, — ■ 

Flung her.- by (ale or circumstance, which tame 

The loftiest, — hurried by (he lime and ['lace, — 

Dash'd on like a spurred blood-horse in a race. 

i.v. 
So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance, 

As is the hunter's at the five-liar gate, 
Or double post and rail, where the existence 

Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight, 
The lightest being the safest: at a distance 

He hated cruelty, as ail men hate 
Blood, until heated — and even there his own 
At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 

LVI. 

The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd, 

Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast, 

Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon, 
To Juan, who was nearest him, addressed 

His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon, 
Not reckoning him to be a " base Bezonian," 
(As P.stol calls it.) but a young Livonian. 

LVtI. 

Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 
As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 

In answer made an inclination to 

The general who held him in command ; 

For, seeing one with ribbons black and blue, 
Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, 

Addressing him in tones which scera'd to tl.ank, 

He recognised an officer of rank. 

LVIII. 

Short speeches pass between two men who speak 
No common language; and besides, in time 

Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 
Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 

[v prrpehnte.l ere a word ran break 

Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 
In. like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, veil, prayer, 
There cannot be much conversation there. 

M\. 
And therefore all we have related in 

Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute ; 
But in the same small minute, every sin 

i ' n iiv.il to get itself comprised within it. 
The very cannon, deafen'd by ihe din, 

Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet, 
As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 
Of human nature's agonizing voice ! 

LX. 

The town was enter'd. Oh eternity ! — 

"God made the country, and man made the town," 
So C< m per says — and I begin to be 

Of his opinion, when I see east down 

Rome, Babylon, Tyn i Nineveh — 

Ail walls men know, and many never known ; 
And, pondering on the present and the past, 

Tc deem the woods shall be our home at last. 
LXI. 

Of all men, savin? Svlla the man-slaver, 

Who passes for in life and death most lucky, 

Of the great names, which in our faces stare, 

The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky, 

Was happiest among mortals any where ; 
For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 

Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days, 

Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. 



Crime rame not near him — she is not the child 
Of solitude; health shrank not from him — for 

Her home is ir the rarely-trodden wi I. 

Where if men seek her not, and death be more 

Their choice than lift, forgive them, as beguiled 
By habit to what their .,vn hearts abhor — 

In cities caged. The present case in point I 

Cue is, that Boon lived hunting up u* njnelv: 

I. Mil. 

And what 's still stranger, left behind a narne^ 
For which men vainly decimate the throno,— 

Not only famous, but of thai good fame 

Without which glory 's but a tavern son"— 

Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, 

Which hate nor envy e'er could tin^e with wrong; 

An active hermit, even in a?e the child 

Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 

l.XIV. 

'T U true he shrank from men, even of his nation, 
When they built up unto his darling trees, — 

He moved some hundred miles ofT, for a station 
Where there were fewer houses and more ease— 

The inconvenience of civilization 

Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please ;— 

But, where he met the individual man, 

He show'd himself as kind as nior;al can. 

lxv. 

He was not all alone: around him grew 

A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, 
Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new, 

Nor sword nor sorrow yet had 'eft a trace 
On her unwrinkled brow, nor c<nild you view 

A frown on na'ure's or on human face ; — 
The free-born forest found and kept them free, 
And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 

LXVI. 

And tall and strong and swift of foot were they, 
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, 

Because their thoughts had never been the prey 

Of care or gain : the green woods were their portions 

No sinking spirits told them they grew gray ; 
No fashion made them apes of her distortions j 

Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles, 

Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 

LXTII, 

Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, 
And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil ; 

Nor vet too many nor too few their numbers ; 

Corruption could not make their h' **s her soil: 

The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers, 
With the free foresters divide no spoil ; 

Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 

Of this unsighing people of the woods. 

Linn. 
So much for na'ure : — by way of variety, 

Now hark to thy great joys, civilization! 
And the sweet consequence of large society, — 

War, pestilence, the despot's desolation, 
The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety, 

The iinliAns slain i<\ soldiers for their ration, 
■ >nes like Catherine's boudoir al threescore, 
With Ismail's storm to softefl it the more. 

I.VIX. 

The town was entecM : first one column made 
Its sanguinary way good — then another; 

The reeking baj ■ i Bashing blade 

Clash'd 'gainst the sc at and babe and mother 

With distant shrieks wrr< hi arri heaven to upbraid; 
Still closer sulphury i I I b< an to smother 

The breath of morn and man. where, foot by foot, 

The maddenM Turks their city still dispute. 



6G6 



DON JUAN. 



Casio VIII. 



Koutousow, he who afterwards beat back 

(Wild some assistance from the frost and snow) 

Najiolgun on his bold and blood; track. 
Fi lia|>|.rii\i was himself beat back jwt now. 

He was a joll ! I could crack 

His jest alike in face ol I. [end » I h 

Though life, and death] an 1 viclory, were at stake — 

But here 11 secin'd i I i eased Ui take : 

LXXI. 

For, having thr >wn himself into a ditch] 

Fo It i\i M in hae ■ b ■ various grenadiers, 
Whose blood the pu i lie greatly did enrich. 

He climb'd n where the parapet appears; 
But there bis project r<*ach*d i ; ^ utmost pilch — 

('Along other deaths the General Ribaupierre's 
Was much regretted) —for the Moslem men 
Threw them ali down into the ditch again: 
i c X X I , 

And, had it not been for s - stray troops, landing 

They knew not where,— being carried by the stream 

To some spot, where they lost their understanding, 
A 1 1 nan ler'd up and down as in a dream, 

Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding, 
That which a portal to iheir eyes did seem, — 

The great and gay Koutousow might have lam 

Where three parts of his column yet remain. 

LXXUI. 

And, scrambling round the rampart, these same troops, 

After the tak ng of the " cavalier." 
JUS) as Koufc n Ow's most '' forlorn" of " hopes" 

Tn ik, like chameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 
i »]) n'il the garecall'd " Kilia" to [he groups 

( 'i baffl -d In roes who stoo ! shyly near. 
Sliding knee-deep in lately-fr izen mud, 
Now Uiaw'd into a marsh of human blood, 

I wiv. 
The Sozaks, or if so you please, Cossacks — 

(I do n't much pique myself upon orthographv, 
So thai I do nut grossly err in facts, 

s atistir., tactics, politics, and geography) — 

Having been llse.l tn -n 'vh -■■-' !., M ;, - , 

And mi greal dilettanti in topography 
Offorlresses, but fighting where it pleases 
Their chiefs to order, — were all cut to pieces. 

LXXV. 

Their column, though the Turkish batteries tlmnder'd 
Upon them, ne'erthele had reach'd the rampart, 

And naturally thought they could have plundered 
The city, without being further hamper'd; 

But, as it happens to bran- men, they blundered — 
The Turks at lirst pretended lo have scamper'd, 

Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners, 

From whence they sallied mi :ho_>e Christian scorners. 

r.xxvr. 
Then being taken by the tail — a taking 

Fatal to bishops as to soldier — bese 
Cossacks were all cut off as day « as in i 

And found theii et at a shot 

But perish'd without shiverin* or shaking, 

Leaving as ladders their : <■ 
O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesmiskoi 
Mareh'd with die brave battalion of Puluuzki: — 

LXXVlI, 

This valiant man killM all the Turks he met, 
But could not eat them, being in his turn 

Slain hv smm- Mn- -> ul m, in-- who would not yet, 
Without resistance, see their city burn. 

The walls we-e won, but 't was an even bet 

Which of the armies would have cause to mourn: 

'T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, 

For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch. 



LXXVIII. 

Another column also suffcr'd much : 

And here we may remark with the historian, 

i ..u should but give fen cartridges to such 
Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory: 

When matters must be carried by the touch 
( it'ihr bright bayonet, and they all ihould hurry on. 

They sometimes, with a hankering for existence, 

Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 

lxxix. 

A junction uf the General .Mekimp's m-n 
(Without the General, who had fallen some time 

fnl ire, being badly seconded just then) 
Was made at leng h, with those who dared lo climb 

The death-disgorging rampart once again ; 
And. though die Turks' resistance »as sublime, 

1 ■ dir I.;- ti.ti which the Seraskier 

Defended at a price extremely dear. 

I.XXX. 

Juan and Johnson and some volunteers, 

Among the forem >-\. offer'd him good quartn, 

A word which little suits with Sera-skiers, 
( »r a) least suite. 1 imt this valiant Tartar.— 

He died, deserving well his country's tears, 

A savage sort of military martyr. 
An English naval officer, who wish'd 
To in ike him prisoner, was also dish'd. 

LXacxi. 

For all the answer to his proposition 

Was from a pis'ol-shot that laid him dead; 

On which the rest, without more intermission, 
Began to lay about with steel and lead, — 

The pious metals most in requisition 
On such occasion:- : not a sini !-■ head 

U as spare.!. — three thousand Moslems perish'd here 

And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier. 

LXXXIT. 

The city 's taken — only part by part — 

An I death is drunk with* gore: there 's not a street 

Where fights not to the last some desperate heart 

For those for whom it soon shall cease to beet. 
Here War forgot his own destructive art 

In more destroying nature ; and the heat 
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, 
Engender^ monstrous shapes of every crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A Russian officer, in martial tread 
Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 

S< ized fast, as if't were hv the serpent's head. 
Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel. 

In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and h'ed, 
.\i\<\ howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal — 

The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, 

As do the subtle snakes described of old. 

LXXXIT. 

A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
Of 8. foe n\*r him, match'd at it. and bit 

The verv li ndon which is most acute — 

(That which some ancient Muse or modern wit 

Named after thee, Achilles) and quite through 't 
1 te ma le the teeth meet, nor reHnquish'd it 

Even with his life — for (but they lie) 't is said 

To the live leg st ill clung the severed head. 






I. xx xv. 

However tilts may be, 't is pretty sure 

The lv ussian officer for life was lamed, 
For the Turk's teeth snick taster than a skewer, 

And left him 'mid the invalid and maim'd : 
The n won could not cure 

His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 
More than the head of the inveterate foe, 
I Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go. 



Casio VIII. 



DON JUAN. 



5G7 



LXXXVI. 

But then the fact's a fact — and *t is the part 

Of a Iruc poet to escape frum fiction 
VVh( neVr he fan ; tor there is little art 

In leaving verse more free from lhe restriction 
Of truth than prose, unless lo suit the mart 

For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction, 
And that outrageous appetite f_>r lies 
Which Satan angles with for souis like Hies. 

LXXXTII. 

The city >s taken, but not render'd ! — No! 

There 's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword : 
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow 

Rolls by the city wall ; but dee<\ nor word 
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe; 

In vain the yell of victoxv is roarM 
Rv the advancing Muscovite — the groan 
Of the last foe is echoed by his own. 

Lxxxvin, 
The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 

And human lives are lavish'd every where, 
As the year dosing whirls the scarlet leaves, 

When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, 
And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves, 

Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left hare ; 
But still it falls with vast and awful splinters, 
As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters. 

LXXXIX. 

It is an awful topic — but 't is not 

My cue lor any time to be terrific : 
For chequer'd as it seems our human lot 

With good, and bad. and worse, alike prolific 
Of melancholy merriment, to quote 

Too much of one sort would be soporific ; 
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
1 sketch your world exactly as it goes. 

xc. 

And one good action in the midst of crimes 

Is "quite refreshing" — in the affected phrase 
Of these ambrosial. Pharisaic times, 

With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, — 
And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 

A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 
Of conquest and its consequences, which 
Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 

xcr. 
Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 

Thousands of slau^hter'd men, a yet warm group 
Of mtirdur'd women, who had found their way 

To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop 
And shudder; — while, as beautiful as May, 

A female child of ten years tried to stoop 
And hide her little palpitating breast 
Amid the bodies lull'd in bloody rest. 

xi it. 
Two villanous Cossacks pursued the child 

With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with them 
The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild 

Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem,— 
The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild: 

And whom for this at last must we condemn / 
Their natures, or their sovereigns, who employ 
All arts to teach their subjects to destroy ? 

XCIII. 

Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head, 

Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, 

Her hidden face was plunged amid the dead: 
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight. 

I shall not say exactly what he said, 

Because it might not solac** " ears polite;" 

But what he did, was lo lay on their backs,— 

The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacks. 



XCIT, 

One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder, 
Ard drove them with their brmal yells to seek 

If there might be chirurgcons who could solder 
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek 

Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder 
As he tnrn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 

Don Juan raised his little captive from 

The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 

xcv. 
And she was chill as they, and on her face 

A slender streak of blood announced how neat 
Her fate had been to that of all her race ; 

For the same blow which laid her mother hero 
Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace 

As the la-t link with all she had held dear 
But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes, 
And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. 

KCTI, 

Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd 

Upon each other, with dilated glance, 
In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 

With joy to save, and dread of some mischance 
Unto his protege ; while hers, transfix'd 

With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 
A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 
Like to a lighted alabaster vase ; — 

XCVII. 

Up came John Johnson — (I »vill not say " Ja^k" 
For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace 

On great occasions, such as an attack 

On cities, as hath been the present case) — 

Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back, 
Exclaiming: — Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace 

Your arm. and I Ml bet Moscow to a dollar, 

That you and I will win St. George's collar. 8 

XCTIIX. 

11 The Sera^k'ier is knock'd upon the head, 
But the stone bastion still remains, wherein 

The old pacha sits among some hundreds dead, 
Smoking his pipe quite calmly, 'mid the din 

Of our artillery and his own ; 'tis said 
Our kill'd already piled up to the chin, 

Lie round the battery; hut still it batters, 

And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 

XCIX. 

" Then up with me !" — But Juan answer'd, " Look 
Upon this child — I sav'd her — must not leave 

Her life to chance ; but point me out some nook 
Of safety, where she less may shriek and grieve, 

And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson took 
A glance around — and shrugg'd— and twitch'd his sleeve 

And black silk neckcloth — and replied, " You 're ri^ht 

Poor thing! what's to be done ? I 'm puzzled quite " 

c. 

Sa ; d Juan — " Whatsoever is to be 

Done, I'll not quit her till she seems secure 

Of present life a good deal more than we." — 
Q.uoih Johnson — '• Neither will I quite insure ■ 

But at the least you may die gloriously. 11 
Juan replied — " At least I will enduro 

Whate'er is to be borne — but not t 

This child, who 's parentless, and therefore mine. 11 

ci. 

Johnson said—" Juan, we Ve no time to lose; 

The child 's a pretty child — a very pretty— 
I never saw such eyes — but hark ! now choose 

Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity 
Hark! how the roar increases! — no excuse 

Will serve when there is plunder in a city ;— • 
I should be loth to march without yon, but. 
By God ! we '11 be too late for the first cut." 



6C8 



DON JUAN. 



'mro nir. 



Bui Juan was immoveable ; until 
.1 ihnson, who really loved him in his wav, 

Pick'doul among his followers with pome skill 
Such as he thought the least given up to prey: 

And swearing if the infant came u, ill 

That they should all be shot on the next day, 

Bui if she were delivered safe and sound, 

They should at least have (ifty roubles round, 

cm. 

And all allowances besides of plunder 

In fair proportion with their comrades; — then 

Juan consented to march on through dander, 
Which Lhinn'd at every step their ranks of men : 

And yel the rest rush'd eagerly — no winder, 

For tiny were healed hv the hope of gain, 
A thing which happen^ everj fl hen each day — 
No hero trusteth wholly to half-pay. 

CIV. 

And such is victory, and such is man! 

i\t leasl nine-ti ntha of what we call so; — Gcd 
May have another name for half we scan 

-\«< human hein^s. or his ways are odd. 
Dut to our subject: a brave Tartar Khan, — 

Or " sultan " as the author (to whose nod 
In prose I bond my humble verse) doth call 
This chieftain — somehow would not yield at all: 

cv. 

But, flankM hv Jive hrafe sons (such is polygamy, 

That she spawns warriors by the score, where none 
Are proseruted for that false crime bpjamv) 

He never would believe the city won, 
While courage clung but to a single twig. — Am I 

Describing Priam's, Helens', or Jove's son ? 
Neither, — but a good, plain, old, temperate man, 
Who fought with his five children in the van. 

cvi. 
To take htm was the point The tnilv brave. 
When they behold the brave oppresVd with odds, 

Are tOUCh'd with a desire to shield or save ; — 
A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 

Are they — now furious as the sweeping wave, 
Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods 

The rugged tree unto the summer wind, 

Compassion breathes along the savage mind. 

cvn. 

But he would not be taken, and replied 

To all the propositions of surrender 
By mowing Christians down on every side, 

As obstinate as Sw eil e- li < 'harles at Render. 
His five brave ooys no less rtie foe defied: 

\\ hereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, 
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, 
Apt to wear out on trifline provocations. 

cvnr. 
And spite of ffohnson and of Juan, who 

Kxpended all their eastern phraseology 
In In gging him, for God's sake, just to show 

So much less fight as might form an apology 
r.,1 them in saving such a desperate foe — 

He hew'd away, like doctors of theology 
When they dispute with skeptics; and with curses 
Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. 

civ. 
Nav, he had wounded, though but slightly, both 

Juan and Johnson, whereupon they fell — 
The firs! with sighs, the sec I with an oath— 

Upon Ins anjrv sullan ihip, pell-mell, 
And all around were grown exceeding wroth 

Ai such a pertinacious infidel, 
And pourM upon him and bis sons like rain, 
Which they resisted like a sandy plain, 



That drinks and still is dry. At 'a^t they perish'd 9— 

His second son wa hoi : 

His third Mas sabred : and J e fourth, most chcrish'4 

< if all the five, on bayonets met his lot ; 
The i.i 'i. vahOj by .'i < Ihristiai her irish'dj 

Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, 

P.. r;m-i' ill f nil'd. _\ct died .. ' tiom, 

To save a sire who btush'd 'hat he begot him. 

CM. 

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 

As great n scomei ol ihi Naiarene 

Mahomet pick'd out fur a martyr, 

Who only saw die Wat k-eyed girls in green, 
Who make ill- ■ i ■ « ho won't take miarter 

On earth, in Paradise ; :<iid when mice 
Those Houris. like all other ptvitv creatures, 
Do just whatever the) please, by dint of features. 

< \n. 

And what they pleased to do «ith the young Khan 
In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess; 

Hut doubtless they prefer a fine young man 
To tough old heroes, and can do no less ; 

■ 's the cause, no doubt, why, if we scan 
A field of battle's ghastl) wilderness), 

For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, 

Y'ou Ml find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. 

< MM. 

Four Houris also have a natural pleasure 

In lopping off your lately married men 
Before the bridal hours have danced their measure, 

And the sad second moon unms dim ayain, 
Or dull Repentance hath had dreary leisure 

To wish him bach i bachelor now and then. 
And thus vinir tiouri {it may be) disputes 
Of these brief blossoms the immedia e fruits. 

CUT. 

Thus the young Khan, with Houris in his sight, 
Thought not upon the charms of four young brides, 

But bravely rush'd on his first heavenlv night. 

In short, howe'er our better faith de? 
These black-eyed virgins make th< Moslems fight, 

Aa though there were one leaven and none besidei,- 
Whereas, it'all be true we bear of heaven 
And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 

cxv. 
So fully flashM the phantom on his eyes, 

That when the very lance was in his heart, 
He shouted, " Allah !" andsavi Paradise 

With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 

Alld brighl ell , II ' 

On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart. — 
With prophets, houris, angels -nuts, descried 
In one voluptuous blaze, — and then he died: 

CXV!. 

But, with a heavenly rapture on his face. 

The good old Khan — who long had ceased to see 
Houris, or aught excepi his florid ■ - 

\\ l,.i grew like cedars round him gloriously— 
When he beheld his latest hero grace 

The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree, ■ 
Paused for a moment from the light, and cast 
A glance on that slain BOO, his first and last. 

CXT1I. 

The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, 
Siopp'd as if once more willing to concede 

Quarter, in case be bade them ii"t "aroint!" 
As he before had done. He did no) heed 

Tbci.- pause nor signs: Ins lean was out of joint, 
And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed. 

As he look'd down upon his children gone, 

And fell — though done with life — he was alone. 






Ca.vto VIII. 



DON JI AN. 



£69 



CXV1II. 

But 't was a transient tremor: — with a spring 
Upon ihe Russian steel his breast he tlung, 

As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing 
Against the light wherein she dies: he clung 

Closer, that all the deadlier ihej migbl win£, 

Unlo the bayonets which had pierced his young; 

And, throwing back a dun look on h:s sons, 

tn one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once. 

CXIX. 

T is strange enough — the rousrh. tough soldiers, who 

Spared neither sex nor age in their career 
Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through, 

And lay before them with his children near, 
Touch'd bv the heroism of him they slew, 

Were melted lor a moment ; though no tear 
Plowed from their bloodshot eves, all red with strife, 
They bonourM such determined scorn of life. 

cxx. 
But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, 

Where the chief Pacha calmly held his post : 
Some twenty times he made die Russ retire, 

And baffled the assaults of all Uicir host ; 
At length he condescended to inquire 

If yel the city's rest were won or lost; 
And, bring told the latter, sent a Bey 
To answer Ribas' summons to give way. 

CX XI. 

In the mean time, cross-leggM, with great sang-froid, 
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 

Tobacco on a little carpet ; — Troy 

S;iw nothing like the scene around; — yet, looking 

Willi martial stoicism, naught seenvd to annoy 
His stern philosophy : but gently stroking 

His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales, 

As if he had three lives, as well as tails. 

CXXII. 

The town was taken — whether he might yield 
Himself or bastion, little matier'd now ; 

His stubborn valour was no future shield. 

Ismail 's no more ! The crescent's silver bow 

Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field, 
But red with no redeeming gore : the glow 

Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, 

Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. 

CXXIII. 

All that the mind would shrink from of excesses; 

All that the body perpetrates of bad; 
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses; 

All that the devil would do if run stark mad; 
AH that defies the worst which pen expresses ; 

All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
As hell — mere mortals who their power abuse, — 
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. 

CXXIT. 

If here and there some transient trait of pity, 

Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through 

lis bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty 
Child, or an aged helpless man or two — 

Wli.it 's this in one annihilated city. 

Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grow ? 

Cockney* of London! Muscadins of Pans ! 

Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 

CXW. 

Think how the joys of reading a gazette 
Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: 

Or, if these do not move you. do n't forget 
Such doom may be your own in after limes. 

Meantime the taxes, Castiereagh, and debt, 
Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. 

Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, 

Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. 
3 W 



CXXVI. 

But sti'l there is unto a patriot nation, 

Which loves so well its country and its king, 
V. subject -I ■ ■ mesi exultation — 
Bear it, ye M ises on your brightest wing ! 

Howe'er the mighty Locust, Desolation, 

•Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, 

Gauut Famine never shall approach the throne — 

Tho' Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stoom 

CXX VI J. 

But let me put an end unto mv theme: 
There was an end of Ismail — hapless town! 

Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, 
And redly ran his blushing waters down. 

The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 
Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders grown: 

Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall, 

Some hundreds breathed — the rest were silent all! 

CXXYIII. 

fn one thing nevertheless 't is rit to praise 

The Russian army upon this occasion, 
A virtue much in fashion now-a-days, 

And therefore worthy of commemoration: 

The topic's tender, so shall be my phrase- 
Perhaps die season's chill, and their long station 

In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, 

Had made them chaste; — they ravish'd very little. 
exxix. 

Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less 
Might here and there occur some violation 

In the other line ; — but no* to such. excess 
As when the French, that dissipated nation, 

Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess, 
Except cold weather and commiseration ; 

But all the ladies, save some twenty score, 

\\ ere almost as much virgins as before. 

exxx. 

Some odd mistakes too happen'd in the dark, 
Which sho.v'd a want of lanterns, or of taste - 

Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark 
Their friends from foes. — besides such things from haste 

Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark 
Of light to save the venerably chaste : — 

But six old damsels, each of seventy years, 

Were all detlower'd by different grenadiers. 

CXXXI. 

But on the whole their continence was great; 

So that some disappointment there ensued 
To those who had felt the inconvenient slate 

Of " single blessedness," and thought it good 
(Since iL was not their fault, but only fate, 

To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, 
Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. 

CXXXTI. 

Some voices of the buxom middle-aged 

Were also heard to wonder in the din 
(Widows of fittty were these birds long caged) 

" Wherefore the ravishing did not begin !" 
But, while the thirst for gore and plunder raged. 

There was small leisure for superfluous sin , 
But whether they escaped or no, lies hid 
In darkness — I can only hope they did. 

CXXXI1I. 

Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match 

For Timor or for Zmghis in his trade. 
While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatxi 

Blazed, and the cannon'? roar was scarce allay'd, 
With bloodv hands he wrote his first despatch; 

And here exactly follows what he said : — 
' Glory to God and to the Empress !" {Power* 
Eternal ! such names mingled !) " Ismail '■ ours I* » 



570 



DON JUAN. 



Cl.MO IX. 



CXXXIV. 

Methinks these are the most tremendous words, 
Since " Mene, Mem\ Tehel," and "Upharsin, 

Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. 
Heaven help me! I 'm bul little of a parson : 

What Daniel read was shorthand uf the Lord's, 
Severe, sublime ; the prophets wrote no farce on 

The fate of nations : — but tins Rubs, so witty, 

Gould rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. 

"XXXV. 

Ho wrote this polar melody, and set it, 
Duly accompanied l.v shrieks and groans, 

Winch few will sing, I trust, bul none forget it — 
For I will teach, if possible, the stones 

To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 
Be said, that we still truckle unto thrones ; — 

But ye — our children's children ! think how wo 

ShowM what things were before the world was free ! 

CX XX VI, 

Thai hour is not for us, bul 'i is for yon ; 

And as in the great joy of your millennium, 
You hardly will believe Bitch things wore true 

As now occur, I thought tlt;it I would pen you Ym ; 
Bul may their very memory perish too ! — 

Yet, if perchance rememberM, still disdain you 'em, 
More than von scorn the savages of yore, 
Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore. 

CXXXVII. 

And when you hear historians talk of thrones, 

And those that sate upon ihem, let it be 
As we now gaze upon the Mammoth's bones, 

And wonder what old world such things could see ; 
Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, 

The pleasant riddles of futurity — 
Guessing at what shall happily be hid 
As the real purpose of a pyramid. 
c x x x v i t r . 
Reader! I have kept my word, — at lf*ast so far 

As the first canto promised. You have now 
Had sketches of love, tempest, travel] war — 

All very accurate, you must allow, 
And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar; 

For 1 have drawn much less with a long bow 
Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, 
But phirhus lends me now and then a string, 

r\ wix. 

With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 

What further hath befallen or may befall 
The hero of ibis grand poetic riddle, 

I by and by may tell you, if at all : 

But now I choose to break off ill the middle, 
W "in out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall, 

White Joan is sent off with the despatch, 

For which all Petersburg!) is on the watch. 

CXI.. 

This special honour was conferrM, because 

He had behaved with courage and humanity ; — 

Which last men like, when tliev have time to paus 
From their ferocities produced by vanity. 

His little captive gain'd him some applause, 
For saving her ami. I the wild insanity 

Of carnage, and I think he was more c'ad in her 

Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir. 

CXI. I. 

The Moslem orphan went with her protector, 
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless: all 

Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall : 

Her very place of birth was but a spectre 

Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's call 

To prayer was heard no more ! — and Juan wept, 

Antl made a row to shield hor, which he kept. 



CANTO IX. 



Oh. Wellington ! (or " Vilaintoo" — for fame 
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways ; 

France could not even conquer your j^eat name, 
But pnnn'd it down to this racetioUs phrase — 

Beating or beaten she will laugh the same) — 

You nave obtain'd great pensions and much praise 

Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, 

Humanity would rise, and thunder " .Nay !" * 

ii. 
I donV think thai yorj used Kinnaird quite well 

In Marinet's arTair — in fact 't was shabby, 
And, like some other things, won't do to tell 

Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 
Upon 'he rest 't is not worth while to dwell, 

Such talcs being lor the tea hours of some tabhv 

But 1 1 :li youi years as wan tend fast to zero, 

In fact your grace is still but a.young hiro. 

til. 
Though Britain owes (and pays you lo*.) so murh, 

Vet Europe doubtless owes you greatlv more: 
Y"ou have repair'd legitimacy's crutch — 

A prop not quite ■■ :rtain as before : 

The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, 

Have seen, and fell, hew Btrongly you restart; 
And Waterloo has mad" the world your debtor— 
(I wish vour bards would sing it rather better.) 

IV. 

You are " the best of cut-throats :" — do not start , 
The phrase is Shakspeare's, and nor misapplied: 

War *s a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, 
Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 

[fyou have acted once a generous part, 
The world, not '1m- world's masters, will decide, 

And I ahaD 1"' delighted to learn who, 

Save yon and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo? 

v. 
I am no flatterer — you \e supp'd full of flatten* : 

They say you like it too — 'i is no great wonder : 
He whose whole life has been assault and battery, 

At last may l' 1 "' a little tired of thunder; 
And, swallow mil* eulogy much more 'Man satire, he 

Mav like being praised for every lucky blunder : 
Call'd " Saviour of the Nations" — not yet saved, 
And " Europe's Liberator" — still enslaved. 

VI, 

I've done. Now go and din'* from ofTthe plato 
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 

And send the sentinel before your yate,* 
A slu r two from your Luxurious meals : 

He fought, but has no) (<--i\ bo well of late, 
Some hunger too they say the people feels: 

There is no doubt thai you deserve vour ration— 

But pray give back a little to the nation. 

VII. 

I don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 
You, mv Lord Duke ! is far above reflection. 

The high Roman fashion too k{ Cincinnatus 
With modern history has but small connexion: 

Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, 

Von need not take "bom under your direction; 

And half s million fp*- vour Sabine farm 

Is ra'her d-*ar ! — I 'm sure 1 mean no harm. 



Chito iX. 



DON JUAN. 



571 



Great men have always Bcnrn'd great recompenses; 

Epaminondas saved h*ls Thebes, and died, 
Not leaving even his funeral expenses : 

George Washington had thanks and naught beside, 
Except the al!-c!oudless glory (which few men's is) 

To free his country: Pitt too had his pride, 
And, as a high-soul'd minister of slate, is 
Renown'd for ruining Great Britain, gratis. 

Never had mor'al man such opportunity, 

Except Napoleon, or abused it more: 
Yon might have freed falfn Europe from the unity 

Of tyrants, and been bless'd from shore to shore ; 
And noir — nh.it is your fame ? Shall the muse tune it ye? 

Now — ill, a the rabble's first vain shouts are o'ei / 

I ■■ hear it in your famish'd country's cries ! 
Behold the world! and curse your victories ! 

x. 

As these new can'os touch on warlike feats, 
To yon the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe 

Tru hd that you will nor read in the gazettes, 
But which, 'l i ' .11 ■ to teach the hireling tribe 

"Who fatten un their country's sore and debts, 
Mud he recited, and— without a bribe. 

Von did great tilings; hut. not being great in mind, 

Have left undone the greatest — and mankind. 

XI. 

iV-a'h laughs — Geo ponder o'er the skeleton 

With which ni n imago out the unknown thing 

That hides the past world, like to a set sun 

Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring: 

Heath laughs at all you weep for ; — look upon 
This hourly dread of all whose threatened sting 

Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath! 

Mirk! how its lipless mouth grins without breath 

XII. 

Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 

And vet was what you are : from ear to ear 
It laughs no) — there is now no Heshy bar 

S i c ill'd; the antic long hath ceased to hear, 
But still he smiles : and whether near or far, 

He strips from man that mantle — (far more dear 
Than even the tailor's) — his incarnate skin, 
White, black, or copper — the dead bones will grin. 

XIII. 

And thus D'-ath laughs, — it is sad merriment, 
Hut s'ill |1 u so; and with such example 

Why should not Life be equally content, 
With his superior, in a smile to trample 

Upon the nothings which are daily spent 
Lik- 1 bubbles on an ocean much less ample 

Than the eternal deluge, which devours 

Suns a-. *"iys — worlds like atoms — years like ours? 

xiv. 

II To be, of not *n be ! that is the question," 

Says Shakspear \ who just now i* much in fashion. 
I am neither Alexander nor Hephrestion, 

Nor ever had for abstraxi, fame much passion ; 
But would much rather have a sound digestion, 

Than C louaparte'a cancer:— could I dash on 
Through fif.y victories to shame or fame, 
Without a stomach — what were a good name ? 

xv. 
" Oh, dura ilia messorum !" — " Oh, 

Ye rigid cuts of reapers!" — I translate 
For the greal ben fit of those who know 

What indigestion i-- — that inward fate 
Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow 

A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate: 
Let this one toil f >r bread — that ra^k for rent,— 
Ha who sleeps best may be the most content. 



" To be, or not to be I' 1 — Ere I decide, 

I should he glad to know that which is being, 

'T is true we speculate both far and wide, 

And deem, because we see. we are all-seeing: 

For my part, I Ml enlist on neither side, 
Until I see both sides for once a^reein^, 

For me, I sometimes think that life is death, 

Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 



•' Que sais-je?" was the motto of Montaigne, 

As also of the first academicians: 
That all is dubious which man niav attain, 

Was one of their most favourite positions. 
There 's no such tiling ascerlainty, that's plain 

As any of mortality's conditions: " 
So little do we know what we 're about in 
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 

XVIII. 

It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 

Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; 
Bui what if carrying sail capsize the boat? 

Your wise men do n't know much of navigation; 
And swimming loiig in the abyss of thought 

Is apt to tire : a calm and shallow station 
Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers 
Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. 

XIX. 

" Bill heaven," as Cassio says, "is ahove all. — 
No more of this then. — let us pray !" We have 

Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall, 
Which tumble) all mankind into the grave, 

Besides fish, beasts, and birds. " The sparrow's fall 
Is special providence," though how it gave 

Offence, we know not; probablv it perch'd 

Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd 

xx. 

Oh. ye immorfal gods! what is theogonv? 

Oh, thou too mortal man ! what is philanthropy ? 
Oh. world, which was and is ! what is cosmogony? 

Some people have accused me of misanthropy ; 
And vet I know no m re than the mahogany 

That forms this desk, of what they mean: — Tj/forrt- 
I comprehend : f a-, without transformation, [thropy 

Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 

XXI. 

But L the mildest, meekest of mankind, 
Like Moses, or Melancthon. who have ne'er 

Done any ihing exceedingly unkind,— 
And (though 1 could not now and then forbear 

Folio-.-, ing the bent of body or of mind) 
Have always had a tendency to spare, — 

Why do they call me misanthrope? Because 

They hate me } not I them : — And here we Ml pause. 

XXII. 

'T is lime we should proceed with our good poem 

For I maintain thai it is really good, 
Not only in the body, but the proem, 

However Utile both are understood 
Just now. — but bv and by the truth will show 'enr 

Herself in her Bubtimesl altitude: 
And till she doth, I fivin must be content 
To share her beauty and her banishment. 

XXIII. 

Our hero (and, T trust, kind reader ! yours) — 

Was left upon his way to the chief city 
Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors, 

Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty 
[ know its mighty empire now allures 

Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that 's a pity. 
For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 
„Vu( a barbarian, hut mu<*h worse than that. 



672 



DON JUAN. 



Caxto IX. 



Ami I will war, at least in wordi (and — ho Id 
My chance so happen — deeds) with all who war 

With thought ; — and of ll tar meet rude, 

Tyrants and sycophants have been and are, 

I know not who m ij conquei : if I could 
Have such a presciencOj il should be no bar 

To i'it- my plain, sworn, downright deiestation 

Of every despotism in every nation. 

XXV. 

[t [a not thai t adulate (he people: 

\\ jthout '/it there .1 ■ i ;ur-s enough, 

And infidels to pull down every Steeple, 

And set up in their stead some proper stuht 
Whether they may sow skepticism to reap hell, 

As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 
I do not know ; — [ wish men to he fiee 
As much trom mobs as kings — from vou a- me. 

XXVI. 

The consequence is, being of no par^v, 
I shall offend all parties: — iH-vr minrT! 

My words, a' least, are more sincere and hearty 

Than if J sought to sail before the wind. 
He who has naught In gain can have small art : lie 

"Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind 
May still expatiate freely, rs will I, 
Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. 

XXVII. 

Tfiat 's an appropriate simile, tkatjaekat; 

I Ve heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl 
By night, as do that mercenary pack all, 

Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, 
And scent the prey their masters would attack all. 

However the poor jackals are less foul 
(As being the brave lion's keen providers) 
Than human insects, catering for spiders. 

XXVIII. 

Raise but nn arm! 't will brush their web away, 
And without that, their poison and their claws 

Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say — 
(Or rather peoples) — go <m without pause! 

The web of these tarantulas fivh day 
Increases, till you shall make common cause 

None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, 
As yet are strongly Stinging to be free. 

XXIX. 

Don Juan, who had shone in die Ia*e slaughter, 

Was left upon his way with the despatch, 
Where blond was talk'd of as we would of water ; 

And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 
O'er silenced cities, mer fly served to flatter 

Fair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on the matel 
Between these nations as a main of cocks. 
Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. 

XXX, 

And there in a kihifla lie roll'd on, 

(A cursed sort of carriage wilhoul springs, 

Which on rough roads leaves carcely a whole bone,) 
Pondi i ing on glory . chiva i 

And orders, and on all d ai he had done — 
And wishing thai post-horses had the wings 

Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 

ilad feathers, when a travt Iter on deep ways is. 

XXXT. 

At every jolt — and there were manv — still 
He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge, 

As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill 
Than he. in these pad highways lefl at large 

To ruts and flints, and lovely nature's skill, 
Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge 

On her canals, where ' i<<i takes sen and land, 

Fibhcv and firm, both info his own hand 



XXXII. 

At least he pays no rent, and has best right 
To he the first of what we used to call 

■ men farmers " — a race worn out quite, 
Since lately there have been no rents at all, 

rontlemen* 1 are m a piteous plight, 
And ■■ farmers" can't raise Ceres from her fall: 
with Buonaparte;— What strange thoughts 
. d we see emperors fell with oats! 

X \ Mil. 

But Juan tin n'd his eves on the sweet child 

\\ bom he had saved from slaughter — what a trophy! 
< >h ! ye who build up monumi nts, denied 

With »ore, like Nadir Shah, that costive Sophy, 
Who, after leaving Hindosian a wild, 

arcs to the Mogul a cup of coffee 

roes withal] was slain, the sinner* 
e he could no more digest his dinner: — 

XXXIV. 

Oh ye! or we! or she! or he! reflet. 

That one life saved, especially if young 
Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 

Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 
Prom the manure of human ( lay, though dccVd 

With all the praises ever said or sun-: 
Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within 
Your heart joins chorus, fame is but a din. 

xxxr. 
Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous! 

Yet twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes!" 
\\ hose [Munphlets, volumes, newspaj ere iHumine us! 

Whether vou Ve paid by government in bribes, 
To prove the public debt is not consuming us — 

Or, roughly treading on the " courtier's kibea 31 

With clownish heel, your popular circulation 
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation: — 

xxxvj. 
Oh, ye great authors ' — " Apropos de bottee" — 

I have forgotten what I meant to say, 
As sometimes have been greater sages' lots: 

'T wa i something calculated to allav 
All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cote: 

i i r'es it would have been but thrown awav, 
And that 's one comfort for my lost advice, 
Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 

XXXVii. 

Bui [et it go: it will 'Tie day be (bund 
With other rel i 9 of " 1 former world." 

When this world shall he former, underground, 
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curlM, 

Baked, fried, or burn*, lum'd inside out, or drownM, 
Like all the worlds bi fore, winch have been hurl'd 

First out of and linn hack a^ain tn rhnos, 

The superstratum which will overlay us. 

XXXVIII. 

So Cuvier says ; — and then shall come again 

I Fnto the m h ct 1 at ion, rising out 
Kr 'in our "I \ ct - H . ancient strain 

Of di 1 1 an l l> f in airy doubt; 

LiKe In the ii..i'iuns we now en cr am 

Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 
Some hundred feet in height, not to say fmles, 

And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. 

XXXIX, 

Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up* 
How the new worldlings of the then new east 

Will wonder where such animals could sup! 
( For they themselves w ill be but of the least : 

Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, 
And every new creation hath decreased 

In size, from overworking the material — 

Mm are bu; maggots of bomi; hu^e earth's burial.)— 



Ctsro IX. 



DON JUAN. 



573 



How will— to these young people, just thrust out 
From some f-esh paradise, and set to plough, 

An! dig, and sweat, and turn themselves ahout, 
And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, 

Till all the arts at length are brought about, 
Especially of war and taxing — how, 

I say, will those great relics, when thev see 'em, 

Look like the monsters of a new museum ! 

XLI. 

Hut I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 
li The time is out of joint," — and so am I ; 

1 quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical, 
And deviate into matters rather drv. 

1 ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call 
Much too poetical: men should know why 

They write, and for what end ; but, note or text, 

I never know the word which will come next. 

XLII. 

So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 

Now pondering: — it is time we should narrate: 

I left Don Juan with his horses baiting — 

Now we Ml get o'er the ground at a great rate. 

I shall not be particular in stating 

His journey, we 've so many tours of late : 

Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 

That pleasant capital of painted snows; 

xliii. 
Suppose him in a handsome uniform; 

A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, 

Over a cock'd hat, in a crowded room, 
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, 

Of yellow kerseymere we may presume, 
White stockings drawn, nnrurdled as new milk, 
O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk; 

XLIV. 

Suppose him, sword by side, and hat in hand, 
Made up by vouth, fame, and an army tailor — 

That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 

Beauty springs forth, and nature's self turns paler, 

Seeing how art can make her work more grand, 

(When she do n't pin men's limbs in like a jailer) — 

Behold him placed as if upon a pillar ! He 

Seems Love tunvd a lieutenant of artillery ? 

XLV. 

I lis bandage slipp'd down into a cravat ; 

His wings subdued to epaulets ; his quiver 
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 

His aide as a small-sword, but sharp as ever ; 
Hi' bow converted into a cock'd hat ; 

B it still so like. Psyche were more clever 
Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid) 
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 

X r. v i . 
The courtiers stared, the ladies wliisper'd, and 

The empress smiled : the reigning favourite frown'd — 
I quite forget which of them was in hand 

Just then, as they are rather numerous found, 
Who took by turns that difficult command. 

Since first her majesty was singly crown' d : 
Bui they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 
Alt fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 

XLVII. 

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, 
Blushing and beardless; and yet ne'ertheless 

There was a something in his turn of limb, 

And slill more in his eye, which seem'd to express, 

Thai though he look'd one of the seraphim, 
There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. 

Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, 

And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi: * 



XLVIII. 

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, 

Or Scherbatoff, or any other off", 
Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough 

Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
For a new flame ; a thought to cast of gloom enough 

Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, 
OF him who, in the language of his station, 
Then held that " high official situation." 

XLIX. 

Oh, gentle ladies! should you seek to know 

The import of this diplomatic phrase, 
Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess s show 

His parts of speech ; and in the strange displays 
Of that odd string of words all in a row, 

Which none divine, and every one obeys, 
Perhaps you may pick out some queer no-meaning, 
Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 

Im 

I think 1 can explain myself without 

That sad inexplicable beast of prey- 
That sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, 

Did not his deeds unriddle them each dav— 
That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spout 

Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh ! 
And here I must an anecdote relate, 
But luckily of no great length or weight. 

LI. 

An English lady askM of an Italian, 
What were the actual and official duties 

Of the strange thing some women set a value on, 
Which hovers oft about some married beauties, 

Call'd " Cavalier Servente ?" — a Pygmalion 

Whose statues warm (I fear, alas ! too true 't is) 

Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them, 

Said — " Lady, I beseech you to suppose them" 

LII. 

And thus I supplicate your supposition, 

And mildest, matron-like interpretation 
Of the imperial favourite's condition. 

'T was a high place, the highest in the nation 
In fact, if not in rank ; and the suspicion 

Of any one's attaining to his station, 
No doubt nave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, 
If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. 

LUX. 

Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, 
And had retain'd his boyish look beyond 

The usual hirsute seasons, which destroy, 

Willi beards and whiskers and the like, the fond 

Parisian aspect which upset old Troy 

And founded Doctors' Commons : — I have conn'd 

The history of divorces, which, though chequer'd, 

Galls Ilion's the first damages on record. 

LIT."" 

And Catherine, who loved all things, (save her lord, 
Who was gone to his place,) and pass'd for much, 

Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd) 
Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 

Of sentiment ; and he she most adored 

Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such 

A lover as had cost her many a tear, 

And yet but made a middling grenadier. 

LT. 

Oh, thou " teterrima causa" of all " belli !" — 
Thou gate of life and death! — thou nondescript! 

Whence is our exit and our entrance, — well I 
May pause in pondering how all souls are dipp'd 

In thy perennial f xintain ! — how man fell, T 

Know not, since knowledge saw her branch** stum? d 

Of her first fruit ; but how he falls and rises 

Sinrr. thou hast settled bevond all surmise*. 



674 



DON JUAN. 



Cawtq IX. 



Some cat) lliee " the worst cause of war," bul X 
Maintain thou art the best: for, after all, 

From thee we come, to 'hee we go ; and why, 
To get at thee, not batier down a wall, 

Or waste a world? Since no one can deny 
Thou dost replenish w<.rM- both greal and small: 

With, or without thee, all things at a stand 

Aie, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land! 

I. VI I. 

Catherine, who was the L'rand epitome 

Of that great '.'jiisc of war, or peuce, or what 

You please, (it onuses all the thmjs which be. 
So you may take your choice of this or that) — 

Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 

The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat 

Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 

"Willi his despatch, torgot to break the seal. 

LVIII. 

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 

Forgetting quite the woman, (which composed 

At least three parts of this <;reai whole,) she tore 
The letter open with an air which posed 

The court, that watch'd each look hei visage wore, 
Until a roval smile at length disclosed 

Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, 

Her face was noble, her eyes hue, mouth gracious. 

LIX. 

Great joy was hers, or rather joys ; the first 
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 

Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, 
As an Kast-lmlian sunrise on the main. 

These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst- 
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain : 

En vain '. — As fall die dews on quenchless sands, 

Blood only serves to wash ambition's hands ' 

LX. 

Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 

She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw 
Into a Russian couplet, rather 'lull. 

The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. 
Her third was feminine enough to annul 

The shudder winch runs naturally through 
Our veins, when things cail'd sovereigns think it best 
To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 

LXI, 

The two first feelings ran their course complete, 
And lighted first her eve and then her mouth: 

The whole court look'd immediately most sweet, 
Like flowers well waterM after a long drouth ; — 

But when on the lieutenant, al her feet, 
Her majesty — Who liked to gaze on youth 

Almost as much as on a new despatch — 

Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. 

Lxri. 

Though somewhat lar^'c, rxuheraiit, and truculent, 

When wroth; white pleased! she was as fine a figure 

As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, 

Would wish to look on, while they an- in vigour. 
She could repay each amatory look you lent 

With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour 
To exact of Cupid's bills the fill amount 
At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 

I.XIll. 

With her the latter, though at times convenient, 
Was not so necessary : f »r they tell 

That she was handsome and, tho? fierce, look'd lenient, 
And always used her favourites too well. 

If once beyond her boudoir's precinets in ye went, 
Your *' fortune" was in a fair way Cl to swell 

A man,' 1 as Giles says; 1 for, though she would widow all 

Nations she liked man as an individual. 



LXIV. 

What a strange thing is man ! and what a stran er 
Is woman ? What a whirlwind is her head, 

And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger 
Is all the rest about her! whether wed, 

< >r n id iw, maid, or mother, she can change her 
Mind like lb' 1 wind ; whatever she has said 

Or done, is light to what she 'II sav or do;— 

The oldest thing on record, and yet new ! 

LXT. 

Oh, Catherine ! (for of all interjections 
To thee both oh ! and ah ! belong of right 

In love and war) how odd are the connexions 
Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight! 

Joel ii m yourt were cut out in different sections: 
Firxt, Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite * 

iVsrt, of new knights the fresh and glorious hatch; 

And OunUi/, he who brought you the despatch ! 

LXTX. 

Sbakspeare talks of " the herald Mercury 

New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;" 
And some such visions crossfd her majesty, 

While her young herald knelt before her still. 
*T is very true the lull seem'd rather high 

For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill f^in*. 

Smooth'*! even the Simplon's steep, and, by God's b!es 
With youth and health all kisses are "heaven-kissing." 

LXVII. 

Her majesty look'd down the youth look'd up — 
And so they fell in love ; — she with his face. 

His grace, las < rod-knows-what : for Cupid's cup 
Willi the liisr draught intoxicates apace, 

A quintessential laudanum or " black drop," 

Winch makes one drunk at once, without the base 

Expedient of full bumpers ; for the eye 

Iu love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) drv 

LXVIII. 

He. on the other hand, if not in love, 

Fell into that no less imperious passion, 
Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above 

Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, 
Or duchess, princess, empress, " deisns to prove, T 

('T is Pope's phrase.) a great longing, tho* a rash one, 
For one especial person out of manv, 
Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 

LXIX. 

Besides, he was of that delighted age 

Which makes all female ages equal — when 

We do n't much care with whom we may engage, 
As bold as Daniel in the lions' den, 

So that we can our native sun assuage 

In the next ocean, which may flow just then, 

To make a twilight in — just as Sol's heat is 

Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. 

LXX. 

And Catherine, (we must say thus much for Catherine^ 
Though hold and bloody, was the kind of thing 

Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, 
lie, ;iu -,■ each lover look'd a sort of king, 

Made up upon an amatory pattern — 
A roval husband in all save die riny — 

Which being the dainn'desl part of matrimony, 

Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. 

LXXI. 

And when you add to this, her womanhood 
In its meridian, her blue eyes, or gray— 

(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, 
Or better, as the best examples say : 

Napoleon's, Mary's (Queen of Scotland) should 
Lend to that colour a transcendent ray; 

And Pallas also sanctions the same hue— 

Too wise to look through opticks black or blue)— 



CiBlO X. 



DON JUAN. 



57? 



Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, 
Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, 

Tier preference of a boy to men much bigger, 

(Fellows whom MessaHnVs self would pension,) 

Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour, 

With other extras which we nerd not mention, — 

AH these, o» any one of these, explain 

Enough to make a stripling very vain. 

LxXIII. 
And that 's enough, for love is vanity 

Selfish in its beginning as its end, 
Except where 't is a mere insanity, 

A maddening spirit which would strive to blend 
Itself with beauty's frail inanity, 

On which the passion's self seems to depend: 
And hcure some heathenish philosophers 
Wake love the mainspring of the universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides Platonic love, besides the love 
Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 

Of faithful pairs— (I needs must rhvmc with dove, 

That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving 

'Gainst reason — reason ne'er was hand- and -glove 
With rhyme, but always leand less to improving 

The sound than sense)— besides all these pretences 

To love, there are those things which words name senses ; 

LXXV. 

Those movements, those improvements in our bodies, 
Which make all bodies anxious to get out 

Of their own sandpits to mix with a goddess— 
For such all women are at first, no doubt. 

How beaut iftil that moment ! and how odd ts 
That fever which precedes the languid rout 

Of our sensations ! What a curious way 

The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay! 

LXXVI. 

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
To end or to begin with ; the next grand 

Is that which may be christened love canonical, 
Because the clergy take the thing in hand ; 

The third sort to be noted in our chronicle, 
As flourishing in every Christian land, 

Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 

Add what may be caM'd marriage in disguise. 

LXXVII. 

Well, we won't analyze— our storv must 
Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, 

Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust ;— 
I cannot stoop to alter words once written, 

And the two are so mix'd with human dust, 

That he who names one, both perchance may hit on : 

I?'it in such matters Russia's mighty empress 

Behaved no better than a common sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 

The whole court melted into one wide whisper, 

And all lips were applied unto all ears ! 
The elder ladius' wrinkles curl'd much crisper 

As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 
On one another, and each lovely lisper 

Smil'd as she talkM the matter o'er ; but tears 
Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 
Of all the standing army who stood by. 

LXXIX. 

All the ambassadors of all the powers 

Inquired, who was this very new young man, 

Who promised to be great in some few hours? 
Which is full soon, (though life is but a span.) 

Already they beheld the silver showers 
Of roubles rain, as fast as specie can, 

Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 

Of sereral ribands and sorai thousand peasant*. 



LXXX. 

Catherine was generous, — ait such ladies are: 
Love, that great opener of the heart and all 

The ways that lead there, be they near or far: 
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small,— 

Love — (though she had a cursed taste fur war, 
And was not the best wife, unless we call 

Such Clytemncstra; though perhaps 'tis better 

That one should die, than two drag on the fetter) — 

LXXXI. 

Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune, 

Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 
Whose avarice all disbursements did importune, 

If history, the grand liar, ever saith 
The truth ; and though grief her old age might shor.'v* 

Because she put a favourite to death, 
Her vile ambiguous method of flirtation, 
And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station^ 

LXXXII. 

But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 
In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 

Ambassadors began as 't were to hustle 

Round the young man with their congratulation* 

Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 
Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 

ft is to speculate on handsome faces, 

Especially when such lead to high places. 

LXXXIII. 

Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 

A general object of attention, made 
His answers with a very graceful bow, 

As if born for the ministerial trade. 
Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow 

Nature had written '' Gentleman." Ke said 
Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 

LXXX1V. 

An order from her majesty ronsign'd 
Our young lieutenant to the genial care 

Of those in office : all the world look'd kind, 
(As it will lonk sometimes with the first stare, 

Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind;) 
As also did Miss Protosoff then there, 

Named, from her mystic office, " l'Eprouveuse," 

A term inexplicable to the Muse. 

LXXXV. 

With her then, as in humble duty bound, 

Juan retired. — and so will I, until 
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground, 

We have just lit on a " heaven-kissing hill," 
So lofty that I feel my brain turn'd round, 

And all my fancies whirling like a mill ; 
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain 
To take a quiet ride in some green lan« 



canto x. 



When Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
In that slight startle from his contemplation— 

'T is said (for I Ml not answer above ground. 
For any sage's creed or calculation)— 

A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round 
In a most natural whirl, call'd " gravitation^ 

And thus is the sole mortal who could grappl*, 

Since Adam, with a ioU or with an apple. 



676 



DON JUAN. 



Canto X. 



Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, 
If this be true ; for we must deem the mode 

In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose, 
Through the then unpaved stars, the turnpike road, 

A thing to counterbalance human woes ; 
For, ever since, immortal man hath glow'd 

With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 

Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. 

in. 

And wherefore this exordium? — Why. just now, 

In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, 
My bosom underwent a glorious glow, 

And iny interna! spirit cut a caper: 
And though so much inferior, as I know, 

To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, 
Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 
I wish to do as much by poesy. 

IV. 

In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail ; but for 

The stars, I own my telescope is dim; 
But ai the least I 've shunn'd the common shore, 

And, leaving land far out of sight, would skim 
The ocean of eternity : the roaf 

Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, 
Bui still sea-worthy skitf; and she may float 
Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. 

V. 

We left our hero Juan in the bloom 

Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush ; 

And far be it from my Muses to presume 
(For I have more than one Muse at a push) 

To follow him beyond the drawing-room : 
It is enough that fortune found him flush 

Of youth arni vigour, beauty, and those things 

Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 

VI. 

But soon they grow again, and leave their nrst. 

" Oh !" saith the Psalmist, " that I had a dove's 
Pinions, to flee away and be at rest !" 

And who, that recollects young years and loves,— 
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast. 

And palsied fancy, which no longer roves 
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but would much rather 
Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather ? 

VII. 

But si«hs subside, and tears (even widow's) shrink 

Like Arno, in the summer, to a shallow, 
So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, 

Which threatens inundations deep and yellow ! 
Such difference doth a few months make. You'd think 

Griefs rich field which never would lie fallow ; 
No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, 
Who furrow some new soil to sow for joya. 

VIII. 

But coughs will come when sighs depart — and now 
And then before sighs cease ; for oft the one 

Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 
Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun 

Of life reach ten o'clock : and, while a glow, 
Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 

Overspreads the check which seems too pure for clay, 

Thousands blaze, love, hope, die — how happy they !— 

tx. 

Bit Juan was not meant to die so soon. 

We left him in the focus of such glory 
A-* may be won by favour of the moon, 

Or ladies* fancies— rather transitory 
Perhaps: but who would scorn the month of June, 

Because December, with his breath so hoary, 
Must come ? Much rather should he court the ray, 
To hoard ui> warmth against a wintry day. 



Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
Middle-aged ladies even more than young. 

The former know what's what ; while new-fled<*cd clucks 
Know little more of love tlian what is sung 

In rhymes, brdreara'd, [for fancy will play tricks,) 
In visions of those skies from whence lovesprung 

Some reckon women by their suns or years — 

I rather think the moon should date the dears. 

XI. 

And why ? because she 's changeable and chaste. 

I know no oihor reason, whatsoe'er 
Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, 

May choose to tax me with; which is not fair, 
Nor flattering to " their temper or their taste,' 

As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air; 
However. I forgive him, and I trust 
He will forgive himself ; — if not, I must 

xn. 
Old enemies who have become new friends 

Should so continue — 't is a point of honour ; 
An 1 I know n ithing wjpicfa could make amends ' 

For a return to hat re. 1 : I would shun her 
Like garlic, howsoever she extends 

Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. 
Old flames, new wires, become our bitterest foes — 
Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 

XIII. 

This were the worst desertion : renegadoes, 

Even shuffling Southey — ibaj incarnate lie- 
Would scarcely join again the '• reformadoes,"' 

Whom he forsook to till the laureate's sty : 
And honest men, from Iceland to Barbadows, 

Whether in ('alt-don or Italy, 
Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize, 
To pain, the moment when you cease to please. 

XIV. 

The lawyer and the critic but beh <\>\ 

The baser sides of literature and life, 
And naught remains unseen, but much untold, 

By those who scour those double vales of strife. 
While common men grow ignoranlly old, 

The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife 
Dissecting the whole inside of a question, 
And with it all the process of digestion. 

xv. 
A legal broom *s a moral chimney-sweeper, 

And that 's the reason In- himself *s sodirty ; 
The endless sool ■ bestows a tint far deeper 

Than can be hid by altering bin shirt ; he 
Retains the sable stains of the dan creeper — 

At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, 
In all their habits: not soyouf I own ; 
As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown. 

XVI. 

And all our little feuds, at lessl aO mine. 

Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe, 
(As far as rhyme ami criticism combine 

To make such puppets of us things below,) 
Are over: Here 's a health to " Auld Lang Syne!" 

I do Dot know you, and may never know 
Your face, — but you have acted on the whole 
Most nobly, and I own it from my soul. 

XVII. 

And when I use the phrase of* 1 Auld Lang Syne!" 
'T is not address*a to you — the more 's the pity 

For me, fur I would rather take my wine 
With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. 

But somehow, — it may seem a schoolboy a whine, 
And yet I seek not to bo grand nor witty, 

But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 

A whole one, and my heart flioi to my head :— 



CiftTO X. 



DON JUAN. 



67~ 



XVIII. 

As " Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland one and all, 
Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear 
streams, 

The Dee, ihe Don, Balgounie's Brig's black wall, 3 
All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 

OF what I thai dreamt, clothed in their own pall, 
Like Banquo's offspring — floating past me seems 

Mv childhood in this childishness of mine: 

I care not — 't is a glimpse of " Auld Lang Syne." 

XIX. 

And though, as you remember, in a fit 

Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 
I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, 

Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 
Yet 't is in vain such sallies (o permit — 

They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early 
I (i sco/rlid, not kill'd," the Scotchman in my blood, 
And love the land of " mountain and of flood." 

xx. 
Don Juan, who was real or ideal, — 

For both are much the same, since what men think 
Exists when the once thinkers are less real 

Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, 
And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal \ 

And yet 't is very puzzling on tho brink 
Of what iscall'd eternity, to stare, 
And know no more of what is here than there: — 

XXI. 

Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian — 

How we won't mention, why we need not say : 
Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion 

Of any slight temptation in their way ; 
But Aw just now were spread as is a cushion 

Smooih'd for a monarch's seat of honour: gay 
Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, 
Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 

xxn. 
The favour of tho empress was agreeable ; 

And though the duty wax'd a little hard, 
Young people at his time of life should be able 

To come off handsomely in that regard. 
He now was growing up like a green tree, able 

For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
Make some prefer the circulating medium. 

XXIII. 

About this time, as might have been anticipated, 

Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, 
Don Juan grew, [ fear, a little dissipated ; 

Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 
On our fresh feelings, but — as being participated 

With all kinds of incorrigible samples 
Of frail humanity — must make us selfish, 
And shut our souls up in us like a shellfish. 

xxir. 
This we pass over. We will also pass 

The usual progress of intrigues between 
Unequal mutches, such as are, alas! 

A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, 
But one who is not so youthful as she was 

In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 
Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, 

And wrinkles (the d d democrats) won't flatter. 

xxv. 
And Death, the sovereigns' sovereign, though the great 

Gracchus of all mortality, who levels 
With his Agrarian laws, the high estate ' 

Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels, 
To one small grass-grown patch (which must await 

Corruption for its crop) with the poor deviU 
Who never had a foot of laud till now, — 
Death 'i a reformer, ail men must allow 
3 X 



XXVI. 

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry 

Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter. 

In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — 
Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter) 

Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, 
Through all the " purple and fine linen," fitter 

For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot— 

And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. 

XXVII. 

And this same state we won't describe: we could 
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection ; 

But getting nigh grim Dante's *' obscure wood," 
That horrid equinox, that hateful section 

Of human years, that half-way house, that rude 

Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspect too 

Life's sad posthorses o'er the dreary frontier 

Of age, and, looking back to youth, give one tear ;— 

XXVIII. 

I won't describe — that is, if I can help 
Description: and I won't reflect — that is, 

If I can stave off thought, which — as a whelp 
Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abyst 

Of this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 
Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's kiss 

Drains its first draught of lips : but, as I said, 

I won't philosophize, and will be read. 

XXIX. 

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, 
A thing which happens rarely ; this he owed 

Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
Valour ; much also to the blood he show'd, 

Like a racehorse ; much to each dress he sported, 
Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd, 

As purple clouds befringe the sun ; but most 

He owed to an old woman and his post. 

XXX. 

He wrote to Spain : — and all his near relations, 

Perceiving he was in a handsome way 
Of getting on himself, and finding stations 

For cousins also, answer'd the same day. 
Several prepared themselves for emigrations; 

And, eating ices, were o'erheard to say, 
That with the addition of a slight pelisse, 
Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece. 

xxxi. 
His mother, Donna Inez, finding too 

That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, 
Where his assets were waxing rather few, 

He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor- 
Replied, " that she was glad to see him through 

Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker, 
As the sole sign of man's being in his senses 
Is, learning to reduce hispast expenses. 

XXXII. 

" She also recommended him to God, 

And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, 

Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd 1 
In Catholic eyes ; but told him too to smother 

Outward dislike, which do n't look well abroad: 
Inform'd him that he had a little brother 

Born in a second wedlock ; and above 

All, praised the empress's maternal love. 

XXXIII. 

"She could not too much give her approbation 
Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men 

Whose age, and, what was better still, whose nation 
And climate, stopp'd all scandal, (now and then.)— 

At home it might have given her some vexation ; 
But where thermometers sunk down to ten, 

Or five, or one, or tero, she could never 

Believe that virtue thawM before the tiw." 



578 



DON JUAN. 



Cast* ^. 



xxxiv. 

Oh for a forty-parson powtr * to chant 
Thy praise, hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn 

Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, 
Not practise ! Oh for trumps of cherubim ! 

Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 

Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, 

Drew quiet consolation through its hint, 

When she no more could read the pious print. 

XXXV. 

She was no hypocrite, at least, poor soul! 

But went to heaven in as sincere a way 
As any body on the elected roll, 

Which portions out upon the judgment day 
Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, 

Such as the conqueror William did repay 
His knights with, lotting others' properties 
Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. 

xxxvr. 

I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
Erneis, Radulphus — eight-and- forty manors 

(If that my memory doth not greatly err) 

W«W their reward for following Bilk's banners; 

And, though I can't help thinking 'twas scarce fair 
To strip the Saxons of their hydes.* like tanners, 

Yet as they founded churches with the produce, 

You '11 deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 

XXXVII. 

The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 
He felt like other plants — call'd sensitive, 

Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes, 
Save such as SouLhey can afford to give. 

Perhaps he long'd, in bitter frosts for climes 
In which the Neva's ice would cease to live 

H"C»re May-day: perhaps, despite his duty, 

h, .oy ally's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty: 

XXXVIII. 

Perhaps, — but, sans perhaps, we need to seek 
For causes voting or old : the canker-worm 

Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, 
As well as further drain the withcr'd form : 

Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
His bills in, and, however we may storm, 

They must be paid: though six days smoothly run, 

The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 

XXXIX. 

I don't know how it was, but he grew sick : 
The empress was alarm'd, and her physician 

(The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 
Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 

Which augur'd of the dead, however quick 
Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition; 

At which the whole court was extremely troubled, 

The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. 

XL. 

Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours: 
Some said he had been poison'd by Potmnkin ; 

Others talk'd learnedly »f certain tumours, 
Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin ; 

Some said 't was a concoction of the humours, 
Which with the blood too readily will claim kin ; 

Others again were ready to maintain, 

*'T was only the fatigue of last campaign." 

XLI. 

But here is one prescription out of many : 
" Soda>sulphat. 3. vi. 3. s. Manna; optim. 

Aq. fervent. P. 3. iss. 3. ij. tinct. Sennas 
Haustus" (and here the. surgeon came and cuppMbim) 

" R. Pulv. Com. gr. iii. Ipecacuanha;," 

(With more besjda, if Juan had not stopp'd Vm.) 

" Bolus potasses sulphur**, sntneadua, 

Et haustus tar m die eapiendu*/' 



This is the way physicians mend or end us, 
Secundum artem: but although we sneer 

In health — when ill, we call them to attend us, 
Without the least propensity to jeer: 

While that " hia'us maxiine deflendus," 
To be fill'd up by spade or mattock, *s near, 

Instead of gliding graciously down I.ethe, 

We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abcrnethy. 

XMII. 

Juan demurred at this first notice to 

Q,uit; and, though death had threaten'd an ejection, 
His youth and constitution bore him through, 

And sen! the doctors in a new direction. 
But still his s'ate was delicate : the hue 

Of health but flickered with a faint reflection 
Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel 
The faculty — who said that he must travel. 

xi.iv. 
The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 

.M> rnlian-bom, to bloom in. This opinion 
Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, 

Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 
But when she saw his dazzling eve wax dim, 

And drooping like an eagle's w iih chjm'd pinion, 
She then resolved to send hmi on a mission, 
But in a style becoming his condition. 

XLV. 

There was just then a kind of a discussion, 

A sort of treaty or negotiation 
Between the British cabinet and Russian, 

Maintain'd with all the due prevarication 
With which great states such things are apt to push on 

Something about the Baltic's nat i 
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, 
W Inch Britons deem their " uti possidetis." 

XI. VI. 

So Catherine, who had a handsome way 

Of fitting out her favourites, conferral 
This secret charge on Juan, to display 

At once her royal splendour, and reward 
His services. Hekiss'd hands the next day, 

Received instructions how to play his card, 
W T as laden with all kinds of gifts and honours, 
Which show'd what gnat discernment was the donor s. 

Xl.YIT. 

Rut she was tacky, and lurk 's all. Your queens 

Are generally prosperous in reigning ; 
Which puzzles us to know what fortune means. 

But to continue : though her yean were waning, 
Her climacteric teased her like her teens ; 

And thoimh her dignity bronk'd no complair.'ng, 
So much did Juan's setting off distress her, 
She could not find at first a tit successor. 

xi-virr. 

But time, the comforter, will come at last ; 

And four-and- twenty hours, and twice that number 
Of candidates requesting to be placed, 

Made Catherine taste next night a qir.et slumber:— 
Not that she meant to fix again in haste, 

Nor did she find the quantity encumber, 
But, always choosing with deliberation, 
Kept the place open for their emulation. 

XLIX. 

While this high post of honour 's in abeyance, 
For one or two davs, reader, we request 

You *11 mount with our young hero the conveyance 
Which wafted him from Petershurgh; the best 

Barouche, which had the glory to display once 
The fair Czarina'* autocratic 'rest, 

(When, a n«w [phijr^ne, she went to Tauria,) 

Was given to hor favourite,* and now bore hit. 



Caktc X. 



DON JUAN. 



579 



A bull-dog, and a bull-finch, and an ermine, 

All private favourites of Don Juan ; for 
(Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 

He had a kind of inclination, or 
"Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin — 

Live animals : — an old maid of threescore 
For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, 
Although he was not old, nor even a maid. 

LI. 

The animals aforesaid occupied 

Their Station : there were valets, secretaries, 
Iu other vehicles ; but at his side 

Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
He made 'gainst Cossack sabres, in the wide 

Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies 
Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl. 

LII. 

Poor little thing ! She was as fair as docile, 
And with that gentle, serious character, 

As rare in living beings as a fossile 

Man, 'mid tiiv mouldy mammoths, " grand Cuvier !" 

Ill lined with her ignorance to jostle 

With this o'erwhehning world, where all must err: 

But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 

Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. 

LIII. 

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 
Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 

I cannot tell exactly what it was; 

He was not yet quite old enough to prove 

Parental feelings, and the other class, 
Call'd brotherly affection, could not move 

His bosom — for he never had a sister: 

Ah ! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her ! 

LIV. 

And still less was it sensual ; for besides 

That he was not an ancient debauchee, 
{Who like sour fruit to stir their veins' salt tides, 

As acid* rouse a dormant alkali.) 
Although ('( will happen as our planet guides) 

His youth was not the chastest that might be, 
There was the purest platonism at bottom 
Of all his feelings — only he forgot 'em. 

LV. 

Just now there was no peril of temptation ; 

He lov^d the infant orphan he had saved, 
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation ; 

His pride too felt that she was not enslaved, 
Owing to him ; — as also her salvation, 

Through his means and the church's, might be paved. 
But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted— 
The little Turk refused to be converted. 

LY1. 

'T was strange enough she should retain the impression 
Thro' such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter; 
But, though three bishops told her the transgression, 

■ She show'd a great dislike to holy water: 
She also had no passion f Jr confession ; 

Perhaps she had nothing to confess ; — no matter 
Wliate'er the cause, the church made little of it — 
She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. 

LTXI. 

In fact, the only Christian she could bear 

Was Juan, whom she seem'd to have selected 

In place uf what her home and friends once were. 
He naturally loved what he protected ; 

And thus they form'd a rather curious pair: 
A guardian green in years, a ward connected 

In neither clime, lime, blood, with her defender; 

And yd this want of ties made theirs more tender. 



They journey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw, 
Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron: 

Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw 
Which gave her dukes 7 the graceless name of " Biron." 

*T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, 
Who marched to Moscow, led by fame, the syren ! 

To lose, by one month's frost, some twenty years 

Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 

LIZ. 

Let not this seem an anti-climax: — "Oh! 

My guard ! my old guard !" exclaim'd that god of clay— • 
Think of the thunderer's falling down below 

Carotid-artery-cutting Castlercagh ! 
Alas ! that glory should be chill'd by snow ! 

But, should we wish to warm us on our way 
Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame. 

LX. 

From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, 
And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt, 

Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, 
Has lately been the great Professor Kant. 

Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 
About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 

To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 

Have princes who spur more than their postilions. 

LXI. 

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, 
Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine: — ■ 

Ye glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye strike 
All phantasies, not even excepting mine: 

A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike, 
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 

Between the present and past worlds, and hover 

Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 

LXII. 

But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, 
Which Drachenfels frowns over, like a spectro 

Of the good feudal times for ever gone, 

On which I have not time just now to lecture. 

From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, 
A city which presents to the inspector 

Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, 

The greatest number flesh hath ever known. 

LXIII. 

From (hence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, 
That water land of Dutchmen and of ditches, 

Where juniper expresses its best juice — ■" 

The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. 

Senates and sages have condemn'd its use — 
But to deny the mob a cordial which is 

Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, 

Good government has left them, seems but cruel. 



Here he embark'd, and, with a flowing sail, 
Went bounding for the island of the free, 

Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale, 
High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea 

And seasick passengers turn'd somewhat pale: 
But Juan, season'd, as he well might be 

By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs 

Which pass'd. or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs. 

LXV. 

At length they rose, like a white wall along 
The blue sea's border ; and Don Juan felt — 

What even young strangers feel a little strong 
At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt — ■ 

A kind of pride that he should be among 

Those hauohtv shopkeepers, who stemly dealt 

Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, 

And made the very billows pay them tolL 



560 



DON JUAN. 



Ca.tto X. 



J have no great cause to love that spot of earth, 
Which holds what might liave been the noblest nation : 

But, though I owe it little but my birth, 
I feel a mix'd regrel ami veneration 

For its decaying fame and former worth. 

Seven yean? (the usual term of transportation) 

Of absence lay on^'s old resentments level, 

When a man's country *s going to the devil. 

LXVII. 

Alas ! could she but fully, iruly, know 

How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd ; 

How eager all the earth is for the blow 

Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword i 

How all the nations deem her their worst foe, 
That worse than worst ttffoet — the once adored 

False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, 

And now would chain them to the very mind ; — 

LXTHr. 

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, 
Who is but first of slaves ? The nations are 

In prison ; but the jailor, what is he? 
No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 

Is the poor privilege to turn the key 

Upon the captive, freedom? He's as far 

From the enjoyment of the earth and air 

Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 

LXIX. 

Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties— 
Thy cliffs, dear Dover ! harbour, and hotel \ 

Thy custom-house with all its delicate duties ; 
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 

Thv packets, all whose passengers are booties 
To those who upon land or water dwell ; 

And last, not least to strangers uninstructed, 

Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 

LXX. 

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifiquc, 
And rich in roubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, 

Who did not limit much his bills per week, 
Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it — 

(His maggior duomo, a smart subtle Greek, 

Before him sumtn'd the awful scroll and read it:) 

But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, 

Is free, the respiration 's worth the money. 

LXXI. 

On with the horses ! Off to Canterbury ! [puddle ; 

Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through 
Hurrah ! how swiftly speeds the post so merry ! 

Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
Along the road, as if they went to bury 

Their fare; and also pause, besides, to fuddle 
With "schnapps" — sad dogs! whom " Hundsfot" or 
Affect no more than lightning a conductor. [" Ferfiucter" 

LXXI I. 

Now, there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 
Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry, 

As going at full speed — no matter where its 
Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry, 

And merely for the sake of its own merit? : 
For the less cause- there is (or all this flurry, 

The greater is the pleasure in arriving 

At the great end of travel — which is driving. 

LXXIIl, 

rhey saw at Canterbury the Cathedral; 

Black Edward's helm, and Beckel's bloody stone, 
Were pointed out as usual by the bedral, 

In the same quaint, uninterested tone : 
There 's glory again for you, gentle reader ! all 

Ends in a rusty caserne and dubious bone, 
Half-solved into those sodas or magnesias, 
Which form (hit bitter draught, tho human spocics. 



LXXIT. 

Tli-' effect on Juan was of course sublime: 
He breathed a thousand Cressvs, as he saw 

que, v,hich never stoop'd except to Time 
Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, 

Who died in the then great attempt to climb 
O'er kings, who new at least mud udk of law, 

Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, 

And asked why such a structure had been raised : 

LXXV. 

And being told it was " God's house," she said 
He was well lodged, but only wonder' d how 

He suffer' d infidels in hishonn- 

The cruel Nazan ues, who had laid low 

Hi- holy temples in the lands, which bred 
The true believers;— and her infant brow 

Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign 

A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 

I.XXVI. 

On, on! through meadows, managed likeagarden, 
A paradise of hops and high pnnluction ; 

For, after years of travel by a bard in 

Countries of greater heat but lesser suction, 

A green field is a sight which makes him pardon 
The absence of that more sublime construction 

Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, 

Glaciers, volcanoes, oranges, and ices. 

LXXVII. 

And when I think upon a pot of beer — 

But I wont weep! — and so, drive on. postillions 

As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 
Juan admired these high ways of free millions; 

A country in all senses the most dear 

To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, 

Who " kick against the pricks" just at this juncture, 

And for their pains get only a fresh puncture. 

LXXVUt. 

What a delightful thing 's a turnpike road ! 

So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving 
The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 

Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. 
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god 

Had told his son to satisfy Ins craving 
With the York mail ; — but, onward as we roll, 
•' Surgit amaii aliquid" — the toll! 

LXXIT. 

Alas! how deeply painful is all pavment ! [purses 

Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's 

As JVIachiavel shows those in purple raiment, 
Such is the shortest way to general curse*. 

They hate a murderer much less than a claimant 
On that sweet ore, which every body nurses:— 

Kill a man's familv, and he mav brook it — 

But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket. 

LXXX. 

So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken 
To vour instructor. Juan DOW was borne, 

Just as the day began to wane and darken, 

O'er the high lull which looks with pride or scorn 

Toward the great city: — ye who have a spark in 
Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn, 

According as you take things well or ill — 

Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill ! 

LXXXI. 

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from 

A half-unquenchM volcano, o'er a space 
W r hick well beseem'd the " Devil's drawing-room/ 

As some have qualified that wondrous place. 
But Juan felt, though not approaching home, 

As one who, though he were not of the race, 
Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, 
Who butchered half the earth, and bullied t' other.* 



Cakto XI. 



DON JUAN. 



5S1 



LXXXII. 

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 

In sight, then los v amid the forestry 
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping 

On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy ; 
A huge dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
On a fool's head — and there is London town ! 

lxxxiii. 

But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 
Appear'd lo him but as the magic vapour 

Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 

The wealth of worlds, (a wealth of tax and paper;) 

The gloomy clouds, which o'er it-as a yoke 
Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, 

Were nothing but the natural atmosphere — 

Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 

LXXXIV. 

He paused — and so will I — as doth a crew 
Before they give their broadside. By and by, 

My gentle countrymen, we will renew 
Our old acquaintance, and at least I Ml try 

To tell you truths you will not take as true, 
Because they are so. — a male Mrs. Frv, 

"With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, 

And brush a web or two from off the walls. 

LXXX7. 

Oh, Mrs. Fry '. why go to Newgate? Why 

Preach lo poor rogues? And wherefore not begin 

With Carlton, or with other houses ? Try 
Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin. 

To mend the people 's an absurdity, 
A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, 

Unless you make their betters better : — Fie ! 

I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Teach them the decencies of good threescore : 

Cure them of tours, Hussar and Highland dresses : 

Tell them that voulh once gone returns no more ; 
That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses: 

Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore, 
Too dull even for the dullest of excesses — 

The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, 

A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all ;— 

LXXXVII. 

Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late, 
On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, 

To set up vain pretences of being great, 
'T is not so to be good; and be it stated, 

The worthiest kings have ever loved least state ; 
And tell them but you won't, and I have prated 

Just now enough ; but by and by I 'II prattle 

Like Roland's hom in Roncesvalles' battle. 



CANTO XI. 



When Bishop Berkeley said " there was no matter," 
And proved it — 't was no matter what he said : 

They say his system *t is in vain to batter, 
Too subtle for the airiest human head ; 

And yet who can believe it ? I would shatter, 
Gladly, all matters down to stone or lead, 

Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, 

And wear my head, denying that I wear iu 



What a sublime discovery 't was, to make the 

Universe universal egotism ! 
That all 's ideal — all ourselves ? I Ml stake the 

World (be it what you will) that that 's no schism. 
Oh. doubt ! — if thou be'st doubt, for which some take thee, 

But which I doubt extremely — thou sole prism 
Of the truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit ! 
Heaven's brandy — though our brain can hardly bear it. 

in. 

For, ever and anon comes indigestion, 

(Not the most ;< dainty Ariel,") and perplexes 

Our soarings with another sort of question: 
And that which, after all, my spirit vexes 

Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on, 
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, 

Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, 

The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder— 

IV. 

If it be chance ; or if it be according 

To the old text, still better ! lest it should 

Turn out so, we 'II say nothing 'gainst the wording, 
As several people think such hazards rude : 

They 're right ; our days are too Dnef for affording 
Space to dispute what no one ever could 

Decide, and every body one day will 

Know very clearly — or at least lie still. 

v. 

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
Discussion, which is neither here nor there : 

If I agree that what is, is — then this I call 
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair. 

The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical 
I do n't know what the reason is — the air 

Perhaps ; but as I suffer from the shocks 

Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 

VI. 

The first attack at once proved the divinity, 
(But that I never doubted, nor the devil ;) 

The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity ; 
The third, the usual origin of evil; 

The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity 
On so incontrovertible a level, 

That 1 devoutly wished the three were four, 

On purpose to believe so much the more. 

VII. 

To our theme : — The man who has stood on the Acropolis, 

And look'd down over Attica ; or he 
Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is. 

Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea 
In small-eyed China's crockerv-ware metropolis, 

Or sat amid the bricks of Nineveh, 
May not think much of London's first appearance— 
But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence ? 

tiii. 

Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill — 
Sunset the time, the place the same declivity 

Which looks along that vale of good and ill 
Where London streets ferment in full activity ; 

While every thing around was calm and still, 

Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot ho 

Heard — and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum 

Of cities, that boils over with their scum : — 

IX. 

I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 
Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, 

And, lost in wonder of so great a nation, 

Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it. 

" And here," he cried, H is Freedom's chosen station ; 
Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it 

Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection 

Awaita it, each new meeting or election. 



582 



ON JUAN. 



" Here are chaste wives, pure lives ; here people pay 

But what they please ; and if thai things be dear, 
T is only that (hey love to throw away 

Their cash, to show how much they have a-year. 
Here laws are all inviolate; none lay 

Traps for the traveller, every highway 's clear: 

Here " he was interrupted by b knife, 

With " Damn your eyes ! your money or your life.' 

xr. 

These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pad*, 
In ambush laid, who had perceived bun loiier 

Behind his carriage; and, like handv lads, 
Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, 

fn which the heedless gentleman who gads 
Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, 

May find himself, within that isle of riches, 

Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 

XII. 

Juan, who did not understand a word 

Of English, save their shibboleth, " God damn !" 
And even that he had so rarely beard, 

He sometimes thought 't was only their "salam," 
Or " God be with von." — and 't is not absurd 

To think so; for, half English as I am, 
(To my misfortune,) n--ver can I say 
I heard them wish " God with you," pave that way: — 

xm. 
Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, 

And, being somewhat choleric and sudden, 
Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture, 

And fired it into one assailant's pudding— 
Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in bis pasture, 

And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in, 
Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 
" Oh Jack ! I 'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frenchman." 

XIV. 

On which Jack and his train set off at speed, 
And Juan's suite, late scattered at a distance, 

Came up, all marvelling at such a deed, 
And offering, as usual, late assistance. 

Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed 
As if his veins would pour out his existence, 

Stood calling out for bandages and lint, 

And wish'd he 'd been less hasty with his flint. 

xv. 

" Perhaps," thought he, " it is the country's wont 
To welcome foreigners in this way: now 

I recoUecl some innkeepers who do n't 

Differ, except in robbing with a bow, 
In lieu ol a hare blade ami bra/en front. 

But what is to be done -' I can't allow 
The fellow to lie «roanin*, on the road: 
So take him up; I Ml help you with the load." 

XVI. 

Hut, ere they could perform this pious dutv, 

The dying man cried. " Hold ! I 've got my gruel ! 

Oh ! for a glass of max ! We 've miss'd our bnoty ; 
Let me the where I am !" And, as the fuel 

Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick anil 

The drops fell from his death-wound, and he d 

His breath, he from his swelling throat untied 

A kerchief, crying " Give Sal that !" — and died. 

XVII. 

The cravat, stain'd with bloody drops, fell down 
Before Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 

Exactly why it was before him thrown. 

Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. 

Poor Tom was once a n town, 

A thorough varmint, and a reo/ swell, 

Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled — 

His pockets first, and then his body riddled. 



Cajto XI. 



XTUI. 

Don Juan, having done the best he could 

In all the circumstances of the case, 
As soon as " crowner's quest" allow'd, pursued 

His travels to the capital apace; — 
Esteeming it a little hard lie should 

In twelve floors' time, a very little space, 
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native 
In seif-defenee ■ this made him meditative. 

XIX. 

He from the world had cut oft" a great man, 
Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 

Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, 
Booze m the ken, or at the spellken hustle? 

Who queer a flat ? Who (spite of Bow-street's ban) 
On the high toby-spice so fla^h the muzzle? 

Win. on a 'ark. with black-eyed Sal, (his blowing,) 

Bo prime, bo swell, so nu'ty, and so knowing? l 

XX. 

But Tom 's no more — and so no more of Tom. 

Heroes must die ; and by God's blessing, *t is 
Not long before the most of them go home.— 

Mail ! Thamis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 
That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
Through Kerinington and all the other *' tons," 
Which make us wish ourselves in town at once ; 

XXI. 

Through groves, so call'd as being void of trees, 

(Like hicus from no light ;) through prospects named 

Mount Pleasant, as containing naught to please, 
Nor much to climb; through little boxes framed 

Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 

With " To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd ; 

Through " rows" most modestly call'd " Paradise," 

Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice;— 

XXII. 

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whin 
Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion; 

Here taverns wooing to a pint of " purl," 
There mails fast flying off like a delusion ; 

There barbers' blocks with periwig in curl 
In windows; here the lamp-lighter's infusion 

Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass, — 

(For in those days we had not got to ga^ :) 

XXIII. 

Through this, and much and more, is the approach 

Of travellers to mighty Babylon: 
Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach, 

Wiih slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
I could sa\ more, but do not choose to encroach 

Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun 
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
Of twilight, as the party cross'd tho bridge. 

XXIV. 

That 's ralher fine, the gentle sound of Thamis— 

Who vindicates I moment too his stream- 
Though hardly heard through multifarious " dam'mes." 

The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam, 
The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where Famo is 

A spectral residenl — whose pallid b**am 
In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 
Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. 

XXV. 

The Druids* groves are gone — so much the belter: 
Stone-Henge is not — but what the devil is it J— 

But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, 
That madmen may not bite you on a visit ; 

Tli. le'tuli inn seats or suits full many a debtor; 

The mansion-house, too, (though some people quit it, 

To me appears a stiff yet grand erection; 

But then the Abbev 'a worth the whole collection 



Cahto xr 



HON JUAN 



563 



XXVI. 

The line of lights too up to Charing-Cross, 
Pall-Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation, 

Like ©old as in comparison to dross, 

Match'd with the continent's illumination, 

Whose cities night by no means deigns to gloss: 
The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation, 

And when they grew so — on their new-found lantern, 

Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. 

XXVII. 

A row of gentlemen along the streets 

Suspended, mav illuminate mankind, 
As also bonfires made of country-seats; 

But the old way is best for the purblind: 
The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 

A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind, 
Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten, 
Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 

XXVIII. 

But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes 
Could recommence to hunt his honest man, 

And found him not amid the various progenies 
Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 

'T was not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his 
Yet undiscover'd treasure. What /can, 

I *ve done to find the same throughout life's journey, 

Bui see the world is only one attorney. 

XXIX. 

Over the stones still rattling, up Pall-Mall, 

Thruugh crowds and carriages — but waxing thinner 

As thunder'd knockers broke the long-seal'd spell 
Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner 

Admitied a small party as night fell, — 
Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, 
f Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, 

St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells."* 

XXX. 

They reach'd the hotel : forth stream'd from the front door 

A tide of well-clad waiters, and around 
The mob stood, and as usual several score 

Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 
In decent London when the daylight 's o'er ; 

Commodious but immoral, they are found 
Useful, like Malthus, in preventing marriage: 
But Juan now is stepping from his carriage, 

XXXI. 

Into one of the sweetest of hotels, 

Especially for foreigners — and mostly 
For those whom favour or whom fortune swells, 

And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 
There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells, 

(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie,) 
Until to some conspicuous square they pass, 
And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 

XXXII. 

Juan, *vhose was a delicate commission, 
Private, though publicly important, bore 

No title to point out with due precision 

The exact affair on which he wast sent o'er. 

'T was merely known that on a secret mission 
A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, 

Young, handsome, and accomplished, who was said 

(In whispers') to have turn'd his sovereign's head. 

XXXIII. 

Some rumour also of some strange adventures 
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves ; 

And as romantic heads are pretty painters, 
And above all, an English woman's roves 

Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves, 

He found himself extremely in the fashion, 

Which serves our-th inking people for a pa<*ion. 



XXXIV. 

I do n't mean thai they are passionless, but quite 
The contrary ; but then 't is in the head ; 

Yet, as the consequences are as bright 
As if they acted with the heart instead, 

What after all can signify the site 
Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 

In safety to the place for which thev start, 

What matters if the road be head or heart ? 

XXXV. 

Juan presented in the proper place, 

To proper placemen, every Russ credential; 

And was received with all the due grimace, 
By those who govern in the mood potential, 

Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face, 
Thought (what in state affairs is most essential) 

That they as easily might do the youngster, 

As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. 

XXXVI. 

They errM, as aged men will do ; but by 
And by we '11. talk of that ; and if we do n't, 

'T will be because our notion is not high 
Of politicians and their double front, 

Who live by lies, vet dare not boldly lie : — 
Now what I love in women is, they won't 

Or can't do otherwise than lie. but do it 

So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 

And, after all, what is a lie? 'T is but 

The truth in masquerade ; and I defy 
Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 

A fact without some leaven of a lie. 
The very shadow of true truth would shut 

Up annals, revelations, poesy, 
And prophecy — except it should be dated 
Some years before the incidents related. 

XXXVIII. 

Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 
Can tax my mild Muse wilh misanthropy? 

She rings the world's " Te Deum," and her brow 
Blushes for those who will not : — but to sigh 

Is idle ; let us, like most oihers,bow, 
Kiss hands, feet — any part of Majesty, 

After the good example of "Green Erin," 

Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wearing 

XXXIX. 

Don Juan was presented, and his dress 
And mien excited general admiration — 

I do n't know which was most admired or less: 
One monstrous diamond drew much observation,. 

Which Catherine, in a moment of *' ivressej a 
(In love or brandy's fervent fermentation,) 

Bestow 'd upon him as the public learn'd ; 

And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 

XL. 

Besides the ministers and underlings, 

Who must be courteous to the accredited 

Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, 
Until their roval riddle's fully read, 

Thr- vrv clerks — those somewhat dirty springs 
Of office, or the house of office, fed 

By foul corruption into streams — even they 

Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay: 

XII. 

And insolence no doubt is what thev are 
Employ'd for. since it is their daily labour, 

In the dear offices of peace or war: 
And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neighbour, 

When for a passport, or some other bar 

To freedom, he applied, (a grief and a bore,) 

Tf he found not this snawn of tax-bom riches, 

Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons vf b— — «. 



634 



DON JUAN. 



Ca*to XI. 



But Juan was received with much " empressement :" — 
These phrases of refinement I must borrow 

From our next neighbour's land, where, like a chessman. 
There is a move set down for joy or sorrow, 

Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man, 
In islands, is, it seems, downright and thorough, 

More than on continents— as if the sea 

(See Billingsgate) made even tho tongue more free. 

xr.ni. 

And yet the British "dam'me" 's rather Attic: 
Your continental oaths are but incontinent, 

And turn on things which no aristocratic 

Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent 3 

This subject quote, as it would be schismatic 
In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't:— 

But " dam' me" 's quite ethereal, though too daring — 

Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 

XLIF. 

For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home ; 

For true or false politeness (and scarce Ouit 
JVoif) you may cross the blue deep and white foam — 

The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
You leave behind, the next of much you come 

To meet. However, 't is no time to chat 
On general topics : poems must confine 
Themselves to unity, like this of mine. 

xr.v. 
In the great world, — which, being interpreted, 

Meaneth the west or worst end of the city, 
And about twice two thousand people bred 

By no means to be very wise or witty, 
But to sit up while others lie in bed, 

And look down on the universe with pity- 
Juan, as an inveterate patrician, 
Was well received by persons of condition. 

XLVI. 

He was a bar-helor, which is a matter 

Of import both to virgin and to bride, 
The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter ; 

And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 
'T is also of some moment to the latter: 

A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, 
Requires decorum, and is apt to double 
The horrid sin — and, what 's still worse, the trouble. 

XLVir. 

But Juan was a bachelor— of arts, 

And parts, and hearts : he danced and sung, and had 
An air as sentimental aa Mozart's 

Softest of melodies ; and could be sad 
Or cheerful, without any " flaws or starts," 

Just at the proper time ; and, though a lad, 
Had seen the world — which is a curious sight, 
And very much unlike what people write. 

xi.viii. 
Fair virgins blush'd upon him; wedded damea 

Bloom'd also in leas transitory hues; 
For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 

The painting and the painted; youth, ceruse, 
Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims, 

Such as no gentleman can quite refuse ; 
Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 

XLIX. 

The milliners who furnish " drapery misses"* 
Throughout the season, upon speculation 

Of pavment ere the honeymoon's last kisses 
Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, 

Thought such an opportunity as this is, 
Of a rich foreigner's initial ion, 

Not to be overlook'd, and gave such credit, 

That future bridegrooms swore, and BighM, and paid it. 



The Blues, that tender bribe, who sigh o'er sonnets, 
And with the pages of the last review 

Line the interior of their heads or bonnets, 
Advanced in ail their azure's highest hue: 

They talk'd bad French of Spanish] and upon its 
Late authors ask'd him fir a hint or two; 

And trhich was softest, Russian or Caslilian 7 

And whether in his travels he saw Uion ? 

LI. 

Juan, who was a little superficial, 
And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 

Examined by this learned and especial 

Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer: 

His duties warlike, loving, or official) 
His steady application as a dancer, 

Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, 

Which now he found was blue instead of green, 

i. ii. 

However, he replied at hazard, with 

A modest confidence and calm assurance, 

Which lent his learned lucubrations pith, 
And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. 

That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith, 

(Who at sixteen, translated " H-reules Furens'* 

Into as furious English,) with her best look, 

Set down his sayings in her commonplace book. 

LIII. 

Juan knew several languages — as well 

He might — and brought them up with skill, in time 
To save his fame with each accomplished belle, 

Who still regretted that he did not rhvme. 
There wanted but this requisite to swell 

His qualities (with them) into sublime: 
Lady Fi'z-Knsky, and Miss Mmvia Mannish, 
Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 

LIT. 

However he did pretty well, and was 

Admitted as an aspirant to all 
The coteries, and. as in Banquo's glass, 

At great assemblies or in parlies small, 
He saw ten thousand living authors pass, 

That being about their average numeral; 
Also the eighty " greatest living poets," 
As every paltry magazine can show iff, 

LV. 

In twice five years the " greatest living poet," 

Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 
Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, 

Although 't is an imaginary thing. 
Even I — albeit I 'm sure 1 did not know it, 

Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king— 
Was reckon'd, a considerable time. 
The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 

LVI. 

But Juan was my Moscow, and Kaliero 

My Leipsic, and my Mont-Saint-Jean seems Cail 
" La Belle Alliance" of dunces down at zero, 

Now that the lion 's fall'n, may rise again- 
But I will fall at leasl as fell my hero; 

Nor reign at all. or as a monarch reign ; 
Or to some lonely isle of jailers go, 
With turncoat Soutney for my turnkey Lowe. 

LVII. 

Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and CampbeV. 

Before and after ; but now, grown more holy, 
The Muses upon Sion's hilt must ramble 

With poets almost clergymen] or wholly; 



Cuto xr. 



DON JOAN. 



585 



JThen there 's my gentle Euphues, who, they ^ay, 

Sets up for being a sort of moral me; 
He 'II find it ralher difficult some c'ay 

To turn out both, or either, it may be. 
Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway, 

And Wordsworth hath supporters, two 01 three ; 
And that deep-mouth'd Bceotian, "Savage Lander/ 
Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 

LX. 

John Keats — who was kill'd off* bv one critique, 
Just as he really promised something great, 

If nut intelligible, without Greek 

Contrived to talk about the gods of late, 

Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
Poor fellow ! his was an untoward fate : 

"T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle,* 

Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article. 

Lxr. 
The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 

To that which none will gain — or none will know 
The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time renders 

His last award, will have the long grass grow 
Above his burnt-out brain and sapless cinders. 

If I might augur, I should rate but low 
Their chances ; they're too numerous, like the thirty 
Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty. 

lxii. 

This is the literary /ewer empire, 

Where the Praetorian bands take up the matter; — 
A "dreadful trade," like his who " gathers samphire," 

The insolent soldiery to sooth and flatter, 
With the same feelings as vou *d coax a vampire. 

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, 
I'd try conclusions with those janizaries, 
And show them what an intellectual war is. 

lxiii. 
I think I know a trick or two, would turn 

Their flanks ; — but it is hardly worth my while 
With such small gear to give myself concern: 

Indeed I Ve not the necessary bile ; 
My natural temper 's really aught but stem, 

And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smile ; 
And then she drops a brief and modest curtsy, 
And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 

LXIV. 

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 
Among live poets and blue ladies, pass'd 

With sum j small profit through that field so sterile. 
Re Log tired in time, and neither least nor last, 

Left it before he had been treated very ill ; 

And henceforth found himself more gaily class* d 

Among (he higher spirits of the day, 

The sun's true son — no vapour, but a ray. 

LXV. 

His morns he passM in business — which, dissected, 
Was like all business, a laborious nothing, 

That leads to lassitude, the most infected 

And Centaur Nessus girb of mortal clothing, 

And on our sofas mnkes us lie dejected, 
And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 

All kinds of toil, save for our country's good — 

Which grows no better, though 't is time it should. 
3 Y 



LXTI. 

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, 
Lounging, and boxing ; and the twilight hour 

In riding round those vegetable puncheons, 
Call'd " Parks," where there is neither fruit nor flower 

Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings \ 
But after all, it is the only "bower" 

(In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair 

Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 

LXVII. 

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world ! 

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar 
Though street and square fast-flashing chariots, hurl'd 

Like harness'd meteors! then along the floor 
Chalk'd mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd ; 

Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
Which opens to the thousand happy few 
An earthly paradise 1 of " or molu." 

LXTUI, 

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 

With the three-thousandih curtsy ; there the waltz— 

The only dance which teaches girls to think— 
Makes one in love even with its very faults. 

Saloon, room, all o'erflow beyond theii brink, 
And long the la'est of arrivals halts, 

'Mid royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb, 

And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 

LXIX. 

Thrice happy he who, after a survey 
Of the good company, can win a comer, 

A door that's in, or boudoir out of the way, 

Where he may fix himself, like small u Jack IToiner, 

And let the Babel round run as it may, 
And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 

Or an approver, or a mere spectator, 

Yawning a little as the night grows later 

I. XX. 

But this won't do, save by and by ; and he 
Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share, 

Must steer with fare through all that glittering sea 
Of gems and plumes, and pearls and silks, to where 

He deems it is his proper place lo be ; 
Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, 

Or proud lier prancing with mercurial skill 

Where science marshals forth her own quadrille. 

Lxxr. 

Or. if he dance not. but hath higher views 
Upon an heiress, or his neighbour's bride, 

Lei him take care that that which he pursues 
Is not at once too palpably descried. 

Full manv an eager gentleman oft rues 

His haste ; impatience is a blundering guide, 

Among a people famous for reflection, 

Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 

LXXII. 

But, if you can contrive, get next at supper ; 

Or, if forestall'd, get opposite and ogle:— 
Oh, ye ambrosial moments ! always upper 

In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, 
Which sits fbr ever upon memory's crupper, 

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue ! 
Can tender souls relate the ri c e and fall 
Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. 

LXXIII. 

But these precautionary hints can touch 
Only the common run, who must pursue, 

And watrh, and ward ; whose plans a word too much 
Or little overturns ; and not the few 

Or many (for the number 's sometimes such) 
Whom a «ood mien, especially if new, 

Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, 

Permit* whato'cr they please, or did not long since. 



586 



DON JUAN. 



Ca«to XI. 



LXXIV. 

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 

Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, 
Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom 

Before he can escape from so much danger 
As will environ a conspicuous man. Some 

Talk about poetry, and " rack and manger," 
And Ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble ;— 

I wish <hey knew die life of a young noble. 

LXXV. 

They are young, but know not youth — it is anticipated ; 

Handsome but wasted, rich without a sous; 
Their vigour in a thousand anna is dissipated ; 

Their cash comes from, their wealth goefl to, a Jew ; 
Both senates see their nightly votes participated 

Between the tyrant's anoVthe tribune's crew ; 
And, having voted, dined, drank, gamed, and whored, 
The family vault receives another lord. 

lxxvi. 
" Where is the world," cries Young, ,; at eighty? Where 

The world in which a man was born ?" Alas ! 
Where is the world ofeigld y^ars past ? ' T wtia there — 

I look for it — 't is gone, a globe of glass ! 
Craek'd, shivcrM, vanish'd. scarcely gazed on ere 

A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, 
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. 

LXXVII. 

Where is Napoleon the Grand '? God knows : 
Where little Castlereagh ? The devil can tell ; 

Where Grattan, Cur ran, Sheridan, all those 
Who bound the bar or senate in their spell ? 

Where is the uniiappv queen, with all her woes? 
And where the daughter, whom the isles loved well 1 

Where are those martyr'd sam's, the five per cents? 
And where — oh, where the devil are the rents ? 

I.XXVIII. 

Where 'sBrumnul? Dish'd. Where *s Long Pole Wel- 
lesley? Diddled. [Third? 

Where 's Whitbread .' Romilly? Where's George the 
Where is his will ? (That 's not so soon unriddled.) 

And where is " Fum" (he Fourth, our " royal bird?" 
Gone down it serins to Scotland, to be fiddled 

Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard: 

II Caw me, caw thee" — lor six months hath been hatching 
This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 

I.WIX. 

Where is Lord This? And where my T.ady That: 
The honourable Mistresses and Misses? 

Some laid aside like an old upera-1 at, 
Married, unmarried, and re-married — (this is 

An evolution oft performed of late.) 

Where are the Dublin shouts — and London hisses? 

Where are the Grenvillcs? Turn'd, as usual. Where 

My friends Uio Whigs. Exactly where they were. 

LXXX. 

Where are the Lady Carolines and Fran- 
Divorced or doing tbereanent, Ye annals 

So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is — 
Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels 

Broken in carriages, and all the phantasii a 

Of fashion — say what streams now fill those channels? 

Some die, some fly, some languish on the continent, 

Because the times have hardly left thorn one tenant. 

LXXXI. 

Some who once set their cap at cautious dukes, 

Havo taken up at length with younger brothers ; 
Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks ; (thers ; 

Some maids have been made wives — some merely mo- 
Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks: 

In short, the list of alterations bothers. 
There '& littlo £tran£6 in this, but something strange is 
The unusual quicVness of thes» common change*. 



LXXXIt. 

Talk not of seventy years as ag;e ; in seven 

I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to 

The humblest individual under heaven, 

Than might suffice a moderate century through. 

I knew that naught was lasting, but now even 
Change grows too changeable, without being new: 

Naught 's permanent am tig the human race, 

Except the Whigs nut getting into place. 

I.XXXIII. 

I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter, 

Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a duke 
(No matter which) him politician stupider 1 ! 

If that can Well be, than his wooden look. 
But it is time that I should hoist my " blue Peter," 

And sail for a new theme: I have seen — and shook 
To see it — the king hiss'd, and then caress'd ; 
But don't pretend to settle which was best. 

LXXXIV. 

I have seen the landholders without a rap — 
I have seen Johanna Southcote — I have seen 

The IIuum- of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap— 
I have seen that sad affair of ihe late queen— 

I have seen crow ns worn instead of a f toPs-csp— 

I have seen a < '"tigress (lnino all that *s mean — 
[ have seen some naiions like o'erloadcd asses 
Kick off their burdens — meaning the high classes. 

i.xxxv. 
I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 

liiterininab!' — not ctenutl — speakers— 
I have seen the funds at war with house and land— 

I 've seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers— 
1 \e seen the people ridden o'er Like sand 

By slai es on horseback — I have seen malt liquors 
ExchangM for " thin potations" in John Bull — 
o John half delect himself a fool. 

LXXXVI. 

But " carpe diem," Juan, " carpe, carpe !" 

To-morrow sees another race a- gav 
And transient, and devour'd by the same harpv. 

" Life 's a poor player" — then " play out the play. 
Ve villains !" and, above all, keep a sharp eye 

Much less on what you do than what you say: 
Be hypocritical, be cautious, oe 
Not what you seem, but always what you see, 

LX XXVII. 

But how shall I relate in other cantos 

Of what befell our hero, in the land 
Which 't is the common cry aod lie to vaunt as 

A moral country ? But I hold my hand — 
For I disdain to write an Atalantis; 

But 't is as well at once to understand, 

You are nnt a moral people, and you know U t 
Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 

LXXXVI II. 

What Juan saw- and underwent shall be 
Mv topic, with of course the due restriction 

Which is required bv proper courtesy ; 

. And recollect the work is only fiction, 

And that I sing of neither mine nor me. 
Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, 

Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 

This — when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out. 

LXXXIX. 

Whether he married with the third or fourth 
Offspring of some sage, htishand-hunting countess: 

Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
(I mean in fortune's matrimonial bounties) 

He took to regularly peopling earth, 
Of which your lawf.l awful wedlock fount is— 

Or whether he was takim in for damages, 

For being too excursive m his homage*— 



C.STO XII. 



DON JUAN. 



687 



Iback 



Is yet within the unread events of time. 

Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will 
Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 

For being as much the subject of attack 
As ever yet was any work sublime, 

By those who love to say that white is black. 
So much the better! — I may stand alone, 
But would not change my free thoughts for a throne. 



CANTO XII. 



Or all the barbarous middle ages, that 

Which is most barbarous is the middle age 

Of man ; it is — I really scarce know what ; 
But when we hover between fool and sage, 

Ami don't know jus'.ly what we would be at— 
A period something like a printed page, 

Biack-letter upon foolscap, while our hair 

Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were ; — 

ii. 

Too old for youth — too young, at thirty-five, 

To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore — 

I wonder people should be left alive ; 

But, since they are, that epoch is a bore : 

Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive ; 
And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er ; 

And money, that must pure imagination, 

Gleams only through the dawn of its creation. 

in. 

Oh gold ! why call we misers miserable ? 

Theirs is tin- pleasure that can never pall; 
Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain cable 

Which holds fast other pleasures great and small. 
Ye who but see the saving man at table, 

And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, 
And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, 
Know not what visions spring from each cheese- paring. 

IV. 

Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker ; 

Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss; 
But making money, slowly first, then quicker, 

And adding still a little through each cross 
(Which wiU come over things,) beats love or liquor, 

The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross. 
Oh gold '. I still prefer thee unto paper, 
Which makes bank credit like a bank of vapour. 

v. 
Who hold the balance of the world ? Who reign 

O'er Congress, whether royalist or liberal? 
Who ro ise the shirtless patriots of Spain [all ?) 

'That make old Europe's journals squeak and gibber 
Who keep tlit- world both old and new, in pain 

Or pleasure 7 Who make po'itics run glibber all ? 
The shade of Bnnaparte's n.hle daring? — 
Jew Rothschild, and his fellow, Christian Baring. 

VI. 

Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, 

Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan 

Is not a merely speculative hit, 

But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 

Republics also get involved a bit ; 

Colombia's stock hath holders not unknown 

On 'Change ; and even thy silver soil, Peru, 

Must ge* ifelf discounted by a Jew. 



Why call the miser miserable? as 

I said before : the frugal life is his, 
Which in a saint or cynic ever was 

The theme of praise : a hermit would not miss 
Canonization for the self-same cause, 

And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities? 
Because, you Ml say, naught calls for such a trial ;— 
Then there ] s more merit in his self-denial. 



He is your only poet ; — passion, pure 

And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays 

Possessed, the ore, of which mere hopes allure 
Nations athwart the deep : the golden rays 

Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure; 
On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze ; 

While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dyes 

Of other stones, to sooth the miser's eyes. 

IX. 

The lands on either side are his : the ship 
From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads 

For him the fragrant produce of each trip ; 
Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, 

And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip; 
His very cellars might be kings' abodes; 

While he, despising every sensual call, 

Commands — die intellectual lord of all. 

x. 

Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 

To build a college, or to found a race, 
A hospital, a church, — and leave behind 

Some dome surmounted by his meagre face: 
Perhaps he fain would liberate -mankind 

Even with the very ore which makes them base; 
Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation, 
Or revel in the joys of calculation. 

XI. 

But whether all, or each, or none of these 
IVlay be the hoarder's principle of action, 

The fool will call such mania a disease:— 

What is his own? Go — look at each transaction, 

Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men more ease 
Than the mere plodding thro' each " vulgar fraction V 

Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser! 

Let spcndihrifi's heirs inquire of yours — who 's wiser? 

XII. 

How beauteous are rouleaus ! how charming chests 

Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 
(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests 

Weigh not the thin ore where their vis^ye shines, 
But) of tine unclipp'd gold, where dully rests 

Some likeness which the glittering cirque confines, 
Of modern, /eigning, sterling, stupid stamp:— 
Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 

XIII. 

" Love rules the camp, the court, the grove," — " f>rlov© 
Is heaven, and heaven is love :" — so sings the bard ; 

Which it were rather difficult to prove, 
(A thing with poetry in general hard.) 

Perhaps there may be something in " the grove," 
At least it rhymes to " love ;" but I *ni prepared 

To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) 

If" courts'* and " camps" be quite so sentimental. 

xiv. 

But if love don't, cash does, and cash alone: 
Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides: 

Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none , 
Without cash. Malthus tells you — " take no brides." 

So cash rules love the ruler, on his own 

High ground, as Virgin Cynthia swavs the tides ; 

And, as for " heaven" being " love," why not say honey 

Is wax ? Heaven is not love, V is matrimouy. 



583 



DON JUAN. 



Cabto XII. 



Is not all love prohibited whatever, 

Excepting marriage? which is lovo, no doubt, 
Afif-r a sort ; but somehow people never 

Witfa the same thought the two words have help'd out ; 
Love may exist unth marriage, and should ever, 

And marriage also may exist without, 
But love sans bans is both a sin and shame, 
And ought to go by quite another name. 

XVI. 

Now if the " court" and " camp" and " grove" be not 
Recruited all with constant married men, 

Who never coveted th<ir neighbour's lot, 
I say that line 's a lapsus of the pen ; — 

Strange too in my " buon camerado" Scott, 
So celebrated for his morals, when 

My Jeffrey held him up as an example 

To me ; — of which these morals are a sample. 

xvrr. 

Wdl, if I do n't succeed, I have succeeded. 
And that *s enough; succeeded in my youth, 

The only lime when much success is needed: 
And my success produced what I in sooth 

Cared most about ; it need not now be pleaded — 
Whatever it was, 't was mine ; I *ve paid, in truth, 

Of late, the penalty of such success, 

But have not learn'd to wish it any less. 

XVIII. 

That suit in Chancery, — which some persons plead 

In an appeal to the unborn, whom they, 
In the faith of their procreative creed, 

Baptize posterity, or future clav, — 
To mc seems but a dubious kind of reed 

To lean on fur support in any way ; 
Since odds are that posterity will know 
No more of them, than they of her, I trow. 

XIX. 

Why, I *m posterity — and so arc you ; 

And whom do we remember ? Not a hundred. 
Were every memory written down all true, 

The tenth or twentieth name would be but blundcr'd: 
Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few, 

And 'gainst those few your annalists have thunder'd ; 
And Mitford, in the nineteenth century, 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. 1 

xx 

Good people all, of every degree, 

Ye gentle readers an I ungentle writers, 
In this twelfth canto 't is my wish to be 

As serious as if I had for inditers 
Malthus ami Wilherforce: the last set free 

The negroes, and is worth a million fighters ; 
While Wellington has but enslaved the whites, 
And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes. 

XXI. 

I *m serious — so are all men upon paper: 
And why should I not form my speculation, 

And hold up to the sun my little taper? 

Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation 

On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour; 
While sages write against all procreation, 

Unless a man can calculate his means 

Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. 

XXII. 

That *s noble ! that 's romantic ! For my pari, 

I think that " philo-genitiveness" is — 
(Now here 's a word quite after my own heart, 

Though there 's a shurter a good deal than this 
If that politeness set it not apart ; 

But I 'rn resolved to say naught that 's amiss)— 
I say. methinks that " phili^cmtiveiiess" 
Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. 



XXIII. 

And now to business. Oh, my gentle Juan ! 

Thou art in London — in that pleasant place 
Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing, 

Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 
'T is true, that thy career is not a new one ; 

Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
Of early life ; but this is a new land, 
Which foreigners can never understand. 

XXIV. 

What with a small diversity of climate, 

Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, 
I could send forth my mandate like a primate, 

Upon the rest of Europe's social state ; 
But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at, 

Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate: 
All countries have their " lions," but in thee 
There is but one superb menagerie. 

XXV. 

But I am sick of politics. Begin, 

" Paulo majora." Juan, undecided 
Among the paths of being " taken in," 

Above the ice had like a skaiter glided: 
When tired of play, he flirted without sin 

With some of those fair creatures who have prided 
Themselves on innocent tantalization, 
And hate all vice except its reputation. 

XXVI. 

But these are few, and in the end they make 
Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 

That even the purest people may mistake 

Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows; 

And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 
To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows 

Quicksilver small-talk, ending (if you note it) [it ?' 

With the kind world's amen — " Who wouldbave thoughl 

XXVII. 

The little T.eila, with her orient eyes 

And taciturn Asiatic disposition, 
(Which saw all western things with small surprise, 

To the surprise of people uf condition, 
Who think that novelties are butterflies 

To be pursued as food fur inanition,) 
Her charming 5gure and romantic history, 
Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 

XXVIII. 

The women much divided — as is usuaj 

Among the sex in little things or great. 
Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all— 

I have always liked you better than I state, 
Since I 've grown moral : still I must accuse you all 

Of being apt to talk at a great rate ; 
And now there was a general sensation 
Among you, about Leila's education. 

xxrx. 

In one point only were you settled — and 

You had reason ; 't was that a young child of grace, 
As beautiful as her own native hind, 

And far away, the last bud of her race, 
Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command 

Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space, 
Would be much better taught beneath the eye 
Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. 

XXX. 

So first there was a generous emulation, 
And then there was a general competition 

To undertake the orphan's education. 
As Juan was a persuu of condition, 

It bad been an affront on this occasion 
To talk of a subscription or petition t 

But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed sh«* sages 

Whose tale belongs to " Hallam's Middle Ages 






Caxto XII. 



DON JUAN. 



689 



XXXI. 

And one or two sad, separate wives, without 
A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough— 

Begg'd to bring up the little girl, and " out"— 
For that 's the phrase that settles all tilings now, 

Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, 

And all her points as thorough-bred to show: 

And I assure you, that like virgin honey 

Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money.) 

XXXII. 

How all the needy honourable misters, 

Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, 

The watchful mothers and the careful sisters, 
0\ ho, by the by, when clever, are more handy 

At making matches, where " 't is gold that glisters," 
Than their he relatives.) like flies o'er candy, 

Buzz round " the Fortune" with their busy battery 

To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery! 

XXXIII. 

Earh aunt, each cousin hath her speculation ; 

Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 

I 've known them court an heiress for their lover. 
11 Tantim* !" Such the virtues of high station, 

Even in the hopeful isle, whose outlet 's "Dover!" 
"While (he poor rich wretch, object of these cares, 
Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 

XXXIV. 

Some are soon bagg'd, but some reject three dozen. 

T is fine to see them scattering refusals 
And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin, 

(Friends of the party,) who begin accusals 
Such as — " Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen 

Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 
To his billets ? JVhy waltz with him ? Why, I pray, 
Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day ? 

XXXV. 

" Why ?— WTiy ?— Besides, Fred, really was attach' d ; 

*T was not her fortune — he has enough without: 
The time will come she '11 wish that she had snatch'd 

So good an opportunity, no doubt: — 
But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd, 

As I 'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout: 
And after all poor Frederick may do better- 
Pray, did you see her answer to his letter?" 

XXXVI. 

Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 

Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 

After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
Upon the sweep-stakes for substantial wives: 

And when at least the pretty creature gets 
Some gentleman who fights, or writes, or drives, 

It sooths the awkward squad of the rejected 

To find how very badly she selected. 

XXXVII. 

For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, 

Worn out with importunity ; or fall 
But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 

To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 
A huzy widower turn'd of forty 's sure 2 

(If 't is not vain examples to recall) 
To draw a high prize: now, howe'erhe got her, I 
St,e naught more strange in this than t' other lottery. 

XXXVIII. 

I, for my part — (one " modem instance" more,) 

II True, 't is a pity — pity 't is, 't is true" — 
Was chosen from out an amatory score, 

Albeit my years were less discreet than few ; 
But though I also had reform'd before 

Those became one who soon w-ere to be two, 
I 'U not gainsay the generous public's voice— 
Tliat the young lady made a monstrous choice. 



XXXIX. 

Oh, pardon me digression — or at least 
Peruse ! 'T is always with a moral end 

That I dissert, like grace before a feast : 
For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, 

A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest, 

My Muse by exhortation means to mend 

All people, at all times, and in most places, 

Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. 

XL. 

But now I 'm going to be immoral ; now 
I mean to show things really as they are, 

Not as they ought to be : for I avow, 

That till we see what 's what in fact, we 're far 

From much improvement with that virtuous plough 
Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar 

Upon the black loam long manured by Viee, 

Only to keep its corn at the old price. 

XLI. 

But first of little Leila we '11 dispose ; 

For, like a dav-dawn, she was young and pure, 
Or like the old comparison of snows 

Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure, 
Like many people every body knows : 

Don Juan was delighted to secure 
A goodly guardian for his infant charge, 
Who might not profit much by being at large. 

XLII. 

Besides, he had found out he was no tutor, 
(I wish that others would find out the same:) 

And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, 
For silly wards will bring their guardians blame: 

So, when he saw each ancient dame a suitor, 
To make his little wild Asiatic tame, 

Consulting the " Society for Vice 

Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 

XLIII. 

Olden she was — but had been very young: 
Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe t 

Although the world has such an evil tongue 
That — but mv chaster ear will not receive 

An echo of a syllable that 's wrong : 

In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much grieva 

As that abominable tittle-tattle, 

Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 

XLIV. 

Moreover I 've remark'd, (and I was once 

A slight observer in a modest way,) 
And so may every one except a dunce, 

That ladies in their youth a little gay, 
Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense 

Of the sad consequence of going astray, 
Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the wo 
Which the mere passionless can never know. 

XLT. 

While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue 
By railing at the unknown and envied passion, 

Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you. 

Or what 's still worse, to put you out of fashion,— 

The kinder veteran with calm words will court you, 
Entreating you to pause before you dash on; 

Expounding and illustrating the riddle 

Cf epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 

XLVI. 

Now, whether it be thus, or that they are stricter, 
As better knowing why they should be so, 

I think you 'II find from many a family picture, 
That daughters of such mothers as may know 

The world by experience rather than by lecture, 
Turn out much better for the Smithfield show 

Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, 

Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. 



690 



DON JUAN. 



Cahto XH. 



XI. VII. 

1 said that Lady Pinehheek had been talkM about— 
As who has not, if female, young, and pretty? 

But now no more the ghost of scandal sialk'd about; 
She merely was deem'd amiable and witty, 

And several of her best ti >ii-;n .is were hawk'd about; 
Then she was given to charity and pity, 

And pass*d (at leasl the latter years of life) 

Fur being a moat exemplary wife. 

xlviii. 
High in high circles gentle in her own, 

She was the mill reprover of the young, 
Whenever — which means every day — they 'd shown 

An awkward inclina'ion to go wrong. 
The quantity of good she did 's unknown, 

Or, al the least, would lengthen out my song: — 
In brief, the little orphan of the east 
Had raised an interest in her which increased. 

xi.ix. 

Juan too was a surf of favourite with her, 

Because she thought hirn a good heart at bottom, 

A little spoil'd, but not so altogether ; 

Which was a wonder, if you think who got him, 

And how he hail been toss'd. be scarce knew whither: 
Though this might ruin others, it did not him, 

At least entirely — for he had seen too many 

Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. 

i.. 
And rhese vicissitudes tell best in youth; 

For when they happen at a riper age, 
People are apt to blame the fates, forsooth, 

And wonder Providence is not more sage. 
Adversity is the first pa'h to truth : 

H-- who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, 
Whether Ins winters be eighteen or eighty, 
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty. 

i.i. 
How far it profits is another matter,— 

Our hero gladly saw his little charge 
Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter 

Being long married, and thus set at lar^e, 
Had lefi all the accomplishments she taught her 

To bo transmitted, like the lord mayor's barge, 
To the next coiner ; or — as it will t*dl 
More muse-like — say like Cytherea's shell. 

1. 1 1. 

I call such things transmission; for there is 

A Moating balance of accomplishment 
Which forma a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 

According as their minds or backs are bent. 
Some waltz; some draw ; some fathom the abyss 

Of metaphysics ; others are content 
With music; the most moderate shine as wits, 
While others have a genius turn'd for fits. 

L M I . 

Bu' whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 

Theology, fine arts, or finer stays, 
Mav he the baits for gentlemen or lords 

With regular descent, in these our days 
The last year to the new transfers its hoards; 

New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise 
Of "elegant," et cetera, in fresh batches — 
All matchless creatures, ani yet bent on matches. 

LIV. 

Cut now I will begin my poem. *T is 
Perhaps a little s'range, if not quite new, 

That from the first of cantos up to this 

I 've not begun what we have to go through. 

These first twelve books are merely flourishes, 
Preludios, trying just a string or two 

Upon mv lyre, or making the pegs sure ; 

And when so, you shall have the overture. 



My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 

About what 's call'd success, or not succeeding: 

Such thoughts are quite below the strain they 've chosen 
'T is a " great moral lesson " they are reading. 

I thought, at setting off about two dozen 
Cantos would do; but, at Apollo's pleading, 

If thai my Pegasus should not be founder'd, 

1 think to canter gently through a hundred. 

LVI. 

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, 
Yclept the great world ; for it is the least, 

Although the highest: but as swords have hilts 
By which their power of mischief is increased, 

When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, 

Thus the low world, north south, or west, or east, 

Must still obey the high — which is their handle, 

Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle* 

LVII. 

He had many friends who had many wives, and wis 
Well look'd upon by both, to that extent 

Of friendship which you may accept or pass ; 
It does tior good nor harm, being merely meant 

To keep the wheels going of the higher class, 

And draw them nightly when a ticket's sent: 
And what with masquerades, and fPtes, and balls, 
For the first season such a life scarce palls. 

LVIII. 

A young unmarried man, with a good name 
And fortune, has an awkward part to play ; 

For good society is but a game, 

11 The royal game of goose," as I may say, 

Where every body has some separa'e aim, 
An end to answer, or a plan to lav— 

The single ladies wishing to be double, 

The married ones to save the virgins trouble. 

LIX. 

I don't mean this as general, but particular 
Examples may be found of such pursuits: 

Though several also keep their perpendicular 
Like poplars, with good principles for roots; 

Vet many have a method more reticular— 
" Fishers for men," like sirens with soft lutes; 

For talk six times with the same single lady, 

And you may get the wedding-dresses ready. 

LX. 

Perhaps you 'II have a letter from the mother, 

To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd ; 
Perhaps you 'II have a visit from the brother, 

All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand 
What " your intentions are?" — One way or other 

It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand ; 
And between pity for her case and yours, 
You'll add to matrimony's list of cures. 

r.xi. 
I 've known a dozen weddings made even thus, 

And some of ihem high names: I have also known 
Young men who — though thev hated to discuss 

Pretensions which they never dream'd to have shown— 
Yet neither frigh'en'd by a female fuss. 

Nor hv mustachios moved, were let alone, 
And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair, 
In happier plight than if they form'd a pair. 

LSII. 

There's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
A peril — not indeed like love or marriage, 

But not the less for this to be depreciated: 
It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 

The show of virtue even in the vitiated — 

It adds an outward grace unto their carriage — 

But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot. 

" Couleur de rose," who's neither white nor scarlet. 



Casto XII. 



DON JUAN. 



591 



LXIII. 

Such is your old coquette, who can't say '* No," 
And won't say " Yes," and keeps you on and ofl"-ing, 

On a lee shore, till it begins to blow — 

Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing ; 

This works a world of sentimental wo, 

And sends new Wertcrs yearly to their coffin; 

But yet is merely innocent flirtation, 

Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 

LXIV. 

" Ye gods, I grow a talker !" Let us prate. 

The next of perils, though I place it sternest, 
la when, without regard to " Church or State," 

A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 

(Such, early traveller! is the truth thou (earnest) — 
Bui in old England when a young bride errs, 
Poor thing ! Eve's was a trilling case to hers ; 

LXV. 

For 't is a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 
Country, where a young couple of the same ages 

Can'l form a friendship but the world o'er-awes it. 

Then there 's the vulgar trick of those d — d damages! 

A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it! — 
Forms a sad climax to romantic homages ; 

Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, 

And evidences which regale all readers! 

LXVI. 

But they who blunder thus are raw beginners ; 

A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners, 

The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy ; 
You may see such at all the balls and dinners, 

Among the proudest of our aristocracy, 
So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste— 
And all by having tact as well as taste. 

LXVII. 

Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 
Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more ; 

For he was sick — no, 't was not the word sick I meant — 
But he had seen so much good love before, 

That he was not in heart so very weak ; — I meant 
But thus much, and no sneer against the shore 

Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings, 

Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings. 

Lxrur. 

But coming young from lands and scenes romantic, 
Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for passion, 

And passion's. self must have a spice of frantic, 
Into a country where 't is half a fashion, 

Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 
Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation; 

Besides (alas! his taste — forgive and pity!) 

At first he did not think the women pretty. 

LXIX. 

I say atjh-xt — for he found out at last, 

But by degrees, that thev were fairer far 
Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 

Beneath the influence of the eastern star— 
A further proof we should not judge in haste ; 

Yet inexperience could not be his bar 
To taste: — the truth is, if men would confess, 
That novelties please less than they impress. 

LXX. 

Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to 
Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger, 

To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo, 
Where geography finds no one to oblige her 

With such a chart as may be safely stuck to — 
For Europe ploughs in Afric like " bos piger:" 

But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there 

No doubt I should be told that black is fair. 



LXX I. 

It is. I will not swear that black is white ; 

But 1 suspect in fact that white is black, 
And the whole matter rests upon eyesight. 

Ask a blind man, the best judge. You *11 attack 
Perhaps this new position — but I 'm right ; 

Or if I 'm wrong, I '11 not be taVn aback : — 
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
Within; and what see'st thou? A dubious spark. 

LXXII. 

But I 'm relapsing into metaphysics, 

That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 

Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics, 
Those bright moths fluttering round a dying fl?me ' 

And this reflection brings me to plain physics, 
And to the beauties of a foreign dame, 

Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, 

Those Polar summers, all sun, and some ice. 

LXXIII. 

Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose 
Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes; — ■ 

Not that there 's not a quantity of those 

Who have a due respect for their own wishes, 

Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows 3 
Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious: 

They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, 

As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 

LXXIY. 

But this has naught to do with their outsides. 

I said that Juan did not think them pretty 
At the first blush ; for a fair Briton hides 

Half her attractions — probably from pity— 
And -rather calmly into the heart glides, 

Than storms it as a foe would take a city ; 
But once there (if you doubt this, pridiee try) 
She keeps it for you like a true ally. 

LXXV. 

She cannot step as does an Arab barb, 
Or AnJalusian girl from mass returning, 

Nor wear as gracefuly as Gauls her garb, 
Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning ; 

Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb- 
le those, bravuras (which I still am learning 

To like, though I have heen seven years in Italy, 

And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily ;> 

LXXVT. 

She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
Others, in that orT-hand and dashing style 

Which takes so much — to give the devil his due ; 
Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, 

Nor settles all things in one interview, 

(A thing approved as saving time and toil ;)— 

But though the soil mav give vou time and trouble, 

Well cultivated, it will render double. 

lxxvii. 

And if in fact she takes to a " grande passion," 

It is a very serious thing indeed ; 
Nine times in ten 't is but caprice or fashion, 

Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead, 
The pride of a mere child with a new sash on, 

Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed ; 
But the tenth instance will be a tornado, 
For there 's no saying what they will or may do. 

Lxxvnr. 

The reason *s obvious: if ihere 's an eclat, 

They lose their caste at once, as do tin- Parias, 

And when the delicacies of the law 

Have fill'd their papers with their comments various, 

Society, that china without flaw, 

(The hypocrite!) will banish them like Marius, 

To sit amid the ruins of their guilt : 

For Fame 's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 



i>92 



DON JUAN. 



Canto XIII. 



LXXIX. 

Perhaps this is as it should be ; — it is 
A comment on the Gospel's " Sin no more, 

And be thy sins forgiven :" — but upon this 
I leave (he saints to settle their own score. 

Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, 
An erring woman finds an open door 

For her return to virtue — as they call 

The lady who should be at home to all. 

I.XXX. 

For me, I leave the matter where I find it, 

Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 
People some ten times less in fact to mind it, 

And care but for discoveries and not deeds. 
And as for cliastity, you'll never bind it 

By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, 
But aggravate the crime you have not prevented, 
By rendering desperate those who had else repented. 

lxxxi. 

But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponderM 

Upon the moral lessons of mankind : 
Besides, he had not seen, of several hundred, 

A lady altogether to his mind. 
A little " blase" — 't is not to be wonder'd 

At, that his heart had got a tougher rind : 
And though not vainer from his past success, 
No doubt his sensibilities were less. 

X.XXXII. 

He also had been busy seeing sights— 

The parliament and all the other houses ; 
Had sate beneath the galleries at nights, 

To hear debates whose thunder refused (not rouses) 
The world to gaze upon those northern lights 4 

Which rlash'd as far as where the musk-bull browses ! 
He had also stood at times behind the throne- 
But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. 

LXXXIII. 

He saw, however, at the dosing session, 

That noble sight, when really free the nation, 

A king in constitutional possession 

Of such a throne as is the proudest station, 

Though despots know it not — till the progression 
Of freedom shall complete their education. 

T is not mere splendour makes the show august 

To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 

LXXXIV. 

There too he saw (whate'er he may be now) 
A prince, the prince of princes, at the time 

With fascination in his very bow, 
And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 

Though royalty was written on his brow, 

He had then the grace too, rare in every clime, 

Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 

A finish'd gentleman from top to toe. 

LXXXT. 

And Juan was received, as hath been said, 

Into the best society : and there 
Occurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid, 

However disciplined and debomiajre : 
The talent and good humour he displayed, 

Besides the tnark'd distinction of his air, 
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, 
Even though himself avoided the occasion. 

LXXXVt. 

But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why, 

Is not to be put hastily together ; 
And as my object is morality, 

i Whatever people say,) I don't know whether 
I \. leave a single reader's eyelid dry, 

But harrow up his feelings till they wither, 
And hew out a huge monument of pathos, 
As I hilip's son proposed to do with Attics. ' 



LXXXVU. 

Here the twelfth canto of our introduction 
Ends. When the body of the book 's begun, 

You'll find it of a different construction 

From what some people say 't will be when done: 

The plan at present 's simply in concoction. 
I can't oblige you, reader! to read on; 

That 's your affair, not mine; a real spirit 

Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear 

LXXXVIII. 

And if my thunderbolt n<>i always rattles, 
Remember, reader! you have had he f>ro 

The worst ..f tempests and the beat of battles 
That e'er were brew'd from elements of gore, 

Besides the most sublime of — Heaven knows what else 
An usurer could scarce expect much more— 

But mv best canto, save one on astronomy, 

Will turn upon " political economy.' 1 

Lxxxrx. 

Thtit is vour present theme for popularity : 
Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake, 

Tt grows an act of patriotic charity, 

To show the people the best way to break. 

My plan (but [, if but for singularity, 
Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 

Meantime read all the national debt-sinkers, 

And tell me what you think of your great thinkers. 



CANTO XIII. 



I now mean to be serious ; — it is time, 

Since laughter now-a-days is dcem'd loo serious. 

A jest at vice by virtue 's rall'd a crime, 
And critically held as deleterious : 

Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime, 
Although when long a little apt to weary uS( 

And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, 

As an old temple dwindled to a column. 

11. 
The Lady Adeline Amundeville 

('T is an old Norman name, and to be found 
In pedigrees by those who wander still 

Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
Was high-born, wealthy by her fathers (I ill. 

And beauteous, even where beauties most abound, 
In Britain — which of course true patriots find 
The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 

in. 
I Ml not gainsay (hem ; it is not my cue: 

I leave them to their tastr. no doubt the best: 
An eye 's an eye, and whether black or blue, 

Is no great matter so 't is in request : 
'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue — 

The kindest may be taken as a test. 
The fair srx should !»•• always fair ; and no man, 
Till thirty, should pereeive there 's a plain woman. 

IV. 

And after that serene and somewhat dull 
Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days 

More quiet, when our moon 's no more at full, 
We may presume to critieise or praise ; 

Because indifference begins to lull 

Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways; 

Also because the fi»ure and the face 

Hint, that 't ii time to give the younger place. 



C»*TO XIII. 



DON JUAN. 



69S 



I know that some would fain postpone this era, 

Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
Their post; but theirs is merely a chimera, 

For they have passM life's equinoctial line ; 
But then they have their claret and madeira 

To irrigate the dryness of decline; 
And county meetings ami the Parliament, 
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 

vr. 
And is there not religion and reform, 

Peace, war, the taxes, and what 's callM the " nation ?" 
The struggle to be pilots in a storm ? 

The landed and the moneyed speculation? 
The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, 

Instead of love, that mere hallucination? 
Now hatred is by tar the longest pleasure ; 
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 

VII. 

Rmiuh Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, 
Riglu honestly, " he liked an honest hater" — ' 

The only truth that yet has been confess'd 
Within these latest thousand years or later. 

Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest ; — 
For my part, I am but a mere spectator, 

And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 

Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles ; 

vnu 

But neilher love nor hate in much excess ; 

Though 't was not once so. If I sneer sometimes, 
It is because I cannot well do less, 

And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
I should be very willing to redress 

Men's wrongs, and rather cheek than punish crimes, 
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
Of Q,uixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 

IX. 

Of all tales, 't is the saddest — and more sad, 
Because it makes us smile ; his hero's right, 

And still pursues the right ; — to curb the bad, 
His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight, 

His guerdon: 'tis his virtue makes him mad! 
But his adventures f >rm a sorry sioht ; — 

A sorrier still is the great moral taught 

By that real epic unto all who have thought. 

x. 
Redressing injury, revenging wrong, 

To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; 
Opposing singly the united strong, 

From foreign yoke to free the helpless native;— 
Alas! must noblest views, like an old song, 

Be for mere fancy's sport a thing creative? 
A jest, a riddle, fame through thin and thick sought? 
And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Q,uixote ? 

XI. 

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; 

A single laugh demolished the right arm 
Of his own country ; — seldom since that day 

Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm, 
The world gave ground before her bright arrav ; 

And therefore have his volumes done such harm, 
That ail their glory as« c^nposition 
Was dearly purchased by bis land's perdition. 

rn. 
I'm " at my old Limes"- digression, and forget 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville; 
The fair most fatal Juan ever met, 

Although she was not evil nor meant ill ; 
But Destiny and Passion spread the net, 

(Fate is a good excuse for our own will,) 
And caught them ; what do they not catch, methinks ? 
But I 'in not CEdipus, and life 'i a sphinx. 
3 Z 



XIII. 

I tel! ihe tale as it is told, nor dare 

To venture a solution: " Davus sum!" 
And now I will proceed upon the pair. 

Sweet Adeline, amid the gav world's hum, 
Was the queen bee, the glass of all that 's fair ; 

Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb. 
The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, 
And since that time there has not been a second 

XIV. 

Chaste was she to detraction's desperation, 

And wedded unto one she had loved well — 
A man known in the councils of the nation, 

Cool, and quite English, imperturbable, 
Though apt to art with fire upon occasion, 

Proud of himself and her ; the world could teH 
Naught against either, and both seem'd secure- 
She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 

xv. 
It chanced some diplomatic^ relations, 

Arising out of business, often brought 
Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 

Into close contact. Though reserved, nor cauglri 
By specious seeming. Juan's youth, and patience, 

And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, 
And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends 
In making men what courtesy calls friends. 

XVI. 

And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 

Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow 

In judging men — when once his judgment was 
Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, 

Had all the pertinacity pride has, 

Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, 

And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 

Because its own good pleasure hath decided. 

XVII, 

His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions, 
Though oft well founded, which confirm 1 d but more 

His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 

And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went before. 

His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians, 
Of common likings, which make some deplore 

Whai they should lauyh at — the mere ague still 

Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 

XVIII. 

" 'T is not in mortals to command success; 

But do you more, Sempronius — don't deserve it-** 
And take my word, you won't have any less: 

Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it ; 
Give gently way, where there 's too great a press ; 

And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it,— 
For, like a racer or a boxer training, 
'T will malic, if proved, vast efforts without paining. 

XIX. 

Lord Henry also liked to be superior, 

As most men do, the little or the great; 
The very lowest find out an inferior, 

At least they think so, to exert their state 
Upon : for there are very few things wearier 

Than solitary pride's oppressive weight, 
Which mortals generously would divide, 
By bidding others carry while they ride. 

xx. 

In birth in rank, in fortune likewise equal, 
O'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 

In years he had the advantage of time's sequel ; 
And, as he thought, in country much the same — 

Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill, 
At which all modern nations vainly aim ; 

And the Lord Henry was a great debater, 

So that few members kept die House up latet 



594 



DON JUAN. 



Cakto xrn. 



These were advantages: and then he thought — 
It was his foible, but by no means sinister — 

That few or none more than himself had caught 
Court mysteries, having been himself a minister : 

He liked to teach that which he had been taught, 
And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir ; 

And reconciled all qualities which grace man, 

Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 

XXII. 

He liked the gentle Spaniard f >r his gravity ; 

He almost hanour'd him for hia docility, 
Because, though young, lie acquiesced with suavity, 

Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
He knew the world, and would not see depravity 

In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility, 
If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop, — 
For then they are very difficult to stop. 

x-xur. 

And then he talk 'd with him about Madrid, 
Constantinople, and such distant places ; 

Where people always did as they were bid, 

Or did what they should not with foreign graces. 

Of courses also spake they: Henry rid 

Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races: 

And Juan, like a trueborn Andalusian, 

Could back ahorse, as despots ride a Russian. 

XXIV. 

And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 

And diplomatic dinners, or at other— 
For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 

As in Freemasonry a higher brother* 
Upon his talent Henry had no doubts, 

His manner show'd him sprung from a high mother ; 
And all men like to show their hospitality 
To him whose breeding marches with his quality. 

XXV. 

At Blank-Blank Square ; — for we will break no squares 
By naming streets : since men are so censorious, 

And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares, 
Reaping allusions private and inglorious, 

Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs, 
Which were, or are, or are to be notorious, 

That therefore do I previously declare, 

Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square. 

XXVI. 

Also there bin 2 another pious reason 

For making squares and streets anonymous; 

Which is, that there is scarce a single season 
Which doih not shake some very splendid house 

With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason— 
A topic scandal doth delight to rouse : 

Such I might stumble over unawares, 

Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 

XXVII. 

'T is true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
A place where peccadilloes are unknown : 

But I havo motives, whether wise or silly, 
For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 

Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I 
Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, 

A vestal shrine of innocence of heart : 

Such are — but I have lost the London chart. 

xxvni. 
At Henry's mansion then in Blank-Blank Square, 

Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest, 
As many other noble scions were ; 

And some who had but talent for their crest ; 
Or wealth, which is a passport everywhere; 

Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's tho K st 
Recommendation, and to be wcUdrcR»M 
Will very often kupeftrae the rest. 



XXIX. 

And since " there 's safety in a multitude 
Of counsellors," as Solomon has laid, 

Or some one for him, in some sage grave mood:— 
Indeed we see the daily proof display'd 

In senates, at the bar. in wordy feud, 
Where'er ectivi wisdom can parade, 

Which is the only cau?e thai we can guess 

Of Britain's present wealth and happiness;— 

XXX. 

But as " there 's safrtv grafted in the number 

Of counsellors" for men. — thus for the 801 

A large acquaintance lets not virtue slumber 5 
Or, should H shake, the choice will m.**-* perplex — 

V.'u iety itself will m ire sneuniber. 
'.Mid many rotks we gfuard n •■ B jainst wrec-ks; 

And thus with win 1 irt 1 • how roe'er 1' - ' » ■ ►■ ■ W nomera 

Self-love, there's safety in a crowd of coxcombs. 

XXXI. 

But Ad* line had DOl I ! lion 

Forsueha shield, which leaves but little merit 
To virtue proper] or jmwkI education. 

Her chief resource was in her own hi Mi spirit 

Which judged mankind at then due estimation; 

And (or coquetry, shodisdain'd to wear it : 
Secure of admiration, its impression 
Was faint, as of an everyday possession. 

XXXII. 

To all she was polite without parade ; 

To some she sh'iu'd attention of that kind 
Which Hatters, hut is flattery eonvey'd 

In such a :;oit as cannot leave behind 
A trace unworthy either wit"- or maid ; — 

A gentle genial courtesy of mind, 
1 ■ ■ se who were, or pass'd lor, meritorious, 
Just to console sad glory for being glorious : 

XXXMI. 

Which is in all respects, save now and 'hen, 
A dull and desolate appendage. I hr 

Upon the shades of those distuiguish'd men 
Who were or are the puppetghoWs of praise, 

The praise of persecution. t»aze again 
On the niost favour'd ; and, amid the blaze 

Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow 'd, 

What can ye recognise ? — A gilded cloud. 

XXXI v. 

There also was of course in Adeline 

That calm patrician polish in the address, 

Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line 
Of any tinny which nature would express : 

Just as a Mandarin finds nothing tine, — 
At least his manner sutlers not to guess 

That any thing he views can greafly please. 

Perhaps we have borrow \1 this from the Chinese— 

Perhaps from Horace: his " JTO a'/mrt>uri" 
Was what lie call'd the " Art of Huppiness;' 

An art on which the artists greatly vary, 

And have not vet atlain'd to much success. 

However, 'l is expedient to be wary : 

Indifference cartes do n't produce distress; 

And rash enthusiasm in good society 
Were nothing but a mural inebriety. 

XXXVI. 

But Adeline was not indifferent : for, 

(Now for a commonplace!) beneath the snow, 

As a volcano holds (he lava moro 

WiUiin — etcetera. Shall I goon? — No! 

I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor: 
So let the often-used volcano go. 

Pbor.thing! how frequent!-', by me and others, 

Ithaih been stirr'd u;i, till its smoke qltftfl smoih&rs! 






Casio XIII. 



DON JUAN. 



595 



XXXVII. 

I Ml bare another figure in a trice: 

What say you lo a bottle of champagne ? 

Frozen into a very vinous ice, 

"Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain, 

Yet in the very centre, past all price, 
About a liquid glassful will remain; 

An;l this is stronger than the strongest crape 

Could e'er express in its expanded shape : 

XXXVIII. 

'T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence; 

Anil thus the chilliest aspects may concentre 
A hidden nectar under a cold presence] 

And such are many — though I only meant her 
From wlmm I now deduce these moral lessons, 

On which the Muse has aiwavs sought to enter;— 
And your cold people are beyond all price, 
When once you *ve broken their confounded ice. 

X\XIX. 

But afier all they are a North- West passage 

Unto the glowing India of the soul; 
And as the good ships sent upon that message 

Have not exactly ascertained (lie Pole, 
(Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage,) 

Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal ; 
Fur if the Pole 's not open, but all frost, 
(A chance still,) *t is a voyage or vessel lost. 

XL. 

And young beginners may as well commence 
With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman; 

While those who 're not beginners, should have sense 
Enough to make for port, ere Time shall summon 

With his gray signal-flag ; and the past tense, 
The dreary "fuiiniis" of all things human, 

Must be declined, whilst life's thin thread 's spun out 

Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 

XLI. 

But heaven must he diverted: its diversion 
Is sometimes truculent — but never mind : 

The world upon the whole is worth the assertion 
(If but for comfort) that all things are kind; 

And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, 
Of the two principles, but leaves behind 

As many doubts as any other doctrine 

Has ever puzzled faith withal, or yoked her in. 

ran. 

The English winter — ending in July 

To recommence in August — now was done. 

yT is the postilion's paradise: wheels Hy ; 

On roads cast, south, north, west, there is a run. 

Bui tor posthorses who finds sympathy? 
Man's pity 's fur himself or for his snn, 

always premising that said son at collego 

Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge. 

rant. 

The London winter's ended in July — 

Sometimes a little later. I do n't err 
In litis: whatever other blunders lie 

Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 
My Muse a glass of weatherology, 

For Parliament is our barometer ; 
Let Radicals its other acts attack, 
Its sessions form our only almanac. 

XLIV. 

When its quicksilver's down at zero, — lo! 

Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage! 
Wheels whirl from Carlton Palace to Soho, 

And happiest they who horses can engage ; 
The turnpikes glow with dust, and Rotten Row 

Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age; 
And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces, 
Sigh, qs the postboys fasten on the traces. 



xi. v. 
They and their bills, " Arcadians both," 3 are left 

To the Greek kalends of another session. 
Alas ! to them of ready cash bereft, 

What hope remains? Of hope the full possession 
Or generous draft, conceded as a gift, 

At a long date — till they can get a fresh one, — 
Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large ;— 
Also the solace of an overcharge. 

xi, VI. 

But these are trifles. Downward flies mvLord, 
Nodding beside my Lady in his carriage. 

Away! away! " Fresh horses!" are the word, 
And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage, 

The obsequious landlord hath the change restored ; 
The postboys have no reason to disparage 

Their fee; but, ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence, 

The ostler pleads for a small reminiscence. 

ram. 

'T is granted ; and the valet mounts the dickey— 
That gentleman of lords and gentlemen ; 

Also mv Lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 

Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen 

Can paint, " Cost viagzino i ricchi .'" 

( Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, 

If but to show I 've traveled ; and what 's travel, 

Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?) 

xlviii. 

The London winter and the country summer 
Were well nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity, 

When Nature wears the gown that doth become her 
To lose those best months in a sweaty city, 

And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 
Listening dchates not very wise or witty, 

Ere patriots their true country can remember;— 

But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September 

XLIX. 

I 've done with my tirade. The world was gone ; 

The twice two thousand for whom earth was mado 
Were vanish'd to be what they call alone,— 

That is, with thirty servants for parade, 
As many guests or more; before whom groan 

As many covers, duly, daily, laid. 
Let none accuse old England's hospitality- 
Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 

I.. 

Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline 

Departed, like the rest of their compeers, 

The peerage, to a mansion very fine; 
The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 

None than themselves could boast a longer line, 

Where time through heroes and through beauties steers, 

And oaks, as olden as their pedigree, 

Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 

LI. 

A paragraph in every paper told 

Of their departure: such is modem fame : 

'T is pity that it takes no further hold 

Than an advertisement, or much the same ; 

When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. 
The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim— 

" Departure, for his country-seat to-day, 

Lord H. Arnundeville and Lady A. 

i,i i. 

We understand the splendid host intends 

To entertain, this autumn, a select 
And numerous party of his noble friends; 

'Mid whom, we have heard from sources quite correc* 
The Duke of D the shooting season spends 

With many more by rank and fashion deck'd 
AI>o a foreigner of high condition, 
The envoy of the secret Russian mission " 



696 



DON JUAN. 



c.tKTo xur. 



And thus we see— who doubts the Morning Post? 

(Whose articles are like the " thirty-nine," 
"Which those most swear to who believe them most)— 

Our gay Kuss Spaniard mi ordain'd to ehine, 
Decfc'd by the rays reflected from his host, 

With thcee who, Pope says, " greatly daring dine." 
'T is mid, Lut true. — last war, the news abounded 
More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded. — 

I. IV. 

A3 thus: " On Thursday there was a grand dinner ; 

Present, lords A. B. C" — Earls, dukes, by name 
Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner: 

Then underneath, ami in the very same 
Colf'im: " Dale, Falmouth. There has latelv been here 

The slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame; 
Whose loss in the la'e action we regret: 
The vacancies are hll'd up — see Gazette." 

i.v. 
To Norman Abbey whirl 'd the noble pair, 

An old, old monastery once, and now 
Still older mansion, of a rich and rare 

IVIix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 
Few specimens yet lefl us can compare 

Withal : it lies perhaps a little low, 
Because the monks preferrM a hill behind, 
To shelter their devotion from the wind. 

1. VI. 
It stood emltosoni'd in a happv valley, 

Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak 
Stood like Caractacus in act to rally 

His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder-stroke ; 
And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 

The dappled foresters — as day awoke, 
The branching slag swept down with all his herd, 
To quaff a brook which muriuur'd like a bird. 

lvii. 

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 

By a river, which its sofien'd way did take 
In currents through the calmer water spread 

Around : the wild fowl nestled in the brake 
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: 

The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 

With their green faces lix'd upon the Hood. 

lvii 1. 
Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, 

Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding 
Its shriller echoes — like an infant made 

Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 
Into a rivulet; and, thus allay'd, 

Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding 
Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, 
According as the skies their shadows threw. 

L1X. 

A glorious remnant o( the Gothic pile 

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart 
In a grand arch, which once screen'd manv an aisle. 

These last had disappeared — a loss to an : 
The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil, 

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, 
"Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, 
In gazing on that venerable arch. 

LX. 

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone: 
Birt Uiese had fallen, not when the friars fell, 

But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, 
When each house was a fortalice — as tell 

The annals of full many a line undone,— 
The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
Fur those who knew not to resign or reign. 



But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, 
The Virgin Mother f >f the God-born child, 

"With her sou in her bless'd arms, look'd round, 

Spared bv some chance when all beside was spoil'd . 

Bhe made the i-arih beton seem holy ground. 
This mav be superstition, weak or wild, 

Rut even the faintest relics of a shrine 

Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 

LXII. 

A mighty window, hollow in the centre, 

Shorn ol its glass of thousand colouringSj 
Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, 

Streaming from off the sun lifct seraph's wings, 
Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now lainter, 

The gal-' sweeps through its fretwork, and ofl sings 
The owl hi anthem, where the Bilenced noire 
Lie with their hallelujahs quencVd like fire. 

LXin. 
But in the noontide of thi moon, and when 

The wind is winged from one point of b 
There rfloans a strange unearthly sound, which then 

Is musical — a dying accent driven 
Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. 

Some deem it but the distant echo given 
Back to the night-wind bv the waterfall, 
And harmonized by the old choral wall: 

L xiv. 

Others, that some original shape or form. 

Shaped by decay perchance, halh given the power 
(Though leas than that of Memnon's statue, warm 

In Egypt's rays, to harp at a HVd hour) 
To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm. 

Sad, hut serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower: 
The cause I know not, nor can sr Ive; but such 
The fact : — I \e heard it, — once perhaps too much. 

LXV. 

Amid the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 

Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — 

Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, 
And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : 

The spring rush",! through grim mouths, of granite made, 
.And sparkled into basins, where it spent 

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles. 

Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 

i.v VI. 

The mansion's self was v;isi and venerable, 

With more uf the monastic than lias been 

Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters -nil were stable, 

The cells too and refectory, I ween: 
An exquisite small chapel had been able. 

Still uniuipair'd, to decorate the s< ene : 
The rest had been refbrm'd, replaced, or sunk. 
And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 

LXVII. 

Huge halls, long galleries. Bpacioua chambers, join'd 

By no quite lawful marriage of the 
Might shock a connoisseur ; but, when combined, 

Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, 
Tel left ,1 grand impression "ti the mind. 

At least of those whose eves are iii their hearts. 
We gaze upon a "iaiit for his stature, 
Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 

1 win. 
Steel barons, molten the next generation 

To silken rows of gav and garter'd earls, 
Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation; 

And Lady Marvs, blooming into girls, 
With fair long locks, had also kept their station; 

And countesses mature in robes and pearls: 
Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 
Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely : 






Canto XI II. 



DON JUAN. 



597 



LXIT. 

Judges, in very formidable ermine. 

Were there, with brows that did not much invite 
The accused to think their lordships would determine 

His cause bv leaning much from might to right: 
Bishops, who had not lefl a single sermon ; 

Attorneys- general, awful to the sight, 
A^ hinting more (unless our judgments warp us} 
Of the "Star Chamber" than of'* Habeas Corpus.' 

LXX. 

Generals, some all in armour, of the old 

And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead ; 

Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
linger than twelve of our degenerate breed : 

Lprdlings, with staves of white or kevs of gold: 

Nimrods, whose canvass scarce eon'ain'd the steed ; 

And here and there some stern high patriot stood, 

Who could not get the place tor which he sued. 

LXXI. 

But, ever and anon, to sooth your vision, 
Fatigued with these hereditary fflories, 

There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 
Or wilder group of savage Sa'vatore's : * 

II rr danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone 
In Vernet'a ocean lights ; and there the stories 

Of martyrs awed as Spagnoletto tainted 

His brush with pII the blood of all the sainted. 

LXXXX. 
Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 

There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light, 
Or gloomv Caravaggio'a gloomier stain 

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite:— 
But lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, 

Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight: 
His bell-mouthM goblet makes me feel quite Danish s 
Or Dutch with thirst— What ho ! a flask of Rhenish. 

Lxxiir. 
Oh. reader! if that thou canst read. — and know 

'T is not enough to spell, or even to read, 
To constitute a reader; there must go 

V rues of which both you and I have need. 
Firstly, begin with the beginning, (though 

That clause is hard.) and secondly, proceed; 
Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, sinning 
In this sort, end at least with the beginning. 

LXXIV. 

But. reader, thou hast patient been of late, 
While I, without remorse of rhvme, or fear, 

Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 
Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. 

That poets were so from th*-ir earliest date, 
Bv Homer's \* Ca'alogue "f S'lins" is clear; 

Bjt a mere modem must be moderate — 

I spare you, then, the furniture and plate. 

LXXV. 

The mellow autumn came, and with it came 
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 

The corn is cut, the manor full of same; 

The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 

In russet jacket : — lynx-like is his aim. 

Full grows his bag. and wonder/ulhis feats. 

Ah. nut-brown partridges ! ah. brilliant pheasants! 

And ah, ye poachers! 't is no sport for peasaats. 

I. XXVI. 

An English autumn, though it ha'h no vines, 
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 

The paths, o'er which the fair festoon entwines 
The red grape in the sunny lands of SODg, 

Hath vet a purchased choice of choicest wines; 
The claret light, and the madeira strong. 

If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, 

The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 



Lxxrri. 

Then if she hath not that serene decline 

Which makes the southern autumn's day appear 

A=; if 'twould to a second spring resign 

The season rather than to winter drear,— 

Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine,— 
The seacoal fires, the earliest of the year ; 

Without doors too she mav compete in mellow, 

As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 

LXX VIII. 

And f«r the effeminate rilU^^iatum — 

Rife with more horns than hounds — she hath the chase 
So animated that it might allure a 

Saint from his heads to join the jocund race ; 
Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura, s 

And wear the Melton jacket for a space: — 
If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 
Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 

LXXIX. 

The nohle guests, assembled at the Abbey, 
Consisted of — we give the sex the pas — 

The Duchess of Fiiz-Fulke ; the ^ountessCrabbey ; 
The Ladies, Scilly, Busev ; Miss Edit, 

Miss Botnhazeen. Miss Mackstav, Miss O'Tabby, 
And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw : 

Also the Honourable Mrs. Sleep, 

Who look'd a while lamb, yet was a black sheep. 

LXXI. 

With other Confesses of Blank — but rank ; 

At once the " lie" and the "elite" of crowds; 
Who pass like water filter'd in a tank, 

All purged and pious from their native clouds 
Or paper turn'd to monev bv the Bank : 

No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 
The " passee" and the past ; for good society 
Is no less famed for tolerance than piety : 

LXXXI. 

That is, up to a c?rtain point ; which point 
Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 

Appearances appear to form the joint 
On which it hinges in a higher station ; 

And so that no explosion cry " aroint 

Thee, witch !" or each Medea has her Jason 

Or, (to the point with Horace and with Pulci.) 

" Omne tulit punrtum, qua? mitciiit utile ditleiS 9 

Lxxxir. 
I can't exactly trace their rule of right, 

Which hath a little leaning to a lottery ; 
I've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 

By the mere combination of a coterie: 
Also a so-so matron boldly fight 

Her way hack to the world by dint of plottery, 
And shine the very Siria of the spheres, 
Escaping with a few slight scarless sneers. 

LXXXIII. 

I 've seen more than I 'II sav : — but we will see 

How our vUUgeiatuTa will get on. 
The party might consist of thirty-three 

Of highest caste — the Bramins of the ton. 
f 've named a few, not foremost in degree, 

But ta'en at hazard as the rhvme may run. 
By way of sprinkling, scatter'd among these, 
There also were some Irish absentees. 

LXXXIV. 

There was Parolles, too. the lejal btillv, 

Who limits all his battles to the bar 
And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly, 

He shows more appetite for words than war. 
There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly 

Come out and glimmer'd as a six-weeks' star. 
There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great free thinker; 
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. 



S9S 



DON JUAN. 



Caicto xnr. 



LXXXV. 

There was the Duke of Dxsh, who was a — duke, 
" Ay, every inch a" duke ; there were twelve peers 

Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in look 
And intellect, iliat neither eyes nor ears 

For commoners had ever them mistook. 

There were the six Miss Rawbotds — pretty dears! 

All song and sentiment ; whose heart* were set 

Less on a convent than a coronet. 

LXXXV I. 

There were four Honourable Misters, whose 
Honour was mure before their names than after; 

There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, 
Whom France and fortune lately deign'd to waft here, 

Whose chiefly harmless taleni was to amuse; 
B it the Clubs found it rather serious laughter, 

Because — such was lus magic power to please,— 

Tlie dice secnYd charm'd too h ilh his repartees. 

i. xxxvn. 

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, 
"Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; 

Angle, the soi-disant mathematician; 
Sir Henry Silver-cup, the great race-winner; 

There was the Reverend Rodoinoni Precisian ; 
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; 

And Lord Augustus Fitz-PIantagenet, 

Good at all things, but better at abet. 

I.XXXVIII. 

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman ; 

And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
A great tactician, and no loss a swordsman, 

Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd. 
There was the waggish Welsh Judge, lotteries Hardsman. 

In his grave office so completely skill'd, 
That when a culprit came for condemnation, 
He had his judge's joke for consolation. 

LXXXIX. 

GikkI company 's a chess-board — there are kings, 

Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns ; the world 's a 

Save that the puppets pull at their own strings; [game; 
Me thinks gay Punch hath something of the same. 

JVIy Muse, the butterfly, hath but her wings, 
Not stings, anil flits through ether without aim, 

Alighting rarely : were she hut a hornet, 

Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. 

xc. 

1 had forgotten — but must not forget— 

A u orator, the latest of the session, 
Who had delivered well a very set 

Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression 
Upon debate: the papers echoed yet 

With this debut, which made a strong impression, 
And rank'd with what is every day display'd — 
" The best first speech that ever yet was made." 

XCI. 

Proud of his " Hear hims!" proud too of his vote, 

And lost virginity of oratory, 
Proud of his learning, (just enough to quote,) 

He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory: 
With memory excellent to net by rote, 

With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, 
Graced with some merit and with more effrontery, 
" His country's pride," he came down to the country. 

xcn. 
There also were two wits bv acclamation. 

Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, 
Both lawyers, and both men of education ; 

Rut Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed: 
Longbow was rich in an imagination 

As beautiful and hound ins as a steed, 
But sometimes stumbling over a potato, — [Oato. 

Wnile Strongbow's best things might have come from 



xnn. 
iW was like a Dew-tuned harpsichord; 
But Longbow wild as an ,'Eolian harp, 
\\ ilh which the winds of heaven can claim accord, 
And make a music, whether Hal 01 

ongbow'a talk vou would not change a «ord; 
At I.' ■■ isesyou might sometimes carp" 

Roth wits — on-- born so, and the other bred, 
This by his hearl — his rival by his head. 

Xi [V. 

If all these seem a h> mass, 

To be assembled at a country-seat, 
Yei iliink a specimen of every class 

Is better than a humdrum tfite-a-tfcte. 
The dayt ofcnmi alas ! 

Wh m fool could vie with MolieWs Ut* 

Snci ■ ■■ is smoothed to thai i tcess, 
I'hut manners hardly differ more than dress. 

\ I v . 
Our ridicules are kept in the back ground, 

Ridiculous enough, but also dull : 
Professions too are no more to be found 

Professional; and there is naught to cull 
Of folly's fruit ; for though vour fools abound, 

They 're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. 
Society is now one polish'd horde, 
Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. 

xr VI. 
But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 

The scanty but right well thresh'd ears of truth ; 
And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning, 
You may be B'>;iz, and I — modest Ruth. 

Further I \1 quote, bUl Scripture, intervening, 

Forbids. A great impression in my youth 

Was made by Mrs Adams, where she cries 

( * That scriptures out of church are blasphemies."* 

XI VII. 
But when we can, we glean in this vile age 

Of chad', although our gleanings be not grist. 
I must not quite omit the talking sa^c, 

Kit-Cat, the famous conversationist, 
Who, in his commonplace 1 k had a paL** 

Prepared each mom for evenings. (l List, oh list !"- ■ 
" Alas, poor ghost I" — What unexpected woes 
Await those who have studied their bons-inoLs! 

ZCVXII. 

Firstly, they must allure the conversation 

By many windings to iheir > 
And secondly, most let slip no occasion, 

Nor We (abate) their hearers of an inch, 
But take an ell — and make a great sensation, 

If possible; and thirdly, never flinch 
When some smart talker puis ihem to the testj 
But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best, 

ZCIX. 
Lord Henrv and his lady were the hosts; 

The party we have touch'd on wen: the guests: 
Tln-ir table was a board to tempt even ghosts 

To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. 
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, 

Albeit all human history atti 
That happiness for man — the hungry sinner!— 
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. 

c. 
Witness the lands which " Bow'd with milk and honey,*' 

Held out unto the hungry Israelites : 
To this we Ye added since the love of money, 

The only soil of pleasure which requites. 

Youth fules. and leaves our days no longer sunny; 

We tire of mistresses and parasites: 
But oh, ambrosial cash ! ah ! who would lose thee? 
When we nu more can use, or even abuse thee ! 






Can io XIV. 



DON JDAN. 



699 



The genuemen go* up betimes to shoot, 

Or hunt ; the young because they liked the sport- 

The first tiling boys like after play and fruit : 
The middle-aged, to make the day more short ; 

For ennui is a growth of English root, 

Though nameless in our language ; we retort 

The fact fur words, and let the French translate 

That awful \ awn which sleep cannot abate. 

L II. 

The elderly walk'd through the lihrary, 

And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, 

Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously, 

And made upon the hothouse several strictures, 

Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, 

Or on the morning papers read their lectures, 

Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 

Lunging, at sixty, for the hour of six. 

CHI. 

But none were " gene :" the great hour of union 
Was rung by dinner's knell ; till then all were 

Masters of their own time — or in communion, 
Or solitary, as they chose to bear 

The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. 
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 

What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast 

Where, when, and how he chose for that repast. 

civ. 

The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale- 
Met the morn as tfaey might. If tine, they rode, 

Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale ; 
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad ; 

Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail; 
And settled bonnets by the newest code ; 

Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter, 

To make each correspondent a new debtor. 

cv. 

For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 

The eanh has nothing like a she epistle, 
And hardly heaven — because it never ends. 

I love the mystery of a female missal, 
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, 

But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, 
When he allured poor Dulou: — you had better 
Take care what you reply to such a lette:. 

cvi. 
Then there were billiards ; cards too, but no dice ; 

Save in the Clubs no man of honour plays; — 
Boats when 't was water, skaiting when 'twas ice, 

And the hard frosts destroy M the scenting days : 
And angling too, that solitary vice, 

Whatever Isaac Walton sings or says: 
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. 8 

cm. 

With evening came the banquet and the wine ; 

The conversazione ; the duet, 
Attuned by voices more or less divine, 

(My heart or head aches with the memory yet.) 
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine ; 

But the two youngest loved more to be set 
Down to the harp — because to music's charms 
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. 

CVIII. 

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, 
For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 

Display 'd some sylph-like figures in its maze ; 
Then there was small-talk ready when required ; 

Flirtation — but decorous ; the mere praise 

Of charms that should <»r should not be admired ; 

The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, 

And then retreated soberly — at ten. 



cix. 

The politicians, in a nook apart, 

Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres ; 
The wits watch'd every loop-hole for their art, 

To introduce a bon-mot head and ears; 
Small is the rest of those who would be smart — 

A moment's good thing may have cost them years 
Before they find an hour to introduce it, 
And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it 

ex. 

But all was gentle and aristocralic 

In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and eold, 

As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic, 
There now are no Squire Westerns, as of oldf 

And our Sophias are not so emphatic 
But fair as then, or fairer to behold. 

We 've no accomplish^ blackguards, like Tom Jones, 

But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 

cxi. 

They separated at an early hour; 

That is, ere midnight — which is London's noon : 
But in the country, ladies seek their bower 

A little earlier than the waning moon. 
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 

May the rose call back its true colours soon ! 
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, 
And lower the price of rouge— at least some winters* 



CANTO XIV. 



If from great Nature's, or our own abyss 
Of thought, wc could but snatch a certainty, 

Perhaps mankind might find die path they miss— 
But then 't would spoil much good philosophy. 

One system eats another up, and this 
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 

For when his pious consort gave him stones 

In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 

ii. 

But system doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, 
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 

Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, 
After due search, your faith to any question ? 

Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 

You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one 

Nothing more true than not to trust your senses' 

And yet what are your other evidences? 

m. 
For me, I know naught ; nothing I deny, 

Admit, reject, contemn ; and what know you, 
Except perhaps that you were born to die ? 

And both may after all turn out untrue. 
An age may come, font of eternity, 

When nothing shall be either old or new. 
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, 
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 

IV. 

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 
Of toil, is what we covet most ; and yet 

How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay ! 
The very suicide that pays his di ht 

At once without instalments (an old way 
Of paying debts, which crediton regret) 

Lets out impatiently his rush ins brealhj 

Less fiom disgust of life than dread of death. 



600 



DON JUAN- 



Canto XIV. 



T is round him, near him, here, there, every where ; 

And there *s a courage which "rows out of fear, 
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 

The worst to know it: — when the mountains rear 
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and thero 

You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a minute 
Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 

VI. 

1 T is true, you don't — but, pale and struck with terror, 
Retire: but look into your past impression! 

And you will find, though shuddering al the mirror 
Of your own thoughts, in all their BelfiCOnjession, 

The lurking bias, be it truth or error, 
To the unknown; a secret prepossession. 

To plunge with all your fears— but where ? You know not, 

And that 's the reason why you do — or do not 

VII. 

But what *s this to the purpose? you will say, 
Gent, reader, nothing; a more speculation, 

For which Hiv sole excuse is — 't is my way. 

Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion, 

I write what 's uppermost without delay ; 
This narrative is not meant lor narration, 

But a mere airy and fantastic basis, 

To build up common things with commonplaces. 

VIII. 

You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 

"Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows;" 

And such a straw, borne on by human breath, 
Is poesy, according as the mind glows ; 

A paper kite which Hies 'twixt life and death, 
A shadow which the onward soul behind throws 

And mine 's a bubble not blown up (or praise, 

But just to play with, as an infant plays. 

IX. 

The world is all before me — or behind ; 

For I havo seen a portion of that same, 
And quite enough for me to keep in mind ; — 

Of passions, too, I 've proved enough to blame, 
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, 

Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame : 
For I was rather famous in my time, 
Unlil I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. 

x. 

I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 
Thw other: that 's to say, the clergy — who 

Upon my head have bid their thunders break 
In pious libels by no means a few, 

And yet I cant help scribbling once a week, 
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 

In youth I wrote because my mind was full, 

And now because I feel it growing dull. 

XI. 

But " why then publish ?" — There are no rewards 
Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary. 

I a-k in turn, — why do you play at cards? 

Why drink? Why read? — To make some hour less 

It occupies rne to turn back regards [dreary. 

On what I 've seen or ponder'd sad or cheery ; 

And what I write 1 east upon the stream, 

To swim or sink — I have had at least my dream. 

XII. 

I ttunk that were I certain of success, 

I hardlv could coui[>ose another line: 
So long I *ve battled either more or less, 

That no defeat ran drive me from the Nine. 
This feeling 't is not easy to express. 

And yet 't is not affected, I opine. 
In play, there are two pleasures f .r your choosing — 
The on« U winning, and the other losing. 



Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction ; 

She gather* a repertory of I 
1 M course with some reserve and slight restriction, 

Bul mostly sings of human things and acts — 
And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction , 

For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts ; 
And were her object only what 's call'd glory, 
With more ease too, she'd tell a different story. 

XIV. 

Love, war, a tempesl — surely there 's variety ; 

Also a seasoning slight of lucubration ; 
A bird's-eye view too of that wild, Society ; 

A slight glance thrown on men of every station. 
If you have naught else, here 'a at leas) satiety 

Bo tli in performance and in preparation; 
And though these lines should only line portmanteaus* 
Trade will be all the better lor these cantos. 

xv. 

The porii m of 'Ins world which I at present 
Have taken up !■> till the following sermon, 

(s one of whi< li there *s no description recent . 
The reason why is easy to determ 

Although it serins both prominent and pleasant, 
There is a Bameni ss in its gems and ermine, 

A dull and family likeness through all ages, 

Of no great promise for poetic pages. 

xn. 

With much to excite, there 's little to exalt , 
Nothing that speaks to all men and all times ; 

A sort of varnish over every fault; 

A kind of commonplace, even in their crimes; 

Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 
A want of that true nature which sublimes 

Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth monotony 

Of character, in those at least who have got any. 

x v 1 1 . 
Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers offp 

They break their ranks and gladly leav the drill ■ 
But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, 

And they must be or seem what they were: still 
Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ; 

But when of the first sight you have had your fill, 

It palls — at leasi il did so upon me, 

This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 

XVI II, 

When we have made our love, and earned our gaming, 
I hressM, voted, shone, and, may be, something more : 

With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming ; 
Seen beauties brought to market by the sore; 

Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming ; 
There 's little lefi but to he !> ired or bore. 

Witness those " ci-devant fetuut honunes* 1 whosiem 

The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. 

XIX. 

'T is said — indeed a general complaint — 
That no one has succeeded in describing 

The monde exactly as they ought to paint. 
Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing 

The porter, some slight s< andals strange and quaint, 
To furnish matter for their moral j 

And thai their hooks have hut one style in Common— 
My lady's prattle, lilter'd through her woman. 

XX. 

But this can't well he true, jusl now ; f >r writers 
Are grown of the beau monde a part potential: 

I 've seen them balance even the seale with lighters, 
Especially when young, for that 's essential. 

Why do their sketches fail them as indilers 

Of, what they deem themselves most consequential, 
The real portrait of the highest iribe? 
'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe. 



Casto XIV. 



DON JUAN. 



601 



" Hand ignara hquor .*" these are nugte, w quorum 
Pats parva/wt," but still art and part. 

Now I could much more easily sketch a haram, 
A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, 

Than these things ; and besides, I wish to spare 'em 
For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 

H Velabo Cereris sacrum, qui vulgarity 1 

Which means, that vulgar people must not share it. 

XXII. 

And therefore what I throw off is ideal — 

Lower'd, leavenM like a history of Freemasons; 

Which bears the same relation to the real, 

As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 

The grand Arcanum 's not for men to see all ; 
My music has some mystic diapasons ; / 

And there is much which could not be appreciated 

In any manner by the uninitiated. 

XXIII. 

Alas ! worlds fall — and woman, since she fell'd 
The world, (as, since that history, less polite 

Than true, halh been a creed so strictly held,) 
lias not yet given up the practice quite. 

Pour tiling of usages! coerced, compell'd, 

Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 

Condemn'd to child- bed, as men for their sins, 

Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins,— 

XXIV. 

A daily plague, which, in the aggregate, 
May average on the whole with parturition. 

But as to women, who can penetrate 

The real sufferings of their she condition? 

Man's very sympathy with their estate 

Has much of selfishness and more suspicion. 

Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, 

But furm good housekeepers to breed a nation. 

XXV. 

All this were very well, and can't be better ; 

But even this is difficult, Heaven knows! 
So many troubles from her birth beset her, 

Such small distinction bet%veen friends and foes, 
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter, 

That buj ask any woman if she 'd choose 

(Take her at thirty, that is) to have been 
Female or male ? a school-boy or a queen? 

XXVI. 

w Petticoat influence" is a great reproach, 

Which even those who obey would fain be thought 

To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach \ 

But, since beneath it upon earth we are^brought 

Bv various joltings of life's hackney-coach, 
I for one venerate a petticoat — 

A garment of a mystical sublimity, 

No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 

XXVII. 

Much I respect, and much I have adored, 

In mv young days, that chaste and goodly veil, 

Which holds a treasure like a miser's hoard, 
And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 

A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 
A loving letter with a mystic seal, 

A cure for grief — for what can ever rankle 

Before a petticoat and peeping ancle? 

XXVIII. 

And when upon a silent, sullen day, 

With a Sirocco, for example, blowing, — 

When even the sea looks dim with all its spray, 
And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing, 

And the sky shows that very ancient gray, 
The sober sad antithesis to glowing, — 

'T is pleasant, if then any tiling is pleasant, 

To catch a dimpse even of a pretty peasant. 
4 A 



XXIX. 

We left our heroes and our heroines 

In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, 
Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, 

Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, 
Because the sun and stars, and aught that shines, 

Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, 
Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun — 
Whether a sky's or tradesman's, is all one. 

XXX. 

And in-door life is less poetical; 

And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, 

With which I could not brew a pastoral. 
But be it as it may, a bard must meet 

All difficulties, whether great or small, 
To spoil his undertaking or complete, 

And work away like spirit upon matter, 

ISmbarrafis'd somewhat both with fire and water. 
xxxr. 

Juan — in this respect at least like saints- 
Was all things unto people of all sorts, 

And lived contentedly, without complaints, 
In camps, in ship, in cottages, or courts — 

Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, 
And mingling modestly in toils or sports. 

He likewise could be most things to all women, 

Without the coxcombry of certain she men. 

XXXII. 

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange; 

'T is also subject to the double danger 
Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 

Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger , 
But Juan had been early taught to range 

The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, 
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, 
Knew that he had a rider on his back. 

XXXIII. 

And now in this new field, with some applause, 
He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, 

And never craned, l and made but few il faux pas" 
And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 

He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws 
Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail ; 

Rode o'er the bounds, it may be. now and then, 

And once o'er several country gentlemen. 

XXXIV. 

But, on the whole, to general admiration 

He acquitted both himself and horse; the squires 

Marvell'd at merit of another nation: [Sires, 

The boors cried "Dang it! who'd have thought it?"— 

The Nestors of the sporting generation, 
Swore praises, and recalled their former fires; 

The huntsman's self relented to a grin, 

And rated him almost a whipper-in. • 

XXXV. 

Such were his trophies;— not of spear and shield, 

But leaps, and bursts, and sqme r irnes foxes' brushes 
Yet I must own,— -although in this I yield 

To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, — 
He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 

Who, after a long chase o'er bills, dales, bushes, 
And what not, though he rode beyond all price, 
Ask'd, next day, " if men eser hunted ftciee?" 

xxx VI. 
He also had a quality uncommon 

To early risers after a long chase, 
Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon 

December's drowsy day to his dull race,— 
A quality agreeable to woman, 

When her soft liquid words run on apace, 
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner, — 
He did not fall asleep just after dinner. 



602 



DON JUAN. 



\ IWTO XI V. 



XXXVII. 

But, light and airy, stood on the alert, 
And shone in the best part of dialogue, 

By humouring always what ihey might assert, 
And listening to the topics most in vogue; 

Now grave, now gay, but never dull or perl ; 
And smiling but in secret — cunning rogui 

He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer ; 

In short, there never was a better hearer. 

XXXVIII. 

And then he danced; — all foreigner-, 

The serious Angles in the eloquence 
Of Pantomime; — he danced, I say, riyht well, ■ 

With emphasis, and also with good sense — 
A thing in footing indispensable: 

He danced without theatrical pretence, 
Not like a ballet-master in the van 
Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. 

XXXIX. 

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, 
And elrgance was sprinkled o'er hi> lii'ure ; 

Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground, 
And rather held in than put forth his vigour ; 

Ami then he had an ear for music's sound, 
Which 'night defy a crochet-critics rigour. 

Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero, 

He glanced like a personified bolero; 

XL. 

Or, like a flying hour before Aurora, 

In Guido's famous fresco, which alone 
Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 

Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. 
The u tout ensemble" of his movements wore a 

Grace of the sofl ideal, Beldom shown, 
And ne'er to he described ; for, to the dolour 
Ot bards and prosers, words are void of colour. 

XLI. 

No marvel then he was- a favourite ; 

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired; 
A little spoil'd, but by no means «) quite ; 

At least he kept his vanitv retired. 
Such was his tact, he couU alike delight 

The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. 
The Duchess of FitZ-Fulke, who loved " trOOUaCrie* 
Began to treat him with some small " agacerie" 

nil, 
She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, 

Desirable, distmgirish'd, celebrated 
For several winters in the grand, grand mnnde. 

I *d rather not say what might be related 
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 

Besides there might be falsehood in what 's stated 
Her late performance had been a dead ;>ot 
At Lord Augustus*Fiiz-Plantagcnct. 

XLIII. 

This noble personage began to look 

A little black upon this new flirtation; 
Bui such small licensi l>rook, 

Men- freedoms of the fern-Ale corporation. 
Wo to the man who ventures a rebuke! 

'T will but precipitate a situation 
Extremely disagreeable, but common 
To calculators, when they count on woman. 

Xl.IV. 

The circle smiled, then whisperM, ami then sneer d ; 

The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd ; 
Some hoped things might not turn Out as they f-ar'd ; 

Some would not deem such women could he found ; 
Some ne'er believed one-half of what they heard; 

Some look'd perplexM, and others look'd profound; 
And several pitied with sincere regret 
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 



But. w hat is odd, none ever named the duke, 

Who. one might think, was something in the affair. 
True, he was absent, and *t was rumourd, took 

But small concern, about ihfl when, or w 
Or what his consort did : if he could brook 
none had b i ight to stare : 
best of unions, past all doubt, 
i ' fore can't fall out. 

XLVI. 

But, oh that I should ever pet I a line! 

I ii ed with an absti 
My Dian of the Ephe 

l : .1 
i: lingm had chosen so bad a lino, 

And wsji 

rut's fra -'ili'y, 
For which most friend! I 

XL VII, 

it in this bad v athjr. 

'T is so becoming l 
Sets tosoft rousi 

A n I i ■': i ndship in a Bt > isi Is lace. 

il ;i h ii ad, what were humanity, 
Tn hunt our errors up with b 
i 'onsoling us « ith — ' tw ice. 

Ah! if you had but follow'd i 

XL VIII. 

Oh, Job! yon had ' - Dough, 

Especially b In n w oai 
They 're but bad pilots wh '■■ ' 'a rough, 

Doctor 3 less fa n >us for their 
Let no man grumble « hen I 

As they will di 
When your affairs come roui ■ o 

Go to the coffei -hous< in 

\i i -.. 
Bui litis is not iny maxim : had it b 

Some heart-ai I me; yet T ear. not—* 

I would N"t be a tortoise in his si n en 

. hell, which waves and weather wear not 
'T is better on the whole to have fell and seen 

That which humanity may bear, i 
"!' will Ii Bttivo, 

And not to pour (heir oceai leve, 

L. 

« if all the horrid] hi leous notes of wo, 

Sadder than < , 

!.■■ thai portentous pi rase,' I 

fJttei y by (Vicnda i 1 i prophets of the p»at, 

Who, 'stead of saying whal yo 

( iwn they lore aw thai 

And solace youi sligh l "tare*" 

With a long memorandi m & 

1.1. 

The Lady Adeline's bi 

Was not confined to feeling for her friend, 
Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, 

Unless her habits should be«in to mend; 
Bui .it.. i i -i ity, 

Boi mix'd will «m f o: 

lli- ii. > rperience mm i I 
And (as her junior by six weeks) lus> yuulu. 

LIT. 

These forty days' advantage f her years— 

And hers were those whit m face calculauoBi 

Boldly referring to the list ot 

Arid noble births, not dn i he i numeration — 

Gave her a righl to have ma " ,:i l fears 

For a young gentleman 1 dut ati in, 

Though she utufar from ll Bap-year, whose leap. 

In female dates, strikes tin. atl of a hoop. 



Canto XIV. 



DON JUAN. 



603 



This may be fix'J at somewhere before thirty — 
Say seven-and-twenty ; for I never knew 

The strictest in chronology and virtue 
Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. 

Oh, time ! why dost not pause ! Thy scythe, so dirty 
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. 

Reset it ; shave more smo rthly, also slower, 

If but to keep thy credit a.s a mower. 

LIV. 

Bur Adeline was far from that ripe age, 

ripeness is bul bitter at the best: 
'T was rather her experience made her sage, 

Forshi fie world, and stood its test, 

As I have -ai i in — I forget what pages 

reference, as you have guessM 
V . lis time . but strike six from seven-and-twenty, 
And you will 6nd her sum of years in plenty. 

LV. 

| At sixteen she came out ; presented, vaunted, 
Sht put all coronets into commotion: 

. oo iiif world was still enchanted 
With 'is of their brilliant ocean : 

At eigh i below her feet still panted 

A ; ' scat iron of suit ws with devotion, 
She had consented to create again 
That Adain, cali'd " the happiest of men." 

LVI. 

Since i!ien she had sparkled through three glowing winters 

red, adored ! but also so correct, 
That she harl puzzled all the acutest hinters, 
Without the apparel of being circumspect; 

■ nol even glean theslightest splinters 
From olf the marble, which had no defect. 

ih'd a moment since her marriage 
... a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 

LVII. 

the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, 
Th ise little gHtterers of the Loudon night; 
But n in- of d a sting to wound her — 

She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight, 
i aps she wish'd an aspirant profounder; - 
But, v wish'd, she acted right; 

And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 
oen, so she's good, what does it signify * 

LVIII. 

I hate a motive like a lingering bottle, 

Which w iih the landlord makes too long a stand, 
1 .■ claretless die unmoisten'd throttle, 

ially with politics on hand ; 
f hate it, as I bate a drove of cattle, 

W ho whirl the dust as Simooms whirl die sand ; 
it, as I bate an argument, 
A laureate's ode, or servile peer's " content." 

LTX. 

"f is sa i to hack into the roots of things, 
They are so much intertwisted with the earth : 

roodly verdure flings, 
T feck not if an acorn gave it birth, 
i iil actions to their secret springs 

d some melancholy mirth: 
But this i i not at pn-sent my concern, 
And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. 3 

LX. 

With the kind view of saving an eclat, 

!'> ; i to the duchess and diplomatist, 
The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw 

That Juan was unlikely to resist— 
(For foreigners don't know that a faux pas 

In England ranks quite on a different list 
Fnnn those of other lands, unbleas'd with juries, 
Whoie verdict for such sin a certain cure is) — 



The Lady Adeline resolved to take 

Such measures as she thought might best impede 
The further progress of Uiis sad mistake. 

She thought with some simplicity indeed; 
But innocence is bold even at the stake, 

And simple in the world, and doth not need 
Nor use those palisades by dames erected, 
Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 

LJCXI. 

Tt was not Umt she fear'd the very worst : 
His grace was an enduring, married man, 

And was not likely all at once to burst 
Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 

Of Doctors' Commons ; but she dreaded first 
The magic of her grace's talisman, 

And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 

With Lord Augustus Fitz-PlantageneU 

lxiii. 
Her grace too pass'd for being an intrigante. 

And somewhat mechanic in her amorous sphere ; 
One of those prettv, precious plagues, which haunt 

A lover with caprices soft and dear, 
That like to make a quarrel, when they can't 

Find one, each day of the delightful year; 
Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, 
And — what is worst of all — won't let you go ; 

LXIV. 

The sort of thing to rum a young man's head. 
Or make a Werter of him in the end. 

No wonder then a purer soul should dread 
■ This sort of chaste liaison for a friend ; 

It were much better to be wed or dead, 
Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 

'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 

If that a " bonne fortune" be really " bonne" 

LXT. 

And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart, 

Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, 

She cali'd her husband now and then apart, 
And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile, 

Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile ; 

And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, 

In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 

LXVI. 

Firstly, he said, " he never interfered 
In any body's business but the king's:" 

Next, that "be never judged from what appear'd, 
Without strong reason, of those sorts of things r" 

Thirdly, that "Juan had more brain than beard, 
And was not to be held in leading-strings;" 

And fourthly, what need hardly to be said twice, 

" That good but rarely came from good advice." 

lxvh. 

And therefore, doubtless, to approve the truth 
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 

To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth, 
At least as far as bienstance allows : 

That time would temper Juan's faults of youth ; 
That young men rarely made monastic vows. 

That opposition only more attaches 

But here a messenger brought in despatches : 

LXVIII. 

And being of the council cali'd " the privy," 

Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet, 
To furnish matter for some future Livy 

To tell how he reduced the nation's debt ; 
And if their full contents I do not give ye, 

It is because I do not know them yet: 
But I shall add them in a brief appendix, 
To come between mine epic and its index. 



604 



DON IV AS. 



LXIX. 

but ere be went, he added a slight hint, 

Another gentle commonplace <>r two, 
Such as are coin'd i i .mit, 

And pass, for want of better, though not n «r: 
Then broke his packet, to see what was in 'l, 

And having casually glanced il through, 
Retired ; and, as he went out, calmly kTss'd her, 
Less like a young wife than an aged sister. 

I.W. 

He was a cold, goo I, honourable man, 

Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing ; 
A goodly spirit for a state divan, 

A figure fit to walk befon 
Tall, stately, form'd to lead t] .wan 

On birthdays, glorious with a star and siring; 
The very model of a chamberlain— 
And such I mean to make him when I I 

r. \\i. 
But (litre was something wanting ™ the wholi — 

I do n't know what, an I therefore cannot tell— 
Which pretty women— the sweel skills ! — call Joui 

Certes it was not body; he Was u , 11 
Proportion'd, as a poplar or a polo, 

A handsome man, thai human miracle; 
And in each circumstance of love or war, 
Had still preserved his perpendicular. 

LXXII. 

Still there was something wanting, as I 'vesaid 

Thai tindefinabre "-je ntsou y/oi," 

\\ hich, for what I know, may of yore bare led 

To Homer's 111, id. sinee (| drOW to Troy 

The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed; 

Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy 
Was much inferior to Kin:; Menelaiis ; — 
But thus it is some women "ill betray us. 

LXXIII. 

There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, 
Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 

By turns the difference of the several sexes : 
Neither can show quite '<««• they would be loved. 

The sensual lor a short time hut connects us — 
The sentimental l„,asls In b c unmoved ; 

But both together form a kind of centaur, 

Upon whose back 't is better not to venture. 

t.xxrv. 

A something all-sufficient for the hi art 
Is that for which the sex are always seeking; 

But how to till up that sane vacant part — 

There lies the rub — and Ihis they are but weak in. 

Frail mariners afloat without a chart, 

They run befire tie- wind through high seas Breaking: 

And when they have made the shore, through every shock 

'T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 

LXXV. 

There is a flower call'd •' love in idleness," 
For which see Shak -p. , ming garden- 

I will not make his great description less, 

And beg his British godship's humble pardon, 

If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 
I touch a single loaf where he is warden ; 

But though the Howe, is different, with the French 

Or Swiss Rousseau, cry, " voiiA In pcrvcncllc ."' 

I.XXVI. 

Eureka! I have found il! What I mean 

To say is, not that love is idleness. 
But that in love such idleness has been 

An accessory, as I have cause io guess. 
Hard labour 's an indifferent go-between; 

Your men of busi s are not apt to express 

Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, 
Convey'd Modea as her supercargo. 



Ci.xto XIV 



LXXVII. 

"BeattailUpmcul!" from " negotia," 

Sailh Horace; the "real li lie poet's wrong; 

II: olhi i maxim, " NbtcUur a uncus," 
I* in nil more to the purpose of his son»; 

Though even thai wera sometimes too ferocious, 
Unless good company he kept toolon»; 

But, in hi- teeth, whate'er their state or station, 

Thrice happy they who have an occupation! 

LXXV1II. 

Adam exchanged his paradise for ploughing; 

Eve made up millinery with fig-leaves — ° 
The earlie.t l.n >wledge from the tree so knowing, 

As far as I know, thai tie chliri h n ci ivi 9 : 
And iini e thai time, it need nol cosl much showing, 

Thai many ofthe ills o'er which man grieves, " 

A '"' snl1 "' ' SpVihg lion 1 employing 

Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. 

LXXIX. 

And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 

Asomethiii- wherewithal to be annoy'd. 

Hards may sing what they please about amlmt; 

Contatied, when translated, means but doy'd ; 
And hence arise the woes of sentiment, 

Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 

Reduced to practice, and pe^orm'd like dances. 

I do declare, upon an affidavit, 

Roman in or read like those I have seen ; 
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it, 

Would some believe that such a tale had been: 
But such intent 1 never had, nor have it; 

Sume truths are better kepi behind a screen, 
Especially when they would look like lies ; 
I therefore deal in generalities. 

LXXXl. 

" An oyster may bo cross'd in love,"— and why 7 

Because he mopeth idly in his shell, 
Aid heaves a lonely subterraqueous si»h, 

.Much as a monk may do within his cell: 
And <> propoa of monks, their piety 

With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell, 

Tho e v. -get:, hies ofthe Catholic creed 
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 

LXXXII. 

Oh, Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown, 
\\ hose merit none enough can sing or say, 

Thou hast struck ii mse colossus down, 

^ Thou moral Washington of Africa! 
But there \s another little thing, 1 own, 

Which you should ,,,„ summer's day, 

■he other half of earth to rights: 

"\ on have treed tie- hUicks — now pray shut up tho whiles 

Lxxxifr. 

Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander; 

Ship off the holy three to Sen. gal ; 
Teach them that •• sauce for goose is sauce fir gander," 

And ask them how they like to be in thrall. 
Shut up each high heroic salamander, 

Who eats fire-gratis, (since the pav 's but small ;) 
Shut up— no. not the king, but tho pavilion, 
Or else 't will cost us all another uulhon. 

LXXXIV. 

Shut up the world at large ; let Bedlam out, 
And vou mil be pi rhaps surprised to find 

All things pursue exarlly she same route, 
As now with those of soi-dtaant sound mind. 

This I could prove beyond a single doubt, 
■\ ire there a jot 6f sense among mankind ; 

But till that paint «" appmi is found, alas ! 

Like Archimedes, I leave oartb as 't was. 



Canto XIV- 



DOTS* JTJAXT. 



605 



LXXXV. 

Our gend« Adeline had one defect— 

Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion ; 
Her conduct had been perfectly correct, 

As she had seen naught claiming its expansion. 
A wavering spirit may he easier wreck'd, 

Because 't is frailer, doubtless, tlian a stanch one; 
Bui when the latter works its own undoing, 
Its inner crash i* like an earthquake's ruin. 

LXXXVI. 

She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 

Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, 
The stone ofSysiphus, if once we move 

Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 
She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 

No bickerings, no connubial turmoil: 
Tin ii union was a model to behold, 
Serene and noble, — conjugal but cold. 

LXXXTII. 

There was no great disparity of years, 

Though much in temper ; but thev never clash'd : 

They moved like stars united in their spheres, 
Or like tlu- Rli.-ni- hv Leman's waters wash'd, 

Where mingled and yet separate appears 
The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 

Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 

Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 

LXXXVIII. 

Now, when she once had ta'en an interest 
In anv thing, however she might flatter 

Herself that her intentions were the best, 
Intense intensions are a dangerous matter: 

Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd, 
And gather'd as they run, like growing water, 

Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 

Was not at first too readily impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 

Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen, 
That is, when they succeed ; but greatly blamed 

As obstinacy, both in men and women, 

Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed: — 

And 't will perplex the casuists in morality, 

To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 

xc. 
Ha.J Buonaparte won at Waterloo, 

It had been firmness ; now 't is pertinacity: 
Must the event decide between the two ? 

I leave it to your people of sagacity 
To draw the line between the false and true, 

If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity: 
My business is with Ladv Adeline, 
Who in her way too was a heroine. 

xci. 

She knew not her own heart ; then how should I ? 

I think not she was then in love with Juan ; 
If so, she would have had the strength to fly 

The wild sensation, unto her anew one: 
She merely felt a common Sympathy 

(I will Dot say it was a false or true one) 
In him, because she thought he was in danger— 
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a stranger. 

XCII. 

She was. or th ought she was, his friend— and this 
Without the farce of friendship, or romance 

Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 

Ladies who have studied friendship but in France, 

Or Germany, wv.ere people ptcrefy kiss. 

To thus much Adeline would not advance ; 

But of such friendship as man's may to man be, 

She was as capable as woman can be. 



xcin. 
No doubt the secret influence of the sex 

Will there, as also in the ties of blood, 
An niii'icent predominance annex, 

And tune the concord to a finer mood. 
If free from passion, which all friendship checks, 

And your true feelings fully understood, 
No friend like to a woman eardi discovers, 
So thai yuii have not been nor will be lovers. 

xcir. 
Love bears within its breast the very germ 

Of change; and how should this be otherwise? 
That violent things more quickly find a term 

Is shown through Nature's whole analogies: 
And how should the most fierce of all be firm ? 

Would you have endless lightning in the skies? 
Methiuks love's verv tide savs enough: 
How should u the tender passion" e'er be tough? 

xcv. 
Alas! by all experience, seldom yet 

(1 merely quote what I have heard from many) 
Had lovers not some reason to regret 

The passion which made Solomon a Zany. 
I 've also seen some wives (not to forget 

The marriage state, the best or worst of any) 
Who were the very paragons of wives. 
Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 

XCVI. 

I 'vealso seen some CemsAe friends ('t is odd, 
But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 

That faithful were, through thick and thin, abroad, 
At home, far more than ever vet was love— 

Who did not quit me when oppression trod 
Upon me ; whom no scandal could remove; 

Who fought, and fight, in absence too, my battles, 

Despite the snake society's loud rattles. 

xcv II. 
Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 

Grew friends in this or anv other sense, 
Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine : 

At present I am glad of a pretence 
To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, 

And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense; 
The surest way for ladies and for books 
To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 

Xl'VIII. 

Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish, 
To read Don Quixote in the original, 

A pleasure before which all others vanish ; 

Whether their talk was of the kind cail'd "smajl," 

Or serious, are the topics I must banish 

To the next canto; where, perhaps, I shall 

Say something to the purpose, and display 

Considerable talent in my way. 

XCIX. 

Above all, T beg all men to forbear 

Anticipating aught about the matter: 
They Ml only make misiakes about the fair, 

And Juan, too, especially the latter. 
And [ shall take a much more serious air 

Than I have yet done in this epic satire. 
It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 
Will fall ; but if they do, 't will be their ruin. 

c. 

But great things spring from little : — would you think 

That, in our youth, as dangerous a passion 
As e'er brought man and woman to the brink 

Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion 
As few would ever dream could firm the link 

Of such ;i sentimental situation? 
You Ml never guess, I Ml net you millions, milliards- 
It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards. 



605 



UON JL'Arf. 



Ca»to XV 



'T is strange — but true; for truth is always strange, 
Stranger than fiction : if it could be i" 1 1, 

How much would novels gain by the exchange ! 
How differently the world would men behold ! 

How ofi would vice an 1 virtue places change! 
The new world would be nothing to the old, 

If some i lolumbus if the mora 

Would showmankin ' antipodes. 

en. 

What " antres vast and deserts idle" then 
W ould be di icoverM in the human soul ! 

What icc-bcrgs in th mighty men, 

With self in the cen r as their pole ! 

What \ n rop ■ ■ a ;i arc nine of ten 
Of those who hold the kingdoms in control ! 

Were things bul only calHd bj their right name, 
a i h ould be ai hamed "i" tame. 



CANTO XV. 



Ah ! what should follow slips from rr.y reflection : 

Whatever follows ne'ertheless may b i 
As a propos of hope oi re ro pection, 

As though the Lurking thought had follow'd free. 
All present life is bul an in i i Section, 

An ** * j1» !"*"" <>r ( * Ah!" of joy or misery i 
.i ■ 11a! ha!" Or ''Bah!" — a yawn, or "Pooh!" 
Of which perhaps the tatti t is most true. 

ii. 
But, more or less, the whole 's a syncope, 

Oi ;i singultus — emhli-rns of emotion, 

The grand antithesis to greal ennui, 

\\ herewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, 
That watery outline of eternity, 

I >i miniature at least, as is my notion, 

U ini'li minivers unto the soul's d 

In seeing matters which are out of sight. 

IIT. 

But all are better than the sigh supprest, 

< iorrodmg in the cavern of the heart, 
Making the countenance a mask of rest, 

And turning human nature Loan art 
Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best ; 

Dissimulation always sots apart 

i for herself; and therefore fiction 
Is that which passes with least contradiction* 

IV. 

Ah ! who can tell ? Or rather, who cannot 
Eli member, without telling, passion's errors ? 

The drainer of oblivion, even the sot, 

Hath got hint- devils for his morning mirrors : 

What though on Lethe's stream he seem to 
He cannot sink his tremors or his terro 
ruby glass thai shakes within his hand, 

Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 

v. 

\ love -Oh, Love! We will proceed. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 

I name ;l^ one would wish to read, 

i\Iu-i ha nious on my tuneful quill. 

i h mu ic m the sighing of a reed ; 

There *s music in the gushing of a rill ; 
rheri 's mu lie in all things, if men had ears: 
■ .u'tli is but an echo of the spline*. 



The Lady Adeline, ri^ht honourable, 
And honourM, ran a risk < sso, 

For few of I i 
In their resolves— alas ! that [ should say ao • 

1 
V\ lien o ' ess so, 

But \\ ill not swear : yel both upon occasion, 

Till old, may undergo adultei 

VII. 

But Adeline was of the pur- 

The unmingii and yet 

Bright as a new N ■; on from its uuuia^e, 

Or glorious a- a diamond I 
A page where tune should hesii tie to print a^«, 

An I lor which natui debt — 

Sole en involve in 't 

The luck of finding ■ ivent. 

VIII. 

Oh ! Pea'h ! th ■ a daily 

Knoc at first with modest tap, 

Like a meek trade nan whqn i palely 

'i did ilfliior lie « . sap : 

But oft denied, a fail, ho 

Advances with exaspi rated ra >. 

And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, 

On ready money, or " a draft on Ransom. 11 

IX. 

Whate 'er thou takest, spare awhile poor beauty 

She is o rare, and thou hast o-i 
What though she now and then may slip from dutv, 

The moro 's the reason whi o stay. 

Gaunt Gourmand ! with whole nations lor your booty, 

You should be civil in a modest waj : 
Suppress thensom 
And take as many heroes as Heaven plea 

x. 

Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 

Where she was interested, (as was said,) 

Because she was not apt. Like some of us, 
To like too readily, or too high bred 

To show it — points wo need not now discuss — 
Would give up artlessly both heart and head 

Unto such fet lings as seem'd innocent, 

For objects worthy of the sentiment. 

XI. 

Some parts of Juan's history, which rumour, 

That live gazette, had scattered to 
she had heard ; but women hear w itfa more good humour 

Such aberrations than we men of rigour. 
Besides his conduct, since in England, grew more 

Strict, and his mind assumeda manlier vigour f 
Because he bad, like Alcibia 
The art of liviu 

XII. 

His manner was perhaps the more seductive, 
Because he ne'er seemed anxious to seduce ; 

Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 
Of coxcombry or conqui t:noab 

Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective, 
To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, 

And seem to say, " resist us if you can"— 

Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. » 

XIII. 

They arc wrong — that \s not the way to set about it; 

As, if they told the truth, could well be shown* 
But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it ; 

In faot, his m ii own alone: 

Sincere he was — a' least JTOU could not doubt it, 

In listening merely to hi! • 

The devil hath not in a'l his quiver's choice 
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 






Canto XV. 



DON JUAN. 



607 



Bv nature soft, his whole address he). 1 off 
Suspicion: though no' timid, his regard 

was such as rather seem'd io keep aloof, 

To shield himself, than [mt you on your guard: 

Bcrhaps 't was hardly quite assured enough, 
B;it modesty *s at times its own reward. 

Like virtue ; and ihe absence of prel insion 

IV ill go much further than there's need to mention. 

xv. 

Serene, accomplished, cheerful, bul not loud ; 

Insinuating without ins at ion ; 

Observant of the fjibles of the crowd, 

Yel ne'er betraying this in conversation ; 
Proud with the proud, vet court) ously proud, 

So as to make them feel he knew his station 
And theirs; — with ml a struggle for priority, 
He neither brook'd nor claimed superiority. 

XVI. 

That is, with men: with women, he was what 
They pleased to make or take him for ; and their 

Imagination's quite enough fir that: 
So that the onthne 's tolerably fair, 

Tli« v i ie can tss up — and " v>. rhnm sat," 
If once their phantasies he brought to bear 

LI pon an object, whether sad or playful, 

They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. 

XVII. 

Adeline, no deep judge of character, 

Was apt to a I ' a c (louring from her own. 

'T is thus the good w ill amiably err. 

And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 

Experience is the chief philosopher, 

Bit saddest when his science is well known. 
An 1 persecuted sages teach the schools 
Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 

XVIII. 

Was il not so, great Locke .' and greater Bacon? 
' Great S icrates ? And Thou, Diviner still, 1 
Whose lot it i- by man to be mistaken, 

And thy pure creed made sanction of a!l ill ? 

ning worlds to be bv bigots shaken, 
How was thy toil rewarded ? We might fill 
Volumes with similar sad illustrations, 
^Bul leave them to the conscience of the nations. 



' I perch upon an humbler promontory, 
■ ,,i . iriety : 
With no great care fir what is nicknamed glory 

But speculating as I cast mine eye 
On what may suit or may not suit my story, 

An I never straining hard to versify 
I rattle on exactly as | \1 talk 
With any budy in a ride or walk. 



I do n't know that there may be much ability 
Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme; 

But there's a conversational facility, 

Which in !■ ro ind off* an hour upon a time. 

Of this I 'm sure at least, there's no servility 
In mine irregularity of chime, 

Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary, 

Just as I feel the " improvvisatore." 

xxi. 

,( Omnia vult beUe Matho dicere — die alinuando 

El bene, die neiife-ron, die afiquando mate." 
The first is rather more than mortal can do; 
fcond may bo sadly done or gftylyj 

The third is still more difficult to stand to; 

The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily : 
The whole together is what I could wish 
To serve in this conundrum of a dish. 



XXII. 

A modest hope — but modesty 's my forte, 
And pri lo my foible: — let us ramble on. 

I meant to make this poem very short, 
But now I can't tell w here it may n it run 

No doubt, if I Iia I wish'd to pay my i ourl 
To critics, or to hail the setting sun 

Oftyi anny of all kinds, my concision 

Were more ; — but I was born for opposition. 

XXIII. 

But then '[ is mostly on the weaker side : 

So that I verily believe it 
Who now are basking in their full-blown pride, 

Were shaken down, and ■• dogs had had their day, 

Though at the first 1 mi *hl by chance deride 
Their tumble, I should turn the other way, 
And wax an ullra-rovalist in loyalty, 
Because I hate even democratic royalty. 

XXIV. 

I think I should have made a decent spouse, 
If I had never proved the soft condition ; 

I think I should have made monastic vows, 
But. for my own peculiar superstition: 

'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows. 
Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian ; 

Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, 

If some one had not told me to forego it. 

XXV. 

But " laissez aller" — knights and dames I sing, 
Such as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight 

Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, 
Plumed bv Longinus or the Sta^vri'e* 

The difficulty lies in colouring 

(Keeping the due proportions still insight) 

With nature manners which are artificial, 

And rendering general that which is especial. 

XXVI. 

The difference is, that in the days of old 

Men made the manners; manners now reake men,- 

Pinn'd like a (lock, and fleeced too in their fold, 
At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. 

Now this at all events most render cold 
Your writers, who must either draw again 

Days better drawn before, or else assume 

The present, with their commonplace costume. 

XXVII. 

We '11 do our best to make the best on 't : — March 
March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter 

And when you may not be sublime, be arch, 
Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 

We surely shall find something worth research : 
Columbus found a new world in a cutter, 

Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, 

While yet America was in her nonage. 

xxrm. 

When Adeline, in all her growing spnse 

Of Juan's merits and his situation, 
Felt on the whole an interest intense — 

Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, 
Or that he had an air of innocence, • 

Which is for innocence a sad temptation,-— 
As women hate half measures, on the whole, 
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 

xxrx. 

She had a good opinion of advice, 
Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, 

For which small thanks are still the market-price 
Even where the anirle at highesl ra 

She thought upon the subject tw ice or thrice, 
And morally decidi d. the best state is, 

For morals, marriage ; and, this question carried, 

She seriously advised him to get married. 



60S 



DON JUAN. 



Cakto XV. 



Juan replied, with all becoming deference, 

He had a predilection for ihai lie ; 
But that at present, with iinnvdiate reference 

To his own circumstances, there might lie 
Some difficulties, as ml his own preference, 

Or that of her to whom he might apply ; 
That still he M wed with sucli or such a lady, 
If that they were not married all already. 

XXXI. 

Next to the making matches for herself. 

And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, 

Arranging them like boo1;s on the same shelf, 
There 's nothing women love to dabble in 

More (like a stockholder in growing pelf) 
Than match-making in general: 'tis no sin 

Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 

That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 

XXXII. 

But never yet (except of course a miss 
Unwed, or mistress oover to be wed, 
Or wed already, who object to this) 

Was there chaste dame who had not in her head 
florae drama of the marriage unities, 

Observed as strictly both at board and bed, 
As those of Arislotle, though sometimes 
They turnout melodramesor pantomimes. 

XXXIII. 

They generally have some only son, 

Some heir to a large property, some friend 

Of an old family, some gay Sir John, 

Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end 

A line, and leave posterity undone, 

Unless a marriage was applied to mend 

The prospect and their morals : and besides, 

They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 

XXXIV. 

From these thoy will be careful to select, 

For this an heiress, and for that a beauty; 
For one a songstress who hath no defect, 

For t' other one who promises much duty; 
For this a lady no one can reject, 

Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty ; 
A second for her excellent connexions j 
A third, because there can be no objections. 

xxxv. 
When Rapp the harmonist embargoed marriage a 

In his harmonious settlement — (which flourishes 
Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, 

Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, 
Without those sad expenses which disparage 

What Nature naturally most encourages) — 
Why call'd he, " Harmony" a state sans wedlock? 
Now here I have gut the preachor at a dead lock. 

, XXXVI. 

Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 

But whether reverend Rapp leum'd this in Germany 
Or no, 'i is said his sect is rich and godly, 

Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any 
Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. 

My objection 's to his title, not his ritual, 

Although I wonder how it grew habitual 

XXXVII. 

But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, 
Who favour, malgre Malthus, generation- 
Professors of that genial art, and patrons 

Of all the modest part of propagation, 
Which after all at such a desperate rate runs. 

That half its produce tends to emigration, 
That sad result of passions and potatoes — 
Two weeds which pose our economio Catoj. 



XXXVIII. 

Had Adeline read Malthus ? I can't tell; [ment 

I wish she had: his book's the eleventh cominand- 

Whichsays, " thou shalt not marry'" — unless well; 
This he (as far as I can understand) meant: 

*T is not my purpose on bis views to dwell, 

Nor canvass what " so eminent a hand" meant ;* 

But carles itcondu cede, 

Or turning main bmelic. 

XXXIX. 

But Adeline, who probably presumed 

That Joan had cnuugh of maintenance, 
Or separate maintenance, in case 't was doom'd— 

As on the whole it is an even chance 
That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'd, 

iMav retrograde a little in the dance 

i ... ■ — | which might forma painter's fame, 
Like Holbein's " Dance of Death" — but 'lis the same t 

XL. 

But Adeline determined Juan's wedding, 

In her own mind, and that 's enough for woman, [in*, 
But then, with whom ? There was the sage Miss Reads 

Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, oan, and Miss 

And the two fair oo*heirosses Giltbc Iding. [Knowman, 

She deem'dhis merits something more than common* 
All these were unobjectionable mat. 
And might go on, if well wound up, like watches 

XLI. 

There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea. 

That usual paragon, an only daughter, 
Who seem'd the cream of equanimity, [water, 

Till skimm'd — and then there was some milk and 
With a slight shade of Blue too it mi 

Beneath the surface ; but what did it matter? 
Love's riotous, but marriage should have quiet, 
And, being coruurnptive, live on i milk diet. 

XI.II. 

And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 

A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 
Whose heart was fixed upon a star of bluestring; 

But whether English dukes grew rare of late, 
Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string, 

By which such sirens can attract our gr< 
She look up with some foreign younger brother, 
A Russ or Turk — the one 'a as good as t' other. 

XLIII. 

And then there was — but wh) should T l."> on, 
Unless the ladies should gq off 5 — there was 

Indeed a certain fair and fairy one, 

Of the best class, and better than her class, — 

Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 
O'er life, too sweet an image for such class, 

A lovelv being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 

XI, IV. 

Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 

< 'lnl.l to the --are ol ' ' ! and kind ; 

But still her aspect had an air BO lonely! 
Iilnnd is not wat'-r . and where shall we find 

[ of with like those which overthrown lie 

By death, when we are left, alas! behind, 

To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 

Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 

XLV. 

Earlv in years, and yet more infantine 

In figure, she had something of subliino 
In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. 

All youth — but with an aspect beyond time; 
Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline ; 

Mournful — but mournful of another's crime, 
Sho look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, 
And griev'd for those who could return no more* 



ClNTO XV. 



DON JUAN. 



6C9 



XLvr. 
She was a Catholic too, sincere, austere, 
As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, 
And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear, 

Perhaps because 't was fallen : her sires were proud 
. Of deeds and days when they had fi'i'd the ear 
Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 
To novel power ; and as she was the last, 
I She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 

XL VII. 

S!ie gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, 
A- seeking not to know it ; silent, lone, 

As 2ro*v> a flower, thus quietly she grew, 
And kept her heart serene within its zone. 
( There was awe in the homage which she drew; 
Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 

Apart from the surrounding world, and strong 

[:i its own strength — most strange in one so young. 






XLVIII. 

Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue 

Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, 
Although her birth and wealth had given her vo<me 

nil the charmers we have already cited: 
Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 

Against her being mentioned as well fitted, 
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
Of single gendemen who would be double. 

xnx. 

And this omission, like that of the bust 
0( Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 

Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 
This he express'd half smiling and half serious; 

When Adeline replied with some disgust, 
And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 

She marvelt'd " what he saw in such a baby 

As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby ?'* 

L. 

Juan rejoin'd — " She was a Catholic, 

And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion; 

Since he was sure his mother would fall sick, 
And the Pope thunder excommunication, 

If " But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 

Herself extremely on the inoculation 

Of others with her own opinions, stated — 

As usual — the same reason which she late did. 

LI. 

And wherefore not ? a reasonable reason, 
If good, is none the worse for repetition ; 

If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on 
And amplify: you lose much by concision ; 

Whereas insisting in or out of season 
Convinces all men, even a politician ; 

Or — what is just the same — it wearies out. 

So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route? 

LI I. 

IVJcy Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
For prejudice it was — against a creature 

As pure as sanctity itself from vice, 

With all the added charm of form and feature, 

For me appears a question far too nice, 
Since Adeline was liberal by nature; 

But nature T s nature, and has more caprices 

Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 

LIH. 

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 

With which Aurora on those baubles lookM, 

A\ hich charm most people in their earlier day: 
For there are few things by mankind less brook'd, 

And womankind too, if we so may say, 

Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, 

Like " Antony's by Ctesar," by the few 

Who look upon them as they ought to do. 
4 H 



It was not envy — Adeline had none ; 

Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. 
It was not scom — which could not light on one 

Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find. 
It was not jealousy, I think : but shun 

Following the " ijjnes fatui" of mankind. 

It was not but 't is easier far, alas ! 

To say what it was not, than what it was. 

lv. 
Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme 

Of such discussion. She was there a guest, 
A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 

Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, 
Which rlow'd on for a moment in the beam 

Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. 
Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled — 
She had so much, ur little, of the child. 

LVI. 

The dashing and proud air of Adeline 
Imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze 

Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, 
Then lurn'd unto the stars for lofiier rays. 

Juan was something she could not divin* 
Being no sibyl in the new world's ways , 

Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, 

Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 

LVII. 

His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame 

Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind 

A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, 
Half virtues and whole vices being combined ; 

Faults which attract because they are not tame ; 
Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind: — 

These seals upon her wax made no impression, 

Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 

LVIIT. 

Juan knew naught of such a character — 
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee; 

Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : 
The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, 

More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, 
Was nature's all : Aurora could not be 

Nor would be thus; — the difference in them 

Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 

LIX. 

Having wound up with this sublime comparison, 
Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, 

And, as my friend Scott says, -• 1 sound my Warisom, 
Scott, the superlative of my comparative — 

Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Sarace*, 
Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would shartait, if 

There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, 

Of one or both of whom lie seems the heir. 

LX. 

I say, in my slight way I may proceed 

To play upon the surface of humanity. 
I write the world, nor care if the world read, 

At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 
My Muse hath bred, and si ill perhaps may breed 

More foes by this same scroll : when I began it, I 
Thought that it might turn out so — now I know it, 
But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 

X.XI. 

The conference or congress (for it ended 

As congresses of late do) of the Lady 
Adeline and Don Juan rather blended 

Some acids with the sweets — for she was heady; 
But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, 

The silvery bell rung, not fir " dinner ready," 
But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress, 
Though ia lies rubes seem scant enough for less. 



610 



DON JUAN. 



Ca.tto XV. 



Great things were now to be achieved at table, 
With massy plate for armour, knives and forks 

For weapons ; but what Muse since Homer 's able 
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works) 

To draw up in array a single day-bill 

Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks 

In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, 

Thau witches, b — ches, or physicians brew. 

LXIIX. 

There was a goodly " soupe a la bonne femme" 

Though God knows whence itcame from; there was too 

A turbot for relief of those who cram, 
Relieved with dindon a la Perigueux ; 

There also was — the sinner that 1 am ! 

How shall I get this gourmand stanza through? 

Soupe a la Beauveau, whose relief was dory, 

Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 

LXIV. 

But I must crowd all into one grand mess 
Or mass ; fur should 1 stretch into detail, 

My Muse would mn much more into excess, 

Than when some squeamish people deem her frail. 

But, though a " bonne vivante," I must confess 
Her stomach 's not her peccant part : this tale 

However doth require some slight refection, 

Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. 

LXT. 

Fowls h la Conde - , slices eke of salmon, 

With sauces Gcnevoise, and haunch of venison ; 

Wines too which might again have slain young Amnion, 
A man like whom I hope we sha'n'l see many soon ; 

They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, 
Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison; 

And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, 

As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 

LXVI. 

Then there was God knows what " k 1'Allcmande," 
" A I'Espagnole," "timballe," and " Salpicole" — 

With things I can't withstand or understand, 
Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole ; 

And " entremets" to piddle with at hand, 
Gently to lull down the subsiding soul; 

While great Lucullus' robe triomphale muffles [truffles.* 

JThere '« fame) — young partridge fillets, deck'd with 

lxvii. 

What are the fillets on the victor's brow 

To these ? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch 
Which nodded to the nation's spoils below ? 

Where the triumphal chariot's haughty march ? 
Gone to where victories must like dinners go. 

Further I shall not follow the research: 
But oh ! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, 
When will your names lend lustre even to partridgos? 

lxviii. 

Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, 

Follow'd by " petils puits d'amour," — a dish 

Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, 
So every one may dress it to his wish, 

According to the best of dictionaries, 

Which encyclopiedise both hVsh and fish ; 

But even sans " confitures," it no less true is, 

There 's pretty picking in those " petita puits." * 

LXIX. 

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 

Of intellect expended on two courses ■ 
4nd indigestion's grand multiplication 

Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 
Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, 

That cookery could have call'd forth such resources, 
As form a science and a nomenclature 
From out the commonest demands of nature t 



The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ; 

The diners of celebrity dined well ; 
The ladies with more moderation mingled 

In the feast, pecking less than I can tell; 
Also the younger men too; for a springald 

Can't like ripe age in gourmandise excel, 
But thinks less of good eating than the whispei 
(When seal< d Dext him) of some pretty bsper. 

lxxi. 
Alas! I must leave undescribed the <;ibier, 

The salmi, the consommee. the pureo. 
All which I used (o iuak<- my rhymes tun glibber 

Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way 
I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 

" Bubble and squeak" would spoil my liquid lay, 
But I have dined, and must (brego, alas! 
The chaste description even of a •■ becasse," 

LXXIt. 

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
From nature fir the service of the gout, — 

Tuste or the gout, — pronounce it as inclines 

Your stomach. Ere you dine, the French will do 

But after, there are sometimes certain si^ns 
Which prove plain English truer of die two. 

Hast ever had the gout? I have not bad it — 

Eut I may have, and you loo, reader, dread it. 

i.xxm. 

The simple olives, best allies of wine, 

Must I pass over in my bill of fare ? 
I must, although a favourite ;1 plat" of mine 

In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where 
On them and bread 't was oft my luck to dine, 

T!i'- grass my tablecloth, in open air, 
On Sitniuin or Hvmetius, hk< 
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. 

LXXIT. 

Amid this tumult of fish, ffesh, and fowl, 

And vegetables, all in masquerade, 
The guests were placed according to their roll, 

But various as the various meats display'd: 

Don Juan sate n<\\t an " a \'V.:~ pinole " — 

No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said ; 
But so far like a lady, that 't was dreal 
Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest. 

LXXV. 

By some odd chance too he was placed between 

Aurora and the Lady Adeline — 
A situation difficult, I ween, 

For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
Also the conference which ue have seen 

Was not such as to encourage him to -dune , 
For Adeline, addressing few words to him. 
With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through him 

I. XXVI. 

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears; 

This much is suro, that, out of earshot, things 
Are somehow echoed to the pretty ■ 

Of which I can't trii whence their knowledge springs 
Like thai same mystic music of the spheres, 

Which no one hears so loudly though it rings. 
'T is wonderfid how oft the sex have heard 
Long dialogues which pass'd without a word! 

LXXVII. 

Aurora sat with that indifference 

Which piques a preux chevalbr — as it ought: 
Of all offences that 's the worst offence, 

Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. 
Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pr< 

Was not exactly pleased to be so caught ; 
Like a good ship entangled am mg ice, 
I And after so much excellent advice. 









Canto XV. 



DON JUAN. 



611 






Lxxvm. 

To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, 
Or something which was nothing, as urbanity 

Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, 
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 

The devil was in the girl ! Could it be pride, 
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity ? 

Heaven knows ! But Adeline's malicious eyes 

Sparkled with her successful prophecies, 

LXXIX. 

And look'd as much as if to say, " I said it;" — 
A kind of triumph I Ml not recommend, 

Because it sometimes, as I 've seen or read it, 

Both in the case of lover and of friend, 
■Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, 
To bring what was a jest to a serious end ; 

For all men prophecy what is or was, 

And hale those who won't let them come to pass. 

LXXX. 

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, 
Slight but select, and just enough to express, 

To females of perspicuous comprehensions, 

That he would rather make them more than less. 

Aurora at the last (so history mentions, 

Though probably much less a fact than guess) 

So tar relav'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, 

As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. 

LXXXI. 

From answering, she began to question : this 

With her was rare : and Adeline, who as yet 
Thought her predictions went not much amiss, 

Began to dread she M thaw to a coquette— 
So very difficult, they say, it is 

To keep extremes from meeting, when once set 
In motion ; but she here too much refined- 
Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 

LXXXII. 

But Juan had a sort of winning way, 

A proud humility, if such there be, 
Which show'd such deference to what females say, 

As if each charming word were a decree. 
His lact too temper'd him from grave to gay, 

And taught him when to be reserved or free: 
He had the art of draw ins people out, 
Without their seeing what he was about. 

LXXXIII. 

Aurora, who in her indifference 

Confounded him in common with the crowd 
Of fimterers, though she deem'd he had more sense 

Thau whispering foplings, or than witlings loud, — 
1 'onunenced (from such slight things will great commence) 

To reel that flattery which attracts the proud 
Rather by deference than compliment, 
And wins even by a delicate dissent. 

I LXXXIV. 

And then ho had good looks ; — that point was carried 
JVem, con, among the women, which I grieve 

To say, leads oft to aim. con. with the married— 
A case which to the juries we may leave, 

Since with digressions we too long have tarried. 
Now though we know of old that looks deceive, 

And always have done, somehow these good looks 

Make more impression than the best of books. 

IX XXV. 

Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
Was very young, although so very sage, 

Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
Especially upon a printed page. 

But virtue's self with all her tightest laces, 
Has not the natural stays of strict old age ; 

And Socrates, that mode) of all duty, 

Own'd to ^.penchant, though discreet, for beauty. 



LXXXVI. 

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 

But innocently so, as Socrates: 
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic 

At seventy years had phantasies like these, 
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 

Has shown, I know not why thev should displease 
In virgins— always in a modest way, 
Observe ; for that with me 's a " sine qua." 6 

Lxxxvir. 
Also observe, that like the great Lord Coke, 

(Se* Littleton) whene'er I have express'd 
Opinions two, which at first sight may look 

Twin opposites, the second is the best. 
Perhaps I have a third too in a nook, 

Or none at all — which seems a sorry jest; 
But if a writer should be quite consistent. 
How could he possibly show things existent ? 

LXXXVIII. 

If people contradict themselves, can I 
Help contradicting them, and every body, 

Even my veracious self? — but that 's a lie \ 
I never did so, never will — how should I ? 

He who doubts all tilings, nothing can deny ; 

Truth's fountains may be clear — her streams are muddyj 

And cut through such canals of contradiction, 

That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 

LXXXIX. 

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, 

Are false, but may be render'd also true 
By those who saw them in a land that 's arable. 

'T is wonderful what fable will not do ! 
'T is said it makes reality more bearable: 

But what 's reality ? Who has its clue ? 
Philosophy? No; she too much rejects. 
Religion ? Yes; but which of all her sects? 

xc. 

Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty clear , 
Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. 

God help us! Since we 've need on our career 
To keep our holy beacons always bright, 

*T is time that some new prophet should appear 
Or old indulge man with a second-sight. 

Opinions wear out in some thousand years, 

Without a small refreshment from the spheres. 

XCT. 

But here again, why will I thus entangle 
Myself with metaphysics? None can hate 

So much as I do any kind of wrangle ; 
And yet such is my folly, or my fate, 

I always knock my head against some angle 
About the present, past, and future state , 

Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, 

For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 

xcu. 

But though I am a temperate theologian, 

And also meek as a metaphysician, 
Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, 

As Eldon on a lunatic commission,— 
In politics, my duty is to show John 

Bull something of the lower world's condition. 
It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla, 
To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law > 

XCIII. 

But politics, and policy, and piety, 

Are topics which I sometimes introduce, 
Not only for the sake of their variety, 

But as subservient to a moral use ; 
Because my business is to dress society, 

And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. 
And now, that we may furnish with some matter all 
Tastes, we arc going to try the supcmaural. 



G12 



DON JUAN. 



Canto XVI 



XCIV. 

An.i now I will give up all argument : 
And positively bi ticeforth no temptation 

Shall " fool me lo the lop of my bent ;" 

Yes, I Ml begin a thorough rcfiirmation. 
In teed I never knew wliai people meant 

By deeming thai my Muse's conversation 
Was dangerous; — I think she is as harmless 

As some who labour more and yet may charmless. 

XCT. 

Grim reader! did von ever see a glm.--t ? 

No; but you *ve heard — I understand — he dumb! 
And don't regret the time you may have lost. 

For you have got that pleasure still lo coins' : 
And do not think I mean to aneer at moat 

Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 
That source of the sublime and the mysterious: — 
For certain reasons my be lief is serious. 

xrvi. 
Serious? You laugh: — you may; that will I not; 

My smiles musi be sincere or not at all. 
I say 1 do believe a haunted spol 

Exists— and where ? That shall I not recall, 
Beranse I \1 rather it should l«- t'inu.t. 

"Shadows the soul of Richard" may appal: 
In short, upon that subject I Ve some qualms, very 
Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.* 

xevn. 
The night (I sing by nighl — sometimes an owl, 

And now and then a nightingale] — is dim, 
Arid the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 

Rattles around me her discordant hymn: 
Old portraits from old walls upon mo scowl — 

I wish to iirav-ii they would no) look so grim ; 
The dying embers dwindle in the grate— 
I think too mat I have sate up too late: 

XCVIIT. 

And therefore, thought 't is by no means my way 
To rhyme at noon — when 1 have other tilings 

To think of, if I ever think, — \ say 

I feel some chilly midnight shuddering^, 

And prudently postpone, until mid-day, 
Treating a topic which, alas! but brings 

Shadows ; — but you must be in mv condition 

Before you learn to call this superstition! 

xcix. 
Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 

'Twirl night and mom, upon the horizon's verge: 
Mow little do we know thai which we are! 

How less wha! we maj be ' The eternal aur.^e 
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 

Our buhbles ; as the old hurst, new emerge, 
Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves 
Of empires heave but like some passing waves. 



CANTO XVI. 



The antique Persians taught three useful thmgs,- 
To draw the bow, lo ride, and speak the truth. 

This was the mode of Cyrus — best of kings— 
A mode adopted since by modern youth. 

Bows have they, generally with two strings; 
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 

At speaking truth perhaps they arc less clever, 

But draw the long bow better now than ever. 



The cause of this effect, or this defect, 
" For this effect defective comes by cause,"— 

Is what I have not leisure to inspect ; 
But this 1 must say in my own applause, 

Of all the muses that I recollect, 

Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws 

In some things, mine's beyond all contradiction 

The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 

in. 
And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 

From any thing, this Epic will contain 
A wilderness of the most rare conceits. 

Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain. 
'T is true there be some hitters with the sweets, 

Yet miz'd BO slightly thai you can't complain, 
But wondei they bo lew are, since my tale is 
*' De rebus cunctis el quibusdam atiis." 

iv. 

But of all truths which she has told, the most 
True is thai which she is about to tell. 

I said it was a Story of a ghost — 
What then ? I only know it so befi-11. 

Have you explored the limits of the coast 

Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell? 

T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 

The skeptics who would not believe Columbus. 

v. * 

Some people would impose now with authority, 
Turpin's or Monmouth Gooflry's Chronicle 

Alen whose historical superiority 
Is always greatest at a miracle. 

Bui Saint Augustine has the great priority, 
Who bids all men believe the impo 

Because 't U so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, ho 

Q,uiets at once with " quia impossibile." 

VI. 

And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all; 

Believe: — if 1 ! is improbable you must; 
And if it is impossible, you shall: 

'T is always best to take things upon trust. 
1 do not speak profanely to recall 

Those holier mysteries, which the wise and just 
R,i ceive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, 
As all truths must, the more they are disputed. 

VII. 

I merely mean to say whal Johnson said, 
That in the course of some sis thousand vears, 

All nations have believed thai from the dead 
A visitant at intervals appears ; 

And what is strangest upon this strange head, 
Is that whatever bar the reason n ■ 

'< .mi ' such belief, there *s something stronger still 

In its behalf, lei those deny who will. 

VIII. 

The dinner and the soiree too were done, 

The supper toodiseuss'd, the dames admired, 

The banqueters hail dropp'd otFone by one — 
The song was silent, and the dance aspired: 

The last thin petticoats were vaziish'd, gone, 
Like fleecy clouds into tin' sky retired, 

And nothing brighter gli yn'd through the saloon 

Than dying tap'-rs — aud the peeping moon. 

• IX. 

The evaporation of a joyous day 

Is like the last gla-s of champagne, without 

The foam which madi- its virgin bumper gay; 
Or like a system coupled with a doubt; 

Or like a soda-bottle, when its spray 

Has sparkled and let half its spirit out ; 

Or like a billow lefl by storms behind, 

Without the animation of the wind ; 






Cak .. XVI. 



DON JUAN. 



613 






Or like an opiate which brings troubled rest, 
Or none ; or like — like nothing thai I know 

Except itself; — such is the human breast ; 
A thing, of which similitudes can show 

No real likeness, — like the old Tynan vest 
Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, 

If from a shellfish or from cochineal. 1 

So perish every tyrant's robe piecemeal! 

XI. 

But next to dressing for a rout or ball, 

Undressing is a wo ; our robe-de-chambre 
May sit like that of Nessus, and recall 
V Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber. 

fitns exclaim'd, «» I Ve lost a day !" Of all 
The nights and days most people can remember, 
(1 have had of boUr, some not be dlsdain'd.) 
I wish they M state how many they have gain'd. 

XII. 

And Juan, on retiring for the night, 

I Felt restless and perplex'd. and compromised; 

lie thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright 

Than Adeline (such is advice) advised ; 
If he had known exactly his own plight, 

He probably would have philosophized; 
A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 
TiU wanted; therefore Juan only sighM. 

XIII. 

He sigh'd ; — the next resource is the full moon, 
Where ail sighs are deposited ; and now, 

It happeti'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 
As clear as such a climate will allow; 

And Juan's mind was in the proper tone 

To hail her with the apostrophe — "Oh, thou!" 

Of amatory egotism the tuism, 

Which further to explain would be a truism. 

XIV. 

/But lover, poet, or astronomer, 

Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold, 
Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her : 

Great thoughts we catch from thence, (besides a cold 
S >metimes, unless my feelings rather err ;) 
t Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 
I The ocean'* tides and mortals' bra'ms she sways, 
And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 

xv. 

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 
For contemplation rather than his pillow ; 

The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, 
Lei iu the ripplm ■ sound of the lake's billow, 

IVilhall the mystery by midnight caused ; 

}', slow his window waved (of course) a willtw; 

And he stood gazing out on the cascade 

That llash'd and after darkened in the shade. 

XVI. 

Upon his table or his toilet — which 

< M these is not exactly ascertain'd — 
(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 

Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd) 
A lamp buriiM high, while he haul from a niche, 

Where many a Gothic ornament remainM, 
f ■ ■ ' ii i : !'<I stone and painted L'lass, and all 
rhal time has Left our fathers of their hall. 

XVII. 

Then a> the night was clear, though cold, he threw 
His chamber-door wide open — and went forth 

In'o a gallery, of a sombre hue, 

Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth 

Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, 
As doubtless should be people of high birth. 

But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 

Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 



XVIII. 

The forms of the grim knights and pictured saints 
Look living in the moon ; and as you turn 

Backward and forward to the echoes fiiint 
Of your own footsteps — voices from the urn 

Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 

Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern, 

As if to ask how can you dare tu keep 

A vigil there, where ail but death should sleep 

XIX. 

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave. 
The charms of other days, in starlight gleams 

Glimmer on high ; the buried locks still wave 
Along (he canvass ; their eyes glance like dreams 

On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, 
Bui death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 

A picture is the past ; even ere its frame 

Be gilt, who sale hath ceased to be the same. 

xx. 

As Juan mused on mutability, 

Or on his mistress — terms synonymous — 

No sound except the echo of his sigh 

Or step ran sadly through that antique house, 

When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 
A supernatural agent — or a mouse, 

Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 

Most people, as it plays along the arras. 

XXI. 

It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array* J 
In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appealed, 

Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade, 
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard; 

His garments only a slight murmur made ; 
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, 

But slowly ; and as he pass'd Juan by, 

Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye 

XXII. 

Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 

Of such a spirit in these halts of old, 
But thought, like most men, there was nothing in *t 

Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, 
Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, 

Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, 
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 
And did he see this ? or was it a vapour ? 

XXIII. 

Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd — the thing of ah, 
Or earth Dencath, or heaven, or 't other place; 

And Juan gazed upon it with a slare, 

Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base 

As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 

Twine like a knot of snakes around his face; 

He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted 

To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 

XXIV. 

The third time after a still longer pause, 

The shadow pass'd away — but where ? the hall 

Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 
To think his vanishing unnatural : 

Doors there were many, through which, by the laws 
Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall, 

Might come or go ; but Juan could not state 

Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 

XXV. 

He stood, how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyes 

StrainM on the spot where first the figure gleam'd ; 
Then by degrees rec&U'd his energies, 

And would have pass*d the whole off as a dream, 
But could not wake ; he was, he did surmise, 

Waking already, and return "d at length 

Back tohis chamber, shorn of half his strength. 



C14 



DON JUAN. 



Casto XVI. 



All there was as he left it ; still his taper 
Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, 

!;• < iving sprites with sympathetic vapour; 
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse 

Their office ; he took up an old newspaper; 
The paper was right easy to peruse ; 

He read an article the kins attacking] 

And a long eulogy of " Patent Blacking." 

XXVII. 

This savoiirM of this world; but his hand shook — 

He shut his door, and after having read 
A paragraph, I dunk about Ilurne 'IVoke, 

Undress'd, and rather slowly went to bed. 
There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, 

With what he 'd seen his phantasy he fed, 
And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 
QpOti liim by degrees, and so he slept. 

XXVIII. 

He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed, 

Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision, 
And whether it oughl not to lie disclosed, 

At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 
The more he thought, the more his mind was posed; 

In the mean lime his va'ei, whose precision 
Was lireat, because his master brook'd no less, 
Knuck'd to inform him it was time to dress. 

XXIX. 

He dress' d ; and, like young people, he was wont 
To take some trouble with his toilet, but 

This morning rather spent less time upon 't ; 
Aside his very mirror soon was put: 

His curia fell negligently o'er his front, 

His clothes were nol CUrb'd to their usual cut, 

His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 

Almost a hair's breadth too much on one side. 

XXX. 

And when he walk'd down into the saloon, 

I te sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea, 
"Which he perhaps had not discovcr'd soon. 

Had it not happened scalding hot to be, 
Which made him have recourse unto his spoon; 

So much distrait he was, that all could see 
That something was the matter — Adeline 
The first — but what she could not well divine. 

XXXI. 

She look'il and saw him pa!-', and turn'd as pale 
Herself; then hastily look'd down and muUer'd 

Something, but what 's not stated in my tale. 
Lord Henry said. Ins muffin was ill hutter'd; 

The Duchess of Fitt-Fulke play'd with her veil, 
And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing ulterM. 

Aurora Rahy, with her lar^e dark eyes, 

Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise. 

xxxir. 

But seeing him all cold and silent still, 
And every body wondering more or less, 

Fair Adeline inquired if he were ill 7 

He started, and said, " Yes — no — rather — yes." 

The family physician had great skill, 
And, bi inj present, now began to express 

His readiness, to feel lus pulse, and tell 

The cause, but Juan said, " he was quite well." 

XXXIII. 

u Quite well ; yes.no." — These answers were mysterious, 
And vet his looks appear'd to sanction both, 

However they might savour of delirious; 
Something like illness of a sudden growth 

Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious 
But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 

To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted, 

It was not the uhvsician liuil he wanted. 



XXXIV. 

Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, 
Also the muffin, when <>f he compI&inM, 

Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, 
At which he marveil'd, since ii had not roin'd; 

Then ask'd her grace whj re of the duke of late? 

.'-''■ ' I'piied ''■ yrace was raiher pain'd 

With some slight. light, hereditary l 
Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hill 

WW. 

Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd 
A few words of condolence nn lus state: 

" You look," quoth be, " us it' vou 'd had your rest 
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of laic." 

'• \\ hat friar .'" said Juan ; and he did his best 
To put the question with an air st 

l )r careless; but the effort was not valid 

To (under him from growing still mure pallid. 

XXXVI. 

" Oh ! have you never heard of the Black Friar '? 
The spirit of these walls?" — " In truth no) I." 

" \\ liv tame — but fame you know sometime 's a liar- 
Tells an odd story, of which by the by : 

Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, 
Or that our sires had a more gifti d eye 

For such sights, though the tale is half believed] 

The friar of late has nol been oft perceived. 

XXX VII. 

" The last time was " " I pray," said Adeline- • 

(Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow 

And from its context thought she could divine 
Connexions stronger than he chose to avow 

With this same legend,) — " if you but design 
To jest, you 'II choose some other theme just now 

Because the present tale has oft been told, 

And is not much improved by growing old." 

xxxvm. 

" Jest !" quoth Milor, " Why, Adeline, you know 
That we ourselves — 't was in the honey-moon— 

Saw " « Well, no matter, 't was so long ago; 

But come, I 'II set your story to s 

Graceful as Dian when she draws her bow, 

She seized her harp, whose strings "ere kindled soon 

As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 

The air of " 'T was a Friar of Orders Gray." 

zzxix. 

' But add the words," cried Henry, " which you made 

For Adeline is half a poeti 
Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. 

Of course the others could nol but express 
In courtesy their wish to see display M 

Bv one tlircc talents, for there were no less — 
The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once 
Could hardly be united by a dunce. 

XL. 

After some fascinating hesitation, — 

The charming of these charmers, who seem bound, 

I can't tell why, to this dissimulation- 
Fair Adeline, u ith eyes nVd on the ground 

At first, then kindling into animation, 

Added her SWOOl voire to the K t ic sound, 
And sang with much simplicity, — a merit 
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 

1. 
Beware! beware! of the Black Friar, 

Who sitteth by Norman stone, 
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, 

And his mass of the days that are gone. 
When the Kurd of the Hill, Ainundevillo, 

Made Norman Church his prey, 
And expelt'd the friars, one friar still 

Would not be driven away. 






Canto XVI. 



DON JUAN. 



bl5 



Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right, 

To turn church lands to lay, 
With sword in hand, and torch to light 

Their walls, if they said nay, 
A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, 

And he did not seem form'd of clay, 
For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church, 

Though lie is not seen by day. 

3. 

And whether for good, or whether for ill, 

It is not mine to say ; 
But still in the house of Amitndeville, 

He abideth night and day. 
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said, 

He flits on the bridal eve; 
And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death 

He comes — but not to grieve. 

4. 

W hen an heir is born, he is heard to moum, 

And when aught is to befall 
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 

He walks from hall to hall. 
His form you may trace, but not his face, 

'T is shadow'd by his cowl ; 
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 

And they seem of a parted soul. 

5. 

But beware! beware of the Black Friar, 

He still retains his sway, 
For he is yet the church's heir, 

Whoever may be the lay. 
AmundevUle is lord by day, 

But the monk is lord by night, 
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 

To question that friar's right. 

6. 

Say naught to him as he walks the hall, 

And he '11 say naught to you: 
He sweeps along in his dusky pall, 

As o'er the grass the dew. 
Then gramercy! for the Black Friar; 

Heaven sain him ! fair or foul, 
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 

Let ours be for his soul. 

XI.I. 

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound 

And the pause follow'd, which, when song expires 
Pervades a moment those who listen round ; 

And then of course the circle much admires, 
Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound, 

The tones, the feeling, and the execution, 

To the performer's diffident confusion. 

XLir. 
Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, 

As if she rated such accomplishment 
As the mere pastime of an idle dav, 

Pursued an instant for her own content, 
Would now and then as 't were without display, 

Yet with display in fact, at times relent 
To such performances with haughty smile, 
To show she could, if it were worth her wlule. 

xr.ni. 

Nnw this {but we will whisper it aside) 
Was — pardon the pedantic illustration — 

Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride, 
As did the Cynic on some like occasion ; 

Deeming the sage would be much mortified, 
Or thrown into a philosophic passion, 

For a spoilM carpet — but the " Attic Bee" 

Was much consoled by his own repartee. 1 



XLIV. 

Thus Adeline would throw into the shade, 

(By doing easily, whene'er she chose, 
What dilettanti do with vast parade,) 

Their sort of half profession ; for it °tows 
To something like this when too oft display'd, 

And that it is so every body knows 
Who 've heard Miss That or This, or Lady T' other, 
Show off" — to please their company or mother. 

XLV. 

Oh ! the long evenings of duets and trios ! 

The admirations and the speculations ; 
The "Mamma Mias!" and the " Amor Mios!" 

The " Tanti Palpitis" on such occasions : 
The " Lasciamis," and quavering " Addios!" 

Among our own most musical of nations ; 
With " Tu mi chamas's" from Portingale, 
To sooth our ears, lest Italy should fail. 3 

XL VI. 

In Babylon's bravuras — as the home 

Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Hiohlands, 
That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 

O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, 
The calentures of music which o'crcome [lands, 

All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh 
No more to be beheld but in such visions,— 
Was Adeline well versed as compositions. 

xr-vii. 
She also had a twilight tinge of " Blue" [wrote ; 

Could write rhymes, and compose more than she 
Made epigrdms occasionally too 

Upon her friends, as every body ought. 
But still from that sublimer azure hue, 

So much the present dye, she was remote ; 
Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, 
And, what was worse, was not ashamed to show tt 

XLVUI. 

Aurora — since we are touching upon taste, 

Which now-a-days is the thermometer 
By whose degrees all characters are class a — 

Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 
The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste 

Had more of her existence, for in her 
There was a depth of feeling to embrace 
Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as space 

XLIX. 

Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless grace, 
The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, 

If she had any, was upon her face, 
And that was of a fascinating kind. 

A little turn for mischief you might trace 

Also thereon, — but that 's not much ; we find 

Few females without some such gentle leaven, 

For feat we should suppose us quite in heaven. 

L. 

I have not heard she was at all poetic. 

Though once she was seen reading the "Bath Guide, 
And " Hay ley's Triumphs," which she deera'd pathetic^ 

Because, she said, her temper had been tried 
So much, the bard had really been prophetic 

Of what she had gone through witn, — since a bride. 
But of all verse what most insured her praise 
Were sonnets to herself, or " bouts rimes." 

LI. 

'T were difficult to say what was the object 

Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 
To bear on what appear' d to her the subject 

Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. 
Perhaps she merely had the simple project 

To laugh him out of his supposed dismay ; 
Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it, 
Though why I cannot say — at least this minute 



61 G 



DON JUAN. 



Ci^to XVI. 



But so far the immediate effect 

Was to restore him to his self- propriety, 

A thing quite necessary to the elect, 

Who wish to take the tone of their society; 

In which you cannot be too circum -[<■ i. 
Whethei the mode be persiflage or piety, 

But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy, 

On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. 

LIII. 

And tnerefore Juan now began to rally 

His- spirits, nnd, without more explanation, 

To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
Her grace too also seized the same occasion, 

"With various similar remarks to tally, 

But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration 

Of this same mystic friar's curious doings, 

About the present family's deaths and wooings. 

LIV. 

Of these few could say more than has been said ; 

They pass'd, as such things do, for superstition 
"With some, while others, who had more in dread 

The theme, half credited the strange tradition 
And much was talk'd on all sides on that head ; 

But Juan, when cross-question d on the vision, 
Which some supposed (though he bad not avow'd it) 
Had stirr'd him, answer' d in a way to cloud it. 

LV. 

And then, the raid-day having worn to one, 

The company prepared to separate : 
Some to their several pastimes, or to none ; 

Some wondering 't was so early, some so lato. 
There was a goodly match, too, to be run 

Between aome greyhounds on my lurd's estate, 
And a young racehorse of old pedigree, 
Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see. 

LTI. 

There was a picture-dealer, who had brought 

4 special Titian, warranted original, 
So precious that it was not to be bought, 

Though princes the possessor were besieging all. 
The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought 

The civil list (he deigns to accept, obliging all 
His subjects by his gracious acceptation) 
Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 

LVII. 

But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur, — 

The friend of artists, if not arts, — the owner, 

With motives the most classical and pure, 
So that he woidd have been the very donor 

Rather than seller; had his wants been fewer, 
So much he decmM his patronage an honour, 

Had brought the capo d'opera, not for sale, 

But for his judgment, — never kuown to fait 

LVIII. 

There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 

Bricklayer of Babel, caM'd an architect, 
Brought t«> surrey these gray walls, which, though so thick, 

Might have from Lime acquired some slight defect ; 
Who, after rum&ging the Abbey through thick 

A\u\ thin, produced a plan, whereby to erect 
New buildings of correciesi conformation, 
And throw down old — which he call'd restoration. 

LIX, 

The cost would be a trifle — an " old song;," 
Set to some thousands, (*t is the usual burden 

Of that same tune, when people hum it long) — 
The price would speedily repay its worth in 

An edifice no less sublime than strong, 

By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth in 

Its glorv, through all ages shining sunny, 

For Gothic daring shown in English monov. 4 



There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase ; 

Also a lawsuit upon tenures but 
And our on tithes which sure are discord's torches, 

Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage, 
" Untying" squires " to fight against the churches ( 

There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman, 

P'or Henry was a sort of Sabine show man. 

I. XI. 

There were two poachers caught in a steel trap, 
Ready for jail, their place of convalescence ; 

There was a country girl in a close cap 
And scarlet cloak, (I ha'e the sight to sec, since- j 

Since — since — in youth I had the sad mishap— 

But luckily I 've paid few parish fees since.) 
That scarlet cloak, alas! unclosed with ri 
the problem of a double figure. 

I MI. 

A reel within a bottle is a mystery, 

One can't tell how it e'er got ill or nut, 
Therefore the present pi« f natural bjstory 

I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt, 
And merely state, though nol for the consrstory, 

Lord Ilenrv was 8 justice, and thai Scout 
The constable, beneath a warrant's banner, 
Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor 

LXIII. 

Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 

And morals of the country from caprices 
Of those who 've not a license fur the same ; 

And of all things, excepting tithes and leases, 
Perhaps these are most difficult to tame: 

Preserving partridges and pretty wenches 

Are puzzles to the most precautious benches. 

LXIV. 

The present culprit was extremely pale, 
Pale as if painted so; her cheek being red 

By nature, as in higher dames less hale, 

'T is white, at least when they just rise from b*t 

Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail, 
Poor soul 1 for she WSJ country born and bred, 

And knew no belter in her immorality 

Than to wax white — for blushes are for quality. 

LXT. 

Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegleey* 
Had gathered a targe tear into its comer. 

Which 'he poor thing at times essay 'd to dry, 
For she was nol a sentimental mourner, 

Parading all her sensibility, 
Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner, 

But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, 

To be call'd up for her examination. 

LXVI." 

Of course these groups were scatter'd here and there, 

Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 
The lawyers in tn< study ; and in air 

The pri/e pig, ploughman, poachers ; the men sent 
From town, viz. architect and dealer, were 

Both busy (as a general in his tent 
Writing despatches) in their several stations, 
Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 

I. XV II. 

But this poor girl was left in the great hall, 
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 

Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the " small") 
A mighty mug of moral double ale : 

She waited until Justice could recall 
Its kind attentions to their proper pale, 

To name a thing in nomenclature rather 

Perplexing fur most virgins — a child's father. 









C.ixTci XVI. 



DON JUAN. 



617 






LXVIfl. 

You Bee here was enough of occupation 

For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses, 

There was much bustle too and preparation 
Below stairs on the score of second courses, 

Because, as suits their rank and situation, 

Those who in counties have great land resources, 

Have •' public days," when all men may carouse, 

Though not exactly what 's call'd " open house" — 

LXIX. 

B«it once a week nr fortnight, uninvited, 
(Thus we translate a general invitation,) 

AH country gentlemen, enquired or knighted, 

May drop in without cards, and take their station 

At the full board, and sit alike delighted 
With fashionable wines and conversation, 

And, as ihe isthmus of the grand connexion, 

Talk o'er themselves, the past and next election. 

txx. 
Lord Henry was a great elect ioneerer, 

Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit, 
But country contests cost him rather dearer, 

Because trie neighbouring Scotch Earl of Glftgabbit 
Had English influence in the self-same sphere here ; 

His son, the Honourable Dick Dice-drabbit, 
Was member for "'the other interest," (meaning 
. The self-same interest, with a different leaning.) 

LXXI, 

Courteous and cautious therefore in his county, 
He was all things to all men, and dispensed 

To some civility, to others bounty, 

And promises to all — which last commenced 

To gainer to a somewhat large amount, he 
Not calculating how much they condensed ; 

But, what with keeping some and breaking others, 

His word had the same value as another's. 

Lxxn, 

! A friend to freedom and freeholders— yet 
No less a friend to government — he held 

That he exactly the just medium hit 
'Twixt place and patriotism — a'beit compellM, 

Sucn was his sovereign's pleasure, (though unfit, 
He added modestly, when rebels rail'd.) 

To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd, 

But that with them all law would be demolished. 

Lxjcin. 

He was " free to confess" — (whence comes this phrase? 

Is 'l English? No — 't is only parliamentary) 
That innovation's spirit now-a-days 

Had made more progress than for the last century. 
He would not tread a faction path to praise, 

Though for the public weal disposed to venture high ; 
As for his place, he could but say this of it, 
That the fatigue was greater than the profit. 

LXXIV. 

Heaven and his friends knew that a private life 

Had ever been his sole and whole ambition ; 
But could he quit his king in times of strife 

Which threaten'd the whole country with perdition ? 
When demagogues would with a butcher's knife 

Cut through and through, (oh! damnable incision!) 
The Gordian or the Geordian knot, whose strings 
Have tied together Commons, Lords, and Kings. 

i. xxv. 
Sooner " come place into the civil list, 

And champion him to the utmost" — he would keep it, 
Till duly disappointed or di^niiss'd : 

Profit he cared not fir, let others reap if ; 
But should the day come when place ceased to exist, 

The country would have far more cause to weep it ; 
For how could it go on ? Exph n who can ' 
Hl ^eiie-d in the i dine of Englishman. 
4C 



Lxxvr. 

He was as independent — ay, much more— 

Than those who were not paid for independence, 

As common soldiers, or a common shore 

Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 

O'er the irregukir.? in lust or gore 

Who do not give professional attendance. 

Thus on the mob ail statesmen are as ea-'er 

To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 

LXXVIl, 

Alt this (save the last stanza) Henrv said, 
And thought. I sav no more — I Ve said too much , 

For all of us have either heard or read 

Of — or upon the hustings — some slight such 

Hints from the independent heart or head 
Of the official candidate. I 'II touch 

No more on this — the dinner-bell ha'.h rung, 

And grace is said ; the grace I should have sung— 

LXXYIII. 

But I 'm too late, and therefore must make play. 

*T was a great banquet, such as Albion old 
Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 

Were something very glorious to behold. 
But 't was a public feast and public day, — 

Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold, 
Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, 
And every body out of their own sphere. 

LXXIX. 

The squires familiarly formal, and 
My lords and ladies proudly condescending; 

The very servants puzzling how to hand 

Their plates — without it might be too much bending 

From their high places by the sideboard's stand — 
Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending; 

For any deviation from the graces 

Might cost both men and masters too— their places 

LXXX, 

There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, 
Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds deign'd to 

Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen [lurch; 

Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 

Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. 
There were some massy members of the church, 

Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches, 

And several who sung fewer psalms than catches. 

LXXXI. 

There were some country wags, too, — and, alas ! 

Some exiles from the town, who had been driven 
To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, 

And rise at nine, in lieu of long eleven. 
And lo ! upon that day it came to pass, 

I sate next that overwhelming son of heaven, 
The very powerful parson. Peter Pith, 
The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with* 

LXXXII. 

I knew him in his livelier London days, 
A biilliant diner-out, though but a curate ; 

And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 

(Oh, Providence ! how wondrous are thy ways, 

Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate ?j 

Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln, 

A fat fen vicarage, and naught to think on. 

LXXXItl. 

His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes ; 

But boih were thrown away among the fens ; 
For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. 

No longer ready ears and shorthand pens 
Imbibed the gay bon-niot, or happy hoax : 

The poor priest was reduced to common sense, 
Or to coarse efforts very loud and long, 
To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng. 



618 



DON JUAN. 



Caxto XVI. 



lxxxit. 

There 15 a difference, says the song, " Dei ..,«.. 

A beggar and a queen," or wis (of late 
The latter worse used of the two we 've seen — 

But we '11 say nothing of affairs of state)— 
A difference " 'twixt a bishop and a dean," 

A difference between crockery-ware and plate, 
As between English beef and Spartan broth — 
And yet great heroes have been bred by both. 

LXXXV. 

But of all nature's discrepancies, none 

Upon the whole is greater than the difference 

Beheld between the country ami the town, 
Of which the latter merits even prt-frence 

from those who 've few resources of their own, 
And only think, or act, or feel with reference. 

To some small plan of interest or ambition — 

Boih which are limited to no condition, 

LXXXVI. 

But " en avant!" The light loves languish e'er 
Long banquets and too many guests, although 

A slight repast makes people love much more, 
Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know, 

Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
With vivifying Venus, who doth owe 

To these the invention of champagne and truffles: 

Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles. 

LXXXVII. 

Dully passVl o'er the dinner of the dav ; 

And Juan to <k his place he knew not where, 
Confused, in ihe confusion, and distrait, 

And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair ; 
Though knives and forks clang'd round as in a fray, 

He seem'd unconscious of all passing there, 
Till some one, with a groan, express' d a wish 
(Unheeded twice) to have a tin of fish. 

LXXXVIIX. 

On which, at the third asking of the bans, 
He started ; and, perceiving smiles around 

Broadening to grins, he coloured more than once, 
Ami hastily — as nothing can confound 

A wise man more than laughter from a dunce- 
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound, 

And with such hurrv that, ere he could curb it, 

He 'd paid his neighbour's prayer with half a turbot. 

Lxxxix. 

This was no bad mistake, as it occurrM, 

The supplicator being an amateur; 
But others, who were left with scarce a third, 

Were angry — as they well might, to be sure. 
They wonder' d how a young man so absurd 

Lord Henry at his table should endure; 
And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes. 

re. 

They little knew, or might have sympathized, 
That he the uighl before had seen a ghosl ; 

A prologue, which but slightly harmonized 
With the substantial company engross'd 

By matter, and so much materialized, 
That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 

Of two things — how (the question rather odd is) 

Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. 

XCI. 

But what confused him more than smile or stare 
From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around, 

Who wondcr'd at the abstraction of his air, 
Especially as he had been renown'd 

For soma vivacity among the fair, 
Even in the country circle's narrow bound— 

(For Uttle things upon my lords estate 

Were good email-talk for others stiuless greats- 



Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his, 
And something like a smile upon her cheek. 

Now this he really rath >-r took amiss : 

In those who rarely smile, (heir smile bespeaks 

A strong external motive ; and in this 
Smile of Aurora's there was naught to pique, 
e . or I"'---, u ith any of the n ilea 

Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 

xcm. 
'T was a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 

Indicative of some surprise and pity; 
And Juan grew carnation with vexation, 

Which was not very « is< and 1 still less witty, 
Shut he had gain'd al least her observation! 

A most important outwork of the city— 
As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
By last night's ghost been driven from their defencw 

\< IV. 

But, what was had. she did not blush in turn, 
Nor seem embarrass'd — quite the contrary ; 

Her aspect was. as usual, still — not stem — 
And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eve, 

Vet grew a little pal with what ? concern ? 

I know not ; but her colour ne'er was high 

Though sometimes faintly flush'd— and always clear 
As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 

xcv. 
Bui Adeline was occupied by fame 

Tins day ; and watching, witching, condescending 
To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, 

And dignity with courtesy so blending, 
As all must blend whose part it is to aim 

(Especially as the sixth year is ending) 

At their lord's, son's, and Bimilar connexions 1 

Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 

xcvi. 
Though this was most expedient on the whole, 

And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 
On Adeline while playing her grand role, 

Which she went through BS though it were a .lance, 
(Betraying only now and then her soul 

By a look scarce perceptibly askance 
* if weariness or scorn.) began to feel 
Some doubt how much of Adeline was real; 

XCVII. 

So well she acted all and every part 

By turn? — with that vivacious versatility, 

Which many people take t*»r want of heart. 
They err — '1 is merely what is call'd mobility, 

A thing of temperament, and not of art, 
Though seeming so, from its supposed facility 

And false— though true ; for surely they 're sincerest* 

Who 're strongly acted on by what is nearest. 

xcv MI. 
This makes your actors, artists, ami romancers, 

Heroes soui'-tiuies though seldein — ^ages never; 
But speakers, hards, it and dancers, 

Little that *s great, but much of what is clever , 
Most ora'ors, but very few financiers, 

Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavour, 
Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours, 
And grow quite figurative with their figures. 

XCIX. 

The poets of arithmetic arc thev. 

Who, though they prove not two and two to ho 
Five, as they would do in a modesl way, 

Have plainly made it out that four are three, 
Judging by what they take and what they pay. 

The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea, 
That most unliquidating liquid, leave* 
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 









'Canto XVI. 



DON JUAN. 



619 



While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, 

The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease; 
Though too well-bred to quiz men to their faces, 

Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize 
The ridicules of people in all places — 

That honey of your fashionable bees — 
And store it up for mischievous enjoyment ; 
And This at present was her kind employment. 

ct. 
However, the day closed, as days must close; 

The evening also waned — and coffee came. 
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose, 

And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, 
Retired : with most unfashionable bows 
{ Their docile esquires also did the same, 
Deli ;h<ed with the dinner and heir host, 
But with the lady Adeline the most. 

en. 
Some praised her beauty : others her great grace ; 

The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity 
"Was obvious in each feature of her face, 

Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity. 
Yes : she was truly worthy her high place ! 

No one could envy her deserved prosperity : 
And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity 
Draperied her form with curious felicity ! 7 

CIIL 

Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises, 

ltv an impartial indemnification 
For all her past exertion and soft phrases, 

In a most edifying conversation, 
Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces, 

And families, even to the last relation ; 
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses, 
And truculent distortion of their tresses. 

civ. 

True, she said little — 't was the rest that broke 

Forth into universal epigram : 
But then 't was to the purpose what she spoke : 

Like Addison's " faint praise" so wont to damn, 
Her own but served to set off every joke, 

As music chimes in with a melodrame. 
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend ! 

I ask but this of mine, to not defend. 

cv. 
There were but two exceptions to this keen 

Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one, 
Aurora, with her pure and placid mien ; 

And Juan too, in general behind none 
In say remark on what he 'd heard or seen, 

\*vi .'- silent u >w, his usual spirits gone : 
In vain he heard the others rail or rally, 
He would not join them in a single sally. 

cvi. 

'T is true he saw Aurora look as though 

Sin approved his silence; she perhaps mistook 

lis motive fjr that charity we owe 

But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 

Further ; it might or it might not be so: 
But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 

Observing little in his reverie, 

Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. 

CVII. 

The ghost at least had done him this much good, 

In making him as silent as a ghost, 
If in the circum-tances which ensued 

He "aio'd esteem where it was worth the most. 
And certainly Aurora had renew'd 

In him some feelings he had lately lost 
Or haiden'd ; feelings which, perhaps ideal, 
Are so divine, that I must deem them real : — 



cvm. 

The love of higher things and better days; 

The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
Of what is cail'd the world, and the world's ways, 

The moments when we gather from a glance 
More joy than from all future pride or praise, 

Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
The heart in an existence of its own, 
Of which another's bosom is the zone. 

ox. 
Who would not sigh Aj at rav KvOt}pttar ! 

That hath a memory, or that had a heart ? 
Alas ! her star must wane like that of Dian, 

Ray fades on ray, as veal's on years depart. 
Anacreon only had the soul to tie on 

Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart 
Of Eros ; 'but, though thou hast play'd us many tricks ( 
Still we respect thee, " Alma Venus Genilrix !" 

ex. 
And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 

Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, 
Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows 

Arrived, retired to his; but to despond 
Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 

Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, fond 
Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, 
And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. 

CXI. 

The night was as before: he was undrest, 

Saving his night-gown, which is an undress: 
Completely " sans culotte," and without vest; 

In short, he hardly could be clothed with less; 
But, apprehensive of his spectral guest, 

He sate, with feelings awkward to express, 
(By those who have not had such visitations,) 
Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 

cxn. 
And not in vain listen'd — Hush! what 's that ? 

I see — 1 see — Ah, no! 't is not — yet 't is — 
Ye powers ! it is the — the— the — Pooh! thecal! 

The devil may take that stealthy pace of his I 
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat, 

Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, 
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 

CXIII. 

Again what is 't? The wind? No, no, — this time 

It is the sable friar as before, 
With awful footsteps, regular as rhyme, 

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
Again, through shadows of the night sublime, 

When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore 
The starry darkness round her like a girdle 
Spangled with gems — the monk made his blood curdle. 

CXIV. 

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass. 8 

Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a slight clatter, 
Like showers which on the midnight guests will pass, 

Sounding like very supernatural water, — 
Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas ! 

For immaterialism 's a serious matter : 
So that even those whose faith is the most great 
In souls immortal, shun them t£tc-a-tete. 

ex v. 
Were his eyes open? — Yes! and his mouth too. 

Surprise has this effect — to make one dumb, 
Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through 

As wide as if a long speech were to corns. 
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes dr«*f, 

Tremendous to a mortal tympanum : 
His eyes were open, and (as was before 
Stated) his mouth. What open'd next 1 ihe door. 



620 



DON JUAN. 



Cahio XVI. 



CX ft. 
li open' J with a mast infernal creak, 
Like thai of bell. " Lasciate ogai speranza, 

\ I ij >:lie '-uti;iti-!" Til'- liiii^r seem'd tu speak, 

Dreadful as Dante's rima, or this stanza ; 
Or — but all words upon such themes are weak: 

A single shade 's sufficient to entrance a 
Hero — for what is substance to a spit i ' 
Or how is 't maUgf trembles to come near it ? 

CXVII. 

The door flew wide, ml swiftly — but, as fly 
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight— 

Ami then swung back; nor clou — but stood awry, 
Half letting in long shadows on the light, 

"Which still in Juan's can llesticks buru'd high, 

For he had two, both tolerably bright, — 
And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood 
The sable friar in his solemn hood. 

C X V 1 1 1 . 

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 
The pjght before; but, being sick of shaking, 

He first inclined to think he had been mistaken, 
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking; 

His own internal ghost began to awaken 
Within him, and to quell bis corporal quaking — 

Hinting, that soul and body on the whole 

Were odds against a disembodied soul. 

CXIX. 

And then Ins dread grew wraih, and his wraih fierce; 

And he arose — advanced — the shade retreated; 
But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 

Folio w\l ; his veins no longer cold, but heated, 
Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, 

At whatsoever risk of being defeated: 
The ghost stopp'd, menaced, ti.en retired, until 
He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still. 



Juan put forth one arm — Eternal Powers ! 

It touch'd no soul, nor body, but the wall, 
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers 

Chequer'd with all (he tracery of the hall: 
He shudder'd, as do doubt the bravest cowan 
When he can't tell what \ is that doth appal. 
ill's nonentity 
i ise more fear than a whose boat's identity. 

C X XI . 

But still the shade remain'd ; the blue eyes glared, 
Afld rather variably f >r stony death ; 

yet one thing r.i net go 1 1 the grave had spared 
The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath, 

A straggling curl showed he had been fair-hair'd , 
A red lip, with two rows of pearl beneath, 

Gleam'd forth, as through the canefneotfa ivy shroud 

The moon peep'd, jim escaped from a gray cloud. 

cxxn. 
And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 
flis other arm forth — 'Wonder upon wonder! 

It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, 

Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. 

He found, as people on most trials must] 
That he had made at first a silly blunder, 

And that in his confusion he had caught 

Only the wall instead of what he sought. 

CXXIII. 

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet sou!, 

As ever lurkM beneath a holy hood : 
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 

Forth into something much like flesh and blood 
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, 

And they reveal'd, (alas ! that e'er they should !j 
In full, voluptuous, but not oVrgrown bulk, 
The phantom of her frolic grace — Fitz-Fulke. 












NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



CANTO I. 

Note 1. Stanza v. 
Brave men were living before Agamemnon. 

" Vixcrc fortei ante Agnmemnona," 4c. — Horace. 

Note 2. Stanza xvii. 
Sat* thine u aicomparabte oi7," Macassar ! 
" Description des vertus incomparable* de 1'huile de 
Macassar. — See the advertisement. 

Note 3. Stanza xiii. 
ji!thcnigh Ejmgisiiu tells us there i$ no hymn 

Where Iht sublime stuns forth on wings moreampU. 

See Longinus, Section 10, i^-a pi^'iv n ittp\ ahriiyita- 
9o( (paiynratf ituOwj/ oi gvvo&oc. 

Note 4. Stanza xliv. 
Tliey only add them all in an appendix. 
Fact. There is, or was, such an edition, with all the 
obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by themselves at 
he end. 

Note 5. Stanza lxxxviii. 
The hard I quote from does not sing amiss. 
Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming; (I think) the 
SDening of Canto II. Wit quote from memory. 

Note 6. Stanza cxlviii. 
Is it for this Vial General Count O'Reilly, 
WTto took sllgiersi declare* I used lam vilely 7 



Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count OTVilly 
did not take Algiers — but Algiers very nearly took him , 
he and his army and fleet retreated with great loss, and 
not much credit, from before that city, in the year \\ — 

Note 7. Stanza cexvi. 

My days of love we over % me no mart, 

" Mr nee Raratna, nee pwr 

Jam, DCC l|K* aolmJ citr<lul« imiiul ; 

N«c centre Ju**i mero. 
Nee vmciro mm* tempom floribui." 



CANTO nr. 

Note I. Stanza xlv. 

For none likes more to hear ItimsJf convene* 

Bl«(."ii* aii.T MaifuUa : * ritrtal to«to, 
[a bob ertda ulu n\ naro, eh' * I'mi^rm ; 
M.i in- 1 eapnoiM , (i li M| a ruogU irrosto ; 
K oradoatcuna *oli« mmo »el burro, 
Nr la cervofla, c quando* lo n' hunal mo«io ; 
V. mi'ltu ptu in- l'ftij>ro clu* If mai>B<irro ; 
M.i aopra tun i) in ■] buon v no ho fctle ; 
K credo eh* 'i.i wlvu clti rIi crede. 
PULCI, Mvrg*ntt Mag ? iort, Canto 18, SUflia 115. 

Note 2. Stanza lxxi. 
Tfiat e'er by precious metal was held in. 
This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar aro 
worn in the manner described. The reader will per- 
ceive hereafter, that, as the mother of Haidee was ol 
Fez, her daughter wore the garb of the country. 









NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



62 1 



• 



Note 3. Stanza Ixxi. 
A like gold har, above her instep roWd. 
The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of sove- 
reign rank in tiit- women of the families of the Deys, 
and is worn as such by their (einale relatives. 

Note 4. Stanza Ixxiii, 
Her person if allow 1 d at large to run. 
This is no exaggeration ; there were four women 
whom I remember to have seen, who possessed their 
hair in this profusion ; of these, three were English, the 
other was a Levantine. Their hair was of that length 
and quantity that, when let down, it almost entirely 
shaded the person, so as nearly to render dress a su- 
perfluity. Of these, only one had dark hair; the Ori- 
ental's had, perhaps, the lightest colour of the four. 

Note 5. Stanza cvii. 
Oh Heitperu.fl thou br ingest all good tldngs. 
F.<ririot. ira ftn *;ptt?, 
•bum kvov, <-t o«S aiya» 

4((iiii /inrjpt ttaiia.. 

Fragment nf Sappho. 

Nnte 6. Stanza cviii. 
S>fl lurur ! which wakes tlie wiskatut melts Oie heart. 

" Era gift I' ora che rolse *1 disio, 

\ i, . j mil f 'lH'.-ncni. ■ 

Lodi ch 1 i>.in rtfilto .i >\ ilci arnici nitilio, 

B che lo utiovo peregrin d' aro>>re 
P't'-ue. v? od« s^h.ii* di lonl&no 

(_ lie [i-i j j 'I gijuiu pjiagir che si muore." 

liANTE'S Pur^mojy, Canto viil- 

This last line is tne first of Gray's Elegy, taken by 
him without acknowledgment. 

Note 7. Stanza cix. 

Some hands unseen strew* d Jl/wers upon his tomb. 

See Suetonius for this fact. 



tin* river to the road towards Forli. Gaston de Foix, 
wh i gained the battle, was killed in il ; there fell on 
huh sides twenty thousand men. The present state 
ol' the pillar and its sue is described in the text. 



CANTO IV. 

Note 1. Stanza xii. 
" JVhom tlie gods love, die young ," was said of yore, 
See Herodotus. 
Note 2. Stanza lix 
A vein had hurst. 
This is no verv uncommon effect of the violence of 
conflicting and different passions. The Doge Francis 
F"s^art, on his deposition, in 1457, hearing the bell 
of St. Mark announce the election of his successor, 
mourui subitement d'une licmorrhagie causee par line 
reine qui s'eclata dans sa poitrine," (see Sismondi and 
Dam, vols, i. and ii.) at tlie age of eighty years, when 
" mho would have thought the old man had so inurh blood 
m him?" Before I was sixteen years of age, I was wit- 
ness to a melancholy insianre of the same effect of 
mixed pa^-lms upon a young person ; who, however, 
(hi not die in consequence, at that time, but fell a vic- 
tim some years afterwards to a seizure of the sain- 
kind, arising from causes intimately connected with 
agitation of mini. 

Note 3. Stanza lxxx. 
But sold In/ the impresario at no high rate. 
This is a fact. A few years ago, a man engaged a 
eempany for some foreign theatre ; embarked them at 
an Italian port, and, carrying them to Algiers, sold 
thfin all. One of the women, returned from her cap- 
livi'v, I heard sin?, by a strange coincidence, in Ros- 
sini'- opera of " L'ltaliana in Algieri," at Venice, in 
the beginning of 1817. 

Note 4. Stanza lxxxvi. 
prom all the Pope makes yearly, '* would perplex, 
jT) fiml three perfect pipes of the third sex, 
Tt is strange that it should be the pope and the sultan 
who arethe chief encouragen of this branch of trade — 
women being prohibited as singers at St. Peter's, and 
not deemed trustworthy as guardians of the haram. 

Note 5. Stanza ciii. 

IVhUe weeds and ordure rankle round the base. 

The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna, i* 

about two miles from the city, on the opposite side of 



CANTO V. 

Note 1. Stanza iii. 
The ocean stream. 
This expression Df Homer has been much criticised. 
It hardly answers to our Atlantic ideas of the ocean, 
but is sufficiently applicable to the Hellespont, and the 
Bosphorus, with the iEgean, intersected with islauds 
Note 2. Stanza v. 
" The Giunfs Grave.' 1 
"The Giant's Grave" is a height on the Asiatic 
shore of the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday 
parties ; like Harrow and Highgate. 

Note 3. Stanza xxxiii. 

And running out as fast as I was able. 

The assassination alluded to took place on the eighth 

of December, 1820, in the streets of Ravenna, not a 

hundred paces from the residence of the writer. The 

circumstances were as described. 

Note 4. Stanza xxxiv. 
KilVd hy Jive bullets from an old gun-barrel. 
There was found close bv him an old gun-barrel, 
sawn half otf: it had just been discharged, and was 
still warm. 

Note 5. Stanza liii. 
Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 
In Turkey, nothing is more common, than for tho 
Mussulmans to take several glasses of strong spirits by 
way of appetizer. I have seen them lake as many as 
six of raki before dinner, and swear that they dined 
the better for it; 1 tried the experiment, but was like 
the Scotchman, who having heard that the birds called 
kittiewiaks were admirable whets, ate six 'if them, and 
complained that " he was no hungrier than when h* 
began. " 

Note 6. Stanza Iv. 
Splendid but silent, save in one, wliere drooping, 
A marble fountain echoes. 
A common furniture. — I recollect being received bv 
Ali Pacha, in a room containing a marble basin and 
fountain, &c. &c. &c. 

Note 7. Stanza lxxxvii. 
Tlie gate so splendid Was in all its features. 
Features of a gate — a ministerial metaphor; "the 
feature upon which this question hinges. — See th» 
'■Fudge Family," or hear Castlereagh. 

Note 8. Stanza cvi. 
Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers. 

There is perhaps nothing more distinctive of birth 
than the hand: it is almost the only sign of blood 
which aristocracy can generate. 

Note 9. Stanza cxlvii. 
Save Sob/man, the glory of tfteir Une. 

It rnav not be unworthy of remark, that Bacon, in 
his essay on w Empire," hints that Solyman was the 
last of his line ; on what authority, I know not. These 
are his words: "The destruction of Mustapha was so 
fatal to Solyman's line, as the succession of the Turks 
from Solyman, until this day, is suspected to be untrue, 
and of strange blood ; for that Sotymus the Second was 
thought to be supposititious.' 1 But Bacon, in his histo- 
rical authorities, is often inaccurate. I could give half 
a dozen instances from his apophthegms only. 

Being in the humour of criticism, I shall proceed, 
after having ventured upon the slips of Bacon, to touch 
on one or two as trifling in ihe edition of the British 
Poets, by the justly celebrated Campbell. — But I do 
this in good win, and trust it will be so taken. — If any 
thing could add to niv opinion of the talents and true 
feeling of that gentleman, it would be Ins classical, 
honest, and triumphant defence of Pope, against the 
vulgar cant of the day, and its existing Grub-street. 



622 



NOTES TO DON JTAN\ 



The inadvertencies to which 1 allude, arc, — 
Firstly, in speaking of Anxtcy, whom he accuses of 
having taken * hin leading characters from Smollett* 
AnsteVa Bam Guide was published in 17U6. SmoUelts 
Humphry Clinker (the only work of Smollett's from 
which Tabltha, &c. &C. could have been taken) was 
«ni i* n during Smollett's latt residence at Leghorn, m 
1770. — " Argal? if there has been any borrowing, 
■ \i. stej must I)-- the creditor, and not the debtor. 1 
ritW Sir, Campbell lo his on n data in his lives of Smol- 
I'tt and Antteu, 

Secondly, Mr. Campbell says, in the life of Cowper, 
(note Lo page 3.58, vol, 7,) that ''he knows not to whom 
Gowper alludes in these lines: 

" Nor In- who, Tot iin- banc s( IhcniMndi born, 
Bihlt Uotl .i c.'.urih, j i til laugh 'd lu> name (o icorn. 

The Calvimst meant Voltaire, and the rhureh of Per- 
il- k, with its insciiption, "Deo erexji Voltaire.* 1 

Thirdly, in the life of Burns, Mr. C. quotes Shak- 
speare thus,— 

To gili) refined gold, to paint the rote, 
Or add fresh peiTumti (u die violet,** 

This version by no means improves the original, which 
is us follows : 

" Taglld refined gold, to puinl the lily, 
To throw a jitr/umt on ibe violet, .VC. 

King John. 

A great poet, quoting another, should he correct ; he 
should also be accurate when be accuses a Parnassian 
brother of that dangerous charge "■borrowing:" a poet 
had better borrow any thing (excepting money) than 
the thoughts of another — they are always sure to be 
reclaimed ; but it is very hard, having been the lender, 
to be denounced as the debtor, as is the case of Ansley 
versus Smollett. 

As there is " honour among thieves," let there be 
sunn' aiRitnu iinfis, and give each bis due, — none can 
afford to give it more than Mr. Campbell himself, who, 
with a high reputation for originality, and a fame which 
cannol be shaken, is the only poet of the times (except 
Rogers) who can be reproached (and in him it is indeed 
a reproach) with having written too little. 



CANTO VI. 

Stanza Ix.w. 

A " wood obscure" like that where Dante found. 

" Nel mewo del cammln' di nostra vita 

Mi ritrovml jieruno selvn ouuiu, ic. \c. ' c. 



CANTO VII. 

Stanza li. 
Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. 
Fact: SouvarotT did this in person. 



CANtO VIII. 

Note 1. Stanza viii. 

AU sounds it pierccth, " Allah .' Allah! BtsP* 
"Allah! Hu!" IS properly 'Ik- wax-cry of the Mus- 
sulmans, and they dwell long on the last syllable, which 
gives it a very wild and peculiar etfect. 

Note 2. Stanza ix. 
* Carnage {so Wordsworth tells you) is God's daughter? 

" Bui thy m->il .trended instrument 

In working ant ■• pure inuul, 
la mixn array'd (or mutual lUufhter; 
Yen, Carnage it thy ttauehift !" 

WORDSWORTH'S TUarJcigiving Od$. 

To wit, the Deity's. This is perhaps as pretty a 
pedigree for murder as aver was found out by Gartcr- 
KiniT-at-anns.— What would have been said, had any 
free-spoken people discovered such a lineage .' 



Note S. Stanza xviii. 
Wat printed I in ve, although hi* name was Grose. 

A fact : see the Waterloo Gazettes I recollect re- 
marking' al tin- time 10 a friend : — " There is fame ! a 
man is killed — his name is Grose, and thev piim it 
Grove." I was at College with the deceased, who was 
a very amiable and clever man, and his bi eietv in yrcat 
request k<r bis wit, gayety, md "chansons a buirc." 

Note 4. Slanza ixiu, 

As any other notum, and not ndtumat. 

See Major Valiancy and Sir Lawrence Parsons. 

Note 5. Stanza xxv. 
'Tispity u that such meanings should pave heU. n 

The Portuguese proverb says that "Hell is paved 
with good intentions." 

Note 6. Stanza xxxiii. 
By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon . 
Gunpowder is said to have been discovered by ihtss 
friar. 

Note 7, Slanza xlvii. 

Which scarcely rose much higher Outn grass blades. 
They were but two feet high above the level. 
Note 8. Slanza xcvii. 
That you and I will win Saint George's collar. 
Tiie Russian military order. 

Note 9. Stanza cxxAiii. 

(Powers 

Eternal! such names mingled!) " IsmaiV sours * 
lit the original Russian — 

" Sl.ivn b0SU ' ■!«*» »nm! 
KrtpOK Vr..la, y in lam." 

A hind of couplet ; for he was a poet. 



CANTO IX. 

Note 1. Stanza i. 

Humanity would rise, aiui thunder ° Nay ." 

Query, Key ? — Printer's Devil. 

Note 2. Stanza vi. 

And aend the sentinel be/ore your gate 

A slice or two from your luxurious meals. 

" I at this time got a post, being for fatigue, with four 
others. — We were senl to break biscuit, and make & 
mess for Lord Wellington's hounds, I was very hun- 
gry, and thought it a good job ai the time, as we got our 
own fill while we broke the biscuit, — a thing 1 had not 
got for some days. When thus engaged, the 1\ 
Son was never once out of my mind ; and I sighed, as 
I fed the dogs, over my humble situation and my ruined 
hopes." — Journal of a Soldier of the list Rtgt. during 
the war in Spain. 

Note S. Stanza xxxiii. 
Because he could no more digest his dinner. 
He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper had 
been exasperated, hy bis extreme costivily, to a degree 

of insanity. 

Note 4. Stanza xlvii. 
And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. 

He was the " grande passion" of the grande Cathe- 
rine. — Sec her Lives, under the head of 41 Lanskoi.* 

Note 5. Stanza xlix. 
Bid Ireland's Larulonderrys Marquess show 
His parts of speech. 
This was written long before the suicide of that per- 
son. 

Note G. Stanza Ixiu. 
Your tt fortune" was in a fair way " to sweU 
A muit," as Quel says. 



«* 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



" His forltme swells him, it is rank, he 's married." — 
Sir Giles Overreach; JVIassixger. — See " A. New 
Way to Pay Old Debt*? 



CANTO X. 

Note 1. Stanza xiii. 
Would scarcely join again the " reformations. V 
"Reformers," or rather "Reformed." The Baron 
Bradwardine, in Wavcrley, is authority for the word. 

Note 2. Stanza xv. 
The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper 
Than can be hid by altering his shirt. 
Query, suit ? — Printer's Devil. 

;Note 3. Stanza xviii. 
Balgounits Brig's black wall. 

The brig- of Don, near the " auld toun" of Aberdeen, 
with its one arch and its black deep salmon stream bi 
low, is in my memory as yesterday. I still remember, 
though perhaps I may misquote, the awful proverb which 
made me pause to cross it, and vet lean over it with a 
childish delight, being an only son, at least by the 
mother's side. The saying, as recollected bv me, was 
this — but I have never heard or seen it since I was nine 
years of age ; — 

' Brig of Balgonnie, black 'a your v>a 



} 






Wi' a wife's r.e ton ami a mear'i ae foal, 
Down ye shall fa't" 

Note 4. Stanza xxxiv. 
Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant 
Thy praise, hypocrisy I 
A metaphor taken from the " forty-horse power" of 
a steam-engine. That mad wag, the Reverend Sidney 
Smith, sitting by a brother-clergyman at dinner, ob- 
served afterwards that his dull neighbour had a." twelve- 
parson power" of conversation. 

Note 5. Stanza xxxvi. 
To strip the Saxons of their hydes like tanners. 
u Hyde." — I believe a hyde of land to be a legitimate 
word, and as such subject to the tax of a quibble. 

Note 6. Stanza xlix. 
Was given to her favourite, and now bore his. 
The Empress went to the Crimea, accompanied by 
the Emperor Joseph, in the year — I forget which. 

Note 7. Stanza lviii. 
Which gave her dukes the graceless name of u Biron. n 
In the Empress Anne's time, Biren her favourite as- 
sumed the name and arms of the " Birons" of France, 
which families are yet extant with that of England. 
There are still the daughters of Courland of that name ; 
one of them I remember seeing in England in the bles- 
sed year of the Allies — the Duchess of S. — to whom 
the English Duchess of Somerset presented me as a 
namesake. 

Note 8. Stanza lxn. 
Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone. 
The greatest number jU sh hath ever known. 
St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins were still 
extant in 1816, and may be so yet as much as ever. 

Note 9. Stanza l.xxxi. 
Who butche/d half the earth, and bullied ? other. 
India. America. 



CANTO XI. 

Note 1. Stanza xix. 

Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing) 
So prime, so swe'l, so nutty, and so knowing ? 
' The advance of science and of language has ren- 
dered it unnecessary to translate the above good and 



623 

true English, spoken in its original purity bv the select 
nobility and their patrons. The following is a staoza of 
a song which was very popular, a* least in my early 
days : — 

*' On ttic high lo'iv-sjiiee fla^h the monle, 
hi t| iu : : ... : j . , iwi 
If v-n. at [l. e spelllcen can'l hm 
Vim 'H Uk hobbled in moling ■ Clout. 
" Then your blowing will wnx callows haughty, 
When sbit hears ol i mistake, 

Blie 'II surely lurn snitch for the forty, 
Thai her ):ilIi may L>e regular weight." 

If there be any gem'man so ignorant as to require a 
traduction, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal 
pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq. Professor of 
Pugilism; who I trust still retains the strength and 
symmetry of his model of a form, together with his good 
humour, and athletic as well as mental accomplishments 

Note 2. Stanza xxix. 
St. James's Palace and St. James's K _ffc//,<r." 

" Hells," gaming-houses. What their number may 
now be in this life, I know not. Before I was of age I 
knew them pretty accurately, both " gold 1 ' and " silver." 
I was once nearly called out by an acquaintance, be- 
cause when he asked me where I thought that his 
soul would be found hereafter, I answered. " In Silver 
Hell." 

Note 3. Stanza xliii. 

and therefore even I won't anent 

This subject quote. 

"Anent" was a Scotch phrase, meaning" concerning, 
— " with regard to." It has been made English by the 
Scotch Novels ; and, as the Frenchman said—" If it 6e 
not t ought to be English." 

Note 4. Stanza xlix. 
The milliners who furnish u drapery musses. 11 
"Drapery misses" — This term is probably any thing 
now but a mystery. It was however almost so to ine 
when I first returned from the East in 1811-1812. It 
means a pretty, a high-born, a fashionable young female, 
well instructed by her friends, and furnished by her 
milliner with a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid, 
when married^ by the husband. The riddle was first 
read to me by a young and pretty heiress, on my prais- 
ing the "drapery" of an " untochered^ but "pretty vir- 
ginities" (like Mrs. Anne Page) of the then day, which 
has now been some years yesterday : — she assured me 
that the thing was common in London ; and as her own 
thousands, and blooming looks, and rich simplicity of 
array, put any suspicion in her own case out of tho 

?uestion, I confess I gave some credit to the allegation. 
f necessary, authorities might be cited, in which case 
I could quote both " drapery" and the wearers. Let us 
hope, however, that it is now obsolete. 

Note 5. Stanza Ix. 
'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 
Should let itself be snuff* d out by an article. 
' Divinre particulam aurae." 



CANTO XII. 

Note 1. Stanza xix. 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. 
See Mitford's Greece. "Gra?cia Verax.'" His great 
pleasure consists in praising tyrants, abusing Plutarch, 
spelling oddly, and writing quaintly ; and, what isstrangc 
after all, his is the best modern history of Greece in any 
language, and he is perhaps the best of all modern his- 
torians whatsoever. Having named his sins, it is but 
fair to state his virtues — learning, labour, research, 
wrath, and partiality. I call the latter virtues in a 
writer, because they make him write in earnest. 

Note 2. Stanza xxxvii. 
A hazy widower turned of forty 's sure. 
This line may puzzle the commentrttors more thun 
the present generation. 



624 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



Note 3. Stanza Ixxiii. 

Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows. 
The Russians, as is well known, run oul from their 
hot baths to plunge into the Neva: a pleasant practical 
antithesis, which it seems dues them no harm. 
Note 4# Slanza Ixxxii. 
The world to gaze upon those northern lights. 
For a description and print of this inhabitant of the 
polar region and native country of the aurora borealis 
see Par h v s. Voyage in Search of the North- IVcst Pas- 
sage. 

Note 5. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
As Philip's son proposed to do with Alhos. 
A sculptor projected to hew Mount Alhos into a 
statue of Alexander, with a cilv in one hand, and I be- 
lieve, a river in his pocket, with various other similar 
devices. But Alexander 's gone, and Athos remains 
1 trust, ere long, to look over a nation of freemen. 






canto xni. 

Note 1. Stanza vii. 

Right honestly, "he liked an honest hater." 

" Sir, I like a good hater."— See the life of Dr 
Johnson, &c. 

Note 2. Stanza xxvi. 
Also there bin another pious reason. 
"With every thing that pretty bin, 
My lady sweet arise." — Shakspcare. 

Note 3. Stanza xlv. 
77iey and their bills « Arcadians both,' are left. 
11 Arcades ambo." 

Note 4. Stanza Ixxi. 
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's. 
Salvator Rosa. 

NoteS. Stanza Ixxii. 
His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish 
if I err 
of nations 



ii"', " 'I our Dane" is one of lagu's catalogue 
' "exquisite in their drinking." 



any in the world— was an angler: true, he angled with 
painted dies, and would have been incapabi. of the 
extravagances ol I. Walton." 

The above addition was made by a friend in reading 
over the MS.—" Audi alteram partem"— I leave it to 
counterbalance my own observation. 

CANTO XIV. 

Note 1. Stanza xxxiii. 
And never craned, mid maite but feu "faux pas.* 
Craning.— "To crane" is, or was, an expression nird 
• a gentleman's stretching out his neck Orel a 
1 to look before Ii.- l.ap.-.l :'— a pause in his 
"vaulting ambition," which in the fiejd - 
sn„„. delay and execration in those who mav be 
diately behind the equestrian skeptic. "Sir, 
don t choose to lake Ihe leap, let me"— was a i 
which generally senl the aspirant on again; and lo 
purpose: for though " the horse and rider" might fall 
they made a sap. through which, and over him and bis 

steed, the field might fodow. 

Note 2. Slanza xlviii. 
Go to the coffeehouse, and Ufa another. 
In Swift's or Hon voe vValpoi i \ Lettsrs, I think 
it a mentioned that somebody regretting the loss of a 
friend, was answered h v a umvi rsal Pyrades: " \\ i o 
I lose one, I go to the Saint James's Coll. .-house, and 
take anolh-r. ' 

I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same 
kind. Sir W. I), was a great gamester. Coming in 
one day io the club of which he was a member, ha 
was observed to look melancholy. "MY 
ter, Sir William?" cried Hare, of facetious memory. 
"Ah! replied Sir W. "I have just lost p.„ir Lad, Ii. 
" Cost.' What ! at—Quinze or Hazard ! was the' con- 
solatory rejoinder of the querist. 

Note 3. Slanza lix. 

And I refer you to wise Oxenstiem. 

The famous Chancellor Oxenaliern said io his son 

on the latter expressing his surprise n the great 

effects arising from pelly causes in the presumed mys- 
tery of politics: "You see by this, my son, with how 
little wisdom the kingdoms of the world are governed." 






Note 6. Stanza lxxviii. 
Even AimrotVs self might leave the plains of Dura. 
lu Assyria. 

Note 7. Stanza xcvi. 
" That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies." 
" Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was blas- 
phemous to talk of Scripture out of church." This 
dogma was broached lo hei husband— the best Chri 
nan in any book. See Joseph Andrews, in the latt 
chapters. 

Note 8. Stanza cvi. 
7Vii auaint, old, cruel eoxcoml),i„ his gidlct 
Should have a Imok an/l a small truut to pull it. 

It would have taught him humanity at least. This I a Mu afto, ti Jours aaeqiii 

sentimental savage, whom n , s a mode io quote (among dom, or al least salvation. 



CANTO XV 

Note I. Slanza xviii. 
A"d Th<>u, Diviner still, 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken. 
As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, 
I s.iv, that I mean, by "Diviner still," CaaiST. 'If 
ever God was Man— or Man God— lu- was both, I 
never arraigned his creed, bin the use — or abuse — made 
of it. Mr. Canning one day quoted Christianity lo 
sanction Negro Slavery, and Mr. Wilberforce had tittle 
to say in reply. And was Christ crucified, thai 

ghi be -< ..in ged I If so, he had bi tu r beenborn 



the novelists) to" show their sympathy "for innocent 

and old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and 



sports a 

break ihe.r legs by way of experiment, in addition to the 

art ofangling.the cruelist, the coldest, and the stupidest 

of pretended sports. They may talk about the beau- 
ties ol nalur.-, but Ihe angler merely thinks of his dish 
ol fish : he has no leisure to lake his '-ves from off the 
streams, and a single bile is worth to lu'm more than all 
ihe scenery around. Besides, some li h hue best ona 
rainy day^The whale, ihe shark, and the tunny fishery 
have somewhat of noble and perilous in them; even 
netfishing. trawling, &p. are more humane and useful 

—but angling '.—No angler can be a g I man. 

" One ol the best men I ever knew— as humane, deli- 
cale-nnodcd, generous, and excellent a creature 



Note Z. Slanza xxxv. 
When Rap]> the Harmonist embargoed marriage 
In his harrnonunu siiilement. 
This extraordinary and flourishing German colony In 

A ca does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the 

era" do; but lays such restrictions upon it as 
prevent mure than a certain quantum of births within a 
ceriain number of years ; which biribs (as Mr. Holme 
observes) generally arrive "m a luilc Boca 
a farmers lambs, all within ihe same mm 
These Harn ists (so called from the nam.' oftheir set- 
tlement) are represented as* a remarkably flourishing, 
pious, and .piu-t people. See the various recent Writers 1 
as ion Aimri.-a. 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



625 



Note 3. Sianza xxxviii. 
War canvass what "so eminent a hand" meant. 
Jacob Tonson, according lo Mr. Pope, was accus- 
tomed to call his writers "able pens" — "persons of 
honour" ami especially "eminent hands. 11 Vide corre- 
spondence, &LC.j &.C. 

Note 4. Stanza Ixvi. 
While great Lueultwt robe triumphale muffles — 
(Thtrt's fame)— young partridge fillets, decked with truffles. 

A dish "a la Lucullus." This hem, who conquered 
the East, lias left his more extended celebrity to the 
transplantation of cherries (which he firs! brought into 
Europe) and the nomenclature of some very good 
dishes;— and I am nm sure that (barring ilndi 
he has n< i done m >re service to mankind by his cookery 
Ulan by In-* conquests. A cherry-lree may weigh 
against" a bloody laurel ; besides, he has contrived to 
earn celebrity from both. 

Note 5. Stanza lxviii. 
But even sins " confitures" it no less true is, 
There '* pretty picking in those " petits puits. 
"Pelits puits d'amour garms de confitures," a classi- 
cal and welt-khown dish for part of the flank of a 
second course. 

Note 6. Stanza Ixxxvi. 

For that witfi me '* a " sine qua.* 
Subauditui " Nanf omitted for the sake of euphony. 

Note 7. Stanza xcvi. 
In short, upon Uiat subject I 'ue some qualms very 
like those of the Philosopher of JMalmsbury. 
Hobbes ; who, doubting of his own soul, paid that 
compliment to the souls of other people as lo decline 
their visits, of which he had some apprehension. 



CANTO XVI. 

Note I. Sianza x. 



If from a shellfish or from cochineal. 

The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whether 
from a shellfish, oi from cochineal, or from kermes, 
is still an arnde of dispute ; and even its colour — some 
say purple, others scarlet: I say nothing. 

Note 2. Stanza xliii. 

For a spoiCd carpet — but tfie " Attic Bee 1 * 
Was much consoled by Ids own repartee. 

I think that it was a carpet on which Diogenes trod, 
with — "Thus I trample on the pride of Platol" — 
"With greater pride, as the other replied. But as 
carpets are meant to be trodden upon, my memory pro- 
bably misgives me, and it might be a robe, or tapestry, 
or a tablecloth, or some other expensive and uncynical 
piece of furniture. - 



Note 3. Stanza xlv. 
Jllfh " Tu mi dtamass" from Po^ingale, 
To sooth our ears, lest Italy should fail. 

I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town 
somewhat surfeited with a similar display from foreign 
pans, did rather indecorously break through the ap- 
plauses of an intelligent audience — intelligent, I mean. 
as to music, — for the words, besides being in recondite 
languages (it was some years before (he peace, ere al! 
ihe world had travelled, and while I was a collegian) — 
were sorelv disguised by the performers ; — this mayoi- 
i iy, broke out with, " Rot your Italianos I for my 
pari, I loves a simple hallat !" kossini will go a good 
way to bring most people to the same opinion some day. 
Who would imagine that he was to be the successor of 
Mozart ? However, I stale this with diffidence, as a 
liege and loyal admirer of Italian music in general, and 
of much of Rossini's: but we may say, as the connois- 
seur did of painting, in the Vicar af \Vnkefeld y "that 
the picture would be better painted if the painter had 
taken more pains." 

Note 4. Stanza lis. 
For Gothic daring shown in English money. 

<( Ausu Romano, eere Veneto" is the inscription (and 
well inscribed in this instance) on the sea walls be- 
tween the Adriatic and Venice. The walls were a re- 
publican work of the Venetians; the inscription, I be* 
lieve, imperial, and inscribed by Napoleon 

Note 5. Stanza be. 
a Untying' 11 squires u tofight against the churches.'* 
" Though ye untie the winds, and bid them fight 
Against the churches.'" — Macbeth* 

Note 6. Stanza xcvii. 
They err — 'tis merely v>hat is called mobility. 
In French " mobilite." I am not sure that mobility 
is English ; but it is expressive of a quality which 
rather belongs to other climates, though it is sometimes 
seen to great extent in our own. It may be defined as an 
excessive susceptibility of immediate impressions — at 
the same time without losing the past ; and is, though 
sometimes apparently useful to the possessor, a most 
painful and unhappy attribute. 

Note 7. Stanea cii. 
Drapericd her form with curious felicity, 
11 Curiosa felicitas.*' — Petronius Arbiter. 
Note 8. Stanza cxiv. 
A noise liketu-o wet Jin gers drawn on glass. 
See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince 
Charles of Saxony, raised by Schroepfer — " Karl- 
Karl — was — wait wolt mich ?" 

Note 9. Stanza exx 
How oda\ a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
Slumld cause mure fear titan a whole host's identity ! 
" Shadows to-night 
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard 
Than can the substance often thousand soldiers," &c.&c. 
See Richard III. 



4 D 



DEDICATION. 

the following, which in the original manuscript preceded the first canto of don jcan, 
and is alluded to in the life, page xxiv., was first published in a london edition, 
in 1833. 



Bob Socthey ! You 're a poet — Poet-laureate, 

And representative of all the race, 
Although 'i is true that you turn'd out a Tory at 

Last,— yours has lately been a common case,— 
And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye at ? 

With all the Lakers, in and out of place? 
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye ! 

ii. 
" Which pye being open'd they began to sing" 

('Flits old song and new simile holds good), 
" A dainty dish to set before the King," 

Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;— 
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, 

But like a hawk encumberM with his hood,— 
Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 
I wish he would explain his Explanation.* 

HI. 

You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know, 

At being disappointed in your wish 
To supeisede all warblers here below, 

And be the only Blackbird in the dish ; 
And [hen you overstrain yourself, or so, 

And tumble downward like the flying fish 
Gasping on deck, because you soar loo high, Bob, 
And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-diy, Bob! 

IV. 

And Wordsworth, in a rather long " Excursion" 
([ think the quarto holds five hundred pages), 

Has given a sample from the vasty version 
Of his new system to perplex the sages; 

'T is poetry — at least by his assertion, 

And may appear so when ihedog-slar ra^es— 

And he who understands it would be able 

To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 

v. 
You — Gentlemen ! by dint of long seclusion 

From better company, have kept your own 
A' Keswick, and, through still continued fusion 

Of one another's minds, at last have grown 
To deem as a most logical conclusion, 

That Poesy has wreaths for you alone; 
Theie is a narrowness in such a notion, [ocean. 

Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes fur 

VI 

' would not imitate the petty thought, 

Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, 
For all the glory your conversion brought, 

Since gold alone should not have been its price. 
You have your salary ; was 't for that you wrought ? 

And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise. | 
You 're shabby fellows — true — but poets still, 
And duly sealed on the immortal hill. 



" Mr. Coleridge * " Riusraphin I.itrrarU" appeared in 1817. 

t WonWworth * pbco m ■ .... iom«— it m, I think, In ttmi 

•f Om Kxcine— beude* luiothci .n i i | oimlale'R table, wliere ihii 

po-iiMl ri,.,i ,■.,,, ..,,.1 politic >l pm i*itc liclu n| [he crumb* with - 
it nit neH nlaenty . ihc convened lacobln IwwInK lou| Mthilrffd luto ibe 
fc'ewiiuii tycaylnnl ot' llu- 9. ur4% t -rt t vdic«» ul the truuxney. 



Your bays may hide the boldness of your brows— 
Perhaps some virtuous blushes ; — let them go- 
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs— 

And for the fame you would engross below, 
The field is universal, and allows 

Scope to all such as lee) the inherent glow: 
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe \.ill try 
'Gainst you the question will) posterity. 

VIII. 

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, 
Contend not with you <>n the winged steed, 

I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, 
The fame you envy, and the skill you need; 

And recollect a poet nothing loses 
In giving to his brethren their full meed 

Of merit, and complaint of present days 

Is not the certain path to future praise. 

IX. 

He that reserves his laurels for posterity 

(Who does not often claim the bright reversion) 

Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
Being only injured by his own assertion ; 

And although here and there some glorious rarity 
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, 

The major part of such appellants go 

To — God knows where— for no one else can know, 

x. 

If, fallen in evil days on evil tongue*, 
Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time, 

If Time, the Avenger, execrates Ins wrongs, 
And makes the word " Mil tonic*' mean " mnieni 

He deigu'd not to belie his soul in songs, 
Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 

He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 

But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 

XI. 

Think'st thou, could he — the blind Old Man— arise 
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more 

The blood of monarch* with his' prophecies, 
Or be alive again — again all hoar 

With tune and trials, and those helpless eves, 
And heartless daughters — worn— and pale* — and poot, 

Would he adore a suhan? he obey 

The intellectual eunuch Casllereagh ?f 



'• Pule, bat not radnrrrn>i» :•'— MIUoil'i two eWor daughter* «r* 

uid to Imvp rol ( iii f in : r .| ir | plnguinf Mjs 

In i!ie economy of tu» house, e, &c. tin rectiiigt on inch an ■ 

IhiiIi m a parent tiuI n acholtir mu 

Hayley compare* him to Ltai - hi W. 

Hayley (or Hnil.y, n* ipetl in ih, 

t Or,- 

*' Would h* inhetde Into a haefcn ■ i ■ 

A acnbuling, aclf.sol.l i riol V* 

I doubt If " Laureutr" and '• laeaji lymee, bnl mnit 

wy.tti Ucn Juimoii did to Sj [vaster, whochollcagedbimto rhyme with— 

" t. John Sylvester 

Lay with your .uter." 

Joi)»on anawered— -" I, B*n Jonaon, lay with your wif'." *Tt?„*t«r 
■wend.— "Thai la not rhyme."— *\JCo J " told Dm Jwuoa: •• ^.i 



DEDICATION. 



62? 









Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant! 

Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, 
And thus for nider carnage taught to pant, 

Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore, 
The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want, 

With just enough of talent, and no more, 
To lengthen fetters by another fix'd, 
And offer poison long aheady mix'd. 

XIII. 

An orator of such set trash of phrase 

Ineffably — legitimately vile, 
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, 

Nor foes — all nations — condescend to smile, — 
Not even a sprighily blunder's spark can blaze 

From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil, 
That turns and turns to give the world a notion 
Of endless torments and perpetual motion. 

XIV. 

A bungler even in its disgusting trade, 

And botching, patching, leaving still behind 

Something of which iis masters are afraid, 

States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confined, 

Conspiracy or Congress to be made- 
Cobbling at manades for all mankind — 

A linkering slave-maker, who mends old chains, 

With God and man's abhorrence for its gains. 

xv. 

If we may judge of matter by the mind, 
Emasculated to the marrow /( 



Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind, 
Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, 

Eutropius of its many masters,* — blind 
To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, 

Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice f 

Its very courage stagnates io a vice. 

XVI. 

Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds, 

For I will never feel them ; — Italy! 
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds 

Beneath the He this State-thing brealhM o*er thee 
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds 

Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for me. 
Europe has slaves — allies — kings — armies still, 
And Southey lives to sing them very ill. 

XVII. 

Meantime — Sir Laureate — I proceed to dedicate. 

In honest simple verse, ihis song to you. 
And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 

'T is that I still retain my " buff and blue i" 
My politics as yet are all to educate : 

Apostasy's so fashionable, too, 
To keep one creed 's a task grown quite Herculean ; 
Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian ?| 

Venice, September 16, 1818. 



• Per the character of Eutropiua, the euuuch and minuter at the 
court of Art.., inn, see GiMion. 

t I allude not to our friend Landor'i hero, tht traitor Coun'. Julian 
but to Gibbon 'a bero, vulgarly yclept " The Ai>oatal«." 






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